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Title: The Giant's Robe

Author: F. Anstey

Release Date: December 12, 2008 [EBook #27507]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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Transcriber's Note:

Parochial, older style and alternative spelling
has been left as it appears in the original.




    THE
    GIANT'S ROBE
    BY
    F. ANSTEY

    AUTHOR OF 'VICE-VERSÂ'




            'Now does he feel his title
    Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe
    Upon a dwarfish thief'--_Macbeth_


    _THIRD EDITION_

    LONDON
    SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE
    1884

    [_All rights reserved_]




PREFACE.


It has been my intention from the first to take this opportunity of
stating that, if I am indebted to any previous work for the central
idea of a stolen manuscript, such obligation should be ascribed to a
short tale, published some time ago in one of the Christmas
numbers--the only story upon the subject which I have read at present.

It was the story of a German student who, having found in the library
of his university an old scientific manuscript, by a writer long since
dead and forgotten, produced it as his own; and it is so probable that
the recollection of this incident became quite unconsciously the germ
of the present book that, although the matter is not of general
importance, I feel it only fair to mention it here.

I trust, nevertheless, that it is not necessary to insist upon any
claim to the average degree of originality; for if the book does not
bear the traces of honest and independent work, that is a defect which
is scarcely likely to be removed by the most eloquent and
argumentative of prefaces.


     CONTENTS.

     CHAPTER                                         PAGE

          I. AN INTERCESSOR                             1
         II. A LAST WALK                               15
        III. GOOD-BYE                                  23
         IV. MALAKOFF TERRACE                          36
          V. NEIGHBOURS                                52
         VI. SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR                    64
        VII. IN THE FOG                                69
       VIII. BAD NEWS                                  82
         IX. A TURNING-POINT                           90
          X. REPENTE TURPISSIMUS                      103
         XI. REVOLT                                   110
        XII. LAUNCHED                                 124
       XIII. A 'THORN AND FLOWER PIECE'               133
        XIV. IN THE SPRING                            148
         XV. HAROLD CAFFYN MAKES A DISCOVERY          158
        XVI. A CHANGE OF FRONT                        170
       XVII. IN WHICH MARK MAKES AN ENEMY AND
                 RECOVERS A FRIEND                    177
      XVIII. A DINNER PARTY                           186
        XIX. DOLLY'S DELIVERANCE                      194
         XX. A DECLARATION--OF WAR                    197
        XXI. A PARLEY WITH THE ENEMY                  208
       XXII. STRIKING THE TRAIL                       216
      XXIII. PIANO PRACTICE                           221
       XXIV. A MEETING IN GERMANY                     232
        XXV. MABEL'S ANSWER                           240
       XXVI. VISITS OF CEREMONY                       251
      XXVII. CLEAR SKY--AND A THUNDERBOLT             256
     XXVIII. MARK KNOWS THE WORST                     262
       XXIX. ON BOARD THE 'COROMANDEL'                273
        XXX. THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS                 288
       XXXI. AGAG                                     301
      XXXII. AT WASTWATER                             311
     XXXIII. IN SUSPENSE                              323
      XXXIV. ON THE LAUFENPLATZ                       335
       XXXV. MISSED FIRE                              345
      XXXVI. LITTLE RIFTS                             349
     XXXVII. MARK ACCEPTS A DISAGREEABLE DUTY         358
    XXXVIII. HAROLD CAFFYN MAKES A PALPABLE HIT       366
      XXXIX. CAFFYN SPRINGS HIS MINE                  383
         XL. THE EFFECTS OF AN EXPLOSION              401
        XLI. A FINAL VICTORY                          420
       XLII. FROM THE GRAVE                           435
             CONCLUSION                               437




THE GIANT'S ROBE.




CHAPTER I.

AN INTERCESSOR.


In the heart of the City, but fended off from the roar and rattle of
traffic by a ring of shops, and under the shadow of a smoke-begrimed
classical church, stands--or rather stood, for they have removed it
recently--the large public school of St. Peter's.

Entering the heavy old gate, against which the shops on both sides
huddled close, you passed into the atmosphere of scholastic calm
which, during working hours, pervades most places of education, and
saw a long plain block of buildings, within which it was hard to
believe, so deep was the silence, that some hundreds of boys were
collected.

Even if you went down the broad stair to the school entrance and along
the basement, where the bulk of the class-rooms was situated, there
was only a faint hum to be heard from behind the numerous doors--until
the red-waistcoated porter came out of his lodge and rang the big bell
which told that the day's work was over.

Then nervous people who found themselves by any chance in the long
dark corridors experienced an unpleasant sensation, as of a demon host
in high spirits being suddenly let loose to do their will. The
outburst was generally preceded by a dull murmur and rustle, which
lasted for a few minutes after the clang of the bell had died
away--then door after door opened and hordes of boys plunged out with
wild shrieks of liberty, to scamper madly down the echoing flagstones.

For half an hour after that the place was a Babel of unearthly yells,
whistles, and scraps of popular songs, with occasional charges and
scuffles and a constant tramp of feet.

The higher forms on both the classical and modern sides took no part
of course in these exuberances, and went soberly home in twos or
threes, as became 'fellows in the Sixth.' But they were in the
minority, and the Lower School boys and the 'Remove'--that bodyguard
of strong limbs and thick heads which it seemed hopeless to remove any
higher--were quite capable of supplying unaided all the noise that
might be considered necessary; and, as there was no ill-humour and
little roughness in their japes, they were very wisely allowed to let
their steam off without interference. It did not last very long,
though it died out gradually enough: first the songs and whistles
became more isolated and distinct, and the hallooing and tramping less
continued, until the _charivari_ toned down almost entirely, the
frightened silence came stealing back again, and the only sounds at
last were the hurried run of the delinquents who had been 'run in' to
the detention room, the slow footsteps of some of the masters, and the
brooms of the old ladies who were cleaning up.

Such was the case at St. Peter's when this story begins. The stream of
boys with shiny black bags had poured out through the gate and swelled
the great human river; some of them were perhaps already at home and
enlivening their families with the day's experiences, and those who
had further to go were probably beguiling the tedium of travel by
piling one another up in struggling heaps on the floors of various
railway carriages, for the entertainment of those privileged to be
their fellow-passengers.

Halfway down the main corridor I have mentioned was the 'Middle-Third'
class-room, a big square room with dingy cream-coloured walls, high
windows darkened with soot, and a small stained writing-table at one
end, surrounded on three sides by ranks of rugged seasoned forms and
sloping desks; round the walls were varnished lockers with a number
painted on the lid of each, and a big square stove stood in one
corner.

The only person in the room just then was the form-master, Mark
Ashburn; and he was proposing to leave it almost immediately, for the
close air and the strain of keeping order all day had given him a
headache, and he was thinking that before walking homeward he would
amuse himself with a magazine, or a gossip in the masters' room.

Mark Ashburn was a young man, almost the youngest on the school staff,
and very decidedly the best-looking. He was tall and well made, with
black hair and eloquent dark eyes, which had the gift of expressing
rather more than a rigid examination would have found inside him--just
now, for example, a sentimental observer would have read in their
glance round the bare deserted room the passionate protest of a soul
conscious of genius against the hard fate which had placed him there,
whereas he was in reality merely wondering whose hat that was on the
row of pegs opposite.

But if Mark was not a genius, there was a brilliancy in his manner
that had something very captivating about it; an easy confidence in
himself, that had the more merit because it had hitherto met with
extremely small encouragement.

He dressed carefully, which was not without effect upon his class, for
boys, without being overscrupulous in the matter of their own costume,
are apt to be critical of the garments of those in authority over
them. To them he was 'an awful swell'; though he was not actually
overdressed--it was only that he liked to walk home along Piccadilly
with the air of a man who had just left his club and had nothing
particular to do.

He was not unpopular with his boys: he did not care twopence about any
of them, but he felt it pleasant to be popular, and his careless
good-nature secured that result without much effort on his part. They
had a great respect for his acquirements too, speaking of him among
themselves as 'jolly clever when he liked to show it'; for Mark was
not above giving occasional indications of deep learning which were
highly impressive. He went out of his way to do it, and was probably
aware that the learning thus suggested would not stand any very severe
test; but then there was no one there to apply it.

Any curiosity as to the last hat and coat on the wall was satisfied
while he still sat at his desk, for the door, with its upper panels of
corrugated glass protected by stout wire network--no needless
precaution there--opened just then, and a small boy appeared, looking
rather pale and uncomfortable, and holding a long sheet of blue
foolscap in one hand.

'Hullo, Langton,' said Mark, as he saw him; 'so it's you; why, haven't
you gone yet, eh? How's that?'

'Please sir,' began the boy, dolorously, 'I've got into an awful
row--I'm run in, sir.'

'Ah!' said Mark; 'sorry for you--what is it?'

'Well, I didn't do anything,' said he. 'It was like this. I was going
along the passage, and just passing Old Jemmy's--I mean Mr.
Shelford's--door, and it was open. And there was a fellow standing
outside, a bigger fellow than me, and he caught hold of me by the
collar and ran me right in and shut the door and bolted. And Mr.
Shelford came at me and boxed my ears, and said it wasn't the first
time, and I should have a detention card for it. And so he gave me
this, and I'm to go up to the Doctor with it and get it signed when
it's done!'

And the boy held out the paper, at the top of which Mark read in old
Shelford's tremulous hand--'Langton. 100 lines for outrageous
impertinence. J. Shelford.'

'If I go up, you know, sir,' said the boy, with a trembling lip, 'I'm
safe for a swishing.'

'Well, I'm afraid you are,' agreed Mark, 'but you'd better make haste,
hadn't you? or they'll close the Detention Room, and you'll only be
worse off for waiting, you see.'

Mark was really rather sorry for him, though he had, as has been said,
no great liking for boys; but this particular one, a round-faced,
freckled boy, with honest eyes and a certain refinement in his voice
and bearing that somehow suggested that he had a mother or sister who
was a gentlewoman, was less objectionable to Mark than his fellows.
Still he could not enter into his feelings sufficiently to guess why
he was being appealed to in this way.

Young Langton half turned to go, dejectedly enough; then he came back
and said, 'Please, sir, can't you help me? I shouldn't mind the--the
swishing so much if I'd done anything. But I haven't.'

'What can I do?' asked Mark.

'If you wouldn't mind speaking to Mr. Shelford for me--he'd listen to
you, and he won't to me.'

'He will have gone by this time,' objected Mark.

'Not if you make haste,' said the boy, eagerly.

Mark was rather flattered by this confidence in his persuasive powers:
he liked the idea, too, of posing as the protector of his class, and
the good-natured element in him made him the readier to yield.

'Well, we'll have a shot at it, Langton,' he said. 'I doubt if it's
much good, you know, but here goes--when you get in, hold your tongue
and keep in the background--leave it to me.'

So they went out into the long passage with its whitewashed walls and
rows of doors on each side, and black barrel-vaulting above; at the
end the glimmer of light came through the iron bars of the doorway,
which had a prison-like suggestion about them, and the reflectors of
the unlighted gas lamps that projected here and there along the
corridor gave back the glimmer as a tiny spark in the centre of each
metal disc.

Mark stopped at the door of the Upper Fourth Classroom, which was Mr.
Shelford's, and went in. It was a plain room, not unlike his own, but
rather smaller; it had a daïs with a somewhat larger desk for the
master, and a different arrangement of the benches and lockers, but
it was quite as gloomy, with an outlook into a grim area giving a
glimpse of the pavement and railings above.

Mr. Shelford was evidently just going, for as they came in he had put
a very large hat on the back of his head, and was winding a long grey
comforter round his throat; but he took off the hat courteously as he
saw Mark. He was a little old man, with a high brick-red colour on his
smooth, scarcely wrinkled cheeks, a big aquiline nose, a wide
thin-lipped mouth, and sharp little grey eyes, which he cocked
sideways at one like an angry parrot.

Langton retired to a form out of hearing, and sat down on one end of
it, nursing his detention paper anxiously.

'Well, Ashburn,' began the Reverend James Shelford, 'is there anything
I can do for _you_?'

'Why,' said Mark, 'the fact is, I----'

'Eh, what?' said the elder. 'Wait a minute--there's that impident
fellow back again! I thought I'd seen the last of him. Here, you sir,
didn't I send you up for a flogging?'

'I--I believe you did, sir,' said Langton with extreme deference.

'Well, why ain't you _getting_ that flogging--eh, sir? No impidence,
now--just tell me, why ain't you being flogged? You ought to be in the
middle of it now!'

'Well, you see,' said Mark, 'he's one of _my_ boys----'

'I don't care whose boy he is,' said the other, testily; 'he's an
impident fellow, sir.'

'I don't think he is, really,' said Mark.

'D'ye know what he did, then? Came whooping and shouting and
hullabalooing into my room, for all the world as if it was his own
nursery, sir. He's _always_ doing it!'

'I never did it before,' protested Langton, 'and it wasn't my fault
this time.'

'Wasn't your fault! You haven't got St. Vitus' dance, have you? I
never heard there were any Tarantula spiders here. You don't go
dancing into the Doctor's room, do you? _He'll_ give you a dancing
lesson!' said the old gentleman, sitting down again to chuckle, and
looking very like Mr. Punch.

'No, but allow me,' put in Mark; 'I assure you this boy is----'

'I know what you're going to tell me--he's a model boy, of course.
It's singular what shoals of model boys _do_ come dancing in here
under some irresistible impulse after school. I'll put a stop to it
now I've caught one. You don't know 'em as well as I do, sir, you
don't know 'em--they're all impident and all liars--some are cleverer
at it than others, and that's all.'

'I'm afraid that's true enough,' said Mark, who did not like being
considered inexperienced.

'Yes, it's cruel work having to do with boys, sir--cruel and
thankless. If ever I try to help a boy in my class I think is trying
to get on and please me, what does he do? Turn round and play me some
scurvy trick, just to prove to the others he's not currying favour.
And then they insult me--why, that very boy has been and shouted
"Shellfish" through my keyhole many a time, I'll warrant!'

'I think you're mistaken,' said Mark, soothingly.

'You do? I'll ask him. Here, d'ye mean to tell me you never called out
"Shellfish" or--or other opprobrious epithets into my door, sir?' And
he inclined his ear for the answer with his eyes fixed on the boy's
face.

'Not "Shellfish,"' said the boy; 'I did "Prawn" once. But that was
long ago.'

Mark gave him up then, with a little contempt for such injudicious
candour.

'Oh!' said Mr. Shelford, catching him, but not ungently, by the ear.
'"Prawn," eh? "Prawn"; hear that, Ashburn? Perhaps you wouldn't mind
telling me _why_ "Prawn"?'

A natural tendency of the youthful mind to comparative physiology had
discovered a fancied resemblance which justified any graceful
personalities of this kind; but Langton probably felt that candour had
its limits, and that this was a question that required judgment in
dealing with it.

'Because--because I've heard other fellows call you that,' he
replied.

'Ah, and why do _they_ call me Prawn, eh?'

'I never heard them give any reason,' said the boy, diplomatically.

Mr. Shelford let the boy go with another chuckle, and Langton retired
to his form again out of earshot.

'Yes, Ashburn,' said old Jemmy, 'that's the name they have for me--one
of 'em. "Prawn" and "Shellfish"--they yell it out after me as I'm
going home, and then run away. And I've had to bear it thirty years.'

'Young ruffians!' said Mark, as if the sobriquets were wholly unknown
to the masters' room.

'Ah, they do though; and the other day, when my monitor opened the
desk in the morning, there was a great impident kitten staring me in
the face. He'd put it in there himself, I dare say, to annoy me.'

He did not add that he had sent out for some milk for the intruder,
and had nursed it on his old knees during morning school, after which
he showed it out with every consideration for its feelings; but it was
the case nevertheless, for his years amongst boys had still left a
soft place in his heart, though he got little credit for it.

'Yes, it's a wearing life, sir, a wearing life,' he went on with less
heat, 'hearing generations of stoopid boys all blundering at the same
stiff places, and worrying over the same old passages. I'm getting
very tired of it; I'm an old man now. "Occidit miseros crambe"--eh,
you know how it goes on?'

'Yes, yes,' said Mark, 'quite so,'--though he had but a dim
recollection of the line in question.

'Talking of verses,' said the other, 'I hear we're to have the
pleasure of seeing one of your productions on Speech-night this year.
Is that so?'

'I was not aware anything was settled,' said Mark, flushing with
pleasure. 'I did lay a little thing of my own, a sort of allegorical
Christmas piece--a _masque_, don't you know--before the Doctor and the
Speeches Committee, but I haven't heard anything definite yet.'

'Oh, perhaps I'm premature,' said Mr. Shelford; 'perhaps I'm
premature.'

'Do you mind telling me if you've heard anything said about it?' asked
Mark, thoroughly interested.

'I did hear some talk about it in the luncheon hour. You weren't in
the room, I believe, but I think they were to come to a decision this
afternoon.'

'Then it will be all over by now,' said Mark; 'there may be a note on
my desk about it. I--I think I'll go and see, if you'll excuse me.'

And he left the room hastily, quite forgetting his original purpose in
entering: something much more important to him than whether a boy
should be flogged or not, when he had no doubt richly deserved it, was
pending just then, and he could not rest until he knew the result.

For Mark had always longed for renown of some sort, and for the last
few years literary distinction had seemed the most open to him. He had
sought it by more ambitious attempts, but even the laurels which the
performance of a piece of his by boy-actors on a Speech-day might
bring him had become desirable; and though he had written and
submitted his work confidently and carelessly enough, he found himself
not a little anxious and excited as the time for a decision drew near.

It was a small thing; but if it did nothing else it would procure him
a modified fame in the school and the masters' room, and Mark Ashburn
had never felt resigned to be a nonentity anywhere.

Little wonder, then, that Langton's extremity faded out of his mind as
he hurried back to his class-room, leaving that unlucky small boy
still in his captor's clutches.

The old clergyman put on the big hat again when Mark had gone, and
stood up peering over the desk at his prisoner.

'Well, if you don't want to be locked up here all night, you'd better
be off,' he remarked.

'To the Detention Room, sir?' faltered the boy.

'You know the way, I believe? If not, I can show you,' said the old
gentleman politely.

'But really and truly,' pleaded Langton, 'I didn't do anything this
time. I was shoved in.'

'Who shoved you in? Come, you know well enough; you're going to lie, I
can see. Who was he?'

It is not improbable that Langton _was_ going to lie that time--his
code allowed it--but he felt checked somehow. 'Well, I only know the
fellow by name,' he said at last.

'Well, and _what's_ his name? Out with it; I'll give him a detention
card instead.'

'I can't tell you that,' said the boy in a lower voice.

'And why not, ye impident fellow? You've just said you knew it. Why
not?'

'Because it would be sneakish,' said Langton boldly.

'Oh, "sneakish," would it?' said old Jemmy. '"Sneakish," eh? Well,
well, I'm getting old, I forget these things. Perhaps it would. I
don't know what it is to insult an old man--that's fair enough, I dare
say. And so you want me to let you off being whipped, eh?'

'Yes, when I've done nothing.'

'And if I let you off you'll come gallopading in here as lively as
ever to-morrow, calling out "Shellfish"--no, I forgot--"Prawn's"
_your_ favourite epithet, ain't it?--calling out "Prawn" under my very
nose.'

'No, I shan't,' said the boy.

'Well, I'll take your word for it, whatever that's worth,' and he tore
up the compromising paper. 'Run off home to your tea, and don't bother
me any more.'

Langton escaped, full of an awed joy at his wonderful escape, and old
Mr. Shelford locked his desk, got out the big hook-nosed umbrella,
which had contracted a strong resemblance to himself, and went too.

'That's a nice boy,' he muttered--'wouldn't tell tales, wouldn't he?
But I dare say he was taking me in all the time. He'll be able to tell
the other young scamps how neatly he got over "old Jemmy." I don't
think he will, though. I can still tell when a boy's lying--I've had
plenty of opportunities.'

Meanwhile Mark had gone back to his class-room. One of the porters
ran after him with a note, and he opened it eagerly, only to be
disappointed, for it was not from the committee. It was dated from
Lincoln's Inn, and came from his friend Holroyd.

   'Dear Ashburn,' the note ran, 'don't forget your promise
   to look in here on your way home. You know it's the last
   time we shall walk back together, and there's a favour I
   want to ask of you before saying good-bye. I shall be at
   chambers till five, as I am putting my things together.'

'I will go round presently,' he thought. 'I must say good-bye some
time to-day, and it will be a bore to turn out after dinner.'

As he stood reading the note, young Langton passed him, bag in hand,
with a bright and grateful face.

'Please, sir,' he said, saluting him, 'thanks awfully for getting Mr.
Shelford to let me off; he wouldn't have done it but for you.'

'Oh, ah,' said Mark, suddenly remembering his errand of mercy, 'to be
sure, yes. So, he has let you off, has he? Well, I'm very glad I was
of use to you, Langton. It was a hard fight, wasn't it? That's enough,
get along home, and let me find you better up in your Nepos than you
were yesterday.'

Beyond giving the boy his company in facing his judge for the second
time, Mark, as will have been observed, had not been a very energetic
advocate; but as Langton was evidently unaware of the fact, Mark
himself was the last person to allude to it. Gratitude, whether earned
or not, was gratitude, and always worth accepting.

'By Jove,' he thought to himself with half-ashamed amusement, 'I
forgot all about the little beggar; left him to the tender mercies of
old Prawn. All's well that ends well, anyhow!'

As he stood by the _grille_ at the porter's lodge, the old Prawn
himself passed slowly out, with his shoulders bent, and his old eyes
staring straight before him with an absent, lack-lustre expression in
them. Perhaps he was thinking that life might have been more cheerful
for him if his wife Mary had lived, and he had had her and boys like
that young Langton to meet him when his wearisome day was over,
instead of being childless and a widower, and returning to the lonely,
dingy house which he occupied as the incumbent of a musty church hard
by.

Whatever he thought of, he was too engaged to notice Mark, who
followed him with his eyes as he slowly worked his way up the flight
of stone steps which led to the street level. 'Shall I ever come to
that?' he thought. 'If I stay here all my life, I _may_. Ah, there's
Gilbertson--he can tell me about this Speech-day business.'

Gilbertson was a fellow-master, and one of the committee for arranging
the Speech-day entertainment. For the rest he was a nervously fussy
little man, and met Mark with evident embarrassment.

'Well, Gilbertson,' said Mark, as unconcernedly as he could, 'settled
your programme yet?'

'Er--oh yes, quite settled--quite, that is, not definitely as yet.'

'And--my little production?'

'Oh, ah, to be sure, yes, your little production. We all liked it very
much--oh, exceedingly so--the Doctor especially--charmed with it, my
dear Ashburn, charmed!'

'Very glad to hear it,' said Mark, with a sudden thrill; 'and--and
have you decided to take it, then?'

'Well,' said Mr. Gilbertson, looking at the pavement all round him,
'you see, the fact is, the Doctor thought, and some of us thought so
too, that a piece to be acted by boys should have a leetle more--eh?
and not quite so much--so much of what yours has, and a few of those
little natural touches, you know--but you see what I mean, don't you?'

'It would be a capital piece with half that in it,' said Mark, trying
to preserve his temper, 'but I could easily alter it, you know,
Gilbertson.'

'No, no,' said Gilbertson, eagerly, 'you mustn't think of it; you'd
spoil it; we couldn't hear of it, and--and it won't be necessary to
trouble you. Because, you see, the Doctor thought it was a little
long, and not quite light enough; and not exactly the sort of thing
we want, but we all admired it.'

'But it won't do? Is that what you mean?'

'Why--er--nothing definite at present. We are going to write you a
letter about it. Good-bye, good-bye! Got a train to catch at Ludgate
Hill.'

And he bustled away, glad to escape, for he had not counted upon
having to announce a rejection in person.

Mark stood looking after him, with a slightly dazed feeling. _That_
was over, then. He had written works which he felt persuaded had only
to become known to bring him fame; but for all that it seemed that he
was not considered worthy to entertain a Speech-night audience at a
London public school.

Hitherto Mark's life had contained more of failure than success. From
St. Peter's he had gone to a crammer's to be prepared for the Indian
Civil Service, and an easy pass had been anticipated for him even at
the first trial. Unfortunately, however, his name came out low down on
the list--a disaster which he felt must be wiped out at all hazards,
and, happening to hear of an open scholarship that was to be competed
for at a Cambridge college, he tried for it, and this time was
successful. A well-to-do uncle, who had undertaken the expenses
hitherto, was now induced to consent to the abandonment of the Civil
Service in favour of a University career, and Mark entered upon it
accordingly with fair prospects of distinction, if he read with even
ordinary steadiness.

This he had done during his first year, though he managed to get a
fair share of enjoyment out of his life, but then something happened
to change the whole current of his ambitions--he composed a college
skit which brought him considerable local renown, and from that moment
was sought as a contributor to sundry of those ephemeral undergraduate
periodicals which, in their short life, are so universally reviled and
so eagerly read.

Mark's productions, imitative and crude as they necessarily were, had
admirers who strengthened his own conviction that literature was his
destiny; the tripos faded into the background, replaced by the more
splendid vision of seeing an accepted article from his pen in a real
London magazine; he gave frantic chase to the will o' the wisp of
literary fame, which so many pursue all their lives in vain, fortunate
if it comes at last to flicker for awhile over their graves.

With Mark the results were what might have been expected: his papers
in his second year examinations were so bad that he received a solemn
warning that his scholarship was in some danger, though he was not
actually deprived of it, and finally, instead of the good class his
tutor had once expected, he took a low third, and left Cambridge in
almost as bad a plight as Arthur Pendennis.

Now he had found himself forced to accept a third-form mastership in
his old school, where it seemed that, if he was no longer a disciple,
he was scarcely a prophet.

But all this had only fanned his ambition. He would show the world
there was something in him still; and he began to send up articles to
various London magazines, and to keep them going like a juggler's
oranges, until his productions obtained a fair circulation, in
manuscript.

Now and then a paper of his did gain the honours of publication, so
that his disease did not die out, as happens with some. He went on,
writing whatever came into his head, and putting his ideas out in
every variety of literary mould--from a blank-verse tragedy to a
sonnet, and a three-volume novel to a society paragraph--with equal
ardour and facility, and very little success.

For he believed in himself implicitly. At present he was still before
the outwork of prejudice which must be stormed by every conscript in
the army of literature: that he would carry it eventually he did not
doubt. But this disappointment about, the committee hit him hard for a
moment; it seemed like a forecast of a greater disaster. Mark,
however, was of a sanguine temperament, and it did not take him long
to remount his own pedestal. 'After all,' he thought, 'what does it
matter? If my "Sweet Bells Jangled" is only taken, I shan't care
about anything else. And there is some of my best work in that, too.
I'll go round to Holroyd, and forget this business.'




CHAPTER II.

A LAST WALK.


Mark turned in from Chancery Lane under the old gateway, and went to
one of the staircase doorways with the old curly eighteenth-century
numerals cut on the centre stone of the arch and painted black. The
days of these picturesque old dark-red buildings, with their
small-paned dusty windows, their turrets and angles, and other little
architectural surprises and inconveniences, are already numbered. Soon
the sharp outline of their old gables and chimneys will cut the sky no
longer; but some unpractical persons will be found who, although (or
it may be _because_) they did not occupy them, will see them fall with
a pang, and remember them with a kindly regret.

A gas jet was glimmering here and there behind the slits of dusty
glass in the turret staircase as Mark came in, although it was
scarcely dusk in the outer world; for Old Square is generally a little
in advance in this respect. He passed the door laden with names and
shining black plates announcing removals, till he came to an entrance
on the second floor, where one of the names on a dingy ledge above the
door was 'Mr. Vincent Holroyd.'

If Mark had been hitherto a failure, Vincent Holroyd could not be
pronounced a success. He had been, certainly, more distinguished at
college; but after taking his degree, reading for the Bar, and being
called, three years had passed in forced inactivity--not, perhaps, an
altogether unprecedented circumstance in a young barrister's career,
but with the unpleasant probability, in his case, of a continued
brieflessness. A dry and reserved manner, due to a secret shyness, had
kept away many whose friendship might have been useful to him; and,
though he was aware of this, he could not overcome the feeling; he was
a lonely man, and had become enamoured of his loneliness. Of the
interest popularly believed to be indispensable to a barrister he
could command none, and, with more than the average amount of ability,
the opportunity for displaying it was denied him; so that when he was
suddenly called upon to leave England for an indefinite time, he was
able to abandon prospects that were not brilliant without any
particular reluctance.

Mark found him tying up his few books and effects in the one chamber
which he had sub-rented, a little panelled room looking out on
Chancery Lane, and painted the pea-green colour which, with a sickly
buff, seem set apart for professional decoration.

His face, which was dark and somewhat plain, with large, strong
features, had a pleasant look on it as he turned to meet Mark. 'I'm
glad you could come,' he said. 'I thought we'd walk back together for
the last time. I shall be ready in one minute. I'm only getting my law
books together.'

'You're not going to take them out to Ceylon with you, then?'

'Not now. Brandon--my landlord, you know--will let me keep them here
till I send for them. I've just seen him. Shall we go now?'

They passed out through the dingy, gas-lit clerk's room, and Holroyd
stopped for a minute to speak to the clerk, a mild, pale man, who was
neatly copying out an opinion at the foot of a case. 'Good-bye,
Tucker,' he said, 'I don't suppose I shall see you again for some
time.'

'Good-bye, Mr. 'Olroyd, sir. Very sorry to lose you. I hope you'll
have a pleasant voy'ge, and get on over there, sir, better than you've
done 'ere, sir.'

The clerk spoke with a queer mixture of patronage and deference: the
deference was his ordinary manner with his employer in chief, a
successful Chancery junior, and the patronage was caused by a pitying
contempt he felt for a young man who had not got on.

'That 'Olroyd'll never do anything at the Bar,' he used to say when
comparing notes with his friend the clerk to the opposite set of
chambers. 'He's got no push, and he's got no manner, and there ain't
nobody at his back. What he ever come to the Bar for at all, _I_ don't
know!'

There were some directions to be given as to letters and papers, which
the mild clerk received with as much gravity as though he were not
inwardly thinking, 'I'd eat all the papers as ever come in for _you_,
and want dinner after 'em.' And then Holroyd left his chambers for the
last time, and he and Mark went down the rickety winding stair, and
out under the colonnade of the Vice-Chancellors' courts, at the closed
doors of which a few clerks and reporters were copying down the cause
list for the next day.

They struck across Lincoln's Inn Fields and Long Acre, towards
Piccadilly and Hyde Park. It was by no means a typical November
afternoon: the sky was a delicate blue and the air mild, with just
enough of autumn keenness in it to remind one, not unpleasantly, of
the real time of year.

'Well,' said Holroyd, rather sadly, 'you and I won't walk together
like this again for a long time.'

'I suppose not,' said Mark, with a regret that sounded a little
formal, for their approaching separation did not, as a matter of fact,
make him particularly unhappy.

Holroyd had always cared for him much more than he had cared for
Holroyd, for whom Mark's friendship had been a matter of circumstance
rather than deliberate preference. They had been quartered in the same
lodgings at Cambridge, and had afterwards 'kept' on the same staircase
in college, which had led to a more or less daily companionship, a
sort of intimacy that is not always strong enough to bear
transplantation to town.

Holroyd had taken care that it should survive their college days; for
he had an odd liking for Mark, in spite of a tolerably clear insight
into his character. Mark had a way of inspiring friendships without
much effort on his part, and this undemonstrative, self-contained man
felt an affection for him which was stronger than he ever allowed
himself to show.

Mark, for his part, had begun to feel an increasing constraint in the
company of a friend who had an unpleasantly keen eye for his weak
points, and with whom he was always conscious of a certain inferiority
which, as he could discover no reason for it, galled his vanity the
more.

His careless tone wounded Holroyd, who had hoped for some warmer
response; and they walked on in silence until they turned into Hyde
Park and crossed to Rotten Row, when Mark said, 'By the way, Vincent,
wasn't there something you wanted to speak to me about?'

'I wanted to ask a favour of you; it won't give you much trouble,'
said Holroyd.

'Oh, in that case, if it's anything I _can_ do, you know--but what is
it?'

'Well,' said Holroyd, 'the fact is--I never told a soul till now--but
I've written a book.'

'Never mind, old boy,' said Mark, with a light laugh; for the
confession, or perhaps a certain embarrassment with which it was made,
seemed to put Holroyd more on a level with himself. 'So have lots of
fellows, and no one thinks any the worse of them--unless they print
it. Is it a law book?'

'Not exactly,' said Holroyd; 'it's a romance.'

'A romance!' cried Mark. 'You!'

'Yes,' said Holroyd, 'I. I've always been something of a dreamer, and
I amused myself by putting one of my dreams down on paper. I wasn't
disturbed.'

'You've been called though, haven't you?'

'I never got up,' said Holroyd, with a rather melancholy grimace. 'I
began well enough. I used to come up to chambers by ten and leave at
half-past six, after noting up reports and text-books all day; but no
solicitor seemed struck by my industry. Then I sat in court and took
down judgments most elaborately, but no leader ever asked _me_ to take
notes for him, and I never got a chance of suggesting anything to the
court as _amicus curiæ_, for both the Vice-Chancellors seemed able to
get along pretty well without me. Then I got tired of that, and
somehow this book got into my head, and I couldn't rest till I'd got
it out again. It's finished now, and I'm lonely again.'

'And you want me to run my eye over it and lick it into shape a
little?' asked Mark.

'Not quite that,' said Holroyd; 'it must stand as it is. What I'm
going to ask you is this: I don't know any fellow I would care to ask
but yourself. I want it published. I shall be out of England, probably
with plenty of other matters to occupy me for some time. I want you to
look after the manuscript for me while I'm away. Do you mind taking
the trouble?'

'Not a bit, old fellow,' said Mark, 'no trouble in the world; only
tying up the parcel each time, sending it off again. Well, I didn't
mean that; but it's no trouble, really.'

'I dare say you won't be called upon to see it through the press,'
said Holroyd; 'but if such a thing as an acceptance should happen, I
should like you to make all the arrangements. You've had some
experience in these things, and I haven't, and I shall be away too.'

'I'll do the best I can,' said Mark. 'What sort of a book is it?'

'It's a romance, as I said,' said Holroyd. 'I don't know that I can
describe it more exactly: it----'

'Oh, it doesn't matter,' interrupted Mark. 'I can read it some time.
What have you called it?'

'"Glamour,"' said Holroyd, still with a sensitive shrinking at having
to reveal what had long been a cherished secret.

'It isn't a society novel, I suppose?'

'No,' said Holroyd. 'I'm not much of a society man; I go out very
little.'

'But you ought to, you know: you'll find people very glad to see you
if you only cultivate them.'

There was something, however, in Mark's manner of saying this that
suggested a consciousness that this might be a purely personal
experience.

'Shall I?' said Holroyd. 'I don't know. People are kind enough, but
they can only be really glad to see any one who is able to amuse them
or interest them, and that's natural enough. I can't flatter myself
that I'm particularly interesting or amusing; any way, it's too late
to think about that now.'

'You won't be able to do the hermit much over in Ceylon, will you?'

'I don't know. My father's plantation is in rather a remote part of
the island. I don't think he has ever been very intimate with the
other planters near him, and as I left the place when I was a child I
have fewer friends there than here even. But there will be plenty to
do if I am to learn the business, as he seems to wish.'

'Did he never think of having you over before?'

'He wanted me to come over and practise at the Colombo Bar, but that
was soon after I was called, and I preferred to try my fortune in
England first. I was the second son, you see, and while my brother
John was alive I was left pretty well to my own devices. I went, as
you know, to Colombo in my second Long, but only for a few weeks of
course, and my father and I didn't get on together somehow. But he's
ill now, and poor John died of dysentery, and he's alone, so even if I
had had any practice to leave I could hardly refuse to go out to him.
As it is, as far as that is concerned, I have nothing to keep me.'

They were walking down Rotten Row as Holroyd said this, with the dull
leaden surface of the Serpentine on their right, and away to the left,
across the tan and the grey sward, the Cavalry Barracks, with their
long narrow rows of gleaming windows. Up the long convex surface of
the Row a faint white mist was crawling, and a solitary,
spectral-looking horseman was cantering noiselessly out of it towards
them. The evening had almost begun; the sky had changed to a delicate
green tint, merged towards the west in a dusky crocus, against which
the Memorial spire stood out sharp and black; from South Kensington
came the sound of a church bell calling for some evening service.

'Doesn't that bell remind you somehow of Cambridge days?' said Mark.
'I could almost fancy we were walking up again from the boats, and
that was the chapel bell ringing.'

'I wish we were,' said Holroyd with a sigh: 'they were good old times,
and they will never come back.'

'You're very low, old fellow,' said Mark, 'for a man going back to his
native country.'

'Ah, but I don't feel as if it was my native country, you see. I've
lived here so long. And no one knows me out there except my poor old
father, and we're almost strangers. I'm leaving the few people I care
for behind me.'

'Oh, it will be all right,' said Mark, with the comfortable view one
takes of another's future; 'you'll get on well enough. We shall have
you a rich coffee planter, or a Deputy Judge Advocate, in no time.
_Any_ fellow has a chance out there. And you'll soon make friends in a
place like that.'

'I like my friends ready-made, I think,' said Holroyd; 'but one must
make the best of it, I suppose.'

They had come to the end of the Row; the gates of Kensington Gardens
were locked, and behind the bars a policeman was watching them
suspiciously, as if he suspected they might attempt a forcible entry.

'Well,' said Mark, stopping, 'I suppose you turn off here?' Holroyd
would have been willing to go on with him as far as Kensington had
Mark proposed it, but he gave no sign of desiring this, so his
friend's pride kept him silent too.

'One word more about the--the book,' he said. 'I may put your name and
address on the title-page, then? It goes off to Chilton and Fladgate
to-night.'

'Oh yes, of course,' said Mark, 'put whatever you like.'

'I've not given them my real name, and, if anything comes of it, I
should like that kept a secret.'

'Just as you please; but why?'

'If I keep on at the Bar, a novel, whether it's a success or not, is
not the best bait for briefs,' said Holroyd; 'and besides, if I am to
get a slating, I'd rather have it under an _alias_, don't you see? So
the only name on the title-page is "Vincent Beauchamp."'

'Very well,' said Mark, 'none shall know till you choose to tell them,
and, if anything has to be done about the book, I'll see to it with
pleasure, and write to you when it's settled. So you can make your
mind easy about _that_.'

'Thanks,' said Holroyd; 'and now, good-bye, Mark.'

There was real feeling in his voice, and Mark himself caught something
of it as he took the hand Vincent held out.

'Good-bye, old boy,' he said. 'Take care of yourself--pleasant voyage
and good luck. You're no letter-writer, I know, but you'll drop me a
line now and then, I hope. What's the name of the ship you go out in?'

'The "Mangalore." She leaves the Docks to-morrow. Good-bye for the
present, Mark. We shall see one another again, I hope. Don't forget
all about me before that.'

'No, no,' said Mark; 'we've been friends too long for that.'

One more good-bye, a momentary English awkwardness in getting away
from one another, and they parted, Holroyd walking towards Bayswater
across the bridge, and Mark making for Queen's Gate and Kensington.

Mark looked after his friend's tall strong figure for a moment before
it disappeared in the dark. 'Well, I've seen the last of him,' he
thought. 'Poor old Holroyd! to think of his having written a
book--he's one of those unlucky beggars who never make a hit at
anything. I expect I shall have some trouble about it by-and-by.'

Holroyd walked on with a heavier heart. 'He won't miss me,' he told
himself. 'Will Mabel say good-bye like that?'




CHAPTER III.

GOOD-BYE.


On the same afternoon in which we have seen Mark and Vincent walk home
together for the last time, Mrs. Langton and her eldest daughter Mabel
were sitting in the pretty drawing-room of their house in Kensington
Park Gardens.

Mrs. Langton was the wife of a successful Q.C. at the Chancery Bar,
and one of those elegantly languid women with a manner charming enough
to conceal a slight shallowness of mind and character; she was pretty
still, and an invalid at all times when indisposition was not
positively inconvenient.

It was one of her 'at home' days, but fewer people than usual had made
their appearance, and these had filtered away early, leaving traces of
their presence behind them in the confidential grouping of seats and
the teacups left high and dry in various parts of the room.

Mrs. Langton was leaning luxuriously back in a low soft chair, lazily
watching the firebeams glisten through the stained-glass screen, and
Mabel was on a couch near the window trying to read a magazine by the
fading light.

'Hadn't you better ring for the lamps, Mabel?' suggested her mother.
'You can't possibly see to read by this light, and it's so trying for
the eyes. I suppose no one else will call now, but it's very strange
that Vincent should not have come to say good-bye.'

'Vincent doesn't care about "at homes,"' said Mabel.

'Still, not to say good-bye--after knowing us so long, too! and I'm
sure we've tried to show him every kindness. Your father was always
having solicitors to meet him at dinner, and it was never any use; and
he sails to-morrow. I think he _might_ have found time to come!'

'So do I,' agreed Mabel. 'It's not like Vincent, though he was always
shy and odd in some things. He hasn't been to see us nearly so much
lately, but I can't believe he will really go away without a word.'

Mrs. Langton yawned delicately. 'It would not surprise me, I must
say,' she said. 'When a young man sets himself----' but whatever she
was going to say was broken off by the entrance of her youngest
daughter Dolly, with the German governess, followed by the man bearing
rose-shaded lamps.

Dolly was a vivacious child of about nine, with golden locks which had
a pretty ripple in them, and deep long-lashed eyes that promised to be
dangerous one day. 'We took Frisk out without the leash, mummy,' she
cried, 'and when we got into Westbourne Grove he ran away. Wasn't it
too bad of him?'

'Never mind, darling, he'll come back quite safe--he always does.'

'Ah, but it's his running away that I mind,' said Dolly; 'and you know
what a dreadful state he always _will_ come back in. He must be cured
of doing it somehow.'

'Talk to him very seriously about it, Dolly,' said Mabel.

'I've tried that--and he only cringes and goes and does it again
directly he's washed. I know what I'll do, Mabel. When he comes back
this time, he shall have a jolly good whacking!'

'My _dear_ child,' cried Mrs. Langton, 'what a dreadful expression!'

'Colin says it,' said Dolly, though she was quite aware that Colin was
hardly a purist in his expressions.

'Colin says a good many things that are not pretty in a little girl's
mouth.'

'So he does,' said Dolly cheerfully. 'I wonder if he knows? I'll go
and tell him of it--he's come home.' And she ran off just as the
door-bell rang.

'Mabel, I really think that must be some one else coming to call after
all. Do you know, I feel so tired and it's so late that I think I will
leave you and Fräulein to talk to them. Papa and I are going out to
dinner to-night, and I must rest a little before I begin to dress.
I'll run away while I can.'

Mrs. Langton fluttered gracefully out of the room as the butler
crossed the hall to open the door, evidently to a visitor, and
presently Mabel heard 'Mr. Holroyd' announced.

'So you really have come after all,' said Mabel, holding out her hand
with a pretty smile of welcome. 'Mamma and I thought you meant to go
away without a word.'

'You might have known me better than that,' said Holroyd.

'But when your last afternoon in England was nearly over and no sign
of you, there _was_ some excuse for thinking so; but you have come at
last, so we won't scold you. Will you have some tea? It isn't very
warm, I'm afraid, but you are so very late, you know. Ring, and you
shall have some fit to drink.'

Vincent accepted tea, chiefly because he wanted to be waited upon once
more by her with the playful, gracious manner, just tinged with
affectionate mockery, which he knew so well; and then he talked to her
and Fräulein Mozer, with a heavy sense of the unsatisfactory nature of
this triangular conversation for a parting interview.

The governess felt this too. She had had a shrewd suspicion for some
time of the state of Holroyd's feelings towards Mabel, and felt a
sentimental pity for him, condemned as he was to disguise them under
ordinary afternoon conversation.

'He is going away,' she thought; 'but he shall have his chance, the
poor young man. You will not think it very rude, Mr. Holroyd,' she
said, rising: 'it will not disturb you if I practise? There is a piece
which I am to play at a school concert to-morrow, and do not yet know
it.'

'Vincent won't mind, Ottilia dear,' said Mabel. 'Will you, Vincent?'
So the governess went to the further room where the piano stood, and
was soon performing a conveniently noisy German march. Vincent sat
still for some moments watching Mabel. He wished to keep in his memory
the impression of her face as he saw it then, lighted up by the soft
glow of the heavily shaded lamp at her elbow; a spirited and yet
tender face, with dark-grey eyes, a sensitive, beautiful mouth, and
brown hair with threads of gold in it which gleamed in the lamplight
as she turned her graceful head.

He knew it would fade only too soon, as often happens with the face we
best love and have reason chiefly to remember. Others will rise
unbidden with the vividness of a photograph, but the _one_ face eludes
us more and more, till no effort of the mind will call it up with any
distinctness.

Mabel was the first to speak. 'Are you _very_ fond of music, Vincent?'
she said a little maliciously. 'Would you rather be allowed to listen
in peace, or talk? You _may_ talk, you know.'

'I came late on purpose to see as much of you as possible,' said poor
Vincent. 'This is the last time I shall be able to talk to you for so
long.'

'I know,' said Mabel, simply; 'I'm very sorry, Vincent.' But there was
only a frank friendliness in her eyes as she spoke, nothing more, and
Vincent knew it.

'So am I,' he said. 'Do you know, Mabel, I have no photograph of you.
Will you give me one to take away with me?'

'Of course, if I have one,' she said, as she went to a table for an
album. 'Oh, Vincent, I'm so sorry. I'm afraid there's not one left.
But I can give you one of mother and father and Dolly, and I think
Colin too.'

'I should like all those very much,' said Vincent, who could not
accept this offer as a perfect substitute, 'but can't you find one of
yourself, not even an old one?'

'I think I can give you one after all,' said Mabel; 'wait a minute.'
And as she came back after a minute's absence she said, 'Here's one I
had promised to Gilda Featherstone, but Gilda can wait and you can't.
I'll give you an envelope to put them all in, and then we will talk.
Tell me first how long you are going to be away?'

'No longer than I can help,' said Vincent, 'but it depends on so many
things.'

'But you will write to us, won't you?'

'Will you answer if I do?'

'Of course,' said Mabel. 'Don't you remember when I was a little girl,
and used to write to you at school, and at Trinity too? I was always a
better correspondent than you were, Vincent.'

Just then Dolly came, holding a cage of lovebirds. 'Champion said you
were here,' she began. 'Vincent, wait till I put Jachin and Boaz down.
Now you can kiss me. I knew you wouldn't go away without saying
good-bye to me. You haven't seen my birds, have you? Papa gave them to
me. They're such chilly birds, I've brought them in here to get warm.'

'They're very much alike,' said Vincent, looking into the cage, upon
which each bird instantly tried to hide its head in the sand
underneath the other.

'They're exactly the same,' said Dolly, 'so I never know which is
Jachin and which is Boaz; but they don't know their own names, and if
they did they wouldn't answer to them, so it doesn't matter so very
much after all, _does_ it?'

As it never occurred to Dolly that anybody could have the bad taste to
prefer any one else's conversation to her own, she took entire
possession of Vincent, throwing herself into the couch nearest to him,
and pouring out her views on lovebirds generally to his absent ear.

'They don't know me yet,' she concluded, 'but then I've only had them
six months. Do you know, Harold Caffyn says they're little humbugs,
and kiss one another only when people look at them. I _have_ caught
them fighting dreadfully myself. I don't think lovebirds ought to
fight. Do you? Oh, and Harold says that when one dies I ought to time
the other and see how long it takes him to pine away; but Harold is
always saying horrid things like that.'

'Dolly dear,' cried the governess from the inner room, 'will you run
and ask Colin if he has taken away the metronome to the schoolroom?'

Dolly danced out to hunt for that prosaic instrument in a desultory
way, and then forget it in some dispute with Colin, who generally
welcomed any distraction whilst preparing his school-work--a result
which Fräulein Mozer probably took into account, particularly as she
had the metronome by her side at the time. 'Poor Mr. Vincent!' she
thought; 'he has not come to talk with Dolly of lovebirds.'

'You will be sure to write and tell us all about yourself,' said
Mabel. 'What do you mean to do out there, Vincent?'

'Turn coffee-planter, perhaps,' he said gloomily.

'Oh, Vincent!' she said reproachfully, 'you used to be so ambitious.
Don't you remember how we settled once that you were going to be
famous? You can't be very famous by coffee-planting, can you?'

'If I do that, it is only because I see nothing else to do. But I am
ambitious still, Mabel. I shall not be content with that, if a certain
venture of mine is successful enough to give me hopes of anything
better. But it's a very big "if" at present.'

'What is the venture?' said Mabel. 'Tell me, Vincent; you used to tell
me everything once.'

Vincent had very few traces of his tropical extraction in his nature,
and his caution and reserve would have made him disposed to wait at
least until his book were safe in the haven of printer's ink before
confessing that he was an author.

But Mabel's appeal scattered all his prudence. He had written with
Mabel as his public; with the chief hope in his mind that some day she
would see his work and say that it was well done. He felt a strong
impulse to confide in her now, and have the comfort of her sympathy
and encouragement to carry away with him.

If he had been able to tell her then of his book, and his plans
respecting it, Mabel might have looked upon him with a new interest,
and much that followed in her life might have been prevented. But he
hesitated for a moment, and while he hesitated a second interruption
took place. The opportunity was gone, and, like most opportunities in
conversation, once missed was gone for ever. The irrepressible Dolly
was the innocent instrument: she came in with a big portfolio of black
and white papers, which she put down on a chair. 'I can't find the
metronome anywhere, Fräulein,' she said. 'I've been talking to Colin:
he wants you to come and say good-bye before you go, Vincent. Colin
says he nearly got "swished" to-day, only his master begged him off
because he'd done nothing at all really. Wasn't it nice of him? Ask
him to tell you about it. Oh, and, Vincent, I want your head for my
album. May I cut it out?'

'I want it, myself, Dolly, please,' said Vincent; 'I don't think I can
do without it just yet.'

'I don't mean your real head,' said Dolly, 'I believe you know
that--it's only the outline I want!'

'It isn't a very dreadful operation, Vincent,' said Mabel. 'Dolly has
been victimising all her friends lately, but she doesn't hurt them.'

'Very well, Dolly, I consent,' said Vincent; 'only be gentle with me.'

'Sit down here on this chair against the wall,' said Dolly,
imperiously. 'Mabel, please take the shade off the lamp and put it
over here.' She armed herself with a pencil and a large sheet of white
paper as she spoke. 'Now, Vincent, put yourself so that your shadow
comes just here, and keep perfectly still. Don't move, or talk, or
anything, or your profile will be spoilt!'

'I feel very nervous, Dolly,' said Vincent, sitting down obediently.

'What a coward you must be! Why, one of the boys at Colin's school
said he rather liked it. Will you hold his head steady, Mabel,
please?--no, you hold the paper up while I trace.'

Vincent sat still while Mabel leaned over the back of his chair, with
one hand lightly touching his shoulder, while her soft hair swept
across his cheek now and then. Long after--as long as he lived, in
fact--he remembered those moments with a thrill.

'Now I have done, Vincent,' cried Dolly, triumphantly, after some
laborious tracing on the paper. 'You haven't got _much_ of a profile,
but it will be exactly like you when I've cut it out. There!' she
said, as she held up a life-size head cut out in curling black paper;
'don't you think it's like you, yourself?'

'I don't know,' said Vincent, inspecting it rather dubiously, 'but I
must say I hope it isn't.'

'I'll give you a copy to take away with you,' said Dolly, generously,
as she cut out another black head with her deft little hands. 'There,
that's for you, Vincent--you won't give it away, _will_ you?'

'Shall I promise to wear it always next to my heart, Dolly?'

Dolly considered this question. 'I think you'd better not,' she said
at last: 'it would keep you warm certainly, but I'm afraid the black
comes off--you must have it mounted on cardboard and framed, you
know.'

At this point Mrs. Langton came rustling down, and Vincent rose to
meet her, with a desperate hope that he would be asked to spend the
whole of his last evening with them--a hope that was doomed to
disappointment.

'My dear Vincent,' she said, holding out both her hands, 'so you've
come after all. Really, I was quite afraid you'd forgotten us. Why
didn't somebody tell me Vincent was here, Mabel? I would have hurried
over my dressing to come down. It's so very provoking, Vincent, but I
have to say good-bye in a hurry. My husband and I are going out to
dinner, and he wouldn't come home to change, so he will dress at his
chambers, and I have to go up and fetch him. And it's so late, and
they dine so ridiculously early where we're going, and he's sure to
keep me waiting such a time, I mustn't lose another minute. Will you
see me to the carriage, Vincent? Thanks. Has Marshall put the
footwarmer in, and is the drugget down? Then we'll go, please; and I
wish you every success in--over there, you know, and you must be
careful of yourself and bring home a nice wife.--Lincoln's Inn, tell
him, please.--Good-bye, Vincent, good-bye!'

And she smiled affectionately and waved her long-gloved hand behind
the window as the carriage rolled off, and all the time he knew that
it would not distress her if she never saw him again.

He went slowly back to the warm drawing-room, with its delicate
perfume of violets. He had no excuse for lingering there any
longer--he must say his last words to Mabel and go. But before he
could make up his mind to this another visitor was announced, who must
have come up almost as Mrs. Langton had driven off.

'Mr. Caffyn,' said Champion, imposingly, who had a graceful way of
handing dishes and a dignified deference in his bow which in his own
opinion excused certain attacks of solemn speechlessness and
eccentricity of gait that occasionally overcame him.

A tall, graceful young man came in, with an air of calm and ease that
was in the slightest degree exaggerated. He had short light hair,
well-shaped eyes, which were keen and rather cold, and a firm,
thin-lipped mouth; his voice, which he had under perfect control, was
clear and pleasant.

'Do you mean this for an afternoon call, Harold?' asked Mabel, who did
not seem altogether pleased at his arrival.

'Yes, we're not at home now, are we Mabel?' put in audacious Dolly.

'I was kept rather late at rehearsal, and I had to dine afterwards,'
explained Caffyn; 'but I shouldn't have come in if I had not had a
commission to perform. When I have done it you can send me away.'

Harold Caffyn was a relation of Mrs. Langton's. His father was high up
in the consular service abroad, and he himself had lately gone on the
stage, finding it more attractive than the Foreign Office, for which
he had been originally intended. He had had no reason as yet to regret
his apostasy, for he had obtained almost at once an engagement in a
leading West-end theatre, while his social prospects had not been
materially affected by the change; partly because the world has become
more liberal of late in these matters, and partly because he had
contrived to gain a tolerably secure position in it already, by the
help of a pleasant manner and the musical and dramatic accomplishments
which had led him to adopt the stage as his profession.

Like Holroyd, he had known Mabel from a child, and as she grew up had
felt her attraction too much for his peace of mind. His one misgiving
in going on the stage had been lest it should lessen his chance of
finding favour with her.

This fear proved groundless: Mabel had not altered to him in the
least. But his successes as an amateur had not followed him to the
public stage; he had not as yet been entrusted with any but very minor
_rôles_, and was already disenchanted enough with his profession to be
willing to give it up on very moderate provocation.

'Why, Holroyd, I didn't see you over there. How are you?' he said
cordially, though his secret feelings were anything but cordial, for
he had long seen reason to consider Vincent as a possible rival.

'Vincent has come to say good-bye,' explained Dolly. 'He's going to
India to-morrow.'

'Good-bye!' said Caffyn, his face clearing: 'that's rather sudden,
isn't it, Holroyd? Well, I'm very glad I am able to say good-bye too'
(as there is no doubt Caffyn was). 'You never told me you were off so
soon.'

Holroyd had known Caffyn for several years: they had frequently met in
that house, and, though there was little in common between them, their
relations had always been friendly.

'It was rather sudden,' Holroyd said, 'and we haven't met lately.'

'And you're off to-morrow, eh? I'm sorry. We might have managed a
parting dinner before you went--it must be kept till you come back.'

'What was the commission, Harold?' asked Mabel.

'Oh, ah! I met my uncle to-day, and he told me to find out if you
would be able to run down to Chigbourne one Saturday till Monday soon.
I suppose you won't. He's a dear old boy, but he's rather a dull old
pump to stay two whole days with.'

'You forget he's Dolly's godfather,' said Mabel.

'And he's my uncle,' said Caffyn; 'but he's not a bit the livelier for
that, you know. You're asked, too Juggins.' (Juggins was a name he had
for Dolly, whom he found pleasure in teasing, and who was not deeply
attached to him.)

'Would you like to go, Dolly, if mother says yes?' asked Mabel.

'Is Harold going?' said Dolly.

'Harold does not happen to be asked, my Juggins,' said that gentleman
blandly.

'Then we'll go, Mabel, and I shall take Frisk, because Uncle Anthony
hasn't seen him for a long time.'

Holroyd saw no use in staying longer. He went into the schoolroom to
see Colin, who was as sorry to say good-bye as the pile of
school-books in front of him allowed, and then he returned to take
leave of the others. The governess read in his face that her
well-meant services had been of no avail, and sighed compassionately
as she shook hands. Dolly nestled against him and cried a little, and
the cool Harold felt so strongly that he could afford to be generous
now, that he was genial and almost affectionate in his good wishes.

His face clouded, however, when Mabel said 'Don't ring, Ottilia. I
will go to the door with Vincent--it's the last time.' 'I wonder if
she cares about the fellow!' he thought uneasily.

'You won't forget to write to us as soon as you can, Vincent?' said
Mabel, as they stood in the hall together. 'We shall be thinking of
you so often, and wondering what you are doing, and how you are.'

The hall of a London house is perhaps hardly the place for
love-passages--there is something fatally ludicrous about a
declaration amongst the hats and umbrellas. In spite of a
consciousness of this, however, Vincent felt a passionate impulse
even then, at that eleventh hour, to tell Mabel something of what was
in his heart.

But he kept silence: a surer instinct warned him that he had delayed
too long to have any chance of success then. It was the fact that
Mabel had no suspicion of the real nature of his feelings, and he was
right in concluding as he did that to avow it then would come upon her
as a shock for which she was unprepared.

Fräulein Mozer's inclination to a sentimental view of life, and
Caffyn's tendency to see a rival in every one, had quickened their
insight respectively; but Mabel herself, though girls are seldom the
last to discover such symptoms, had never thought of Vincent as a
possible lover, for which his own undemonstrative manner and
procrastination were chiefly to blame.

He had shrunk from betraying his feelings before. 'She can never care
for me,' he had thought; 'I have done nothing to deserve her--I am
nobody,' and this had urged him on to do something which might qualify
him in his own eyes, until which he had steadily kept his own counsel
and seen her as seldom as possible.

Then he had written his book; and though he was not such a fool as to
imagine that any woman's heart could be approached through print
alone, he could not help feeling on revising his work that he had done
that which, if successful, would remove something of his own
unworthiness, and might give him a new recommendation to a girl of
Mabel's literary sympathy.

But then his father's summons to Ceylon had come--he was compelled to
obey, and now he had to tear himself away with his secret still
untold, and trust to time and absence (who are remarkably overrated as
advocates by the way) to plead for him.

He felt the full bitterness of this as he held both her hands and
looked down on her fair face with the sweet eyes that shone with a
sister's--but only a sister's--affection. 'She would have loved me in
time,' he thought; 'but the time may never come now.'

He did not trust himself to say much: he might have asked and
obtained a kiss, as an almost brother who was going far away, but to
him that would have been the hollowest mockery.

Suppressed emotion made him abrupt and almost cold, he let her hands
drop suddenly, and with nothing more than a broken 'God bless you,
Mabel, good-bye, dear, good-bye!' he left the house hurriedly, and the
moment after he was alone on the hill with his heartache.

'So he's gone!' remarked Caffyn, as she re-entered the drawing-room
after lingering a few moments in the empty hall. 'What a dear, dull
old plodder it is, isn't it? He'll do much better at planting coffee
than he ever did at law--at least, it's to be hoped so!'

'You are very fond of calling other people dull, Harold,' said Mabel,
with a displeased contraction of her eyebrows. 'Vincent is not in the
least dull: you only speak of him like that because you don't
understand him.'

'I didn't say it disparagingly,' said Caffyn. 'I rather admire
dulness; it's so restful. But as you say, Mabel, I dare say I don't
understand him: he really doesn't give a fellow a fair chance. As far
as I know him, I _do_ like him uncommonly; but, at the same time, I
must confess he has always given me the impression of being, don't you
know, just a trifle heavy. But very likely I'm wrong.'

'Very likely indeed,' said Mabel, closing the subject. But Caffyn had
not spoken undesignedly, and had risked offending her for the moment
for the sake of producing the effect he wanted; and he was not
altogether unsuccessful. 'Was Harold right?' she thought later.
'Vincent is very quiet, but I always thought there was power of some
sort behind; and yet--would it not have shown itself before now? But
if poor Vincent _is_ only dull, it will make no difference to me; I
shall like him just as much.'

But, for all that, the suggestion very effectually prevented all
danger of Vincent's becoming idealised by distance into something more
interesting than a brother--which was, indeed, the reason why Caffyn
made it.

Vincent himself, meanwhile, unaware--as all of us would pray to be
kept unaware--of the portrait of himself, by a friend, which was being
exhibited to the girl he loved, was walking down Ladbroke Hill to
spend the remainder of his last evening in England in loneliness at
his rooms; for he had no heart for anything else.

It was dark by that time. Above him was a clear, steel-blue sky; in
front, across the hollow, rose Campden Hill, a dim, dark mass,
twinkling with lights. By the square at his side a German band was
playing the garden music from 'Faust,' with no more regard for
expression and tunefulness than a German band is ever capable of; but
distance softened the harshness and imperfection of their rendering,
and Siebel's air seemed to Vincent the expression of his own
passionate, unrequited devotion.

'I would do anything for her,' he said, half aloud, 'and yet I dared
not tell her then.... But if I ever come back to her again--before it
is too late--she shall know all she is and always will be to me. I
will wait and hope for that.'




CHAPTER IV.

MALAKOFF TERRACE.


After parting from Vincent at the end of Rotten Row, Mark Ashburn
continued his walk alone through Kensington High Street and onwards,
until he came to one of those quiet streets which serve as a sort of
backwater to the main stream of traffic, and, turning down this, it
was not long before he reached a row of small three-story houses, with
their lower parts cased in stucco, but the rest allowed to remain in
the original yellow-brown brick, which time had mellowed to a pleasant
warm tone. 'Malakoff Terrace,' as the place had been christened (and
the title was a tolerable index of its date), was rather less
depressing in appearance than many of its more modern neighbours, with
their dismal monotony and pretentiousness. It faced a well-kept
enclosure, with trim lawns and beds, and across the compact laurel
hedges in the little front gardens a curious passer-by might catch
glimpses of various interiors which in nearly every case left him with
an impression of cosy comfort. The outline of the terrace was broken
here and there by little verandahs protecting the shallow balconies
and painted a deep Indian-red or sap-green, which in summer time were
gay with flowers and creepers, and one seldom passed there then on
warm and drowsy afternoons without undergoing a well-sustained fire
from quite a masked battery of pianos, served from behind the
fluttering white curtains at most of the long open windows on the
first floor.

Even in winter and at night the terrace was cheerful, with its variety
of striped and coloured blinds and curtains at the illuminated
windows; and where blinds and curtains were undrawn and the little
front rooms left unlighted, the firelight flickering within on shining
bookcases and picture frames was no less pleasantly suggestive. Still,
in every neighbourhood there will always be some houses whose
exteriors are severely unattractive; without being poverty-stricken,
they seem to belong to people indifferent to all but the absolutely
essential, and incapable of surrounding themselves with any of the
characteristic contrivances that most homes which are more than mere
lodgings amass almost unconsciously. It was before a house of this
latter kind that Mark stopped--a house with nothing in the shape of a
verandah to relieve its formality. Behind its front railings there
were no trim laurel bushes--only an uncomfortable bed of equal parts
of mould and broken red tiles, in which a withered juniper was dying
hard; at the windows were no bright curtain-folds or hanging baskets
of trailing fern to give a touch of colour, but dusty wire blinds and
hangings of a faded drab.

It was not a boarding-house, but the home in which Mark Ashburn lived
with his family, who, if they were not precisely gay, were as
respectable as any in the terrace, which is better in some respects
than mere gaiety.

He found them all sitting down to dinner in the back parlour, a
square little room with a grey paper of a large and hideous design.
His mother, a stout lady with a frosty complexion, a cold grey eye,
and an injured expression about the mouth and brow, was serving out
soup with a touch of the relieving officer in her manner; opposite to
her was her husband, a mild little man in habitually low spirits; and
the rest of the family, Mark's two sisters, Martha and Trixie, and his
younger brother, Cuthbert, were in their respective places.

Mrs. Ashburn looked up severely as he came in. 'You are late again,
Mark,' she said; 'while you are under this roof' (Mrs. Ashburn was
fond of referring to the roof) 'your father and I expect you to
conform to the rules of the house.'

'Well, you see, mother,' explained Mark, sitting down and unfolding
his napkin, 'it was a fine afternoon, so I thought I would walk home
with a friend.'

'There is a time for walking home with a friend, and a time for
dinner,' observed his mother, with the air of quoting something
Scriptural.

'And I've mixed them, mother? So I have; I'm sorry, and I won't do it
again. There, will that do?'

'Make haste and eat your soup, Mark, and don't keep us all waiting for
you.'

Mrs. Ashburn had never quite realised that her family had grown up.
She still talked to Mark as she had done when he was a careless
schoolboy at St. Peter's; she still tried to enforce little moral
lessons and even petty restrictions upon her family generally; and
though she had been long reduced to blank cartridges, it worried them.

The ideal family circle, on re-assembling at the close of the day,
celebrate their reunion with an increasing flow of lively
conversation; those who have been out into the great world describe
their personal experiences, and the scenes, tragic or humorous, which
they have severally witnessed during the day; and when these are
exhausted, the female members take up the tale and relate the humbler
incidents of domestic life, and so the hours pass till bedtime.

Such circles are in all sincerity to be congratulated; but it is to be
feared that in the majority of cases the conversation of a family
whose members meet every day is apt, among themselves, to become
frightfully monosyllabic. It was certainly so with the Ashburns. Mark
and Trixie sometimes felt the silences too oppressive to be borne, and
made desperate attempts at establishing a general discussion on
something or anything; but it was difficult to select a topic that
could not be brought down by an axiom from Mrs. Ashburn, which
disposed of the whole subject in very early infancy. Cuthbert
generally came back from the office tired and somewhat sulky; Martha's
temper was not to be depended upon of an evening; and Mr. Ashburn
himself rarely contributed more than a heavy sigh to the common stock
of conversation.

Under these circumstances it will be readily believed that Mark's
'Evenings at Home' were by no means brilliant. He sometimes wondered
himself why he had borne them so long; and if he had been able to
procure comfortable lodgings at as cheap a rate as it cost him to live
at home, he would probably have taken an early opportunity of bursting
the bonds of the family dulness. But his salary was not large, his
habits were expensive, and he stayed on.

The beginning of this particular evening did not promise any marked
increase in the general liveliness. Mrs. Ashburn announced
lugubriously to all whom it might concern that she had eaten no lunch;
Martha mentioned that a Miss Hornblower had called that
afternoon--which produced no sensation, though Cuthbert seemed for a
moment inclined to ask who Miss Hornblower might happen to be, till he
remembered in time that he really did not care, and saved himself the
trouble. Then Trixie made a well-meant, but rather too obvious, effort
to allure him to talk by an inquiry (which had become something of a
formula) whether he had 'seen any one' that day, to which Cuthbert
replied that he had noticed one or two people hanging about the City;
and Martha observed that she was glad to see he still kept up his
jokes, moving him to confess sardonically that he knew he was a funny
dog, but when he saw them all--and particularly Martha--rollicking
round him, he could not help bubbling over with merriment himself.

Mrs. Ashburn caught the reply, and said severely: 'I do _not_ think,
Cuthbert, that either I or your father have ever set you the example
of "rollicking," as you call it, at this table. Decent mirth and a
cheerful tone of conversation we have always encouraged. I don't know
why you should receive a mother's remarks with laughter. It is not
respectful of you, Cuthbert, I must say!'

Mrs. Ashburn would probably have proceeded to further defend herself
and family from the charge of rollicking, and to draw uncomplimentary
parallels from the Proverbs between the laughter of certain persons
and the crackling of thorns under a pot, when a timely diversion was
effected by a sounding knock at the little front door. The maid put
down the dish she was handing and vanished; after which there were
sounds of a large body entering the passage, and a loud voice
exclaiming, 'All in, hey? and at dinner, are they? Very well, my dear;
tell 'em I'm here. I know my way in.'

'It's Uncle Solomon!' went round the table. They refrained from any
outward expression of joy, because they were naturally a quiet family.

'Well,' said Mrs. Ashburn, who seemed to put her own construction on
this reserve, 'and I'm sure if there is any table at which my only
brother Solomon should be a welcome guest, it's _this_ table.'

'Quite so, my dear; quite so,' said Mr. Ashburn, hastily. 'He was here
last week; but we're all glad to see him at any time, I'm sure.'

'I hope so, indeed! Go in, Trixie, and help your uncle off with his
coat,' for there were snorting and puffing signs from the next room,
as if their relative were in difficulties; but before Trixie could
rise the voice was heard again, 'That's it, Ann, thanky--you're called
Ann, aren't you? I thought so. Ah, how's the baker, Ann--wasn't it
the baker I caught down the airy now? _wasn't_ it, hey?'

And then a large red-faced person came in, with a puffy important
mouth, a fringe of whiskers meeting under his chin, and what Trixie,
in speaking privately of her relative's personal appearance, described
as 'little piggy eyes,' which had, however, a twinkle of a rather
primitive kind of humour in them.

Solomon Lightowler was a brother of Mrs. Ashburn's, a retired business
man, who had amassed a considerable fortune in the hardware trade.

He was a widower and without children, and it was he who, fired with
the ambition of placing a nephew in the Indian Civil Service as a
rising monument to his uncle's perception, had sent Mark to the
crammer's--for Mr. Ashburn's position in the Inland Revenue Office
would scarcely have warranted such an outlay.

Mark's performances at his first examination, as has been said, had
not been calculated to encourage his uncle's hopes, but the latter had
been slightly mollified by his nephew's spirit in carrying off the
Cambridge scholarship soon afterwards, and with the idea of having one
more attempt to 'see his money back,' Mr. Lightowler had consented to
keep him for the necessary time at the University. When that
experiment also had ended in disaster, Uncle Solomon seemed at one
time to have given him up in disgust, only reserving himself, as the
sole value for his money, the liberty of reproach, and Mark was of
opinion that he had already gone far towards recouping himself in this
respect alone.

'Hah! phew--you're very hot in here!' he remarked, as an agreeable
opening--he felt himself rich enough to be able to remark on other
people's atmospheres; but Cuthbert expressed a _sotto voce_ wish that
his uncle were exposed to an even higher temperature.

'We can't all live in country houses, Solomon,' said his sister, 'and
a small room soon gets warm to any one coming in from the cold air.'

'Warm!' said Mr. Lightowler, with a snort; 'I should think you must
all of you be fired like a set of pots! I don't care where I sit, so
long as I'm well away from the fire. I'll come by you, Trixie,
eh--you'll take care of your uncle, won't you?'

Trixie was a handsome girl of about eighteen, with abundant auburn
hair, which was never quite in good order, and pretty hands of which
most girls would have been more careful; she had developed a limp
taste for art of late, finding drawing outlines at an art school less
irksome than assisting in the housekeeping at home. Uncle Solomon
always alarmed her because she never knew what he would say next; but
as it was a family rule to be civil to him, she made room for him with
great apparent alacrity.

'And how are you all, boys and girls, eh?' asked Uncle Solomon, when
he was comfortably seated; 'Mark, you've got fuller in the waist of
late; you don't take 'alf enough exercise. Cuthbert, lad, you're
looking very sallow under the eyes--smoking and late hours, _that's_
the way with all the young men nowadays! Why don't you talk to him,
eh, Matthew? I should if he was a boy o' mine. Well, Martha, has any
nice young man asked you to name a day yet?--he's a long time coming
forward, Martha, that nice young man; why, let me see, Jane, she must
be getting on now for--she was born in the year fifty-four, was
it?--four it was; it was in the war time, I remember, and you wanted
her christened Alma, but I said an uncommon name is all very well if
she grows up good-looking, but if she's plain it only sounds
ridiklous; so, very fortunately as things turn out, you had her
christened Martha. There's nothing to bite your lips over, my dear; no
one blames you for it, we can't be all born 'andsome. It's Trixie here
who gets all the love-letters, isn't it, Trixie?--ah, I _thought_ I
should see a blush if I looked! Who is it now, Trixie, and where do we
meet him, and when is the wedding? Come, tell your old uncle.'

'Don't put such nonsense into the child's head, Solomon,' said his
sister, in a slightly scandalised tone.

'That would be coals to Newcastle with a vengeance,' he chuckled; 'but
you mustn't mind my going on--that's my way; if people don't like it I
can't help it, but I always speak right out.'

'Which is the reason we love him,' came in a stage aside from
Cuthbert, who took advantage of a slight deafness in one of his
uncle's ears.

'Well, Mr. Schoolmaster,' said the latter, working round to Mark
again, 'and how are _you_ gettin' on? If you'd worked harder at
College and done me credit, you'd 'a' been a feller of your college,
or a judge in an Indian court, by this time, instead of birching
naughty little boys.'

'It's a detail,' said Mark; 'but I don't interfere in that
department.'

'Well, you _are_ young to be trusted with a birch. I'm glad they look
at things that way. If _you're_ satisfied with yourself, I suppose I
ought to be, though I did look forward once to seeing a nephew of mine
famous. You've '_ad_ all your fame at Cambridge, with your papers, and
your poems, and your College skits--a nice snug little fame all to
yourself.'

Martha tittered acidly at this light badinage, but it brought a pained
look into Trixie's large brown eyes, who thought it was a shame that
poor Mark should never be allowed to hear the last of his Cambridge
_fiasco_.

Even Mrs. Ashburn seemed anxious to shield Mark. 'Ah, Solomon,' she
said, 'Mark sees his folly now; he knows how wrong he was to spend his
time in idle scribbling to amuse thoughtless young men, when he ought
to have studied hard and shown his gratitude to you for all you have
done for him.'

'Well, I've been a good friend to him, Jane, and I could have been a
better if he'd proved deserving. I'm not one to grudge any expense.
And if I thought, even now, that he'd really given up his
scribbling----'

Mark thought it prudent to equivocate: 'Even if I wished to write,
uncle,' he said, 'what with my school-work, and what with reading for
the Bar, I should not have much time for it; but mother is right, I
_do_ see my folly now.'

This pleased Uncle Solomon, who still clung to the fragments of his
belief in Mark's ability, and had been gratified upon his joining one
of the Inns of Court by the prospect of having a nephew who at least
would have the title of barrister; he relaxed at once: 'Well, well,
let bygones be bygones, you may be a credit to me yet. And now I think
of it, come down and stay Sunday at "The Woodbines" soon, will you?
it'll be a rest for you, and I want you to see some of that 'Umpage's
goings on at the church.' (Uncle Solomon not unfrequently dropped an
'h,' but with a deliberation that seemed to say that he was quite
aware it was there, but did not consider it advisable to recognise it
just then.) 'He's quite got round the Vicar; made him have flowers and
a great brass cross and candles on the Communion table, and 'Umpage
all the time a feller with no more religion inside him than'--here he
looked round the table for a comparison--'ah, than that jug has! He's
talked the Vicar into getting them little bags for collections now,
all because he was jealous at the clerk's putting the plate inside my
pew reg'lar for _me_ to hold. It isn't that I care about 'olding a
plate, but to see 'Umpage smirking round with one of them red velvet
bags makes me downright sick--they'll drive me to go over and be a
Baptist one of these fine days.'

'You don't like Mr. Humpage, do you, uncle?' said Trixie.

''Umpage and me are not friendly--though contiguous,' said he; 'but as
for liking, I neither like nor dislike the man; we 'old no
intercourse, beyond looking the other way in church and 'aving words
across the fence when his fowls break through into my garden--he won't
have the hole seen to, so I shall get it done myself and send the bill
in to him--that's what _I_ shall do.--A letter for you, Matthew? read
away, don't mind me,' for the maid had come in meanwhile with a
letter, which Matthew Ashburn opened and began to read at this
permission.

Presently he rubbed his forehead perplexedly: 'I can't make head or
tail of it,' he said feebly; 'I don't know who they are, or what they
write all this to _me_ for!'

''And it over to me, Matthew; let's see if _I_ can make it any plainer
for you,' said his brother-in-law, persuaded that to his powerful mind
few things could long remain a mystery.

He took the letter, solemnly settled his double eyeglasses well down
on his broad nose, coughed importantly, and began to read: 'Dear Sir,'
he began in a tone of expounding wisdom--'well, that's straightforward
enough--Dear Sir, we have given our best consideration to the--hey!'
(here his face began to grow less confident) 'the sweet--what?--ah,
sweet bells, sweet bells jangled. What have you been jangling _your_
bells about, eh, Matthew?'

'I think they're mad,' said poor Mr. Ashburn; 'the bells in this house
are all right, I think, my dear?'

'I'm not aware that any of them are out of order; they rehung the bell
in the area the other day--it's some mistake,' said Mrs. Ashburn.

'Which,' continued Uncle Solomon, 'you 'ave been good enough to submit
to us (pretty good that for a bell-'anger, hey?) We regret, however,
to say that we do not find ourselves in a position to make any
overtures to you in the matter. Well,' he said, though not very
confidently, 'you've been writing to your landlord about the fixtures,
and these are his lawyers writing back--isn't _that_ it now?'

'What should I write to _him_ for?' said Mr. Ashburn; 'that's not it,
Solomon--go on, it gets worse by-and-by!'

'Your one fair daughter also (hullo, Trixie!) we find ourselves
compelled to decline, although with more reluctance; but, in spite of
some considerable merits, there is a slight roughness (why, her
complexion's clear enough!), together with a certain immaturity and
total lack of form and motive (you _are_ giddy, you know, Trixie, I
always told you so), which are in our opinion sufficient to prevent us
from making any proposals to you in the matter.'

Uncle Solomon laid down the letter at this point, and looked around
open-mouthed: 'I thought I could make out most things,' he said; 'but
this is rather beyond me, I must say.'

''Ere are these people--what's their names? Leadbitter and Gandy (who
I take it are in the gas-fitting and decorating line)--writing to say
in the same breath that they can't come and see to your bells, and
they don't want to marry your daughter. Who asked them?--you ain't
come down so low in the world to go and offer Trixie to a gas-fitter,
I should 'ope, Matthew!--and yet what else _does_ it mean--tell me
that, and I'll thank you.'

'Don't ask _me_,' said the unhappy father; 'they're perfect
strangers.'

'Trixie, you know nothing about it, I hope?' said Mrs. Ashburn, rather
suspiciously.

'No, ma dear,' said Trixie; 'but I don't want to marry either Mr.
Leadbitter or Mr. Gandy.'

The situation had become too much for Mark; at first he had hoped that
by holding his tongue he might escape being detected, while the
rejection of both the novels from which he had hoped so much was a
heavy blow which he felt he could scarcely bear in public; but they
seemed so determined to sift the matter to the end that he decided to
enlighten them at once, since it must be only a question of time.

But his voice was choked and his face crimson as he said, 'I think
perhaps I can explain it.'

'You!' they all cried, while Uncle Solomon added something about
'young men having grown cleverer since his young days.'

'Yes, that letter is addressed to me--M. Ashburn, you see, stands for
Mark, not Matthew. It's from--from a firm of publishers,' said the
unlucky Mark, speaking very hoarsely; 'I sent them two novels of
mine--one was called "One Fair Daughter," and the other "Sweet Bells
Jangled"--and they, they won't take them--that's all.'

There was a 'sensation,' as reporters say, at this announcement:
Martha gave a sour little laugh of disgust; Cuthbert looked as if he
thought a good deal which brotherly feeling forbade him to put in
words; but Trixie tried to take Mark's hand under the table--he
shrank from all sympathy, however, at such a moment, and shook her off
impatiently, and all she could do was to keep her eyes in pity from
his face.

Mrs. Ashburn gave a tragic groan and shook her head: to her a young
man who was capable of writing novels was lost; she had a wholesome
horror of all fiction, having come from a race of Dissenters of the
strict old-fashioned class, whose prejudices her hard dull nature had
retained in all their strength. Her husband, without any very clear
views of his own, thought as she did as soon as he knew her opinions,
and they all left it to Mr. Lightowler to interpret the 'evident sense
of the house.'

He expanded himself imposingly, calling up his bitterest powers of
satire to do justice to the occasion: 'So _that's_ all, is it?' he
said; 'ah, and quite enough, too, _I_ should think; so it was the
bells on _your_ cap that were jingling all the time?'

'Since you put it in that pleasant way,' said Mark, 'I suppose it
was.'

'And that's how you've been studying for the Bar of evenings, this is
the way you've overcome your fondness for scribbling nonsense? I've
spent all the money I've laid out on you' (it was a way of his to talk
as if Mark had been a building estate), 'I've given you a good
education, all to 'ave you writing novels and get 'em "returned with
thanks!"--you might have done that much without going to College!'

'Every writer of any note has had novels declined at some time,' said
Mark.

'Well,' said Uncle Solomon, ponderously, 'if that's all, you've made a
capital start. You can set up as a big littery pot at once, _you_ can,
with a brace of 'em. I 'ope you're satisfied with all this, Jane, I'm
sure?'

'It's no use saying anything,' she said; 'but it's a bad return after
all your kindness to him.'

'A return with thanks,' put in Cuthbert, who was not without some
enjoyment of Mark's discomfiture; he had long had a certain contempt
for his elder brother as a much overrated man, and he felt, with
perfect justice, that had Fortune made him his uncle's favourite, he
had brains which would have enabled him to succeed where Mark had
failed; but he had been obliged to leave school early for a City
office, which had gone some way towards souring him.

'There's an old Latin proverb,' said Mr. Ashburn, with a feeling that
it was his turn--'an old Latin proverb, "_Nec suetonius ultra
crepitam_."'

'No, excuse me, you 'aven't _quite_ got it, Matthew,' said his
brother-in-law, patronisingly; 'you're very near it, though. It runs,
if I don't make a mistake, "Ne plus ultra sutorius (not
_suetonius_--_he_ was a Roman emperor)--crepitam," a favourite remark
of the poet Cicero--"Cobbler stick to your last," as _we_ have it more
neatly. But your father's right on the main point, Mark. I don't say
you need stick to the schoolmastering, unless you choose. I'll see you
started at the Bar; I came this very evening to 'ave a talk with you
on that. But what do you want to go and lower yourself by literature
for? There's a littery man down at our place, a poor feller that
writes for the "Chigbourne and Lamford Gazette," and gets my gardener
to let him take the measure of my gooseberries; he's got a hat on him
my scarecrow wouldn't be seen in. That's what you'll come to!'

'There's some difference,' said Mark, getting roused, 'between the
reporter of a country paper and a novelist.'

'There's a difference between you and him,' retorted his uncle; 'he
gets what he writes put in and paid so much a line for--_you_ don't.
That's all the difference _I_ can see.'

'But when the books are accepted, they will be paid for,' said Mark,
'and well paid for too.'

'I always thought that dog and the shadow must ha' been a puppy, and
now I know it,' said his uncle, irritably. 'Now look here, Mark, let's
have no more nonsense about it. I said I came here to have a little
talk with you, and though things are not what I expected, 'ave it I
will. When I saw you last, I thought you were trying to raise yourself
by your own efforts and studying law, and I said to myself, "I'll
give him another chance." It seems now that was all talk; but I'll
give you the chance for all that. If you like to take it, well and
good; if not, I've done with you this time once for all. You go on and
work 'ard at this Law till you've served your time out, or kept your
terms, or whatever they call it, and when you get called you can give
'em notice to quit at your school. _I'll_ pay your fees and see you
started in chambers till you're able to run alone. Only, and mind
this, no more of your scribbling--drop that littery rubbish once for
all, and I stand by you; go on at it, and I leave you to go to the
dogs your own way. That's my offer, and I mean it.'

There are few things so unpleasantly corrective to one's self-esteem
as a letter of rejection such as had come to Mark--the refusal of the
school committee was insignificant in comparison; only those who have
yielded to the subtle temptation to submit manuscript to an editor or
a publisher's reader, and have seen it return in dishonour, can quite
realise the dull anguish of it, the wild, impotent rebellion that
follows, and the stunned sense that all one's ideas will have somehow
to be readjusted; perhaps an artist whose pictures are not hung feels
something of it, but there one's wounded vanity can more easily find
salves.

Mark felt the blow very keenly; for weeks he had been building hopes
on these unfortunate manuscripts of his; he had sent both to a firm
under whose auspices he was particularly anxious to come before the
world, in the hope that one at least would find favour with them, and
now the two had been unequivocally declined; for a moment his
confidence in himself was shaken, and he almost accepted the verdict.

And yet he hesitated still: the publisher might be wrong; he had heard
of books riding out several such storms and sailing in triumphantly at
last. There was Carlyle, there was Charlotte Brontë, and other
instances occurred to him. And he longed for speedy fame, and the law
was a long avenue to it.

'You hear what your uncle says?' said his mother. 'Surely you won't
refuse a chance like this.'

'Yes, he will,' said Martha. 'Mark would rather write novels than
work, wouldn't you, Mark? It must be so amusing to write things which
will never be read, I'm sure.'

'Leave Mark alone, Martha,' said Trixie. 'It's a shame--it is.'

'I don't know why you should all be down on me like this,' said Mark;
'there's nothing positively immoral in writing books--at least when it
never goes any further. But I daresay you're right, and I believe
_you_ mean to be kind at any rate, uncle. I'll take your offer. I'll
read steadily, and get called, and see if I'm good for anything at the
Bar, since it seems I'm good for nothing else.'

'And you'll give up the writing, hey?' said his uncle.

'Oh, yes,' said Mark, irritably, 'anything you please. I'm a reformed
character; I'll take the pledge to abstain from ink in all forms if
you like.' It was not a very gracious way of accepting what was by no
means an unhandsome offer; but he was jarred and worried, and scarcely
knew what he said.

Mr. Lightowler was not sensitive, and was too satisfied at having
gained his object to cavil at Mark's manner of yielding. 'Very well;
that's settled,' he said. 'I'm glad you've come to your senses, I'm
sure. We'll have you on the Woolsack yet, and we'll say no more about
the other business.'

'And now,' said Mark, with a forced smile, 'I think I'll say good
night. I'll go and attack the law-books while I'm in the humour for
them.'

Upstairs in his room he got out his few elementary text-books, and
began to read with a sort of sullen determination; but he had not gone
very far in the 'descent of an estate-tail,' before he shut the book
up in a passion: 'I can't read to-night,' he said savagely; 'it isn't
easy to hug my chains all at once; it will be a long time before I
come out strong on estates-tail. If Holroyd (who says he _likes_ the
jargon) can't get a living by it, there's not much hope for me. I
loathe it! I'm sure I had a chance with those books of mine, too; but
that's all over. I must burn them, I suppose---- Who's there?' for
there was a tap at the door.

'It's me, Mark--Trixie--let me in.' Mark rose and opened the door to
Trixie, in a loose morning wrapper. 'Mark, I'm so sorry, dear,' she
said softly.

'Sorry! you ought to rejoice, Trixie,' said Mark, with a bitter laugh.
'I'm a brand from the burning--a repentant novelist, I've seen my
errors and am going to turn Lord Chancellor.'

'You mustn't be angry with them,' said Trixie. 'Dear ma is very
strict; but then she is so anxious to see you making a living, Mark,
and you know they don't give you very much at St. Peter's. And Martha
and Cuthbert can't help saying disagreeable things. Don't you think,
perhaps,' she added timidly, 'that it's better for you to give up
thinking about writing any more?'

'Well, I've done it, Trixie, at any rate. I'm not so bad as that
fellow Delobelle, in "Fromont Jeune," with his "Je n'ai pas le droit
de renoncer au théâtre!" am I? I've renounced _my_ stage. I'm a good
little boy, and won't make a mess with nasty ink and pens any more.
When I get those confounded books back they shall go into the fire--by
Jove they shall!'

'No, Mark, don't, it would be such a pity,' cried Trixie. 'I'm sure
they were beautifully written; quite as well as some that get printed.
I wish you could write novels and be Lord Chancellor too, Mark.'

'Bring out Acts in three volumes, and edit Judicature Rules in fancy
covers for railway reading? It would be very nice, Trixie, wouldn't
it? But I'm afraid it wouldn't do, even if I wrote them in secret,
under the Woolsack. If I write anything now, it must be a smart spicy
quarto on Bankruptcy, or a rattling digest on the Law of Settlement
and Highways. My fictions will be all legal ones.'

'I know you will do your best,' said Trixie, simply.

Mark dreamed that night--much as other disappointed literary aspirants
have dreamed before him--that a second letter had come from the
publishers, stating that they had reconsidered their decision, and
offering repentantly to publish both novels on fabulous terms. He was
just rushing to call Trixie, and tell her the good news, when the
dream faded, and he awoke to the consciousness of his very different
circumstances.

Literature had jilted him. The Law was to be his mistress henceforth:
a bony and parchment-faced _innamorata_, with a horsehair wig; and he
thought of the task of wooing her with a shudder.




CHAPTER V.

NEIGHBOURS.


More than a week had passed since the scene in Malakoff Terrace
described in my last chapter--a week spent by Mark in the drudgery of
school work, which had grown more distasteful than ever now he could
indulge in no golden dreams of a glorious deliverance; for he could
not accept his new prospects as an adequate substitute, and was
beginning to regret his abandonment of his true ambitions with a
longing that was almost fierce.

He had gone down to 'The Woodbines,' his uncle's villa at Chigbourne,
in pursuance of the invitation given him; and Mr. Lightowler's
undisguised recovery of the feeling of proprietorship in him, and his
repeated incitements to pursue his studies with unwearying ardour,
only increased Mark's disgust with himself and his future, as he
walked along the lanes with his relative towards the little church
beyond the village on the last Sunday in November.

It was a bright clear frosty day, with a scarlet sun glowing through
dun-coloured clouds, and a pale blue sky beyond the haze above their
heads; the country landscape had suggestions of Christmas cheeriness,
impossible enough to Londoners who cannot hope to share in
country-house revels _à la_ Mr. Caldecott, but vaguely exhilarating
notwithstanding.

Mark knew that his Christmas would be passed in town with his family,
who would keep it, as they observed Sunday, and refrain from any
attempt at seasonable jollity; yet he began to feel elated by its
approach, or the weather, or some instinct of youth and health which
set his blood tingling and drove away his dissatisfaction with every
step he took.

Uncle Solomon had come out in broadcloth, and a large hat with such an
ecclesiastical brim that it influenced his conversation, causing it to
be more appropriate than Sunday talk will sometimes be, even amongst
the best people. He discoursed of Ritualism, and deplored the hold it
had acquired on the vicar, and the secret manoeuvres of the detested
Humpage in the vestry.

'I was brought up a Baptist,' he said, 'and I'd go back to 'em now, if
I didn't know how they'd all crow about it; and they're a poor lot at
Little Bethel, too, not a penny-piece among 'em.'

'When we get into the church,' he continued, 'you give a look left of
the chancel, close by the door where the shelf is with the
poor-loaves. You'll see a painted winder there which that 'Umpage got
put up to his aunt--that's his ostentation, that is. I don't believe
he ever _had_ an aunt; but I don't wish to judge him. Only you look at
that window, and tell me how it strikes you afterwards. He's got the
artist to do him as the Good Samaritan there! I call it
scandalous!--there's no mistake about it; the 'air's not the same
colour, and the Eastern robes hide it a bit; but he's there for all
that. I don't relish seeing 'Umpage figurin' away in painted glass and
a great gaudy turban every time I look up, he's quite aggravating
enough in his pew. If I chose to go to the expense, _I_ could put up a
winder too, and 'ave myself done.'

'As a saint?' suggested Mark.

'Never you mind. If I liked to be a saint on glass I could, I
suppose--I'm a churchwarden, and there's no reason why 'Umpage should
'ave all the painted winders to himself; but I shouldn't care to make
myself so conspicuous. 'Umpage, now, he likes that sort of thing.'

This brought them to the church, a perpendicular building with a
decidedly 'Early English' smell in it, and Uncle Solomon led the way
to his pew, stopping to nudge Mark as they passed the memorial to his
enemy's meretricious aunt; he nudged him again presently, after he had
retired behind the ecclesiastical hat and emerged again to deal out
some very large prayer and hymn books as if they were cards.

'That's him--that's 'Umpage,' he said in a loud whisper.

Mark looked up in time to see an old gentleman advance to the door of
the pew in front of them--a formidable-looking old gentleman, with a
sallow face, long iron-grey locks, full grey eyes, a hook-nose, and
prominent teeth under a yellowish-grey moustache and beard.

He felt a sudden shame, for behind Mr. Humpage came a pretty child
with long floating light hair, with a staid fresh-faced woman in grey,
and last a girl of about nineteen or twenty, who seemed to have caught
the very audible whisper, for she glanced in its direction as she
passed in with the slightest possible gleam of amused surprise in her
eyes and a lifting of her delicate eyebrows.

A loud intoned 'Amen' came from the vestry just then, the organ played
a voluntary, and the vicar and curate marched in at the end of a
procession of little surpliced country boys, whose boots made a very
undevotional clatter over the brasses and flagstones.

As a Low Churchman Mr. Lightowler protested against this processional
pomp by a loud snort, which expression of opinion he repeated at any
tendency to genuflexion on the part of the clergyman during the
service, until the little girl turned round and gazed at him with
large concerned eyes, as if she thought he must be either very devout
or extremely unwell.

Mark heard little of the service; he was dimly aware of his uncle
singing all the psalms and responses with a lusty tunelessness, and
coming to fearful grief in gallant attempts to follow the shrill
little choristers over a difficult country of turns and flourishes. He
explained afterwards that he liked to set an example of 'joining in.'

But Mark saw little else but the soft shining knot of hair against the
dark sables of the hat and tippet of his beautiful neighbour, and a
glimpse of her delicate profile now and then, as she turned to find
the places for her little sister, who invariably disdained assistance
as long as possible. He began to speculate idly on her probable
character. Was she proud?--there was a shade of disdain about her
smile when he first saw her. Self-willed?--the turn of her graceful
head was slightly imperious. She could be tender with it all--he
inferred that from the confidence with which the child nestled against
her as the sermon began, and the gentle protecting hand that drew her
closer still.

Mark had been in and out of love several times in his life; his last
affair had been with a pretty, shallow flirt with a clever manner
picked up at secondhand, and though she had come to the end of her
_répertoire_ and ceased to amuse or interest him long before they
parted by mutual consent, he chose to believe his heart for ever
blighted and proof against all other women, so that he was naturally
in the most favourable condition for falling an easy victim.

He thought he had never seen any one quite like this girl, so
perfectly natural and unaffected, and yet with such an indefinable air
of distinction in her least movement. What poems, what books might not
be written, with such an influence to inspire them, and then Mark
recollected with a pang that he had done with all that for ever now.
That most delicate form of homage would be beyond his power, even if
he ever had the opportunity of paying it, and the thought did not tend
to reconcile him to his lot.

Would chance ever bring him within the sphere of his new-found
divinity? Most probably not. Life has so many of these tantalising
half-glimpses, which are never anything more. 'If she is Humpage's
daughter,' he thought, 'I'm afraid it's hopeless; but she shall not
pass out of my life if I can help it!' and so he dreamed through the
sermon, with the vicar's high cracked voice forming a gentle clacking
accompaniment, which he quite missed when the benediction came upon
him unexpectedly.

They came out of church into bright November sunshine; the sun had
disengaged itself now from the dun clouds, melted the haze, and
tempered the air almost to the warmth of early spring. Mark looked
round for Mr. Humpage and his party, but without success; they had
lingered behind, perhaps, as he could not help fearing, designedly. He
determined, however, to find out what he could about them, and
approached the subject diplomatically.

'I saw the window,' he began; 'that was the Good Samaritan in front,
of course. I recognised him by the likeness at once.'

'He took care it should be like,' said Uncle Solomon, with a
contemptuous sniff.

'That was his family with him, I suppose?' Mark asked carelessly.

''Umpage is a bachelor, or gives himself out for such,' said his
uncle, charitably.

'Then those young ladies--are they residents here?'

'Which young ladies?'

'In his pew,' said Mark, a little impatiently, 'the little girl with
the long hair, and--and the other one?'

'You don't go to church to stare about you, do you? _I_ didn't take
any notice of them; they're strangers here--friends of 'Umpage, I
daresay. That was his sister in grey; she keeps house for him, and
they say he leads her a pretty life with his tempers. Did you see that
old woman behind in a black coalscuttle? That was old widow Barnjum;
keeps a sweetstuff shop down in the village. I've seen her that far in
liquor sometimes she can't find her way about and 'as to be taken 'ome
in a barrow. You wouldn't think it to look at her, would you? I shall
give the vicar the 'int to tell old John Barker he ought to stay away
till he's got over that cough of his; it's enough to make anybody ill
to listen to him. I've a good mind to tell him of it myself; and I
will, too, if I come across him. The Colonel wasn't in church again.
They tell me he's turned Atheist, and loafs about all Sunday with a
gun. I've seen him myself driving a dog-cart Sunday afternoons in a
pot 'at, and I knew then what would come of that. Here we are again!'
he said, as they reached the palings of 'The Woodbines.' 'We'll just
stroll round to get an appetite for dinner before we go in.'

Uncle Solomon led the way into the stables, where he lingered to slap
his mare on the back and brag about her, and then Mark had to be
introduced to the pig. 'What I call a 'andsome pig, yer know,' he
remarked; 'a perfect picture, he is' (a picture that needed cleaning,
Mark thought)--'you come down to me in another three weeks or so, and
we'll try a bit off of that chap'--an observation which seemed to
strike the pig as in very indifferent taste, for he shook his ears,
grunted, and retired to his sty in a pointed manner.

After that there was plenty to do and see before Mark was allowed to
dine: Lassie, the colley, had to be unfastened for a run about the
'grounds,' of which a mechanical mouse might have made the tour in
five minutes; there was a stone obelisk to be inspected that Uncle
Solomon had bought a bargain at a sale and set up at a corner of the
lawn inscribed with the names of his favourites living and dead--a
remarkably scratch team, by the way; then he read out sonorous
versions of the Latin names of most of his shrubs, which occupied a
considerable time until, at last, by way of the kitchen-garden and
strawberry beds, they came to a little pond and rustic summer-house,
near which the boundary fence was unconcealed by any trees or shrubs.

'See that gap?' said Mr. Lightowler, pointing to a paling of which the
lower half was torn away; 'that's where 'Umpage's blathering old
gander gets through. I 'ate the sight of the beast, and I'd sooner
'ave a traction-engine running about my beds than him! I've spoke
about it to 'Umpage till I'm tired, and I shall 'ave to take the law
into my own hands soon, I know I shall. There was Wilcox, my gardener,
said something about some way he had to serve him out--but it's come
to nothing. And now we'll go in for a wash before dinner.'

Uncle Solomon was a widower; a niece of his late wife generally lived
with him and superintended his domestic affairs--an elderly person,
colourless and cold, who, however, had a proper sense of her position
as a decayed relative on the wife's side, and made him negatively
comfortable; she was away just then, which was partly the reason why
Mark had been invited to bear his uncle company.

They dined in a warm little room, furnished plainly but well; and
after dinner Uncle Solomon gave Mark a cigar, and took down a volume
of American Commentaries on the Epistles, which he used to give a
Sunday tone to his nap; but before it could take effect, there were
sounds faintly audible through the closed windows, as of people
talking at the end of the grounds.

Mr. Lightowler opened his drooping eyelids: 'There's some one in my
garden,' he said. 'I must go out and put a stop to that--some of those
urchins out of the village--they're always at it!'

He put on an old garden-hat and sallied out, followed by Mark: 'The
voices seem to come down from 'Umpage's way, but there's no one to be
seen,' he said, as they went along. 'Yes, there is, though; there's
'Umpage himself and his friends looking across the fence at something!
What does he want to go staring on to _my_ land for--like his
confounded impudence!'

When they drew a little nearer, he stopped short and, turning to Mark
with a face purple with anger, said, 'Well, of all the impudence--if
he isn't egging on that infernal gander now--put him through the 'ole
himself, I daresay!'

On arriving at the scene, Mark saw the formidable old gentleman of
that morning glaring angrily over the fence; by his side was the fair
and slender girl he had seen in church, while at intervals her little
sister's wondering face appeared above the top of the palings, a small
dog uttering short sharp barks and yelps behind her.

They were all looking at a large grey gander, which was unquestionably
trespassing at that moment; but it was unjust to say, as Mr.
Lightowler had said, that they were giving it any encouragement; the
prevailing anxiety seemed to be to recover it, but as the fence was
not low, and Mr. Humpage not young enough to care to scale it, they
were obliged to wait the good pleasure of the bird.

And Mark soon observed that the misguided bird was not in a condition
to be easily prevailed upon, being in a very advanced stage of solemn
intoxication; it was tacking about the path with an erratic
stateliness, its neck stretched defiantly, and its choked sleepy
cackle said, 'You lemme 'lone now, I'm all ri', walk shtraight enough
'fiwan'to!' as plainly as bird-language could render it.

As Uncle Solomon bore down on it, it put on an air of elaborate
indifference, meant to conceal a retreat to the gap by which it had
entered, and began to waddle with excessive dignity in that direction,
but from the way in which it repeatedly aimed itself at the intact
portions of the paling, it seemed reasonable to infer that it was
under a not infrequent optical illusion.

Mr. Lightowler gave a short and rather savage laugh. 'Wilcox _has_
done it, then!' he said. Mark threw away his cigar, and slightly
lifted his hat as he came up: he felt somewhat ashamed and strongly
tempted to laugh at the same time; he dared not look at the face of
Mr. Humpage's companion, and kept in the background as a dispassionate
spectator.

Mr. Lightowler evidently had made up his mind to be as offensive as
possible. 'Afternoon, Mr. 'Umpage,' he began; 'I think I've 'ad the
pleasure of seeing this bird of yours before; he's good enough to come
in odd times and assist my gardener; you'll excuse me for making the
remark, however, but when he's like this I think he ought to be kep'
indoors.'

'This is disgraceful, sir,' the other gentleman retorted, galled by
this irony; 'disgraceful!'

'It's not pretty in a gander, I must say,' agreed Uncle Solomon,
wilfully misunderstanding. 'Does it often forget itself in this way,
now?'

'Poor dear goose,' chanted the little girl, reappearing at this
juncture, 'it's _so_ giddy; is it ill, godpa?'

'Run away, Dolly,' said Mr. Humpage; 'it's no sight for you; run
away.'

'Then Frisk mustn't look either; come away, Frisk,' and Dolly vanished
again.

When she had gone, the old gentleman said, with a dangerous smile that
showed all his teeth, 'Now, Mr. Lightowler, I think I'm indebted to
you for the abominable treatment of this bird?'

'Somebody's been treating it, it's very plain,' said the other,
looking at the bird, which was making a feeble attempt to spread out
its wings and screech contemptuously at the universe.

'You're equivocating, sir; do you think I can't see that poison has
been laid in your grounds for this unhappy bird?'

'_It's_ 'appy enough; don't you be uneasy, Mr. 'Umpage, there's been
no worse poison given to it than some of my old Glenlivat,' said Mr.
Lightowler; 'and, let me tell you, it's not every man, let alone every
gander, as gets the luck to taste that. My gardener must have laid
some of it down for--for agricultural purposes, and your bird, comin'
in through the 'ole (as you may p'raps remember I've spoke to you
about before), has bin makin' a little too free with it, that's all.
It's welcome as the flowers in May to it, only don't blame me if your
bird is laid up with a bad 'eadache by-and-by, not that there's an
'eadache in the whole cask.'

At this point Mark could not resist a glance at the fair face across
the fence. In spite of her feminine compassion for the bird and
respect for its proprietor, Mabel had not been able to overcome a
sense of the absurdity of the scene, with the two angry old gentlemen
wrangling across the fence over an intoxicated gander; the face Mark
saw was rippling with subdued amusement, and her dark grey eyes met
his for an instant with an electric flash of understanding; then she
turned away with a slight increase of colour in her cheeks. 'I'm going
in, Uncle Anthony,' she said; 'do come, too, as soon as you can; don't
quarrel about it any more--ask them to give you back the poor goose,
and I'll take it into the yard again; it ought to go at once.'

'Let me manage it my own way,' said Mr. Humpage, testily. 'May I
trouble you, Mr. Lightowler, to kindly hand me over that bird--when
you have quite finished with it?' he added.

'That bird has been taking such a fancy to my manure heap that I'll
ask to be excused,' said Mr. Lightowler. 'If you was to whistle to it
now I might 'ead it through the 'ole; but it always finds it a good
deal easier to come through than it does to come back, even when it's
sober. I'm afraid you'll have to wait till it comes round a bit.'

At this the gander lurched against a half-buried flower pot, and
rolled helplessly over with its eyes closed. 'Oh, the poor thing,'
cried Mabel, 'it's dying!'

'Do you see that?' demanded its owner, furiously; 'it's dying, and
you've had it poisoned, sir; that soaked bread was put there by you or
your orders--and, by the Lord, you shall pay for it!'

'I never ordered or put it there either,' said his enemy doggedly.

'We shall see about that--we shall see,' said Mr. Humpage; 'you can
say that by-and-by.'

'It's no good losing your temper, now--keep cool, can't you?' roared
Uncle Solomon.

'It's likely to make a man cool, isn't it? to come for a quiet stroll
on Sunday afternoon, and find that his gander has been decoyed into a
neighbour's garden and induced to poison itself with whisky?'

'Decoyed? I like that! pretty innercent, that bird of yours! too timid
to come in without a reg'lar invitation, wasn't he?' jeered Mr.
Lightowler; 'quite 'ad to press him to step in and do the garden up a
bit. You and your gander!'

Mabel had already escaped; Mark remained trying to persuade his uncle
to come away before the matter ceased to be farcical.

'I shall take this matter up, sir! I shall take it up!' said Mr.
Humpage, in a white rage; 'and I don't think it will do you credit as
a churchwarden, let me tell you!'

'Don't you go bringing that in here, now!' retorted Uncle Solomon.
'I'll not be spoken to as a churchwarden by you, Mr. 'Umpage, sir, of
all parties!'

'You'll not be spoken to by anybody very soon--at any rate, as a
churchwarden. I mean to bring this affair before the magistrates. I
shall take out a summons against you for unlawfully ill-treating and
abusing my gander, sir!'

'I tell you I never ill-treated him; as for abuse, I don't say. But
that's neither here nor there. He ain't so thin-skinned as all that,
your gander ain't. And if I choose to put whisky, or brandy, or
champagne-cup about my grounds, I'm not obliged to consult your
ridik'lous gander, I _do_ hope. _I_ didn't ask him to sample 'em. I
don't care a brass button for your summonses. You can summon me till
you're black in the face!'

But in spite of these brave words Mr. Lightowler was really not a
little alarmed by the threat.

'We shall see about that,' said the other again, viciously. 'And now,
once more, will you give me back my poor bird?'

Mark thought it had gone far enough. He took up the heavy bird, which
made some maudlin objections, and carried it gingerly to the fence.
'Here's the victim, Mr. Humpage,' he said lightly. 'I think it will be
itself again in a couple of hours or so. And now, perhaps, we can let
the matter drop for the present.'

The old gentleman glared at Mark as he received his bird: 'I don't
know who you may be, young sir, or what share you've had in this
disgraceful business. If I trace it to you, you shall repent of it, I
promise you! I don't wish to have any further communication with you
or your friend, who's old enough to know his duty better as a
neighbour and a Christian. You will let him know, with my compliments,
that he'll hear more of this.'

He retired with the outraged bird under his arm, leaving Uncle
Solomon, who had of course heard his parting words, looking rather
ruefully at his nephew.

'It's all very well for you to laugh,' he said to Mark, as they turned
to go into the house again; 'but let me tell you if that hot-tempered
old idiot goes and brings all this up at Petty Sessions, it may be an
awkward affair for me. He's been a lawyer, has 'Umpage, and he'll do
his worst. A pretty thing to 'ave my name in all the papers about 'ere
as torturing a goose! I dessay they'll try and make out that I poured
the whisky down the brute's throat. It's Wilcox's doings, and none of
mine; but they'll put it all on me. I'll drive over to Green &
Ferret's to-morrow, and see how I stand. You've studied the law. What
do _you_ think about it, come? Can he touch me, eh? But he hasn't got
a leg to stand on, like his gander--it's all nonsense, _ain't_ it?'

If there had ever been a chance, Mark thought bitterly, after
comforting his uncle as well as his very moderate acquaintance with
the law permitted, of anything like intimacy between himself and the
girl whose face had fascinated him so strangely, it was gone now: that
bird of evil omen had baulked his hopes as effectually as its
ancestors frustrated the aspiring Gaul.

The dusk was drawing on as they walked across the lawn, from which the
russet glow of the sunset had almost faded; the commonplace villa
before them was tinted with violet, and in the west the hedges and
trees formed an intricate silhouette against a background of ruddy
gold and pale lemon; one or two flamingo-coloured clouds still floated
languidly higher up in a greenish blue sky; over everything the peace
and calm had settled that mark the close of a perfect autumn day, with
the additional stillness which always makes itself perceptible on a
Sunday.

Mark felt the influence of it all, and was vaguely comforted--he
remembered the passing interchange of glances across the fence, and it
consoled him.

At supper that evening his uncle, too, recovered his spirits: 'If he
brings a summons, they'll dismiss it,' he said confidently; 'but he
knows better than that as a lawyer--if he does, he'll find the laugh
turned against him, hey? I'm not answerable for what Wilcox chooses to
do without my orders. I never told him he wasn't to--but that ain't
like telling him to go and do it, is it now? And where's the cruelty,
either?--a blend like that, too. Just try a glass, now, and say what
you think--he'll be dropping in for more of it if he's the bird _I_
take him for!'

But as they were going upstairs to bed, he stopped at the head of the
staircase and said to Mark, 'Before I forget it, you remind me to get
Wilcox to find out, quietly, the first thing to-morrow, how that
gander is.'




CHAPTER VI.

SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR.


When Mark awoke next morning the weather had undergone one of those
sudden and complete changes which form one of the chief attractions of
our climate; there had been a frost, and with it a thin white mist,
which threw its clinging veil over the landscape; the few trees which
were near enough to be seen were covered with a kind of thick grey
vegetation, that gave them a spectral resemblance to their summer
selves. Breakfast was early, as Mark had to be down at St. Peter's as
soon after morning chapel as possible, and he came down shivering to
find his uncle already seated. 'The dog-cart will be round in five
minutes,' said the latter gentleman, with his mouth full; 'so make the
most of your time. You'll have a cold drive. I'll take you over to the
station myself, and go on and see Ferret after.'

The too-zealous Wilcox brought the trap round. ''Ave you been round to
see about that bird next door?' Mr. Lightowler asked rather
anxiously, as the man stood by the mare's head. 'Yessir,' said Wilcox,
with a grin; 'I went and saw Mr. 'Umpage's man, and he say the old
gander was werry bad when they got 'im 'ome, but he ain't any the
worse for what he 'ad this mornin', sir; though the man, he dew say as
the gander seem a bit sorry for 'isself tew. They tough old birds 'a'
got strong 'eads, sir; _I_ knowed it 'ud do him no 'arm, bless ye!'

'Well, don't you go trying it again, Wilcox, that's all. Mind what I
say,' said Uncle Solomon, with visible relief, 'else you and me'll
'ave words and part. Let her go,' and they drove off.

He gave Mark much good advice on the way, such as wealthy uncles seem
to secrete and exude almost unconsciously, as toads yield moisture;
but Mark paid only a moderate degree of attention to it as they spun
past the low dim edges; he hardly noticed what could be seen along the
road even, which was not much--a gable-end or a haystack starting out
for an instant from the fog, or a shadowy labourer letting himself
through a gate--he was thinking of the girl whose eyes had met his the
afternoon before.

He had dreamed of her all that night--a confused ridiculous dream, but
with a charm about it which was lingering still; he thought they had
met and understood one another at once, and he had taken her to the
village church where he had first seen her, and they had a private
box, and Uncle Solomon took the chair, while old Mr. Shelford, Trixie,
and young Langton were all in the choir, which was more like an
orchestra. It was not particularly connected or reverent, but she had
not been included in the general travesty--his sleeping brain had
respected her image even in its waywardness, and presented it as vivid
and charming as in life, so that the dream with all its absurdity
seemed to have brought her nearer to him, and he could not resist the
fancy that _she_ might have some recollection of it too.

A low hum in the still air, and distant reports and choked railway
whistles told them they were near the station, but the fog had grown
so much denser that there was no other indication of it, until Mr.
Lightowler brought up sharply opposite the end of an inclined covered
staircase, which seemed to spring out of nothing and lead nowhere,
where they left the dog-cart in charge of a flyman and went up to the
platform.

There a few old gentlemen with rosy faces were stamping up and down
and slapping their chests, exchanging their 'Raw morning this, sir's,'
'Ah, it is indeed's,' with an air of good men bearing up under an
undeserved persecution.

'Sharp morning this to stand about in,' said Uncle Solomon; 'let's go
into the waiting-room, there's a fire there.' The waiting-room was the
usual drab little room, with a bottle of water and tumblers on a bare
stained table, and local advertisements on the dingy walls; the gas
was lighted, and flickered in a sickly white fishtail flame, but the
fire was blazing cheerfully, giving a sheen to the silver-grey fur of
a child in a crimson plush hat who stood before it embracing a small
round basket out of which a Skye terrier's head was peering
inquisitively.

The firelight shone, too, on the graceful form of a girl, who was
bending towards it holding out her slender hands to the blaze. Mark
scarcely needed to glance at the face she turned towards the newcomers
to recognise that fortune had allowed him one more chance: Mr.
Humpage's visitors were evidently returning to town by the same train
as himself, and the old gentleman in person was standing with his back
to them examining a time-table on the wall.

Uncle Solomon, in his relief at Wilcox's information that morning, did
not perceive any awkwardness in the encounter, but moved about and
coughed noisily, as if anxious to attract his enemy's attention. Mark
felt considerably embarrassed, dreading a scene; but he glanced as
often as he dared at the lady of his thoughts, who was drawing on her
gloves again with a dainty deliberation.

'Godpapa,' said the little girl, suddenly, 'you never told me if Frisk
had been good. Has he?'

'So good that he kept me awake thinking of him all night,' said the
old gentleman drily, without turning.

'Did he howl, godpapa? He does sometimes when he's left out in the
garden, you know.'

'He did,' said Mr. Humpage. 'Oh, yes--he howled; he's a clever dog at
that.'

'And you really _like_ him to?' said Dolly. 'Some people don't.'

'Narrow-minded of 'em, very,' growled the old gentleman.

'Isn't it?' said Dolly, innocently. 'Well, I'm glad _you_ like it,
godpapa, because now I shall bring him to see you again. When there's
a moon he can howl much louder. I'll bring him when the next moon
comes, shall I?'

'We'll see, Chuckie, we'll see. I shouldn't like to keep him sitting
up all night to howl on my account; it wouldn't be good for his
health. But the very next blue moon we have down in these parts, I'll
send up for him--I promise you that.'

Dolly was evidently about to inquire searchingly into the nature of
this local phenomenon, but before she could begin the old gentleman
turned and saw that they were not alone.

'Mornin', Mr. 'Umpage,' said Uncle Solomon, clearing his throat; and
Mark felt a pang of regret for the lost aspirate.

'Good morning to you, sir,' said the other, distantly.

The elder girl returned the bow which Mark risked, though without
giving any sign of remembrance; but Dolly remarked audibly, 'Why,
that's the old man next door that gave your goose something to make it
giddy, isn't it, godpapa?'

'I hope,' said Uncle Solomon, 'that now you've had time to think over
what 'appened yesterday afternoon, you'll see that you went too far in
using the terms that fell from you, more particularly as the bird's as
well as ever, from what I hear this morning?'

'I don't wish to reopen that affair at present,' said the other,
stiffly.

'Well, I've heard about enough of it, too; so if you'll own you used
language that was unwarrantable, I'm willing to say no more about it
for my part.'

'I've no doubt you are, Mr. Lightowler, but you must excuse me from
entering into any conversation on the subject. I can't dismiss it as
lightly as you seem to do--and, in short, I don't mean to discuss it
here, sir.'

'Very well, just as you please. I only meant to be neighbourly--but it
don't signify. I can keep myself _to_ myself as well as other parties,
I daresay.'

'Then have the goodness to do it, Mr. Lightowler. Mabel, the train is
due now. Get your wraps and things and come along.'

He walked fiercely past the indignant Uncle Solomon, followed by Mabel
and Dolly, the former of whom seemed a little ashamed of Mr. Humpage's
behaviour, for she kept her eyes lowered as she passed Mark, while
Dolly looked up at him with childish curiosity.

'Confound these old fools!' thought Mark, angrily; 'what do they want
to squabble for in this ridiculous way? Why, if they had only been on
decent terms, I might have been introduced to her--to Mabel--by this
time; we might even have travelled up to town together.'

'Regular old Tartar, that!' said his uncle, under his breath. 'I
believe he'll try and have the law of me now. Let him--_I_ don't care!
Here's your train at last. You won't be in by the time-table this
morning with all this fog about.'

Mark got into a compartment next to that in which Mr. Humpage had put
Mabel and her sister; it was as near as he dared to venture. He could
hear Mabel's clear soft voice saying the usual last words at the
carriage window, while Uncle Solomon was repeating his exhortations to
study and abstinence from any 'littery nonsense.'

Then the train, after one or two false starts on the greasy rails,
moved out, and Mark had a parting glimpse of the neighbours turning
sharply round on the platform with an elaborate affectation of being
utter strangers.

He had no paper to amuse him, for the station was not important enough
for a bookstall, and there was nothing to be seen out of the windows,
which were silvered with frozen moisture. He had the compartment to
himself, and lay back looking up rather sentimentally at the
bull's-eye, through which he heard occasional snatches of Dolly's
imperious treble.

'I know her name now,' he thought, with a quite unreasonable
joy--'Mabel. I shall remember that. I wonder if they are going all the
way to town, and if I could offer to be of any use to them at King's
Cross? At all events, I shall see her once more then.'

It was not a very long journey from Chigbourne to the terminus, but,
as will be seen hereafter, it was destined to be a land mark in the
lives of both Mark and Mabel, though the meeting he looked forward to
at the end of it never took place.




CHAPTER VII.

IN THE FOG.


Mark was roused from his reverie in the railway carriage by the fact
that the train, after slackening speed rather suddenly, had come to a
dead standstill. 'Surely we can't be in already,' he said to himself,
wondering at the way in which his thoughts had outstripped the time.
But on looking out he found that he was mistaken--they were certainly
not near the metropolis as yet, nor did they appear to have stopped at
any station, though from the blank white fog which reigned all around,
and drifted in curling wreaths through the window he had let down, it
was difficult to make very sure of this.

Along the whole length of the train conversation, no longer drowned by
the motion, rose and fell in a kind of drone, out of which occasional
scraps of talk from the nearer carriages were more distinctly audible,
until there came a general lull as each party gave way to the
temptation of listening to the other--for the dullest talk has an
extraordinary piquancy under these circumstances, either because the
speakers, being unseen, appeal to our imagination, or because they do
not suppose that they are being so generally overheard.

But by-and-by it seemed to be universally felt that the stoppage was
an unusual one, and windows went down with a clatter along the
carriages while heads were put out inquiringly. Every kind of voice
demanded to be told where they were, and why they were stopping, and
what the deuce the Company meant by it--inquiries met by a guard, who
walked slowly along the line, with the diplomatic evasiveness which
marks the official dislike to admit any possible hitch in the
arrangements.

'Yes,' he said, stolidly; 'there might be a bit of a stoppage like;
they'd be going on presently; he couldn't say how long that would be;
something had gone wrong with the engine; it was nothing serious; he
didn't exactly know what.'

But he was met just under Mark's window by the guard from the break at
the end of the train, when a hurried conference took place, in which
there was no stolidity on either side. 'Run back as quick as you can
and set the detonators--there ain't a minute to lose, she may be down
on us any time, and she'll never see the other signals this weather.
I'd get 'em all out of the train if I was you, mate--they ain't safe
where they are as it is, that they ain't!'

The one guard ran back to his break, and then on to set the
fog-signals, while the other went to warn the passengers. 'All get out
'ere, please; all get out!' he shouted.

There was the usual obstructive person in the train who required to be
logically convinced first of the necessity for disturbing himself; he
put his head angrily out of a window near Mark's: 'Here, guard!' he
shouted importantly; 'what's all this? _Why_ am I to get out?'
'Because you'd better,' said the guard, shortly. 'But why--where's the
platform? I insist on being taken to a platform--I'm not going to
break my leg getting out here.' Several people, who had half opened
their doors, paused on the steps at this, as if recalled to a sense of
their personal dignity. 'Do as you please, sir,' said the official;
'the engine's broke down, and we may be run into any minute in this
fog; but if you'd be more comfortable up there----' There was no want
of alacrity after that, the obstructive man being the first down; all
the rosy-faced gentlemen hopped out, some of the younger ones still
grasping half-played hands of 'Nap' or 'Loo,' and made the best of
their way down the embankment, and several old ladies were got out in
various stages of flutter, narrowly escaping sprained ankles in the
descent.

Mark, who had seen his opportunity from the first, had rushed to the
door of the next compartment, caught Dolly in his arms as she jumped
down, and, hardly believing in his own good fortune, held Mabel's hand
in his for one happy moment as she stepped from the high and awkward
footboard.

'Down the slope, quick,' he cried to them; 'get as far from the line
as you can in case of a smash.'

Mabel turned a little pale, for she had not understood till then that
there was any real danger. 'Keep close to me, Dolly,' she said, as
they went down the slope; 'we're safe here.'

The fog had gathered thick down in the meadows, and nothing could be
seen of the abandoned train when they had gone a few paces from the
foot of the embankment; the passengers were moving about in excited
groups, not knowing what horrors they might not be obliged to witness
in the next few minutes. The excitement increased as one of them
declared he could hear the noise of an approaching train. 'Only just
in time--God help them if they don't pull up!' cried some, and a woman
hoped that 'the poor driver and stoker were not on the engine.'

Dolly heard this and broke from Mabel with a loud cry--'Mabel, we've
left Frisk!' she sobbed; 'he'll be killed--oh, my dog will be
killed--he mustn't be left behind!'

And, to Mark's horror, she turned back, evidently with the idea of
making for the point of danger; he ran after her and caught the little
silvery-grey form fast in his arms. 'Let me go!' cried Dolly,
struggling; 'I must get him back--oh, I must!'

'He'll have jumped out by this time--he's quite safe,' said Mark in
her ear.

'He was sound asleep in his basket, he'll never wake if I don't call
to him--why do you hold me? I tell you I _will_ go!' persisted Dolly.

'No, Dolly, no,' said Mabel, bending over her; 'it's too late--it's
hard to leave him, but we must hope for the best.' She was crying,
too, for the poor doomed dog as she spoke.

Mark was hardly a man from whom anything heroic could be very
confidently expected; he was no more unselfish than the generality of
young men; as a rule he disliked personally inconveniencing himself
for other people, and in cooler moments, or without the stimulus of
Mabel's presence, he would certainly have seen no necessity to run the
risk of a painful death for the sake of a dog.

But Mabel was there, and the desire of distinguishing himself in her
eyes made a temporary hero out of materials which at first sight were
not promising. He was physically fearless enough, and given to acting
on impulses without counting the consequences; the impulse seized him
now to attempt to rescue this dog, and he obeyed it blindly.

'Wait here,' he said to Mabel; 'I'll go back for him.'

'Oh, no--no,' she cried; 'it may cost you your life!'

'Don't stop him, Mabel,' entreated Dolly; 'he is going to save my
dog.'

Mark had gone already, and was half-way up the slope, slippery as it
was, with the grass clumped and matted together by the frost, and
scored in long brown tracks by the feet that had just descended it.

Mabel was left to console and encourage the weeping Dolly as best she
might, with a terrible suspense weighing on her own heart the while,
not altogether on Frisk's account. At the point where the train had
broken down, the line took a bold curve, and now they could hear,
apparently close upon them, the roar of a fast train sweeping round
through the fog; there were some faint explosions, hoarse shouting, a
long screeching whistle,--and after that the dull shock of a
collision; but nothing could be seen from where they stood, and for
some moments Mabel remained motionless, almost paralysed by the fear
of what might be hidden behind the fog curtain.

Mark clambered painfully up the glistening embankment, hoping to reach
the motionless carriages and escape with his object effected before
the train he could hear in the distance ground into them with a
hideous crash.

He knew his danger, but, to do him justice, he scarcely gave it a
thought--any possible suffering seemed as remote and inconsiderable
just then as the chance of a broken leg or collar-bone had been to him
when running for a touchdown in his football days; the one idea that
filled his brain was to return to Mabel triumphant with the rescued
dog in his arms, and he had room for no others.

He went as directly as he could to the part of the train in which was
the carriage he had occupied, and found it without much difficulty
when he was near enough to make out forms through the fog; the door of
Mabel's compartment was open, and, as he sprang up the footboard, he
heard the train behind rattling down on him with its whistle
screeching infernally, and for the first time felt an uneasy
recollection of the horribly fantastic injuries described in accounts
of so many railway collisions.

But there was no time to think of this; at the other end of the
carriage was the little round wicker-basket he had seen in Dolly's
hands at the Chigbourne waiting-room, and in it was the terrier,
sleeping soundly as she had anticipated. He caught up the little
drowsy beast, which growled ungratefully, and turned to leap down with
it to the ballast, when there was a sharp concussion, which sent a
jangling forward shock, increasing in violence as it went, along the
standing train, and threw him violently against the partition of the
compartment.

Meanwhile the passengers of the first train, now that the worst was
apparently over, and the faint shouts and screams from the embankment
had calmed down, began to make their way in the direction of the
sounds, and Mabel, holding Dolly fast by the hand, forced herself to
follow them, though she was sick and faint with the dread of what she
might see.

The first thing they saw was a crowd of eager, excited faces, all
questioning and accusing the badgered officials of both trains at the
same time. 'Why was an empty train left on the rails unprotected in
this way? they might have been all killed.--It was culpable negligence
all round, and there should be an inquiry--they would insist on an
inquiry--they would report this to the traffic manager,' and so on.

The faces looked pale and ghastly enough in the fog, but all the
speakers were evidently sound in wind and limb, and, as far as could
be seen, neither train had left the rails--but where was the young man
who had volunteered to recover the dog? 'Oh, Mabel,' cried Dolly,
again and again. 'Frisk is killed, I'm sure of it, or he'd come to
me--something has happened--ask, do ask.'

But Mabel dared not, for fear of hearing that a life had been nobly
and uselessly sacrificed; she could only press through the crowd with
the object of making her way to the carriage where the suspense would
be ended.

'There's someone in one of the carriages!' she heard a voice saying as
she got nearer, and her heart beat faster; and then the crowd parted
somehow, and she saw Mark Ashburn come out of it towards her, with a
dazed, scared smile on his pale face, and the little trembling dog
safe under one arm.

Fortunately for Mark, the fog-signals had been set in time to do their
work, and the second train was fitted with powerful brakes which, but
for the state of the rails, would have brought it to without any
collision at all; as it was, the shock had not been severe enough to
damage the rolling-stock to any greater extent than twisting or
straining a buffer or coupling-chain here and there, though it had
thrown him against the corner of the net-rail with sufficient violence
to slightly graze his forehead, and leave him stunned and a little
faint for a few moments.

After sitting down for a short time to recover himself, he picked up
the terrier from the cushions on which it was crouching and shivering,
having dropped from his hand at the concussion, and feeling himself
still rather giddy and sick, got down amongst the astonished crowd,
and came towards Mabel and Dolly as we have seen.

It was the best moment, as he thought afterwards, in his life. Every
one, probably, with any imagination at all likes to conceive himself
at times as the performer of some heroic action extorting the
admiration he longs for from some particular pair of eyes, but
opportunities for thus distinguishing oneself are sadly rare nowadays,
and often when they come are missed, or, if grasped with success, the
fair eyes are looking another way and never see it.

But Mark had a satisfied sense of appearing to the utmost advantage as
he met the little girl and placed the dog in her arms. 'There's your
dog; he's quite safe, only a little frightened,' he said, with a
pleasant sympathy in his voice.

Dolly was too overcome for words; she caught Frisk up with her eyes
swimming, and ran away with him to pour her self-reproach and relief
into his pricked ears, without making any attempt to express her
thanks to his rescuer. Her sister, however, made him ample amends.

'How can we thank you?' she said, with a quiver in her voice and an
involuntary admiration in her eyes; 'it was so very, very brave of
you--you might have been killed!'

'I thought at first it was going to be rather a bad smash,' said
Mark--he could not resist the impulse now to make all the capital he
could out of what he had done--'I was knocked down--and--and
unconscious for a little while after it; but I'm not much hurt, as you
see. I don't _think_ I'm any the worse for it, and at all events your
little sister's dog isn't--and that's the main point, isn't it?' he
added, with a feeling that his words were equal to the occasion.

'Indeed it isn't,' said Mabel warmly; 'if you had been seriously hurt
I should never have forgiven myself for letting you go--but are you
sure you feel no pain anywhere?'

'Well,' he admitted, 'I fancy I was cut a little about the head' (he
was afraid she might not have noticed this), 'but that's a trifle.'

'There is a cut on your forehead,' said Mabel; 'it has been bleeding,
but I think it has stopped now. Let me bind it up for you in case it
should break out again.'

It was in truth a very small cut, and had hardly bled at all, but Mark
made light of it elaborately, as the surest means of keeping her
interest alive. 'I am afraid it must be giving you pain,' she said,
with a pretty, anxious concern in her eyes as she spoke; and Mark
protested that the pain was nothing--which was the exact truth,
although he had no intention of being taken literally.

They had gone down the embankment again and were slowly crossing the
dim field in which they had first taken refuge. No one was in sight,
the other passengers being still engaged in comparing notes or
browbeating the unhappy guards above; and as Mark glanced at his
companion he saw that her thoughts had ceased to busy themselves about
him, while her eyes were trying to pierce the gloom which surrounded
her.

'I was looking for my little sister,' she exclaimed, answering the
question in his eyes. 'She ran off with the dog you brought back to
her, and it is so easy to lose oneself here. I must find out where she
is--oh, you are ill!' she broke off suddenly, as Mark staggered and
half fell.

'Only a slight giddiness,' he said; 'if--if I could sit down somewhere
for a moment--is that a stile over there?'

'It looks like one. Can you get so far without help?' she said
compassionately. 'Will you lean on me?'

He seemed to her like some young knight who had been wounded, as it
were, in her cause, and deserved all the care she could give him.

'If you will be so very good,' said Mark. He felt himself a humbug,
for he could have leaped the stile with ease at that very moment. He
had very little excuse for practising in this way on her womanly
sympathy, except that he dreaded to lose her just yet, and found such
a subtle intoxication in being tended like this by a girl from whom an
hour ago he had scarcely hoped to win another careless glance; if he
exaggerated his symptoms, as it is to be feared he did, there may be
some who will forgive him under the circumstances.

So he allowed Mabel to guide him to the stile, and sat down on one of
its rotten cross-planks while she poured _eau-de-Cologne_ or some
essence of the kind on a handkerchief, and ordered him to bathe his
forehead with it. They seemed isolated there together on the patch of
hoary grass by a narrow black ditch half hidden in rank weeds, which
alone could be distinguished in the prevailing yellowish whiteness,
and Mark desired nothing better at that moment.

'I wonder,' said Mabel, 'if there's a doctor amongst the passengers.
There must be, I should think. I am sure you ought to see one. Let me
see if I can find one and bring him to you.'

But Mark declared he was quite himself again, and would have begged
her not to leave him if he had dared; and as there really did not seem
to be anything serious the matter, Mabel's uneasiness about Dolly
returned. 'I can't rest till I find her,' she said, 'and if you really
are strong again, will you help me? She cannot have gone very far.'

Mark, only too glad of any pretence to remain with her, volunteered
willingly.

'Then will you go round the field that way,' she said, 'and I will go
this, and we will meet here again?'

'Don't you think,' said Mark, who had not been prepared for this,
'that if--she might not know _me_, you see--I mean if I was not with
you?'

'Yes, she will,' said Mabel impatiently; 'Dolly won't forget you after
what you have done, and we are losing time. Go round by there, and
call her now and then; if she is here she will come, and if not then
we will try the next field.'

She went off herself as she spoke, and Mark had nothing for it but to
obey, as she so evidently expected to be obeyed. He went round the
field, calling out the child's name now and then, feeling rather
forlorn and ridiculous as his voice went out unanswered on the raw
air. Presently a burly figure, grotesquely magnified by the mist, came
towards him, and resolved itself into an ordinary guard.

'You one of the gentlemen in my train, sir?' he said, 'the train as
broke down, that is?'

'Yes,' said Mark; 'why?'

''Cause we've got the engine put to rights, sir; nothing much the
matter with her, there wasn't, and we're goin' on directly, sir; I'm
gettin' all my passengers together.'

Mark was in no hurry to leave that field, but his time was not his
own; he ought to have been at St. Peter's long ago, and was bound to
take the first opportunity of getting back. It would not be pleasant,
as it was, to have to go and fetch down his class from the sixth form
room, where the headmaster had probably given them a temporary asylum.

He had never forgotten a morning on which he had overslept himself,
and the mortification he had felt at the Doctor's blandly polite but
cutting reception of his apologies. He had a better excuse this time,
but even that would not bear overtaxing.

He hesitated a moment, however. 'I'll go in a minute,' he said, 'but
there's a lady and a little girl with a dog somewhere about. They
mustn't be left behind. Wait while I go and tell them, will you?'

'Never you fear, sir,' said the guard, 'we won't go without them, but
I'll call 'em; they'll mind me more than they will you, beggin' your
pardon, sir, and you'd better run on, as time's short, and keep places
for 'em. You leave it all to me; I'll take care on 'em.'

Mark heard faint barks across the hedge in the direction Mabel had
taken. The child was evidently found. The best thing, he thought, to
do now was to secure an empty compartment, and with that idea, and
perhaps a little from that instinctive obedience to anything in a
uniform which is a characteristic of the average respectable
Englishman, he let himself be persuaded by the guard, and went back to
the train.

To his great joy he found that the compartment Mabel had occupied had
no one in it; he stood waiting by the door for Mabel and her sister to
come up, with eager anticipations of a delightful conclusion to his
journey. 'Perhaps she will tell me who she is,' he thought; 'at all
events she will ask me who _I_ am. How little I hoped for this
yesterday!'

He was interrupted by a guard--another guard, a sour-looking man with
a grizzled beard, who was in charge of the front van. 'Get in, sir, if
you mean to travel by this 'ere train,' he said.

'I'm waiting for a young lady,' said Mark, rather ingenuously, but it
slipped out almost without his knowledge. 'The other guard promised
me----'

'I don't know nothing about no young ladies,' said the guard
obdurately; 'but if you mean my mate, he's just give me the signal
from his end, and if you don't want to be left be'ind you'd better
take your seat while you can, sir, and pretty sharp, too.'

There was nothing else to do; he could not search for Mabel along the
train; he must wait till they got to King's Cross; but he took his
seat reluctantly and with a heavy disappointment, thinking what a fool
he had been to let himself be persuaded by the burly guard. 'But for
that, _she_ might have been sitting opposite to me now!' he thought
bitterly. 'What a fool I was to leave her. How pretty she looked when
she wanted me to see a doctor; how charming she is altogether! Am I in
love with her already? Of course I am; who wouldn't be? I shall see
her again. She will speak to me once more, and, after all, things
might be worse. I couldn't have counted on _that_ when we started.'

And he tried to console himself with this, feeling an impatient anger
at the slow pace of the train as it crept cautiously on towards the
goal of his hopes. But the breakdown had not happened very far from
town, and, tedious as the time seemed to Mark, it was not actually
long before the colour of the atmosphere (there was no other
indication) proved that they were nearing the terminus.

It changed by slow gradations from its original yellow-whiteness to
mustard colour, from that to a smoky lurid red, and from red to
stinging, choking iron-grey, and the iron-grey pall was in full
possession of King's Cross, where the sickly moonlight of the electric
lamps could only clear small halos immediately around their globes.

Mark sprang out before the train had stopped; he strained his eyes in
watching for the form he hoped to see there, but in vain; there were
no signs in all that bustle of Mabel or Dolly, or the little dog to
whom he owed so much.

He sought out the guard who had deluded him and found him
superintending the clearing of the luggage van. He hardly knew whether
it was merely a fancy that the official, after making a half-step
forward to meet him, and fumbling in all his pockets, turned away
again as if anxious to avoid meeting his eye.

Mark forced him to meet him, however, willing or not. 'Where is the
lady?' he said sharply. 'You left her behind after all, it seems?'

'It wasn't my fault, sir,' said the guard wheezily, 'nor it wasn't the
lady's fault, leastways on'y the little lady's, sir. Both on us tried
all we could, but the little missy, her with the tarrier dawg, was
nervous-like with it all, and wouldn't hear of getting in the train
again; so the young lady, she said, seeing as they was so near London,
they could get a fly or a cab or summat, and go on in that.'

'And--did she give you no message for me?' said Mark.

There was such evident expectation in his face that the guard seemed
afraid to disappoint it. 'I was to give you her respecks and
compliments,' he said slowly--'or was it her love, now?' he
substituted quickly, after a glance at Mark's face, 'and you was not
to be in a way about her, and she'd be seein' of you again before very
long, and----'

'That's all a lie, you know,' said Mark, calmly.

'Well, then, she didn't say nothing, if that warn't it,' said the
guard, doggedly.

'Did she--did she leave any directions about luggage or anything?'
said Mark.

'Brown portmanty to go in the left-luggage room till called for,' said
the guard. 'Anything else I can do for you, sir; no? Good mornin',
then, and thanky, sir!'

'Never did such a thing as that in my life afore,' he muttered, as he
went back to his van; 'to go and lose a bit o' paper with writing on
it, d'reckly I got it, too; I'm afraid my head's a-leavin' me; they
ain't keepin' company, that's plain. I made a mess o' that, or he
wouldn't have wanted her direction. _I_ saw what he was up to--well,
they'd make a good-looking pair. I'm sorry I lost that there paper;
but it warn't no use a-tellin' of him.'

As for Mark, this lame and impotent conclusion brought back all his
depression again. 'She never even asked my name!' he thought,
bitterly. 'I risked my life for her--it _was_ for her, and she knew
it: but she has forgotten that already. I've lost her for ever this
time; she may not even live in London, and if she did I've no clue to
tell me where, and if I had I don't exactly see what use it would be;
I won't think about her--yes, I will, she can't prevent me from doing
that, at any rate!'

By this time he had left the City station of the Metropolitan Railway,
and was going back to his underground labours at St. Peter's, where he
was soon engaged in trying to establish something like discipline in
his class, which the dark brown fog seemed to have inspired with
unaccountable liveliness. His short holiday had not served to rest and
invigorate him as much as might have been expected; it had left him
consumed with a hopeless longing for something unattainable. His
thirst for distinction had returned in an aggravated form, and he had
cut himself off now from the only means of slaking it. As that day
wore on, and with each day that succeeded it, he felt a wearier
disgust with himself and his surroundings.




CHAPTER VIII.

BAD NEWS.


It was Christmas week, and Mrs. Langton and her daughters were
sitting, late one afternoon, in the drawing-room where we saw them
first. Dolly was on a low stool at her mother's feet, submitting, not
too willingly, to have the bow in her hair smoothed and arranged for
her. 'It _must_ be all right now, mother!' she said, breaking away
rebelliously at last.

'It's worse than ever, Dolly,' said Mrs. Langton plaintively; 'it's
slipped over to the left now!'

'But it doesn't matter, it never will keep straight long.'

'Well, if you _like_ to run about like a little wild child,' was the
resigned answer.

'Little wild children don't wear bows in their hair; they wear--well,
they don't wear anything they've got to be careful and tidy about. I
think that must be rather nice,' said Dolly, turning round from where
she knelt on the hearthrug. 'Wake up, Frisk, and be good-tempered
directly. Mother, on Christmas Day I'm going to tie a Christmas card
round Frisk's neck, and send him into papa's dressing-room to wish him
a Merry Christmas, the first thing in the morning--you won't tell him
before the time, will you?'

'Not if you don't wish it, darling,' said Mrs. Langton, placidly.

'I mightn't have had him to tie a card to,' said Dolly, taking the dog
up and hugging him fondly, 'if that gentleman had not fetched him out
of the train for me; and I never said "thank you" to him either. I
forgot somehow, and when I remembered he was gone. Should you think he
will come to see me, Mabel; you told him that mother would be glad to
thank him some time, didn't you, on the paper you gave the guard for
him?'

'Yes, Dolly,' said Mabel, turning her head a little away; 'but you see
he hasn't come yet.'

'My dear,' said her mother, 'really I think he shows better taste in
keeping away; there was no necessity to send him a message at all, and
I hope he won't take any advantage of it. Thanking people is so
tiresome and, after all, they never think you have said enough about
it. It was very kind of the young man, of course, very--though I can't
say I ever quite understood what it was he did--it was something in a
fog, I know,' she concluded vaguely.

'We told you all about it, mother,' explained Dolly; 'I'll tell you
all over again. There was a fog and our train stopped, and we all got
out, and I left Frisk behind, and there he was in the carriage all
alone, and then the gentleman ran back and got him out and brought him
to me. And another train came up behind and stopped too.'

'Dolly tells it rather tamely,' said Mabel, her cheeks flushing again.
'At the time he ran back for the dog, we could all hear the other
train rushing up in the fog, mamma, and nobody knew whether there
might not be a frightful collision in another minute.'

'Then I think it was an extremely rash thing for him to do, my dear;
and if I were his mother I should be very angry with him.'

'He was very good-looking, wasn't he, Mabel?' said Dolly,
irrelevantly.

'Was he, Dolly? Well, yes, I suppose he was, rather,' said Mabel, with
much outward indifference, and an inward and very vivid picture of
Mark's face as he leaned by the stile, his fine eyes imploring her not
to leave him.

'Well, perhaps, he doesn't care about being thanked, or doesn't want
to see us again,' said Dolly; 'if he did, he'd call, you know; you
wrote the address on the paper.'

Mabel had already arrived at the same conclusion, and was secretly a
little piqued and hurt by it; she had gone slightly out of her way to
give him an opportunity of seeing her again if he wished, and he had
not chosen to take advantage of it; it had not seriously disturbed her
peace of mind, but her pride was wounded notwithstanding. At times she
was ready to believe that there had been some mistake or miscarriage
with her message, otherwise it was strange that the admiration which
it had not been difficult to read in his eyes should have evaporated
in this way.

'Why, here's papa--home already!' cried Dolly, as the door opened and
a tall man entered. 'How do you do, papa? you've rumpled my bow--you
didn't think I _meant_ it, did you? you can do it again if you
like--_I_ don't mind a bit; mother does.'

He had duly returned the affectionate hug with which Dolly had greeted
him, but now he put her aside with a rather preoccupied air, and went
to his wife's chair, kissing the smooth forehead she presented, still
absently.

'You are early, Gerald,' she said; 'did the courts rise sooner
to-day?'

'No,' he said conscientiously, 'it's the Vacation now--I left chambers
as soon as I could get away,' and he was folding and unfolding the
evening paper he had brought in with him, as he stood silent before
the fire.

Mr. Langton was not much over fifty, and a handsome man still, with
full clear eyes, a well-cut chin and mouth, iron-grey whiskers, and a
florid complexion which years spent in stifling law-courts and dust
and black laden chambers had not done much to tone down. Young
barristers and solicitors' clerks were apt to consider him rather a
formidable personage in Lincoln's Inn; and he was certainly imposing
as he rustled along New Square or Chancery Lane, his brows knitted, a
look of solemn importance about his tightly-closed lips, and his silk
gown curving out behind him like a great black sail. He had little
imperious ways in court, too, of beckoning a client to come to him
from the well, or of waving back a timid junior who had plucked his
gown to draw his attention to some suggestion with a brusque 'Not
now--I can't hear that now!' which suggested immeasurable gulfs
between himself and them. But at home he unbent, a little consciously,
perhaps, but he did unbend--being proud and fond of his children, who
at least stood in no fear of him. Long years of successful practice
had had a certain narrowing effect upon him; the things of his
profession were almost foremost in his mind now, and when he travelled
away from them he was duller than he once promised to be--his humour
had slowly dwindled down until he had just sufficient for ordinary
professional purposes, and none at all for private consumption.

In his favour it may be added that he was genial to all whom he did
not consider his inferiors, a good though not a demonstrative husband;
that as a lawyer he was learned without the least pedantry; and that
he was a Bencher of his Inn, where he frequently dined, and a Member
of Parliament, where he never spoke, even on legal matters.

Mabel's quick eyes were the first to notice a shade on his face and a
constraint in his manner; she went to his side and said in an
undertone, 'You are not feeling ill, papa, are you, or has anything
worried you to-day?'

'I am quite well. I have news to tell you presently,' he said in the
same tone.

'Come and see my Christmas cards before I do them up,' said Dolly from
a side-table; 'I'm going to send one to each of my friends, except
Clara Haycraft, or if I _do_ send her one,' she added thoughtfully,
'it will be only a penny one, and I shall write her name on the back
so that she can't use it again. Clara has not behaved at all well to
me lately. If I sent one to Vincent now, papa, would he get it in
time?'

'No--no,' said her father, a little sharply, 'and look here, Pussy,
run away now and see how Colin is getting on.'

'And come back and tell you?' inquired Dolly; 'very well, papa.'

'Don't come back till I send for you,' he said. 'Mind that now, Dolly,
stay in the schoolroom.'

He shut the door carefully after her, and then, turning to his wife
and daughter, he said, 'You haven't either of you seen the papers
to-day, I suppose?'

'No,' said Mrs. Langton; 'you know I never read daily papers. Gerald,'
she cried suddenly, with a light coming into her eyes, 'is another
judge dead?' Visions of her husband on the Bench, a town-house in a
more central part of London, an increase of social consideration for
herself and daughters, began to float into her brain.

       *       *       *       *       *

'It's not that--if there was, I'm not likely to be offered a judgeship
just yet; it's not good news, Belle, I'm afraid it's very bad,' he
said warningly, 'very bad indeed.'

'Oh, papa,' cried Mabel, 'please don't break it to us--tell it at
once, whatever it is!'

'You must let me choose my own course, my dear; I am coming to the
point at once. The "Globe" has a telegram from Lloyd's agent reporting
the total loss of the "Mangalore."'

'Vincent's ship!' said Mabel. 'Is--is he saved?'

'We cannot be certain of anything just yet--and--and these disasters
are generally exaggerated in the first accounts, but I'm afraid there
is very grave reason to fear that the poor boy went down with her--not
many passengers were on board at the time, and only four or five of
them were saved, and they are women. We can hope for the best still,
but I cannot after reading the particulars feel any confidence myself.
I made inquiries at the owners' offices this afternoon, but they could
tell me very little just yet, though they will have fuller information
by to-morrow--but from what they did say I cannot feel very hopeful.'

Mabel hid her face, trying to realise that the man who had sat
opposite to her there scarcely a month ago, with the strange, almost
prophetic, sadness in his eyes, was lying somewhere still and white,
fathoms deep under the sea--she was too stunned for tears just yet.

'Gerald,' said Mrs. Langton, 'Vincent is drowned--I'm sure of it. I
feel this will be a terrible shock to me by-and-by; I don't know when
I shall get over it--poor, poor dear fellow! To think that the last
time I saw him was that evening we dined at the Gordons'--you
remember, Gerald, a dull dinner--and he saw me into the carriage, and
stood there on the pavement saying good-bye!' Mrs. Langton seemed to
consider that these circumstances had a deep pathos of their own; she
pressed her eyes daintily with her handkerchief before she could go
on. 'Why didn't he sail by one of the safe lines?' she murmured; 'the
P. and O. never lost a single life; he might have gone in one of them
and been alive now!'

'My dear Belle,' said her husband, 'we can't foresee these things,
it--it _was_ to be, I suppose.'

'Is nothing more known?' said Mabel, with a strong effort to control
her voice.

'Here is the account--stay, I can give you the effect of it. It was in
the Indian Ocean, not long after leaving Bombay, somewhere off the
Malabar coast; and the ship seems to have grazed a sunken reef, which
ripped a fearful hole in her side, without stopping her course. They
were not near enough to the land to hope to reverse the engines and
back her on shore at full speed. She began to settle down fast by the
head, and their only chance was in the boats, which unfortunately had
nearly all become jammed in the davits. Every one appears to have
behaved admirably. They managed at last to launch one of the boats,
and to put the women into it; and they were trying to get out the
others, when the vessel went down suddenly, not a quarter of an hour
after striking the reef.'

'Vincent could swim, papa,' said Mabel, with gleaming eyes.

'He was not a first-rate swimmer,' said Mr. Langton, 'I remember that,
and even a first-rate swimmer would have found it hard work to reach
the shore, if he had not been drawn down with the ship, as seems to
have been the fate of most of the poor fellows. Still of course there
is always hope.'

'And he is dead! Vincent dead! It seems so hard, so very, very sad,'
said Mabel, and began to cry softly.

'Cry, darling,' said Mrs. Langton, 'it will do you good. I'm sure I
wish _I_ could cry like that, it would be such a relief. But you know
papa says we may hope yet; we won't give up all hope till we're
obliged to; we must be brave. You really don't care about coming in to
dinner? You won't have a little something sent up to your room? Well,
I feel as if food would choke me myself, but I must go in to keep papa
company. Will you tell this sad news to Dolly and Colin, and ask
Fräulein to keep them with her till bedtime? I can't bear to see them
just yet.'

Mr. Langton's decorous concern did not interfere with his appetite,
and Mrs. Langton seemed rather relieved at being able to postpone her
grief for the present, and so Mabel was left to break the disaster,
and the fate there was too much reason to fear for Vincent, to her
younger brother and sister--a painful task, for Holroyd had been very
dear to all three of them. Fräulein Mozer, too, wept with a more than
sentimental sorrow for the young man she had tried to help, who would
need her assistance never again.

The tidings had reached Mark early that same afternoon. He was walking
home through the City from some 'holiday-classes' he had been
superintending at St. Peter's, when the heading 'Loss of a passenger
steamer with ---- lives' on the contents-sheets of the evening papers
caught his eye, and led him, when established with a 'Globe' in one of
the Underground Railway carriages, to turn with a languid interest to
the details. He started when he saw the name of the vessel, and all
his indifference left him as he hurriedly read the various accounts of
the disaster, and looked in vain for Vincent's name amongst the
survivors.

The next day he, too, went up to the owners' offices to make
inquiries, and by that time full information had come in, which left
it impossible that any but those who had come ashore in the long-boat
could have escaped from the ship. They had remained near the scene of
the wreck for some time, but without picking up more than one or two
of the crew; the rest must all have been sucked down with the ship,
which sank with terrible suddenness at the last.

Vincent was certainly not amongst those in the boat, while, as
appeared from the agent's list, he was evidently on board when the
ship left Bombay. It was possible to hope no longer after that, and
Mark left the offices with the knowledge that Holroyd and he had
indeed taken their last walk together; that he would see his face and
take his hand no more.

It came to him with a shock, the unavoidable shock which a man feels
when he has suddenly to associate the idea of death with one with whom
he has had any intimacy. He told himself he was sorry, and for a
moment Vincent's fate seemed somehow to throw a sort of halo round his
memory, but very soon the sorrow faded, until at last it became little
more than an uneasy consciousness that he ought to be miserable and
was not.

Genuine grief will no more come at command than genuine joy, and so
Mark found, not without some self-reproach; he even began to read 'In
Memoriam' again with the idea of making that the keynote for his
emotions, but the passionate yearning of that lament was pitched too
high for him, and he never finished it. He recognised that he could
not think of his lost friend in the way their long intimacy seemed to
demand, and solved the difficulty by not thinking of him at all,
compounding for his debt of inward mourning by wearing a black tie,
which, as he was fond of a touch of colour in his costume, and as the
emblem in question was not strictly required of him, he looked upon
as, so to speak, a fairly respectable dividend.

Caffyn heard the news with a certain satisfaction. A formidable rival
had been swept out of his path, and he could speak of him now without
any temptation to depreciate his merits, so much so that when he took
an opportunity one day of referring to his loss, he did it so
delicately that Mabel was touched, and liked him better for this
indication of feeling than she had ever been able to do before.

Her own sorrow was genuine enough, requiring no artificial stimulus
and no outward tokens to keep it alive, and if Vincent could have been
assured of this it would have reconciled him to all else. No
callousness nor forgetfulness on the part of others could have had
power to wound him so long as he should live on in the memory of the
girl he had loved.

But it is better far for those who are gone that they should be
impervious alike to our indifference and our grief, for the truest
grief will be insensibly deadened by time, and could not long console
the least exacting for the ever-widening oblivion.




CHAPTER IX.

A TURNING-POINT.


Mark came down to the little back parlour at Malakoff Terrace one dull
January morning to find the family already assembled there, with the
exception of Mrs. Ashburn, who was breakfasting in bed--an unusual
indulgence for her.

'Mark,' said Trixie, as she leaned back in her chair, and put up her
face for his morning greeting, 'there's a letter for you on your
plate.'

It was not difficult to observe a suppressed excitement amongst all
the younger members of his family concerning this letter; they had
finished their breakfast and fallen into some curious speculations as
to Mark's correspondent before he came in. Now three pairs of eyes
were watching him as he strolled up to his seat; Mr. Ashburn alone
seemed unconscious or indifferent.

Of late Mark had not had very many letters, and this particular one
bore the name of 'Chilton & Fladgate' on the flap of the envelope. The
Ashburns were not a literary family, but they knew this as the name of
a well-known firm of publishers, and it had roused their curiosity.

Mark read the name too. For a moment it gave him a throb of
excitement, the idea coming to him that, somehow, the letter concerned
his own unfortunate manuscripts. It was true that he had never had any
communication with this particular firm, but these wild vague
impressions are often independent of actual fact; he took it up and
half began to open it.

Then he remembered what it probably was, and, partly with the object
of preserving Vincent's secret still as far as possible, but chiefly,
it must be owned, from a malicious pleasure he took in disappointing
the expectation he saw around him, put the letter still unopened in
his pocket.

'Why don't you open it?' asked Trixie impatiently, who was cherishing
the hope that some magnificent literary success had come at last to
her favourite brother.

'Manners,' explained Mark, laconically.

'Nonsense,' said Trixie, 'you don't treat us with such ceremony as all
that.'

'Not lately,' said Mark; 'that's how it is--it's bad for a family to
get lax in these little matters of mutual courtesy. I'm going to see
if I can't raise your tone--this is the beginning.'

'I'm sure we're very much obliged to you,' from Martha; 'I'm quite
satisfied with my own tone, it's quite high enough for me, thank you.'

'Yes, I forgot,' said Mark, 'I've heard it very high indeed sometimes.
I wronged you, Martha. Still, you know, we might (all except _you_,
Martha) be more polite to one another without causing ourselves any
internal injury, mightn't we?'

'Well, Mark,' said Trixie, 'all you have to do is to ask our leave to
open the letter, if you're really so particular.'

'Is that in the Etiquette Book?' inquired Mark.

'Don't be ridiculous--why _don't_ you ask our leave?'

'I suppose because I want to eat my breakfast--nothing is so
prejudicial, my love, to the furtherance of the digestive process as
the habit of reading at meals, any medical man will tell you that.'

'Perhaps,' suggested Martha, 'Mark has excellent reasons for
preferring to read his letter alone.'

'Do you know, Martha,' said Mark, 'I really think there's something in
that?'

'So do I,' said Martha, 'more than you would care for us to know,
evidently; but don't be afraid, Mark, whether it's a bill, or a
love-letter, or another publisher's rejection; we don't want to know
your secrets--do we, Cuthbert?'

'Very amiable of you to say so,' said Mark. 'Then I shan't annoy you
if I keep my letter to myself, shall I? Because I rather thought of
doing it.'

'Eh? doing what? What is Mark saying about a letter?' broke in Mr.
Ashburn. He had a way of striking suddenly like this into
conversations.

'Somebody has written me a letter, father,' said Mark; 'I was telling
Martha I thought I should read it--presently.'

But even when he was alone he felt in no hurry to possess himself of
the contents. 'I expect it's the usual thing,' he thought. 'Poor
Vincent is out of all that now. Let's see how they let him down!' and
he read:--

    'DEAR SIR,--We have read the romance entitled "Glamour"
    which you have done us the honour to forward some time
    since. It is a work which appears to us to possess
    decided originality and merit, and which may be received
    with marked favour by the public, while it can hardly
    fail in any case to obtain a reception which will
    probably encourage its author to further efforts. Of
    course, there is a certain risk attending its reception
    which renders it impossible for us to offer such terms
    for a first book as may be legitimately demanded
    hereafter for a second production by the same pen. We
    will give you ...' (and here followed the terms, which
    struck Mark as fairly liberal for a first book by an
    unknown author). 'Should you accept our offer, will you
    do us the favour to call upon us here at your earliest
    convenience, when all preliminary matters can be discussed.
                    'We are, &c.,
                          'CHILTON & FLADGATE.'

Mark ran hurriedly through this letter with a feeling, first of
incredulous wonder, then of angry protest against the bull-headed
manner in which Fortune had dealt out this favour.

Vincent had been saved the dreary delays, the disappointments and
discouragements, which are the lot of most first books; he had won a
hearing at once--and where was the use of it? no praise or fame among
men could reach him now.

If he had been alive, Mark thought bitterly; if a letter like this
would have rescued him from all he detested, and thrown open to him
the one career for which he had any ambition, he might have waited for
it long and vainly enough. But he began by being indifferent, and, if
Fortune had required any other inducement to shower her gifts on him,
his death had supplied it.

He chafed over this as he went up to the City, for there was another
holiday-class that day at St. Peter's; he thought of it at intervals
during the morning, and always resentfully. What increased his
irritation above everything was the fact that the publishers evidently
regarded _him_ as the author of the book, and he would have the
distasteful task put upon him of enlightening them.

When the day's duties were over he found himself putting on his hat
and coat in company with the Rev. Mr. Shelford, who was also in charge
of one of the classes formed for the relief of parents and the
performance of holiday work, and the two walked out together; Mark
intending to call at once and explain his position to Messrs. Chilton
& Fladgate.

'What are you going to do with yourself, Ashburn, now?' said Mr.
Shelford in his abrupt way as they went along. 'Going to be a
schoolmaster and live on the _crambe repetita_ all your life, hey?'

'I don't know,' said Mark sullenly; 'very likely.'

'Take my advice (I'm old enough to offer it unasked); give yourself a
chance while you can of a future which won't cramp and sour and wear
you as this will. If you feel any interest in the boys----'

'Which I don't,' put in Mark.

'Exactly, which you don't--but if you did--I remember _I_ did once, in
some of 'em, and helped 'em on, and spoke to the headmaster about 'em,
and so on. Well, they'll pass out of your class and look another way
when they meet you afterwards. As for the dullards, they'll be always
with you, like the poor, down at the bottom like a sediment, sir, and
much too heavy to stir up! I can't manage 'em now, and my temper gets
the better of me, God forgive me for it, and I say things I'm sorry
for and that don't do me or them any good, and they laugh at me. But
I've got my parish to look after; it's not a large one, but it acts as
an antidote. You're not even in orders, so there's no help for you
_that_ way; and the day will come when the strain gets too much for
you, and you'll throw the whole thing up in disgust, and find yourself
forced to go through the same thing somewhere else, or begin the world
in some other capacity. Choose some line in which hard work and
endurance for years will bring you in a more substantial reward than
that.'

'Well,' said Mark, for whom this gloomy view of his prospects
reflected his own forebodings, 'I am reading for the Bar. I went up
for my call-examination the other day.'

'Ah, is that so? I'm glad to hear of it; a fine profession, sir;
constant variety and excitement--for the pleader, that is to say' (Mr.
Shelford shared the lay impression that pleading was a form of
passionate appeal to judge and jurymen), 'and of course you would
plead in court. The law has some handsome prizes in its disposal, too.
But you should have an attorney or two to push you on, they say.
Perhaps you can count on that?'

'I wish I could,' said Mark, 'but the fact is my ambition doesn't lie
in a legal direction at all. I don't care very much about the Bar.'

'Do you care very much about anything? Does your ambition lie
anywhere?'

'Not now; it did once--literature, you know; but that's all over.'

'I remember, to be sure. They rejected that Christmas piece of yours,
didn't they? Well, if you've no genuine talent for it, the sooner you
find it out the better for you. If you feel you've something inside of
you that must out in chapters and volumes, it generally comes, and all
the discouragement in the world won't keep it down. It's like those
stories of demoniacal possession in the "Anatomy"--you know your
Burton, I daresay? Some of the possessed brought "globes of hair" and
"such-like baggage" out of themselves, but others "stones with
inscriptions." If the demon gets too strong for you, try and produce a
stone with a good readable inscription on it--not three globes of hair
for the circulating libraries.'

'We shall see,' said Mark laughing. 'I must leave you here. I have an
appointment with Chilton & Fladgate just by.'

'Ay, ay,' said the old gentleman, wagging his head; 'publishers,
aren't they? Don't tell me your ambition's dead if it's taken you as
far as that. But I won't ask any more questions. I shall hope to be
able to congratulate you shortly. I won't keep you away from your
publishers any longer.'

'They are not my publishers yet,' said Mark; 'they have made me some
proposals, but I have not accepted them at present.'

He knew what a false impression this would leave with his companion,
bare statement of fact as it was, but he made it deliberately, feeling
almost as much flattered by the unconscious increase of consideration
in the other's voice and manner as if there had been the slightest
foundation for it.

They said good-bye, and the old clergyman went on and was swallowed up
in the crowd, thinking as he went, 'Publishing, eh? a good firm, too.
I don't think he could afford to do it at his own expense. Perhaps
there's more ballast in him after all than I gave him credit for. I
can't help liking the young fellow somehow, too. I should like to see
him make a good start.'

Mark, having sent up his name by one of the clerks behind the imposing
mahogany counters, was shown through various swinging glass doors into
a waiting-room, where the magazines and books symmetrically arranged
on the table gave a certain flavour of dentistry to the place.

Mark turned them over with a quite unreasonable nervousness, but the
fact was he shrank from what he considered the humiliation of
explaining that he was a mere agent; it occurred to him for the first
time, too, that Holroyd's death might possibly complicate matters, and
he felt a vague anger against his dead friend for leaving him in such
a position.

The clerk returned with a message that Mr. Fladgate would be happy to
see Mark at once, and so he followed upstairs and along passages with
glimpses through open doors of rooms full of clerks and desks, until
they came to a certain room into which Mark was shown--a small room
with a considerable litter of large wicker trays filled with proofs,
packets and rolls of manuscripts of all sizes, and piles of books and
periodicals, in the midst of which Mr. Fladgate was sitting with his
back to the light, which was admitted through windows of ground-glass.

He rose and came forward to meet Mark, and Mark saw a little
reddish-haired and whiskered man, with quick eyes, and a curious
perpendicular fold in the forehead above a short, blunt nose, a mobile
mouth, and a pleasantly impulsive manner.

'How do you do, Mr. Beauchamp?' he said heartily, using the _nom de
plume_ with an air of implied compliment; 'and so you've made up your
mind to entrust yourself to us, have you? That's right. I don't think
you'll find any reason to regret it, I don't indeed.'

Mark said he was sure of that.

'Well, now, as to the book,' continued Mr. Fladgate; 'I've had the
pleasure of looking through it myself, as well as Mr. Blackshaw, our
reader, and I must tell you that I agree with him in considering that
you have written a very remarkable book. As we told you, you know, it
may or may not prove a pecuniary success, but, however that may be, my
opinion of it will remain the same; it ought, in my judgment, to
ensure you a certain standing at once--at once.'

Mark heard this with a pang of jealousy. Long before, he had dreamed
of just such an interview, in which he should be addressed in some
such manner--his dream was being fulfilled now with relentless
mockery!

'But there is a risk,' said Mr. Fladgate, 'a decided risk, which
brings me to the subject of terms. Are you satisfied with the offer we
made to you? You see that a first book----'

'Excuse me for one moment,' said Mark desperately, 'I'm afraid you
imagine that--that _I_ wrote the book?'

'That certainly was my impression,' said Mr. Fladgate, with a humorous
light in his eye; 'the only address on the manuscript was yours, and I
came to the not unnatural conclusion that Mr. Ashburn and Mr.
Beauchamp were one and the same. Am I to understand that is _not_ the
case?'

'The book,' said Mark--what it cost him to say this,--'the book was
written by a friend of mine, who went abroad some time ago.'

'Indeed? Well, we should prefer to treat with him in person, of
course, if possible.'

'It isn't possible,' said Mark, 'my friend was lost at sea, but he
asked me to represent him in this matter, and I believe I know his
wishes.'

'I've no doubt of it; but you see, Mr.--Mr. Ashburn, this must be
considered a little. I suppose you have some authority from him in
writing, to satisfy us (merely as a matter of business) that we are
dealing with the right person?'

'I have not indeed,' said Mark, 'my friend was very anxious to retain
his incognito.'

'He must have been--very much so,' said Mr. Fladgate, coughing; 'well,
perhaps you can bring me some writing of his to that effect? You may
have it among your papers, eh?'

'No,' said Mark, 'my friend did not think it necessary to give me
one--he was anxious to----'

'Oh, quite so--then you can procure me a line or two perhaps?'

'I told you that my friend was dead,' said Mark a little impatiently.

'Ah, so you did, to be sure, I forgot. I thought--but no matter. Well,
Mr. Ashburn, if you can't say anything more than this--anything, you
understand, which puts you in a position to treat with us, I'm
afraid--I'm _afraid_ I must ask time to think over this. If your
friend is really dead, I suppose your authority is determined.
Perhaps, however, his--ahem--anxiety to preserve his incognito has led
him to allow this rumour of his death to be circulated?'

'I don't think that is likely,' said Mark, wondering at an
undercurrent of meaning in the publisher's tone, a meaning which had
nothing sinister in it, and yet seemed urging him to contradict
himself for some reason.

'That is your last word, then?' said Mr. Fladgate, and there was a
sharp inflection as of disappointment and irritation in his voice, and
the fold in his forehead deepened.

'It must be,' said Mark, rising, 'I have kept you too long already.'

'If you really _must_ go,' said Mr. Fladgate, not using the words in
their conventional sense of polite dismissal. 'But, Mr. Ashburn, are
you quite sure that this interview might not be saved from coming to
nothing, as it seems about to do? Might not a word or two from you set
things right again? I don't wish to force you to tell me anything you
would rather keep concealed--but really, this story you tell about a
Mr. Vincent Beauchamp who is dead only ties our hands, you
understand--ties our hands!'

'If so,' said Mark, uncomfortably, 'I can only say I am very sorry for
it--I don't see how I can help it.'

He was beginning to feel that this business of Holroyd's had given him
quite trouble enough.

'Now, Mr. Ashburn, as I said before, I should be the last man to
press you--but really, you know, _really_--this is a trifle absurd! I
think you might be a little more frank with me, I do indeed. There is
no reason why you should not trust me!'

Was this man tempting him, thought Mark. Could he be so anxious to
bring out this book that he was actually trying to induce him to
fabricate some story which would get over the difficulties that had
arisen?

As a mere matter of fact, it may be almost unnecessary to mention that
no such idea had occurred to worthy Mr. Fladgate, who, though he
certainly was anxious to secure the book if he could, by any
legitimate means, was anything but a publishing Mephistopheles. He had
an object, however, in making this last appeal for confidence, as will
appear immediately; but, innocent as it was, Mark's imagination
conjured up a bland demon tempting him to some act of unspeakable
perfidy; he trembled--but not with horror. 'What do you mean?' he
stammered.

Mr. Fladgate gave a glance of keen amusement at the pale troubled face
of the young man before him. 'What do I mean?' he repeated. 'Come,
I've known sensitive women try to conceal their identity, and even
their sex, from their own publishers; I've known men even persuade
themselves they didn't care for notoriety--but such a determined
instance of what I must take leave to call the literary ostrich I
don't think I ever _did_ meet before! I never met a writer so
desperately anxious to remain unknown that he would rather take his
manuscript back than risk his secret with his own publisher. But don't
you see that you have raised (I don't use the term in the least
offensively) the mask, so to speak--you should have sent somebody else
here to-day if you wished to keep me in the dark. I've not been in
business all these years, Mr. Ashburn, without gaining a little
experience. I think, I _do_ think, I am able to know an author when I
see him--we are all liable to error, but I am very much mistaken if
this Mr. Vincent Beauchamp (who was so unfortunately lost at sea) is
not to be recovered alive by a little judicious dredging. Do think if
you can't produce him; come, he's not in very deep water--bring him
up, Mr. Ashburn, bring him up!'

'You make this very difficult for me,' said Mark, in a low voice; he
knew now how greatly he had misjudged the man, who had spoken with
such an innocent, amiable pride in his own surprising discernment; he
also felt how easy and how safe it would be to take advantage of this
misunderstanding, and what a new future it might open to him--but he
was struggling still against the temptation so unconsciously held out
to him.

'I might retort that, I think. Now, be reasonable, Mr. Ashburn. I
assure you the writer, whoever he may be, has no cause to be ashamed
of the book--the time will come when he will probably be willing
enough to own it. Still, if he wishes to keep his real name secret, I
tell him, through you, that he may surely be content to trust that to
us. We have kept such secrets before--not very long, to be sure, as a
general rule; but then that was because the authors usually relieved
us from the trouble--the veil was never lifted by us.'

'I think you said,' began Mark, as if thinking aloud, 'that other
works by--by the same author would be sure of acceptance?'

'I should be very glad to have an opportunity, in time, of producing
another book by Mr. Vincent Beauchamp--but Mr. Beauchamp, as you
explained, is unhappily no more. Perhaps these are earlier manuscripts
of his?'

Mark had been seized with the desire of making one more attempt, in
spite of his promise to his uncle, to launch those unhappy paper ships
of his--'Sweet Bells Jangled' and 'One Fair Daughter.' For an instant
it occurred to him that he might answer this last question in the
affirmative; he had little doubt that if he did his books would meet
with a very different reception from that of Messrs. Leadbitter and
Gandy; still, that would only benefit Holroyd--not himself, and then
he recollected, only just in time, that the difference in handwriting
(which was very considerable) would betray him. He looked confused and
said nothing.

Mr. Fladgate's patience began to tire. 'We don't seem to be making any
way, do we?' he said, with rather affected pleasantry. 'I'm afraid I
must ask you to come to a decision on this without any more delay.
Here is the manuscript you sent us. If the real author is dead we are
compelled to return it with much regret. If you can tell me anything
which does away with the difficulty, this is the time to tell it. Of
course you will do exactly as you please, but after what you have
chosen to tell us we can hardly see our way, as I said, to treat with
you without some further explanation. Come, Mr. Ashburn, am I to have
it or not?'

'Give me a little time,' said Mark faintly, and the publisher, as he
had expected, read the signs of wavering in his face, though it was
not of the nature he believed it to be.

Mark sat down again and rested his chin on his hand, with his face
turned away from the other's eyes. A conflict was going on within him
such as he had never been called upon to fight before, and he had only
a very few minutes allowed him to fight it.

Perhaps in these crises a man does not always arrange pros and cons to
contend for him in the severely logical manner with which we find him
doing it in print. The forces on the enemy's side can generally be
induced to desert. All the advantages which would follow if he once
allowed himself to humour the publisher's mistake were very
prominently before Mark's mind--the dangers and difficulties kept in
the background. He was incapable of considering the matter coolly; he
felt an overmastering impulse upon him, and he had never trained
himself to resist his impulses for very long. There was very little of
logical balancing going on in his brain; it began to seem terribly,
fatally easy to carry out this imposition. The fraud itself grew less
ugly and more harmless every instant.

He saw his own books, so long kept out in the cold by ignorant
prejudice, accepted on the strength of Holroyd's 'Glamour,' and, once
fairly before the public, taking the foremost rank in triumph and
rapidly eclipsing their forerunner. He would be appreciated at last,
delivered from the life he hated, able to lead the existence he longed
for. All he wanted was a hearing; there seemed no other way to obtain
it; he had no time to lose. How could it injure Holroyd? He had not
cared for fame in life; would he miss it after his death? The
publishers might be mistaken; the book might be unnoticed altogether;
_he_ might prove to be the injured person.

But, as Mr. Fladgate seemed convinced of its merit, as he would
evidently take anything alleged to come from the same source without a
very severe scrutiny, there was nothing for it but to risk this
contingency.

Mark was convinced that publishers were influenced entirely by
unreasoning prejudices; he thoroughly believed that his works would
carry all before them if any firm could once overcome their repugnance
to his powerful originality, and here was one firm at least prepared
to lay that aside at a word from him. Why should he let it go unsaid?

The money transactions caused him the most hesitation. If he took
money for another man's work, there was a name, and a very ugly name,
for that. But he would _not_ keep it. As soon as he learnt the names
of Holroyd's legal representatives, whoever they might be, he would
pay the money over to them without mentioning the exact manner in
which it had become due. In time, when he had achieved a reputation
for himself, he could give back the name he had borrowed for a
time--at least he told himself he could do so.

He stood in no danger of detection, or, if he did, it was very slight.
Vincent was not the man to confide in more than one person; he had
owned as much. He had been reticent enough to conceal his real surname
from his publishers, and now he could never reveal the truth.

All this rushed through his mind in a hurried, confused form; all his
little vanities and harmless affectations and encouragements of false
impressions had made him the less capable of resisting now.

'Well?' said Mr. Fladgate at last.

Mark's heart beat fast. He turned round and faced the publisher. 'I
suppose I had better trust you,' he said awkwardly, and with a sort of
shamefaced constraint that was admirably in keeping with his
confession, though not artificial.

'I think so. Then you are the man--this book "Glamour"'s your own
work?'

'If you must have it--yes,' said Mark desperately.

The words were spoken now, and for good or ill he must abide by them
henceforth to the end.




CHAPTER X.

REPENTE TURPISSIMUS.


No sooner had Mark declared himself the author of his dead friend's
book than he would have given anything to recall his words, not so
much from conscience (though he did feel he had suddenly developed
into a surprisingly finished scoundrel), as from a fear that his lie
might after all be detected. He sat staring stupidly at Mr. Fladgate,
who patted him on the shoulder with well-meant encouragement; he had
never seen quite so coy an author before. 'I'm very glad to make Mr.
Vincent Beauchamp's acquaintance--at last,' he said, beaming with
honest pride at the success of his tactics, 'and now we can come to
terms again.'

He did not find Mark more difficult to deal with than most budding
authors, and in this case Mark was morbidly anxious to get the money
part of the transaction over as soon as possible; he could not decide
whether his conscience would be better or worse satisfied if he
insisted on the best pecuniary terms he could obtain, so in his
indecision he took the easier course of agreeing to everything.

'About the title now?' said Mr. Fladgate, when the terms had been
reduced to a formal memorandum. 'I don't think I quite like your
present one; too moonshiny, eh?'

Mark owned that it did sound a little moonshiny.

'I think, too, I rather think, there's something very like it out
already, and that may lead to unpleasantness, you know. Now, can you
suggest something else which will give a general idea of the nature of
the book?'

As Mark had absolutely no idea what the book was about, he could not.

'Well, Mr. Blackshaw suggested something like "Enchantment," or
"Witchery."'

'I don't care about either of those,' said Mark, who found this sort
of dissembling unexpectedly easy.

'No,' said Mr. Fladgate, 'No. I think you're right. Now, I had a
notion--I don't know what you will think of it--but I thought you
might call it "A Modern Merlin," eh?'

'"A Modern Merlin,"' repeated Mark thoughtfully.

'Yes, it's not _quite_ the right thing, perhaps, but it's taking, I
think, taking.'

Mark said it was taking.

'Of course _your_ hero is not exactly a magician, but it brings in the
"Vivien" part of the story, don't you see?' Of course Mark did not
see, but he thought it best to agree. 'Well,' continued Mr. Fladgate,
who was secretly rather proud of his title, 'how does it strike you
now? it seems to me as good a title as we are likely to hit upon.'

After all, Mark thought, what did it matter? it wasn't his book,
except in name. 'I think it's excellent,' he said, 'excellent; and, by
the way, Mr. Fladgate,' he added, 'I should like to change the _nom de
plume_: it's a whim of mine, perhaps, but there's another I've been
thinking lately I should like better.'

'By all means,' said the other, taking up a pencil to make the
necessary alteration on the manuscript, 'but why not use your real
name? I prophesy you'll be proud of that book some day; think over
it.'

'No,' said Mark, 'I don't wish my real name to appear just yet' (he
hardly knew why; perhaps a lingering sense of shame held him back from
this more open dishonesty). 'Will you strike out "Vincent Beauchamp,"
and put in "Cyril Ernstone," please?' For 'Cyril Ernstone' had been
the pseudonym which he had chosen long ago for himself, and he wished
to be able to use it now, since he must not use his own.

'Very well, then, we may consider that settled. We think of bringing
out the book as soon as possible, without waiting for the spring
season; it will go to press at once and we will send you the proofs as
soon as we get them in.'

'There's one thing, perhaps, I'd better mention,' said Mark suddenly;
after he had turned to go a new danger had occurred to him, 'the
handwriting of the manuscript is not mine. I--I thought it as well to
tell you that beforehand; it might lead to mistakes. I had it copied
out for me by--by a friend.'

Mr. Fladgate burst out laughing. 'Pardon me,' he said, when he had
finished, 'but really I couldn't help it, you do seem to have been so
bent on hoodwinking us.'

'And yet you have found me out, you see,' said Mark, with a very
unmirthful smile.

Mr. Fladgate smiled, too, making a little gesture of his hand,
thinking very possibly that few precautions could be proof against his
sagacity, and they parted.

Mark went down the stairs and through the clerks' room into the
street, with a dazed and rather awestruck feeling upon him. He hardly
realised the treachery he had been guilty of, the temptation had burst
upon him so suddenly, his fall had been made so easy for him, that he
scarcely felt his dishonour, nor was he likely to feel it very keenly
so long as only good results should flow from it. But he was vaguely
conscious that he was not the same Mark Ashburn who had parted from
old Shelford not an hour ago in the street there; he was a man with a
new hope in his breast, and it might be a new fear, but the hope was
near and bright, the fear shadowy and remote as yet: he had only to
keep his own counsel and be patient for a while, and the course of
events would assuredly bring him the stake he had played so high for.

At home that evening he took down his manuscript novels (which of
course he had _not_ burnt) and read them again carefully. Yes; there
was power in them, he felt it, a copious flow of words, sparkling wit,
and melting pathos. The white heat at which the lines were written
surprised even himself. It was humiliating to think that without the
subterfuge that had been forced upon him he might have found it
impossible to find publishers who would appreciate these merits, for
after Messrs. Leadbitter & Gandy's refusal he had recognised this to
the full; but now, at least, they were insured against any such fate.
A careful reading was absolutely necessary to a proper estimation of
them, and a careful reading they had never had as yet, and would
receive at last, or, if they did not, it would only be because the
reputation he had appropriated would procure them a ready acceptance
without any such preliminary ordeal. The great point gained was that
they would be published, and after that he feared nothing.

If anything whispered to him that he might have accomplished even this
by honourable means; that in time and with economy he could have
produced them at his own expense; that perhaps a little more
perseverance might even have discovered a firm with sufficient faith
to take the risk upon themselves; if these doubts suggested themselves
to him he had little difficulty in arguing them down. They might have
had some weight once, but they came too late; the thing was done now
and could never be recalled; his whole interest lay in persuading
himself that what he had done was the only thing that could be done,
unless he was content to resign his ambition for ever, and Mark
succeeded in persuading himself of this.

Very soon his chief feeling was one of impatience for Holroyd's book
to come out and make way for his own: then any self-reproach he might
still feel would be drowned in a sense of triumph which would justify
the means he had taken; so he waited eagerly for the arrival of the
first proofs.

They arrived at last. As he came back one evening to Malakoff Terrace,
Trixie ran to meet him, holding up two tightly rolled parcels, with a
great curiosity in her eyes. 'They came this afternoon,' she
whispered, 'and oh, Mark, I couldn't help it; I tore one end a little
and peeped; are they really part of a book--is it _yours_?'

Mark thought he had better accustom himself to this kind of thing as
early as possible. 'Yes, Trixie,' he said, 'they're the first proofs
of my book.'

'O-oh!' cried Trixie, with a gasp of delight, 'not "Sweet Bells
Jangled," Mark?'

'No, _not_ "Sweet Bells Jangled," it--it's a book you don't know
about--a little thing I don't expect very much from, but my publishers
seem to like it, and I can follow it up with the "Bells" afterwards.'

He was turning over the rough greyish pages as he spoke, and Trixie
was peeping greedily at them, too, with her pretty chin dug into his
shoulder.

'And did you really write all that?' she said; 'how interesting it
looks, you clever boy! You _might_ have told me you were doing it,
though. What's it about?'

'How can I tell you before I know myself,' said Mark, quite forgetting
himself in his impatience. 'I--I mean, Trixie, that I can't correct
these proofs as they ought to be corrected while you stay here
chattering.'

'I'll go in a minute, Mark; but you won't have time to correct them
before dinner, you know. When did you write it?'

'What _does_ it matter when I wrote it!' said Mark irritably; 'if it
hadn't been written the proofs wouldn't be here, would they? Is there
anything else you would like to know--_how_ I wrote it, where I wrote
it, why I wrote it? You seem to think it a most extraordinary thing
that anything I write should be printed at all, Trixie.'

'I don't know why you should speak like that, Mark,' said Trixie,
rather hurt; 'you know a little while ago you never expected such a
thing yourself. I can't help wanting to know all I can about it. What
_will_ you say to Uncle Solomon?' she added, with a little quiver of
laughter in her voice. 'You promised him to give up literature, you
know.'

'Don't you remember the Arab gentleman in the poem?' said Mark
lightly. 'He agreed to sell his steed, but when the time came it
didn't come off--he didn't come off, either--_he_ "flung them back
their gold," and rode away. I shall fling Uncle Solomon back _his_
gold, metaphorically, and gallop off on my Pegasus.'

'Ma won't like that,' prophesied Trixie, shaking her head wisely.

'No; mother objects to that kind of horse-exercise, and, ahem, Trixie,
it might be as well to say nothing about it to any of them just at
present. There will only be a fuss about it, and I can't stand that.'

Trixie promised silence. 'I'm so glad about it, though, you can't
think, Mark,' she said; 'and this isn't one of your _great_ books,
either, you said, didn't you?'

'No,' said Mark; 'it's not one of _them_. I haven't put my best work
into it.'

'You put your best work into the two that came back, didn't you?'
asked Trixie naively. 'But they won't come back any more, will they?
They'll be glad of them if this is a success.'

'Fladgate will be glad of them, I fancy, in any case. I've got a
chance at last, Trixie. A chance at last!'

Later that night he locked himself in the room which he used as a
sitting-room and bedroom combined, and set himself, not without
repugnance, to go steadily through the proofs, and make the
acquaintance of the work he had made his own.

Much has been said of the delight with which an author reads his first
proofs, and possibly the sensation is a wholly pleasurable one to
some; to others it is not without its drawbacks. Ideas that seemed
vivid and bright enough when they were penned have a bald tame look in
the new form in which they come back. The writer finds himself
judging the work as a stranger's, and forming the worst opinions of
it. He sees hideous gaps and crudities beyond all power of correction,
and for the first time, perhaps, since he learned that his manuscript
was accepted, his self-doubts return to him.

But Mark's feelings were much more complicated than this; all the
gratified pride of an author was naturally denied to him, and it was
thoroughly distasteful to him to carry out his scheme of deception by
such sordid details as the necessary corrections of printers' errors.

But he was anxiously eager to find out what kind of a literary
bantling was this which he had fathered so fraudulently; he had
claimed it in blind reliance on the publisher's evident
enthusiasm--had he made a mistake after all? What if it proved
something which could do him no credit whatever--a trap into which his
ambition had led him! The thought that this might be so made him very
uneasy. Poor Holroyd, he thought, was a very good fellow--an excellent
fellow, but not exactly the man to write a book of extraordinary
merit--clever, perhaps, but clever in an unobtrusive way--and Mark's
tendency was to judge, as he expected to be judged himself, by
outsides.

With these misgivings crowded upon him, he sat down to read the
opening chapters; he was not likely to be much overcome by admiration
in any case, for his habitual attitude in studying even the greatest
works was critical, as he felt the presence of eccentricities or
shortcomings which he himself would have avoided.

But at least, as he read on, his greatest anxiety was set at rest--if
he could judge by the instalment before him, and the book was not in
any danger of coming absolutely to grief--it would do his reputation
no harm. It was not, to be sure, the sort of book he would have
written himself, as he affected the cynical mode of treatment and the
indiscriminate satire which a rather young writer feels instinctively
that the world expects from him. Still, it was not so bad. It was
slightly dreamy and mystical in parts, the work of a man who had lived
more amongst books than in the world, but some of the passages glowed
with the rich imagery of a true poet, and here and there were
indications of a quiet and cultivated humour which would recommend
itself to all who do not consider the humorous element in literature
as uncanny, if not personally offensive. The situations were strong,
too, and as nearly new as situations can be and retain any probability
in this over-plagiarised world; and at least one of the characters was
obviously studied from life with a true and tender observation.

All of this Mark did not see, nor was he capable of seeing, but he
thought that, with a little 'weeding' and 'writing-up,' the book would
do, and set himself to supply what was wanting with a laudable
self-devotion. His general plan of accomplishing this may be described
here once for all.

He freshened up chapters with touches of satire, and gave them a more
scholarly air by liberal allusions to the classics; he rewrote some of
the more descriptive and romantic passages, putting his finest and
most florid epithets into them with what he felt was very like
disinterestedness, and a reckless waste of good material. And he cut
down the dialogue in places, or gave it a more colloquial turn, so as
to suit the tastes of the average reader, and he worked up some of the
crises which struck him as inadequately treated.

After that he felt much easier; either considering that these
improvements constituted a sort of atonement, or that they removed any
chance of failure. As this book was to go forth and herald his own, it
was vitally important that it should make as imposing an appearance as
possible.




CHAPTER XI.

REVOLT.


One afternoon, early in the year, Mark had betaken himself to the
'Cock,' where he was to lunch with his uncle by appointment before
going with him to the steward's office of his Inn to pay his fees for
the privilege of being called to the Bar. For Mark had duly presented
himself for the not very searching ordeal by which the public is
guaranteed against the incompetence of practitioners, and, rather to
his own surprise, had not been required to try again. 'Call night' was
announced in the windows of the law wig-makers, and Uncle Solomon, in
high delight, resolved that his nephew should join the next batch of
barristers, had appointed this day for choosing the wig and gown and
settling all other preliminaries--he had been so much pleased, in
fact, as to inclose a handsome cheque in the letter which conveyed his
desires.

So Mark waited by the hoardings of the New Law Courts, until his
relative should join him. Mark was not at ease--he was nerving himself
to make a statement which he felt would come upon his uncle as a far
from gratifying surprise--he had put it off from time to time, out of
weakness, or, as he had told himself, from diplomacy. Now he could do
so no longer. Uncle Solomon had hinted terrible things in his letter
of a certain brief with which his own solicitor was to entrust the
brand-new barrister the morning after his call! But for this, Mark
might have let things drift, as he would strongly have preferred to
do, but this threat of immediate employment drove him to declare
himself. He firmly believed that his true vocation was the one he had
secured at such cost to his self-respect; he was willing enough to
bear the title of barrister, but he had no intention of devoting
himself seriously to the profession; he saw little more attraction in
the Bar than in teaching, and the most self-confident man might have
recoiled at having work thrust into his hands before he had undergone
the slightest practical training for conducting it. And Mark's
imagination saw his first brief bringing others in its train, until he
should sink in a sea of blue foolscap, helpless and entangled in
clinging tentacles of red-tape. Perhaps this was a groundless alarm,
but he had planned out a particular career for himself, a career of
going about and observing (and it is well known that what a man of
genius calls 'observing' is uncommonly like ordinary people's
enjoyment), being famous and flattered, and sitting down in moments of
inspiration to compose with a clear head and a mind unhampered by all
other considerations. Now the responsibility of legal work _would_
hamper him--he felt his muse to be of that jealous disposition which
will suffer no rival--if he meant to be free at all, he must strike
the blow at once. And so, as has been said, he was not at his ease.

Mr. Lightowler appeared as St. Clement Danes struck half-past one; he
was in high good-humour, jubilant, and ruddy. 'Well, Master
Barrister,' he said, chuckling; 'to think o' my living to see you
figurin' about in a wig and gown--you must cut off that moustache of
yours, though, Mark: none of the young barrister fellows I see goin'
up in the train of a mornin' wear 'em. I'm told the judges don't
consider too much 'air respectful, hey? Well, s'pose we go in and have
a bit of something, eh? The "Cock" is it? Ah, I haven't been in
here--I haven't been in here not since I was a young man "on the
road," as we used to call it. I don't mean I was ever in the Dick
Turpin line, but a commercial gentleman, you know. Well, I've made my
way since. You'll have to make yours, with more help than I ever had,
though.'

Mark led the way up a steep little passage and into the well-known
room, with its boxes darkened by age, its saw-dusted floor and quaint
carved Jacobean mantelpiece. He chose a compartment well down at the
bottom of the room.

'What's your partickler preference, eh?' said Uncle Solomon, rather as
if he was treating a schoolboy. 'What's their speciality 'ere, now?
Well, you can give me,' he added to the waiter, with the manner of a
man conferring a particular favour, 'you can give me a chump chop,
underdone, and a sausage. And bring this young gentleman the same. I
don't care about anything 'eavier at this time o' day,' he explained.

Mark talked on all kinds of topics with desperate brilliancy for some
time; he wanted time before approaching _the_ subject.

Uncle Solomon broached it for him. 'You'll want a regler set o'
chambers by-and-by,' he said; 'I've seen a room down Middle Temple
Lane that'll do for you for the present. When the briefs begin to come
in, we'll see about something better. I was talkin' about you to
Ferret the other day,' he went on. 'It'll be all right; he's goin' to
instruct their London agent to send you in a little something that you
can try your 'prentice hand at directly. Isn't _that_ be'aving like an
uncle to you, eh? I hope you will go and do me credit over it; that's
the only way you can pay me back a little--I ask but that of you,
Mark.'

For all his bumptiousness and despotism, there was a real kindness,
possibly not of the purest and most unselfish order, but still
kindness in his manner, and Mark felt a pang at having to reward it as
he must.

The meal was over now, and Uncle Solomon was finishing the glass of
whisky and water before him. 'Well,' he said, as he set it down, 'we'd
better be off to the place where I'm to pay the fees for you. Ah, what
you young fellows cost to start nowadays!'

'That's it,' said Mark; 'I--I would rather not cost you anything,
uncle.'

'It's rather late in the day to be partickler about that, _I_ should
say.'

'It is. I feel that; but I mean, I don't want to cost you any _more_.'

'What d'ye mean by that?'

'I mean that I don't care about being called to the Bar at present.'

'Don't you? Well, I do, so let that be enough for you. If I'm willing
to pay, I don't see what you 'ave to say against it. All _you've_ got
to do is to work.'

'Uncle,' said Mark in a low voice, 'I must tell you what I feel about
this. I--I don't want to cause you to spend your money on false
pretences.'

'You'd better not: that's all I can tell you!'

'Precisely,' said Mark; 'so I'll be quite frank with you beforehand.
If you set your mind on it, I will take my call to the Bar.'

'_Will_ yer, though? That's very affable of you, now!'

'Yes, I will; but I shall never practise; if Ferret's agent sends me
this brief, I shall decline it.'

'I would; that's the way to get on at the Bar; you're a sharp feller,
_you_ are!'

'I don't want to get on at the Bar. I don't mean to take it up; there,
if you choose to be angry, I can't help it. I've told you.'

'Then may I take the liberty of inquirin' _'ow_ you purpose to live?'
demanded Uncle Solomon.

'I mean to live by literature,' said Mark; 'I know I promised I
wouldn't write any more: well, as far as that goes, I've kept my word;
but--but a former book of mine has been accepted on very liberal
terms, I see my way now to making a living by my pen, and though I'm
sorry, of course, if it disappoints you, I mean to choose my life for
myself, while I can.'

It must be highly annoying when one has, after infinite labour,
succeeded in converting a clown, to see him come to chapel with a
red-hot poker and his pockets full of stolen sausages; but even that
shock is nothing to Uncle Solomon's.

He turned deadly pale and sank back in the box, glaring at Mark and
opening his mouth once or twice with a fish-like action, but without
speaking. When he could articulate, he called the waiter, giving Mark
reason for a moment to fear that he was going to pour out his rage and
disappointment into the ears of one of the smug and active attendants.

'Take for me and this young man, will yer?' was all he said, however.
When the waiter had reckoned up the sum in the time-honoured manner
and departed, Uncle Solomon turned and began to struggle into his
great-coat. 'Let me help you,' said Mark, but Mr. Lightowler
indignantly jerked himself away. 'I don't want to be helped into my
coat by you,' he said; 'you've helped me into my grave by what you've
done this day, you have; let that be sufficient for you!'

When he had rendered himself rather conspicuous by his ineffectual
attempts to put on the coat, and was reduced to accept the assistance
of two waiters who shook him into it obsequiously, he came back to the
box where Mark was sitting in a relieved but still vaguely
uncomfortable frame of mind.

'I don't want to 'ave many words with you about this,' he began with a
sternness that was not unimpressive. 'If I was to let myself out in
'ere, I should go too far. I'll only just tell you this much; this is
the second time you've played me this trick, and it's the last! I
warned you before that I should have done with you if you did it
again: you'll 'ave no more chances like the last, so mind that. Take
care of that cheque, you needn't fear I shall stop it, but you won't
get many more out o' me. And now I'll bid you good-day, young
gentleman; I'm goin' to Kensington, and then I shall do a little
littery composing on my own account, since it's so pop'lar, and get
Ferret to help me with it. I'm not one of your littery men, but I
dessey I can compose something yet that'll be read some day with a
good deal of interest; it won't be pleasant reading for you, though, I
can tell yer!'

He went noisily out, the waiters staring after him and the people
looking up from their boxes as he passed, and Mark was left to his own
reflections, which were of a mixed order.

He had accomplished his main object--his slavery was over, and he felt
an indescribable relief at the thought; still, he could not avoid the
suspicion that his freedom might have been dearly purchased. His
uncle's words had pointed to a state of things in which he would have
benefited to a considerable extent under his will, and that was over
now. Would it not have been worth while to endure a little longer--but
Mark felt strongly that it would not. With such prospects as he now
saw opening before him, the idea of submitting himself to an old man's
ambitious whims for the sake of a reward which might, after all, be
withheld at last was utterly revolting. He felt a certain excitement,
too, at the idea of conquering the world single-handed.

When he left the 'Cock' he walked slowly and irresolutely down the
Strand. 'If I go home now I shall find _him_ blustering there. I don't
feel equal to any more of him just now,' he thought.

He had no club to go to at that time, so he went and read the papers,
and drank coffee at a cigar divan until it was late enough to dine,
and after dinner tried to drown his care by going to see one of those
anomalous productions--a 'three-act burlesque'--at a neighbouring
theatre, which he sat through with a growing gloom, in spite of the
pretty faces and graceful dances which have now, with some rare
exceptions, made plot and humour so unnecessary. Each leading member
of the clever company danced his or her special _pas seul_ as if for a
competitive examination, but left him unthrilled amidst all the
enthusiasm that thundered from most parts of the house. It is true
that there were faces there--and young men's faces--quite as solemn as
his own, but then theirs was the solemnity of an enjoyment too deep
for expression, while Mark's face was blank from a depression he could
not shake off.

He went away at the end of the second act with a confused recollection
of glowing groups of silk-clad figures, forming up into a tableau for
no obvious dramatic reason, and, thinking it better to face his family
before the morning, went straight home to Malakoff Terrace. He could
not help a slight nervousness as he opened the gate and went up the
narrow path of flagstones. The lower window was dark, but there were
no lights in the upper rooms, so that he guessed that the family had
not retired. Mrs. Ashburn was entirely opposed to the latch-key as a
domestic implement, and had sternly refused to allow such a thing to
pass her threshold, so that Mark refrained from making use of the
key--which of course he had--in all cases where it was not absolutely
necessary, and he knocked and rang now.

Trixie came to the door and let him in. 'They've sent Ann to bed,' she
whispered, 'but ma and pa are sitting up for you.'

'Are they though?' said Mark grimly, as he hung up his hat.

'Yes,' said Trixie; 'come in here for a minute, Mark, while I tell you
all about it. Uncle Solomon has been here this afternoon and stayed to
dinner and he's been saying, oh, such dreadful things about you. Why
weren't you here?'

'I thought I should enjoy my dinner more if I dined out,' said Mark.
'Well, and what's the end of it all, Trixie?'

'I'm sure I don't know what it will be. Uncle Solomon actually wanted
me to come and live with him at Chigbourne, and said he would make it
worth my while in the end, if I would promise not to have anything
more to do with you.'

'Ah, and when are you going?' said Mark, with a cynicism that was only
on the surface.

'When!' said Trixie indignantly, 'why, never. Horrid old man! As if I
cared about his money! I told him what I thought about things, and I
think I made him angrier. I hope so, I'm sure.'

'Did he make the same offer to Martha or Cuthbert?' asked Mark; 'and
were they indignant too?'

'They weren't asked. I don't think Uncle Solomon cares about them
much; _you're_ his favourite, Mark.'

'Yes, _I'm_ his favourite,' said Mark; 'but I'm not proud, Trixie.
Besides, I rather think all that is over now.'

Here the door of the next room opened, and Mrs. Ashburn's voice was
heard saying, 'Trixie, tell your brother Mark that, if he is in a
condition to be spoken to, his father and I have something to say to
him at once.'

'Encouraging that,' said Mark. 'Well, Trixie, here goes. You'd better
go to bed. I'm afraid we are going to have a scene in there.'

He went in with a rather overdone cheerfulness. 'Well, mother,' he
began, attempting to kiss her, 'I didn't dine at home to-night
because----'

'I know why you didn't dine at home,' she said. 'I wish for no kisses
from you, Mark. We have seen your uncle.'

'So have I,' said Mark; 'I lunched with him.'

'It is useless to trifle now,' she said; 'we know all.'

'I assure you I _did_ lunch with him; we had chops,' said Mark, who
sometimes found the bland and childlike manner very useful in these
emergencies. It did not serve him then, however.

'How could you deceive your uncle in such a manner?' she resumed.

'I didn't. I _un_deceived him.'

'You have disappointed all his plans for you; thrown up the Bar, your
position at St. Peter's, all your prospects in life--and for what?'

'For fun, of course, mother. I don't know what I'm fit for or what I
want; it's pure idiotic recklessness, isn't it?'

'It is; but don't talk to me in that ribald tone, Mark; I have enough
to bear as it is. Once for all I ask you, Is it true what my brother
tells me, that you have returned to the mire like the sow in the
Scriptures; that you are going to let your name be connected
with--with a novel, after all you have promised?'

'Quite true,' said Mark; 'I hope to be connected with many novels.'

'Mark,' said his mother, 'you know what I think about that. I implore
you to pause while there's time still, before doing what you can never
recall. It's not only from worldly motives that I ask it. Surely you
can sacrifice a contemptible vanity to your duty towards your mother.
I may be wrong in my prejudices, but still I have a right to expect
you to regard them. I ask you once more to withdraw from this. Are you
going to refuse me?'

Mrs. Ashburn's harsh tones carried a very genuine feeling and concern.
She truly believed that the paths of fiction would lead to her son's
spiritual as well as his material ruin, and Mark had sense enough to
recognise the reality of this belief of hers, and drop the levity he
had assumed for defensive purposes.

His father had, as usual, taken no part in the interview; he sat
looking dolefully at the fire, as if anxious to remain neutral as long
as possible; he had long been a mere suzerain, and, like some other
suzerains, felt a very modified resentment at a rebellion against an
authority that was only nominally his own.

So Mark addressed himself to his mother only. 'I'm sorry if it grieves
you, mother,' he said, gently enough; 'but you really must let me go
my own way in this--it is no use at all asking me to withdraw now....
I have gone too far.... Some day you will see that I was not so very
foolish after all. I promise you that. Wouldn't you rather think of me
as living the life I could be happy in--being famous, perhaps, even,
some day--than dragging out my days in a school or slaving at a
profession I can never care for? Of course you would! And a novel
isn't such an awful thing, if you could only bring yourself to think
so. You never will read one, you know, so you can't be a very
impartial judge.'

Mrs. Ashburn read very little of any literature; what she did read
being chiefly the sermons and biographies of Dissenting divines, and
she had never felt any desire to stimulate her imagination by anything
much more exciting, especially by accounts of things that never
happened, and were consequently untruthful. Her extreme horror of
fiction was a form of bigotry now almost extinct, but she had grown up
in it and retained it in all the old Puritan vigour.

She showed no signs of being at all impressed by Mark's remonstrance;
her eyes were severely cold, and her voice measured and loud as she
replied, without looking at him.

'You won't make me change my opinion in the least, Mark, if you were
to talk till daylight. If you set yourself against my wishes in this,
we have quite made up our minds how to act, have we not, Matthew?'

'Yes, quite,' said Mr. Ashburn, uneasily, 'quite; but I hope, Mark,
my boy, I hope you won't cross your mother in this, when you see how
strongly she feels about it. I want to keep my children about me while
I can; I don't wish anyone to go if it can be arranged--if it can be
arranged.'

'Do you mean, mother, that if I don't do as Uncle Solomon and you
wish, I am to go?' asked Mark.

'I do,' said his mother. 'I won't encourage any son of mine against my
conscience and my principles. If you choose to live a life of
frivolity and idleness, you shall not lead it under my roof; so you
know what to expect if you persist in disobeying me--us, I mean.'

'I think I had better go,' said Mark; 'I don't quite see what enormity
I have been guilty of, but if you look at things in that light, there
is no more to be said. I have chosen my life, and I don't mean to go
back from it. I will see about finding lodgings as soon as I can, and
you shall not be troubled with me any longer than I can help.'

'Mark, don't be headstrong--don't let your passion get the better of
you!' cried his mother, moved out of all her stoniness--for she had
not quite expected this, believing that the amount of Mark's salary
and his expenses made him practically dependent on her. She had
forgotten his uncle's cheque, and did not believe in any serious
profits to be gained from literature.

'I'm not in the least angry,' he said; 'I don't wish to go, if you
wish me to stay, but if you meant what you said just now, I have no
choice.'

His mother was much too proud to weaken her authority by retracting.
She still hoped that he would yield if she remained firm, but yielding
was out of the question with Mark then, and, besides, independence had
its charms, though he would not have been the first to loosen the tie.

'Blame your wicked pride and selfishness, Mark, not your mother, who
is only anxious for your good. Go, if you will, but don't dare to
expect a blessing on your disobedience.'

'Do you say go, too, father?' said Mark.

'You hear what your mother says. What else can I say?' he answered
feebly; 'it's very painful to me--all this--but you must take your own
course.'

'I see I must,' said Mark, and left the room.

'You've been very hard with the boy, Jane,' said her husband, when
they were alone, and she had sat for some time with a book open but
unread before her; 'I really do think you've been very hard.'

'Do you want to encourage him against his mother?' she asked.

'No, no, you know I don't, Jane. Anything you think right--but I think
you were hard.'

'If I was, it was for his good,' she said; 'I have done what I thought
right, and we have sat up long enough. We can do no good by talking
over it any more, Matthew. Perhaps Mark will think differently
to-morrow.'

Trixie had been waiting for Mark in the adjoining room into which she
beckoned him as he passed the door. 'How did it end?' she whispered.
'You were very quiet in there; is it settled?'

'Yes, it's settled,' he said, 'I'm to go, Trixie; I shall have to
shift for myself. They won't have me here any longer!'

'Oh, Mark!' cried Trixie. 'Take me with you, do, it will be so horrid
at home with only Martha and Cuthbert. You and I always got on
together; let me come too!'

'I can't,' said Mark, 'not yet--by-and-by, perhaps, Trixie, when I'm a
rich man, you know, we can manage it--just now I shall hardly be able
to keep myself.'

'I'll work hard at my drawing and get into the Academy. I've begun
features already, and I shall soon get into the antique--then we can
be famous together, you know.'

'We shall see,' said Mark; 'and in the meantime, Trixie, I think we
had better both go to bed.'

When he was alone again and had time to think over the day which had
proved so eventful, he could not find it in him to regret what had
happened. He had got rid of Uncle Solomon, he had cast off the wig
and gown which were to him as the garb of slavery, and the petty
restraints of his home life were gone as well; he had no sentimental
feelings about his banishment, the bosom of his family had not been a
very appreciative or sympathetic one, and he had always intended to go
forth from it as soon as he could afford it.

If he had really committed the offence for which he was to be driven
from home, he could have considered himself a most interesting martyr;
he did his best to do so as it was, but not with complete success.
Betraying a dead man's trust is scarcely heroic, and even Mark felt
that dimly, and could not dwell on his ill-treatment as he would
dearly like to have done.

But there was something exciting for him, notwithstanding, in the
future; he was to go out into the world and shift for himself, and
conquer; he would have a part, and it might be a difficult one, to
play for a season; but after that he could resume his own character
and take the place he meant to fill in the world, feeling at last that
the applause he won was his by right.

Vincent Holroyd had been unselfish in life; Mark had always recognised
that trait in his character, though the liking he had for the man had
not been much the stronger on that account--if now Vincent could see
any brief and fleeting fame which his book might gain used as the
stepping-stone to his friend's advancement, surely, Mark told himself,
he would scarcely grudge it.

But he hardly cared to justify to himself what he had done by any
casuistry of this kind; he preferred to shut his eyes resolutely to
the morality of the thing; he might have acted like the basest
scoundrel, very likely he had. Still, no one did, no one need, suspect
him. All he had to do was to make the best use of the advantage he had
snatched; when he could feel that he had done that, then he would feel
justified; meanwhile he must put up with a few natural twinges of
conscience now and then, when he was not feeling well.

The next morning breakfast passed without any reference to the scene
of the night before; Martha and Cuthbert both knew of what had
happened, but kept silence, and if Mrs. Ashburn had any hopes that
Mark would recant, she was disappointed.

That evening he informed them that he had taken rooms, and should not
remain at Malakoff Terrace for more than a few days longer; his
announcement being met by a grim 'Very well, Mark, just as you
please,' from his mother; and though her heart sank at his words, and
her last hope of prevailing died away, she never returned to the
charge in any way, recognising that it was useless.

When the day for his departure came, there were no scenes; even
Trixie, who felt it most, was calm, for, after all, Mark would not be
so very far away, he had said she might come and see him sometimes;
the other two were civil, and cold, there being that curious latent
antipathy between them and him which sometimes exists between members
of a family.

Mr. Ashburn had mumbled his good-byes with a touch of emotion and even
shame in his manner as he shuffled away to his office. 'I don't want
you to feel we've cast you off,' he had said nervously. 'Your mother
says rather more than she exactly feels at times; but it's better for
you to go, my boy, better for all parties concerned. Only, if you find
yourself in--in any difficulties, come back to us, or--that is,' he
amended, 'write, or come to me at the office, that will be better,
perhaps.'

But Mrs. Ashburn's last words were, 'Good-bye, Mark. I never thought
to part with a son of mine in anger; we may never meet again, but you
may live to be sorry for the grief you have caused your mother, when
you stand one day over her grave.'

This would have been more impressive if Mrs. Ashburn had not been so
much addicted to indulging in such doleful predictions on less
adequate occasions that she had discounted much of the effect that
properly belonged to them; even as it was, however, they cut Mark for
the moment; he half offered to embrace his mother, but she made no
response, and after waiting for a while, and finding that she made no
sign, he went out with a slight shrug of expostulation.

When he had left the room, she half rose as if to follow, but stopped
half way irresolute, while the cab which he had engaged to take
himself and his luggage to his new quarters drove off, and then she
went upstairs and shut herself in her bedroom for half-an-hour, and
the maid, who was 'doing the rooms' hard by, reported afterwards to
the cook that she had 'heard missus takin' on awful in there,
a-sobbin', and groanin', and prayin' she was, all together like, it
quite upset her to 'ear it.'

There were no traces of emotion on her face, however, when she came
down again, and only an additional shade of grimness in her voice and
manner to tell of the half-hour's agony in which her mother's heart
had warred against her pride and her principles.




CHAPTER XII.

LAUNCHED.


Mark had now cut himself adrift and established himself in rooms in
one of the small streets about Connaught Square, where he waited for
his schemes to accomplish themselves. He still retained his mastership
at St. Peter's, although he hoped to be able to throw that up as soon
as he could do so with any prudence, and the time that was not
occupied by his school duties he devoted to the perfecting of his
friend's work. It was hardly a labour of love, and he came to it with
an ever-increasing weariness; all the tedious toiling through piles of
proofs and revised proofs, the weeding out of ingenious perversions
which seemed to possess a hydra-like power of multiplication after the
first eradication, began to inspire him with an infinite loathing of
this book which was his and not his own.

It had never interested him; he had never been able to feel the
slightest admiration for any part of it, and at times he ceased to
believe in it altogether, and think that, after all, he had
transgressed to no purpose, and that his own book would have been a
stronger staff to lean upon than this reed he had borrowed. But he had
to go on with it now, and trust to his good-luck for the consequences;
but still there were moments when he trembled at what he had done, and
could not bear to be so constantly reminded of it.

There was a little story in the book which one of the subordinate
characters told to a child, the distressing history of a small sugar
prince on a Twelfth-cake, who believed himself to be a fairy and was
taken tenderly away from a children's party by a little girl who, as
the prince supposed, would restore him somehow to his proper position
in Fairyland; instead of which, however, she took him home to an
ordinary nursery and ate him.

Mark was doubtful of the wisdom of retaining this story in the book at
all--it seemed to him out of place there--but as he had some scruples
about cutting it out, he allowed it to remain, a decision which was
not without after-effect upon his fortunes.

The title of the book underwent one more change, for Mr. Fladgate's
mind misgave him at the last moment as to his own first suggestion,
and it was finally settled that the book should be called 'Illusion,'
which suited Mark quite as well as anything else.

And so in due time Mark read, with a certain curious thrill, the
announcement that 'Illusion,' a romance by Cyril Ernstone, was 'now
ready at all libraries;' he sent no presentation copies, not even to
Trixie--he had thought of doing so, but when it came to the point he
could not.

It was early one Saturday afternoon in March, Mark had walked back by
a long round from the school to his lodgings through the parks, and
the flower-beds were gay with the lilac, yellow and white of crocus
and snowdrop, the smoke-blackened twigs were studded with tiny spikes
of tender green, and the air was warm and subtly aromatic with the
promise of spring--even in the muddy tainted streets the Lent-lilies
and narcissus flowers in the street-sellers' baskets gave touches of
passing sweetness to the breeze.

Mark felt a longing to get further away from the town and enjoy what
remained of the afternoon on higher ground and in purer air; he would
go up to Hampstead, he thought, and see the lights sweeping over the
rusty bracken on the heath, or walk down over Highgate Hill, and past
the quaint old brick houses with their high-trim laurel hedges and
their last century wrought-iron gateways and lamps in which the light
of other days no longer burns.

But he did not go to either place that afternoon, for when he ran up
to his rooms to change his hat and coat, he saw that on his table
which made him forget his purpose altogether. It was a packet inclosed
in a wrapper which bore the name of his publishers on the outside, and
he knew at once before opening it that it contained reviews. He tore
off the wrapper eagerly, for now at last he would learn whether he had
made a bold and successful stroke, or only a frightful mistake.

Beginners have taken up reviews before now, cowering in anticipation
before the curse of Balaam, to receive an unexpected benediction; but
perhaps no one could be quite so unprepared for this pleasant form of
surprise as Mark, for others have written the works that are
criticised, and though they may have worked themselves up into a
surface ferment of doubt and humility, deep down in their hearts there
is a wonderfully calm acceptance, after the first shock, of the most
extravagant eulogy.

The opening paragraphs of the first critique were enough to relieve
Mark's main anxiety; Holroyd's book was not a failure--there could be
no doubt of that--it was treated with respectful consideration as the
work of a man who was entitled to be taken seriously; if reviews had
any influence (and it can scarcely be questioned that a favourable
review has much) this one alone could not fail to bring 'Illusion' its
fair share of attention.

Mark laid down the first paper with a sense of triumph. If a very
ordinary book like poor Holroyd's was received in this way, what
might he not expect when he produced his own!

Then he took up the next. Here the critic was more measured in his
praise. The book he pronounced to be on the whole a good and very
nearly a great one, a fine conception fairly worked out, but there was
too strong a tendency in parts to a certain dreamy mysticism (here
Mark began to regret that he had not been more careful over the
proofs), while the general tone was a little too metaphysical, and the
whole marred by even more serious blemishes.

'The author,' continued the reviewer, 'whose style is for the most
part easy and dignified, with a praiseworthy absence of all inflation
or bombast, seems at times to have been smitten by a fatal desire to
"split the ears of the groundlings" and produce an impression by showy
parades of a not overwhelmingly profound scholarship; and the effect
of these contrasts would be grotesque in the extreme, were it not
absolutely painful in a work of such high average merit. What, for
instance, will be thought of the taste of a writer who could close a
really pathetic scene of estrangement between the lovers by such a
sentence as the following?...'

The sentence which followed was one of those which Mark had felt it
due to himself to interpolate. This was but one example, said the
inexorable critic, there were other instances more flagrant still--and
in all of these the astonished Mark recognised his own improvements!

To say that this was for the moment an exceedingly unpleasant shock to
his self-satisfaction is to state a sufficiently obvious fact; but
Mark's character must have been very imperfectly indicated if it
surprises anyone to hear that it did not take him long to recover from
the blow.

Perhaps he had been wrong in grafting his own strong individuality on
an entirely foreign trunk--he had not been careful enough to harmonise
the two styles--it was merely an odd coincidence that the reviewer,
struck naturally enough by the disparity, should have pitched upon
_him_ as the offender. By-and-by he grew to believe it a positive
compliment that the reviewer (no doubt a dull person) had simply
singled out for disapproval all the passages which were out of his
depth--if there had been nothing remarkable about them, they would not
have been noticed at all.

And so, as it is a remarkable peculiarity in the mind of man, that it
can frequently be set at ease by some self-constructed theory which
would not bear its own examination for a minute--as if a quack were to
treat himself with his own bread-pills and feel better--Mark, having
convinced himself that the reviewer was a crass fool whose praise and
blame were to be read conversely, found the wound to his self-love
begin to heal from that moment.

That same Saturday afternoon Mabel was sitting in the little room at
the back of the house, in which she received her own particular
friends, wrote her letters, and read; just then she was engaged in the
latter occupation, for the books had come in from the library that
day, and she had sat down after luncheon to skim them through before
selecting any which seemed worth more careful reading.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mabel had grown to be fastidious in the matter of fiction, the natural
result of a sense of humour combined with an instinctive appreciation
of style. There had been a time of course, when, released from the
strict censorship of a boarding-school under which all novels on the
very lengthy _index expurgatorius_ had to be read in delicious
stealth, she had devoured eagerly any literature which was in bright
covers and three volumes--but that time was past now.

She could not cry over cheap pathos, or laugh at secondhand humour, or
shudder at sham cynicism any longer--desperate escapes and rescues
moved her not, and she had wearied of beautiful wicked fiends and
effeminate golden-haired guardsmen, who hold a Titanic strength in
reserve as their one practical joke, but the liberty she had enjoyed
had done her no particular harm, even if many mothers might have
thought it their duty to restrict it, which Mrs. Langton was too
languid or had too much confidence in her daughter to think of
attempting.

Mabel had only returned to the works of the great masters of this
century with an appreciation heightened by contrast, and though her
new delight in them did not blind her--as why should it?--to the
lesser lights in whom something may be found to learn or enjoy, she
now had standards by which she could form her opinions of them.

Amongst the books sent in that week was 'Illusion,' a romance by Cyril
Ernstone, and Mabel had looked at its neat grey-green covers and red
lettering with a little curiosity, for somebody had spoken of it to
her the day before, and she took it up with the intention of reading a
chapter or two before going out with her racket into the square, where
the tennis season had already set in on the level corner of the lawn.

But the afternoon wore on, and she remained by the window in a low
wicker chair, indifferent to the spring sunshine outside, to the
attractions of lawn tennis, or the occasional sounds of callers,
reading on with parted lips and an occasional little musical laugh or
involuntary sigh, as Holroyd had once dreamed of seeing his book read
by her.

His strong and self-contained nature had unfolded all its deepest
tenderness and most cherished fancies in that his first book, and the
pages had the interest of a confession. Mabel felt that personal
affection for the unknown writer which to have aroused must be the
crown of crowns to those who love their art.

The faults of style and errors of taste here and there which jarred
upon her were still too rare or too foreign to the general tone of the
book to prejudice her seriously, and she put down the book half
finished, not from weariness but with an unusual desire to economise
the pleasure it gave her.

'I wonder what "Cyril Ernstone" is like,' she thought, half
unconsciously.

Perhaps, by the way, a popular but plain author who finds it
necessary to cultivate society, would discover, if he would go about
veiled or engage a better-looking man to personate him, a speedy
increase in the circulation of his next work, and, if at all sensitive
as to his own shortcomings, he would certainly be spared a
considerable amount of pain, for it is trying for a man who rather
enjoys being idolised to be compelled to act as his own iconoclast.

While Mabel was speculating on the personal appearance of the author
of 'Illusion,' Dolly darted in suddenly. 'Oh, there you are, Mabel,'
she said, 'how lazy of you! Mother thought you were playing tennis,
and some people have called, and she and I had to do all the talking
to them!'

'Come and rest then, Dolly,' said Mabel, putting an arm up and drawing
her down to a low stool by her chair.

'I've got my new sash on,' said Dolly warningly.

'I'll be careful,' said Mabel, 'and I've found a little story in this
book I am going to read to you, Dolly, if you care about it.'

'Not a long story, is it, Mab?' inquired Dolly rather dubiously. But
she finally settled herself comfortably down to listen, with her
bright little face laid against Mabel's side, while she read the
melancholy fate of the sugar fairy prince.

Dolly heard it all out in silence, and with a growing trouble in her
eyes. When it was all over, and the heartless mortal princess had
swallowed the sugar prince, she turned half away and said softly,
'Mabel, that was _me_.'

Mabel laughed. 'What _do_ you mean, Dolly?' she said.

'I thought he was plain sugar,' Dolly protested piteously; 'how was I
to know? I never heard of sugar fairies before. And he did look pretty
at first, but I spilt some tea over him, and the colour got all mixed
up, just as the story says it did, and so I ate him.'

'It's only a story, Dolly, you know; you needn't make yourself unhappy
about it--it isn't true really.'

'But it must be true, it's all put down exactly as it happened.... And
it was me.... I've eaten up a real fairy prince.... Mabel, I'm a
greedy pig. If I hadn't done it, perhaps we could have got him out of
the sugar somehow, and then Colin and I would have had a live fairy to
play with. That's what he expected me to do, and I ate him instead. I
know he was a fairy, Mabel, he tasted so nice.... Poor, poor little
prince!'

Dolly was so evidently distressed that Mabel tried hard to convince
her that the story was about another little girl, the prince was only
a sugar one, and so on; but she did not succeed, until the idea struck
her that a writer whose book seemed to indicate a sympathetic nature
would not object to the trouble of removing the childish fears he had
aroused, and she said: 'Listen, Dolly; suppose you write a letter to
Mr. Ernstone--at his publishers', you know--I'll show you how to
address it, but you must write the rest yourself, and ask him to tell
you if the sugar prince was really a fairy, and then you will know all
about it; but my own belief is, Dolly, that there aren't any
fairies--now, at any rate.'

'If there weren't,' argued Dolly, 'people wouldn't write books about
them. I've seen pictures of them lots of times.'

'And they dance in rows at the pantomime, don't they, Dolly?' said
Mabel.

'Oh, I know _those_ aren't fairies--only thin little girls,' said
Dolly contemptuously. 'I'm not a baby, Mabel, but I _would_ write to
Mr.--what you said just now--only I hate letter-writing so--ink is
such blotty, messy stuff--and I daresay he wouldn't answer after all.'

'Try him, dear,' said Mabel.

Dolly looked obstinate and said nothing just then, and Mabel did not
think it well to refer to the matter again. But the next week, from
certain little affectations of tremendous mystery on Dolly's part, and
the absence of the library copy of 'Illusion' from the morning-room
during one whole afternoon, after which it reappeared in a state of
preternatural inkiness, Mabel had a suspicion that her suggestion was
not so disregarded as it had seemed.

And a few days afterwards Mark found on his breakfast table an
envelope from his publisher, which proved to contain a letter directed
to 'Mr. Ciril Ernstone,' at the office. The letter was written in a
round childish hand, with scrapings here and there to record the fall
of a vanquished blot.

   'Dear Mr. Ciril Ernstone,' it ran, 'I want you to tell me
   how you knew that I ate that sugar prince in your story,
   and if you meant me really. Perhaps you made that part of
   it up, or else it was some other girl, but please write
   and tell me who it was and all about it, because I do so
   hate to think I've eaten up a real fairy without knowing
   it.--DOROTHY MARGARET LANGTON.'

This poor little letter made Mark very angry; if he had written the
story he would, of course, have been amused if not pleased by the
naïve testimony to his power; but, as it was, it annoyed him to a
quite unreasonable extent.

He threw Dolly's note pettishly across the table; 'I wish I had cut
that sugar prince story out; _I_ can't tell the child anything about
it. Langton, too--wonder if it's any relation to my Langton--sister of
his, perhaps--_he_ lives at Notting Hill somewhere. Well, I won't
write; if I do I shall put my foot in it somehow.... It's quite likely
that Vincent knew this child. She can't be seriously unhappy about
such a piece of nonsense, and if she is, it's not _my_ fault.'

Mark had never quite lost the memory of that morning in the fog, his
brief meeting with Mabel, and the untimely parting by the hedge.
Subsequent events had naturally done something to efface the
impression which her charm and grace had made upon him then; but even
yet he saw her face at times as clearly as ever, and suffered once
more the dull pain he had felt when he first knew that she had gone
from him without leaving him the faintest hope of being ever
privileged to know her more intimately or even see her again.

Sometimes, when he dreamed most wildly of the brilliant future that
was to come to him, he saw himself, as the author of several famous
and successful works (amongst which 'Illusion' was entirely obscured),
meeting her once more, and marking his sense of her past ingratitude
by a studied coldness. But this was a possibility that never, even in
his most sanguine moments, was other than remote.

If he had but known it, there had long been close at hand--in the
shape of young Langton--a means which, judiciously managed, might have
brought that part of his dream to pass immediately, and now he had
that which would realise it even more surely and effectually.

But he did not know, and let the appeal lie unanswered that was due to
Mabel's suggestion--'the moral of which,' as Alice's Duchess might
say, is that one should never neglect a child's letter.




CHAPTER XIII.

A 'THORN AND FLOWER PIECE.'


'Illusion' had not been very long published before Mark began to have
uncomfortable anticipations that it might be on the way to achieve an
unexpected success, and he was nearer the truth in this than he
himself believed as yet. It might not become popular in the wider and
coarser sense of the word, being somewhat over the heads of the large
class who read fiction for the 'story;' it might never find its way to
railway bookstalls (though even this, as will appear, befell it in
time,) or be considered a profitable subject for Transatlantic piracy;
but it was already gaining recognition as a book that people of any
culture should, for their own sakes, at least assume to have read and
appreciated.

Mark was hailed by many judges of such things as a new and powerful
thinker, who had chosen to veil his theories under the garb of
romance, and if the theory was dissented from in some quarters, the
power and charm of the book were universally admitted. At dinner
parties, and in all circles where literature is discussed at all,
'Illusion' was becoming a standard topic; friendships were cemented
and intimacies dissolved over it; it became a kind of 'shibboleth.'

At first Mark had little opportunity of realising this to the full
extent, for he went out seldom if at all. There had been a time in his
life--before he had left Cambridge, that is--when he had mixed more in
society; his undergraduate friends had been proud to present to their
family circle a man with his reputation for general brilliancy, and so
his engagements in the vacations had been frequent. But this did not
last; from a feeling that his own domestic surroundings would scarcely
bear out a vaguely magnificent way he had of alluding to his 'place'
and his 'people'--a way which was not so much deliberate imposition as
a habit caught from associates richer and higher up in the social
scale--from this feeling, he never offered to return any of these
hospitalities, and though this was not rigorously expected of him, it
did serve to prevent any one of his numerous acquaintanceships from
ripening into something more. When the crash came, and it was
generally discovered that the reputed brilliant man of his year was a
very ordinary failure, Mark found himself speedily forgotten, and in
the first soreness of disappointment was not sorry to remain in
obscurity for a season.

But now a reaction in his favour was setting in; his publishers were
already talking of a second edition of 'Illusion,' and he received,
under his name of 'Cyril Ernstone,' countless letters of
congratulation and kindly criticism, all so pleasantly and cordially
worded, that each successive note made him angrier, the only one that
consoled him at all being a communication in a female hand which
abused the book and its writer in the most unmeasured terms. For his
correspondent's estimate of the work was the one which he had a secret
wish to see more prevalent (so long, of course, as it did not
interfere with the success of his scheme), and he could almost have
written to thank her--had she not, by some unfortunate oversight,
forgotten to append her name and address.

The next stage in the career of the book was a discovery on someone's
part that the name of its author was an assumed one, and although
there are many who would as little think of looking for the name of
the man who wrote the play they see or the book they read as they
would for that of the locomotive behind which they travel, there are
still circles for whom the first two matters at least possess an
interest.

And so several set out to run the actual author to earth, well assured
that, as is fabled of the fox, he himself would enjoy the sport as
much as his pursuers; and it is the fact that Mark might have given
them a much longer run had he been anxious to do so, but, though he
regretted it afterwards, the fruits of popularity were too desirable
to be foregone.

There were some false cries at first. A 'London correspondent' knew
for a fact that the book was written by an old lady at a lunatic
asylum in her lucid intervals; while a ladies' journal had heard that
the author was a common carpenter and entirely self-educated; and
there were other similar discoveries. But before they had time to
circulate widely, it became somehow common knowledge that the author
was a young schoolmaster, and that his real name was Mark Ashburn.

And Mark at once began to reap the benefit. His old friends sought him
out once more; men who had passed him in the streets with a careless
nod that was almost as bad as a cut direct, or without even the
smallest acknowledgment that a time had been when they were
inseparables, now found time to stop him and ask if the rumours of his
_début_ in literature were really true.

By-and-by cards began to line his mantelpiece as in the old days; he
went out once more, and met everywhere the kindness and courtesy that
the world of London, whatever may be said against it, is never chary
of showing towards the most insignificant person who has once had the
good fortune to arouse its interest.

Mark liked it all at first, but as he saw the book growing more and
more in favour, and the honours paid to himself increasing, he began
to be uneasy at his own success.

He would not have objected to the book's securing a moderate degree of
attention, so as to prepare the public mind for the blaze of intellect
he had in reserve for it--that he had expected, or at least hoped
for--but the mischief of this ridiculous enthusiasm which everyone he
met seemed to be affecting over this book of Holroyd's was that it
made an anticlimax only too possible when his own should see the
light.

Mark heard compliments and thanks with much the annoyance a practised
_raconteur_ must feel with the feeble listener who laughs heartily,
while the point of the story he is being told is still in perspective.

And soon he wished heartily that the halo he felt was burning round
his undeserving head could be moderated or put out, like a lamp--it
was such an inconvenience. He could never escape from Holroyd's book;
people _would_ talk to him about it.

Sooner or later, while talking to the most charming persons, just when
he was feeling himself conversationally at his very best, he would see
the symptoms he dreaded warning him that the one fatal topic was about
to be introduced, which seemed to have the effect of paralysing his
brain. He would struggle hard against it, making frantic efforts to
turn the subject, and doubling with infinite dexterity; but generally
his interlocutor was not to be put off, 'running cunning,' as it were,
like a greyhound dead to sporting instincts, and fixing him at once
with a 'Now, Mr. Ashburn, you really must allow me to express to you
some of the pleasure and instruction I have received from your book,'
and so on; and then Mark found himself forced to listen with ghastly
smiles of sham gratification to the praises of his rival, as he now
felt Holroyd was after all becoming, and had to discuss with the air
of a creator this book which he had never cared to understand, and
soon came cordially to detest.

If he had been the real author, all this would of course have been
delightful to him; it was all so kind and so evidently sincere for the
most part, that only a very priggish or cynical person could have
affected to undervalue it, and any other, even if he felt it
overstrained now and then, would have enjoyed it frankly while it
lasted, remembering that, in the nature of things, it could not last
very long.

But unfortunately, Mark had not written 'Illusion,' which made all the
difference. No author could have shrunk more sensitively in his inmost
soul than he did from the praise of his fellow-men, and his modesty
would have been more generally remarked had he not been wise enough to
perceive that modesty, in a man, is a virtue with a dangerous streak
of the ridiculous about it.

And so he braced himself to go through with it and play out his part.
It would not be for long; soon he would have his own book to be
complimented upon and to explain. Meanwhile he worked hard at
'Illusion,' until he came to have a considerable surface acquaintance
with it; he knew the names of all the more important characters in it
now, and hardly ever mixed them up; he worked out most of the
allusions, and made a careful analysis of the plot and pedigrees of
some of the families. It was much harder work than reading law, and
quite as distasteful; but then it had to be done if he meant to
preserve appearances at all.

His fame had penetrated to St. Peter's, where his fellow-masters
treated him with an unaccustomed deference, only partially veiled by
mild _badinage_ on the part of the younger men; while even the boys
were vaguely aware that he had distinguished himself in the outer
world, and Mark found his authority much easier to maintain.

'How's that young rascal--what's his name? Langton?--the little scamp
who said he called me "Prawn," but not "Shellfish," the impident
fellow! How's _he_ getting on, hey?' said Mr. Shelford to Mark one day
about this time.

Mark replied that the boy had left his form now, but that he heard he
was doing well, and had begun to acquire the graceful art of
verse-making. 'Verse-making? ay, ay; is he indeed? You know, Ashburn,
I often think it's a good thing there are none of the old Romans alive
now. They weren't a yumorous nation, taken as a whole; but I fancy
some of our prize Latin verses would set the stiffest of 'em
sniggering. And we laugh at "Baboo English," as they call it! But you
tell Langton from me, when you see him, that if he likes to try his
hand at a set of elegiacs on a poor old cat of mine that died the
other day, I'll look 'em over if he brings them to me after school
some day, and if they're what I consider worthy of the deceased's many
virtues, I'll find some way of rewarding him. She was a black Persian
and her name was "Jinks," but he'll find it Latinise well as "Jinxia,"
tell him. And now I think of it,' he added, 'I never congratulated you
on the effort of _your_ muse. It's not often I read these things now,
but I took your book up, and--maybe I'm too candid in telling you
so--but it fairly surprised me. I'd no idea you had it in you.'

Mark found it difficult to hit the right expression of countenance at
such a compliment, but he did it. 'There are some very fine things in
that book, sir,' continued Mr. Shelford, 'some very noble words;
remarkable for so young a man as you must be. You have lived, Ashburn,
it's easy to see that!'

'Oh, well,' said Mark, 'I--I've knocked about, you know.'

'Ah, and you've knocked something into you, too, which is more to the
purpose. I'd like to know now when you found time to construct your
theories of life and conduct.'

Mark began to find this embarrassing; he said he had hit upon them at
odd times ('_very_ odd times,' he could not help remembering), and
shifted his ground a little uneasily, but he was held fast by the
buttonhole. 'They're remarkably sound and striking, I must say that,
and your story is interesting, too. I found myself looking at the
end, sir, ha, ha! to see what became of your characters. Ah, I _knew_
there was something I wanted to ask you. There's a heading you've got
for one of your chapters, a quotation from some Latin author, which I
can't place to my satisfaction; I mean that one beginning "_Non terret
principes_."'

'Oh, _that_ one?' repeated Mark blankly.

'Yes, it reads to me like later Latin; where did you take it from? One
of the Fathers?'

'One of them, I forget which,' said Mark quickly, wishing he had cut
the quotations out.

'That _ægritudo_, now, "ægritudo superveniens," you know--how do you
understand that?'

Mark had never troubled himself to understand it at all, so he stared
at his interrogator in rather a lost way.

'I mean, do you take it as of the mind or body (that's what made me
fancy it must be later Latin). And then there's the _correxit_?'

Mark admitted that there was the 'correxit.' 'It's mind,' he said
quickly. 'Oh, decidedly the mind, _not_ body, and--er--I think that's
my 'bus passing. I'll say good-bye;' and he escaped with a weary
conviction that he must devote yet more study to the detested
'Illusion.'

This is only a sample of the petty vexations to which he had exposed
himself. He had taken over a business which he did not understand, and
naturally found the technicalities troublesome, for though, as has
been seen, his own tendencies were literary, he had not soared so high
as a philosophical romance, while his scholarship, more brilliant than
profound, was not always equal to the 'unseen passages' from
out-of-the-way authors with which Holroyd had embellished his
chapters.

But a little more care made him feel easier on this score, and then
there were many compensations; for one unexpected piece of good
fortune, which will be recorded presently, he had mainly to thank his
friend's book.

He had met an old acquaintance of his, a certain young Herbert
Featherstone, who had on any previous chance encounter seemed
affected by a kind of trance, during which his eyes lost all power of
vision, but was now completely recovered, so much so indeed as to
greet Mark with a quite unexpected warmth.

Was it true that he had written this new book? What was its
name--'Delusion' or something? Fellows were saying he had; hadn't read
it himself; his mother and sister had; said it was a devilish good
book, too. Where was he hanging out now, and what was he doing on the
10th? Could he come to a little dance his people had that night? Very
well, then, he should have a card.

Mark was slightly inclined to let the other understand that he knew
the worth of this resuscitated friendliness, but he refrained. He knew
of the Featherstones as wealthy people, with the reputation of giving
the pleasantest entertainments in London. He had his way to make in
the world, and could not afford, he thought, to neglect these
opportunities. So he went to the dance and, as he happened to dance
well, enjoyed himself, in spite of the fact that two of his partners
had read 'Illusion,' and knew him as the author of it. They were both
pretty and charming girls, but Mark did not enjoy either of those
particular valses. In the course of the evening he had a brief
conversation with his hostess, and was fortunate enough to produce a
favourable impression. Mrs. Featherstone was literary herself, as a
reputedly strong-minded lady who had once written two particularly
weak-minded novels would necessarily be. She liked to have a few
rising young literary men in her train, with whom she might discuss
subjects loftier than ordinary society cares to grasp; but she was
careful at the same time that her daughter should not share too
frequently in these intellectual privileges, for Gilda Featherstone
was very handsome, and literary men are as impressionable as other
people.

Mark called one Saturday afternoon at the Featherstones' house in
Grosvenor Place, as he had been expressly invited to do on the
occasion of the dance, and found Mrs. Featherstone at home. It was not
her regular day, and she received him alone, though Mark heard voices
and laughter now and then from behind the hangings which concealed
the end room of the long suite.

'And now let us talk about your delightful "Illusion," Mr. Ernstone,'
she said graciously. 'Do you know, I felt when I read your book that
some of my innermost thoughts, my highest aspirations, had been put
into words--and _such_ words--for me! It was soul speaking to soul,
and you get that in so few novels, you know! What a rapture literary
creation is! Don't you feel that? I am sure, even in my own poor
little way--you must know that _I_ have scribbled once upon a
time--even in my own experience, I know what a state of excitement I
got into over my own stories. One's characters get to be actual living
companions to one; they act by themselves, and all one has to do is
just to sit by and look on, and describe.'

This seemed to Mark to prove a vividness of imagination on Mrs.
Featherstone's part to which her literary productions had not, so far
as he knew, done full credit. But he was equal to the occasion.

'Your characters, Mrs. Featherstone, are companions to many more than
their creator. I must confess that I, for one, fell hopelessly in love
with your Gwendoline Vane, in "Mammon and Moonshine."' Mark had once
read a slashing review of a flabby little novel with a wooden heroine
of that name, and turned it to good account now, after his fashion.

'Now, how nice of you to say that,' she said, highly pleased. 'I am
very fond of Gwendoline myself--my ideal, you know. I won't quote that
about "praise from Sir Hubert," because it's so very trite, but I feel
it. But do you _really_ like Gwendoline better than my Magdalen
Harwood, in "Strawberries and Cream."'

Here Mark got into deep water once more; but he was no mean
conversational swimmer, and reached dry land without any unseemly
floundering.

'It has been suggested to me, do you know,' she said when her own
works had been at last disposed of, 'that your "Illusion" would make
such an admirable play; the central motive really so dramatic. Of
course one would have to leave the philosophy out, and all the
beautiful reflections, but the story would be left. Have you ever
thought of dramatising it yourself, Mr. Ashburn?'

Mark had not. 'Ah, well,' she said, 'if ever I have time again to give
to literature, I shall ask your permission to let me see what _I_ can
do with it. I have written some little charades for drawing-room
theatricals, you know, so I am not _quite_ without experience.'

Mark, wondering inwardly how Holroyd would relish this proposal if he
were alive, said that he was sure the story would gain by her
treatment; and presently she proposed that they should go to the
further room and see 'how the young people were getting on,' which
Mark received with an immense relief, and followed her through the
_portière_ to the inner room, in which, as will be seen, an unexpected
stroke of good fortune was to befall him.

They found the young people, with a married sister of Mrs.
Featherstone, sitting round a small table on which was a heap of
_cartes-de-visite_, as they used to be called for no very obvious
reason.

Gilda Featherstone, a lively brunette, with the manner of a young lady
accustomed to her own way, looked up from the table to welcome Mark.
'You've caught us all at a very frivolous game, Mr. Ashburn. I hope
you won't be shocked. We've all had our feelings outraged at least
once, so we're going to stop now, while we're still on speaking
terms.'

'But what is it?' said Mrs. Featherstone. 'It isn't cards, Gilda
dearest, is it?'

'No, mother, not quite; very nearly though. Mr. Caffyn showed it us;
_he_ calls it "photo-nap."'

'Let me explain, Mrs. Featherstone,' said Caffyn, who liked to drop in
at Grosvenor Place occasionally, where he was on terms of some
intimacy. 'I don't know if you're acquainted with the game of "nap"?'
Mrs. Featherstone shook her head, not too amiably, for she had been
growing alarmed of late by a habit her daughter had acquired of
mentioning or quoting this versatile young man whom her husband
persisted so blindly in encouraging. 'Ah!' said Caffyn, unabashed.
'Well, anyway, this is modelled on it. We take out a selection of
photographs, the oldest preferred, shuffle them, and deal round five
photographs to each player, and the ugliest card in each round takes
the trick.'

'I call it a most ill-natured game,' said the aunt, who had seen an
old and unrecognised portrait of herself and the likenesses of several
of her husband's family (a plain one) voted the master-cards.

'Oh, so much _must_ be said for it,' said Caffyn; 'it isn't a game to
be played everywhere, of course; but it gives great scope for the
emotions. Think of the pleasure of gaining a trick with the portrait
of your dearest friend, and then it's such a capital way of
ascertaining your own and others' precise positions in the beauty
scale, and all the plain people acquire quite a new value as
picture-cards.'

He had played his own very cautiously, having found his amusement in
watching the various revelations of pique and vanity amongst the
others, and so could speak with security.

'My brothers _all_ took tricks,' said one young lady, who had
inherited her mother's delicate beauty, while the rest of the family
resembled a singularly unhandsome father--which enabled her to speak
without very deep resentment.

'So did poor dear papa,' said Gilda, 'but that was the one taken in
fancy dress, and he _would_ go as _Dante_.'

'Nothing could stand against Gurgoyle,' observed Caffyn. 'He was a
sure ace every time. He'll be glad to know he was such a success. You
must tell him, Miss Featherstone.'

'Now I won't have poor Mr. Gurgoyle made fun of,' said Mrs.
Featherstone, but with a considerable return of amiability. 'People
always tell me that with all his plainness he's the most amusing young
man in town, though I confess I never could see any signs of it
myself.'

The fact was that an unlucky epigram by the Mr. Gurgoyle in question
at Mrs. Featherstone's expense, which of course had found its way to
her, had produced a coolness on her part, as Caffyn was perfectly well
aware.

'"_Ars est celare artem_," as Mr. Bancroft remarks at the Haymarket,'
he said lightly. 'Gurgoyle is one of those people who is always put
down as witty till he has the indiscretion to try. _Then_ they put him
down some other way.'

'But why is he considered witty then, if he isn't?' asked Gilda
Featherstone.

'I don't know. I suppose because we like to think Nature makes these
compensations sometimes, but Gurgoyle must have put her out of temper
at the very beginning. She's done nothing in that way for _him_.'

Mrs. Featherstone, although aware that the verdict on the absent
Gurgoyle was far from being a just one, was not altogether above being
pleased by it, and showed it by a manner many degrees more thawed than
that she had originally prescribed to herself in dealing with this
very ineligible young actor.

'Mr. Ashburn,' said Miss Featherstone, after one or two glances in the
direction of Caffyn, who was absorbed in following up the advantage he
had gained with her mother, 'will you come and help me to put these
photos back? There are lots of Bertie's Cambridge friends here, and
you can tell me who those I don't know are.'

So Mark followed her to a side table, and then came the stroke of good
fortune which has been spoken of; for, as he was replacing the
likenesses in the albums in the order they were given to him, he was
given one at the sight of which he could not avoid a slight start. It
was a _vignette_, very delicately and artistically executed, of a
girl's head, and as he looked, hardly daring to believe in such a
coincidence, he was almost certain that the pure brow, with the
tendrils of soft hair curling above it, the deep clear eyes, and the
mouth which for all its sweetness had the possibility of disdain in
its curves, were those of no other than the girl he had met months
ago, and had almost resigned himself never to meet again.

His voice trembled a little with excitement as he said 'May I ask the
name of this lady?'

'That is Mabel Langton. _I_ think she's perfectly lovely; don't you?
She was to have been at our dance the other night, and then you would
have seen her. But she couldn't come at the last moment.'

'I think I have met Miss Langton,' said Mark, beginning to see now all
that he had gained by learning this simple surname. 'Hasn't she a
little sister called Dorothy?'

'Dolly? Oh yes. Sweetly pretty child--terribly spoilt. I think she
will put dear Mabel quite in the shade by the time she comes out; her
features are so much more regular. Yes; I see you know _our_ Mabel
Langton. And now, _do_ tell me, Mr. Ashburn, because of course you can
read people's characters so clearly, you know, what do _you_ think of
Mabel, really and truly?'

Miss Featherstone was fond of getting her views on the characters of
her friends revised and corrected for her by competent male opinion,
but it was sometimes embarrassing to be appealed to in this way, while
only a very unsophisticated person would permit himself to be entirely
candid, either in praise or detraction.

'Well, really,' said Mark, 'you see, I have only met her once in my
life.'

'Oh, but that must be quite enough for _you_, Mr. Ashburn! And Mabel
Langton is always such a puzzle to me. I never can quite make up my
mind if she is really as sweet as she seems. Sometimes I fancy I have
noticed--and yet I can't be sure--I've heard people say that she's
just the least bit, not exactly conceited, perhaps, but too inclined
to trust her own opinion about things and snub people who won't agree
with her. But she isn't, is she? I always say that is _quite_ a wrong
idea about her. Still perhaps---- Oh, wouldn't you like to know Mr.
Caffyn? He is very clever and amusing, you know, and has just gone on
the stage, but he's not as good there as we all thought he would be.
He's coming this way now.' Here Caffyn strolled leisurely towards
them, and the introduction was made. 'Of course you have heard of Mr.
Ashburn's great book, "Illusion"?' Gilda Featherstone said, as she
mentioned Mark's name.

'Heard of nothing else lately,' said Caffyn. 'After which I am ashamed
to have to own I haven't read it, but it's the disgraceful truth.'

Mark felt the danger of being betrayed by a speech like this into
saying something too hideously fatuous, over the memory of which he
would grow hot with shame in the night-watches, so he contented
himself with an indulgent smile, perhaps, in default of some
impossible combination of wit and modesty, his best available
resource.

Besides, the new acquaintance made him strangely uneasy; he felt
warned to avoid him by one of those odd instincts which (although we
scarcely ever obey them) are surely given us for our protection; he
could not meet the cold light eyes which seemed to search him through
and through.

'Mr. Ashburn and I were just discussing somebody's character,' said
Miss Featherstone, by way of ending an awkward pause.

'Poor somebody!' drawled Caffyn, with an easy impertinence which he
had induced many girls, and Gilda amongst them, to tolerate, if not
admire.

'You need not pity her,' said Gilda, indignantly; 'we were _defending_
her.'

'Ah!' said Caffyn, 'from one another.'

'No, we were not; and if you are going to be cynical, and satirical,
and all that, you can go away. Well, sit down, then, and behave
yourself. What, must you go, Mr. Ashburn? Good-bye, then. Mr. Caffyn,
I want you to tell me what you _really_ think about----'

Mark heard no more than this; he was glad to escape, to get away from
Caffyn's scrutiny. 'He looked as if he knew I was a humbug!' he
thought afterwards; and also to think at his leisure over this new
discovery, and all it meant for him.

He knew her name now; he saw a prospect of meeting her at some time
or other in the house he had just left; but perhaps he might not even
have to wait for that.

This little girl, whose childish letter he had tossed aside a few days
since in his blindness, who else could she be but the owner of the dog
after which he had clambered up the railway slope? And he had actually
been about to neglect her appeal!

Well, he would write now. Who could say what might not come of it? At
all events, _she_ would read his letter.

That letter gave Mark an infinite deal of trouble. After attentively
reading the little story to which it referred, he sat down to write,
and tore up sheet after sheet in disgust, for he had never given much
study to the childish understanding, with its unexpected deeps and
shallows, and found the task of writing down to it go much against the
grain. But the desire of satisfying a more fastidious critic than
Dolly gave him at last a kind of inspiration, and the letter he did
send, with some misgiving, could hardly have been better written for
the particular purpose.

He was pleasantly reassured as to this a day or two later by another
little note from Dolly, asking him to come to tea at Kensington Park
Gardens on any afternoon except Monday or Thursday, and adding
(evidently by external suggestion) that her mother and sister would be
pleased to make his acquaintance.

Mark read this with a thrill of eager joy. What he had longed for had
come to pass, then; he was to see her, speak with her, once more. At
least he was indebted to 'Illusion' for this result, which a few
months since seemed of all things the most unlikely. This time,
perhaps, she would not leave him without a word or sign, as when last
they met; he might be allowed to come again; even in time to know her
intimately.

And he welcomed this piece of good fortune as a happy omen for the
future.




CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE SPRING.


Mark lost no time in obeying Dolly's summons, and it was with an
exhilaration a little tempered by a nervousness to which he was not
usually subject that he leaped into the dipping and lurching hansom
that was to carry him to Kensington Park Gardens.

As Mark drove through the Park across the Serpentine, and saw the
black branches of the trees looking as if they had all been sprinkled
with a feathery green powder, and noticed the new delicacy in the
bright-hued grass, he hailed these signs as fresh confirmation of the
approach of summer--a summer that might prove a golden one for him.

But as he drew nearer Notting Hill, his spirits sank again. What if
this opportunity were to collapse as hopelessly as the first? Mabel
would of course have forgotten him--would she let him drop
indifferently as before? He felt far from hopeful as he rang the bell.

He asked for Miss Dorothy Langton, giving his name as 'Mr. Ernstone,'
and was shown into a little room filled with the pretty contrivances
which the modern young lady collects around her. He found Dolly there
alone, in a very stately and self-possessed mood.

'You can bring up tea here, Champion,' she said, 'and some
tea-cake--_you_ like tea-cake of course,' she said to Mark, with
something of afterthought. 'Mother and Mabel are out, calling or
something,' she added, 'so we shall be quite alone. And now sit down
there in that chair and tell me everything you know about fairies.'

Mark's heart sank--this was not at all what he had hoped for; but
Dolly had thrown herself back in her own chair, with such evident
expectation, and a persuasion that she had got hold of an authority on
fairy-lore, that he did not dare to expostulate--although in truth
his acquaintance with the subject was decidedly limited.

'You can begin now,' said Dolly calmly, as Mark stared blankly into
his hat.

'Well,' he said, 'what do you want to know about them?'

'_All_ about them,' said Dolly, with the air of a little person
accustomed to instant obedience; Mark's letter had not quite dispelled
her doubts, and she wanted to be quite certain that such cases as that
of the sugar prince were by no means common.

'Well,' said Mark again, clearing his throat, 'they dance round in
rings, you know, and live inside flowers, and play tricks with
people--that is,' he added, with a sort of idea that he must not
encourage superstition, 'they did once--of course there are no such
things now.'

'Then how was it that that little girl you knew--who was not me--ate
one up?'

'He was the last one,' said Mark.

'But how did he get turned into sugar? Had he done anything wrong?'

'That's how it was.'

'What was it--he hadn't told a story, had he?'

'It's exactly what he _had_ done,' said Mark, accepting this solution
gratefully; 'an _awful_ story!'

'What was the story?' Dolly demanded at this, and Mark floundered on,
beginning to consider Dolly, for all her pretty looks and ways, a
decided little nuisance.

'He--he said the Queen of the Fairies squinted,' he stammered in his
extremity.

'Then it was she who turned him into sugar?'

'Of course it was,' said Mark.

'But you said he was the last fairy left!' persisted the terrible
Dolly.

'Did I?' said Mark miserably; 'I mean the last but one--she was the
_other_.'

'Then who was there to tell the story to?' Dolly cross-examined, and
Mark quailed, feeling that any more explanation would probably land
him in worse difficulties.

'I don't think you know very much about it, after all,' she said with
severity. 'I suppose you put all you knew into the story. But you're
quite sure there was no fairy inside the figure _I_ ate, aren't you?'

'Oh yes,' said Mark, 'I--I happen to know that.'

'_That's_ all right, then,' said Dolly, with a little sigh of relief.
'Was that the only fairy story you know?'

'Yes,' Mark hastened to explain, in deadly fear lest he might be
called upon for another.

'Oh,' said Dolly, 'then we'd better have tea'--for the door had
opened.

'It's not Champion after all,' she cried; 'it's Mabel. I never heard
you come back, Mabel.'

And Mark turned to realise his dearest hopes and find himself face to
face once more with Mabel.

She came in, looking even lovelier, he thought, in her fresh spring
toilette than in the winter furs she had worn when he had seen her
last, bent down to kiss Dolly, and then glanced at him with the light
of recognition coming into her grey eyes.

'This is Mr. Ernstone, Mab,' said Dolly.

The pink in Mabel's cheeks deepened slightly; the author of the book
which had stirred her so unusually was the young man who had not
thought it worth his while to see any more of them. Probably had he
known who had written to him, he would not have been there now, and
this gave a certain distance to her manner as she spoke.

'We have met before, Mr. Ernstone,' she said, giving him her ungloved
hand. 'Very likely you have forgotten when and how, but I am sure
Dolly had not, had you, Dolly?'

But Dolly had, having been too much engrossed with her dog on the day
of the breakdown to notice appearances, even of his preserver, very
particularly. '_When_ did I see him before, Mabel?' she whispered.

'Oh, Dolly, ungrateful child! don't you remember who brought Frisk out
of the train for you that day in the fog?' But Dolly hung her head and
drooped her long lashes, twining her fingers with one of those sudden
attacks of awkwardness that sometimes seize the most self-possessed
children. 'You never thanked him then, you know,' continued Mabel;
'aren't you going to say a word to him now?'

'Thank you very much for saving my dog,' murmured Dolly, very quickly
and without looking at him; when Mabel, seeing that she was not at her
ease, suggested that she should run and fetch Frisk to return thanks
in person, which Dolly accepted gladly as permission to escape.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mark had risen, of course, at Mabel's entrance, and was standing at
one corner of the curtained mantelpiece; Mabel was at the other,
absently smoothing the fringe with delicate curves of her hand and
with her eyes bent on the rug at her feet. Both were silent for a few
moments. Mark had felt the coldness in her manner. 'She remembers how
shabbily she treated me,' he thought, 'and she's too proud to show
it.'

'You must forgive Dolly,' said Mabel at last, thinking that if Mark
meant to be stiff and disagreeable, there was no need at least for the
interview to be made ridiculous. 'Children have short memories--for
faces only, I hope, not kindnesses. But if you had cared to be thanked
we should have seen you before.'

'Rather cool that,' Mark thought. 'I am only surprised,' he said,
'that _you_ should remember it; you gave me more thanks than I
deserved at the time. Still, as I had no opportunity of learning your
name or where you lived--if you recollect we parted very suddenly, and
you gave me no permission----'

'But I sent a line to you by the guard,' she said; 'I gave you our
address and asked you to call and see my mother, and let Dolly thank
you properly.'

She was not proud and ungracious after all, then. He felt a great joy
at the thought, and shame, too, for having so misjudged her. 'If I had
ever received it,' he said, 'I hope you will believe that you would
have seen me before this; but I asked for news of you from that burly
old impostor of a guard, and he--he gave me no intelligible message'
(Mark remembered suddenly the official's extempore effort), 'and
certainly nothing in writing.'

Mark's words were evidently sincere, and as she heard them, the
coldness and constraint died out of Mabel's face, the slight
misunderstanding between them was over.

'After all, you are here, in spite of guards,' she said, with a gay
little laugh. 'And now we have even more to be grateful to you for.'
And then, simply and frankly, she told him of the pleasure 'Illusion'
had given her, while, at her gracious words, Mark felt almost for the
first time the full meanness of his fraud, and wished, as he had
certainly never wished before, that he had indeed written the book.

But this only made him shrink from the subject; he acknowledged what
she said in a few formal words, and attempted to turn the
conversation, more abruptly than he had done for some time on such
occasions. Mabel was of opinion, and with perfect justice, that even
genius itself would scarcely be warranted in treating her approval in
this summary fashion, and felt slightly inclined to resent it, even
while excusing it to herself as the unintentional _gaucherie_ of an
over-modest man.

'I ought to have remembered perhaps,' she said, with a touch of pique
in her voice, 'that you must long ago have tired of hearing such
things.'

He had indeed, but he saw that his brusqueness had annoyed her, and
hastened to explain. 'You must not think that is so,' he said, very
earnestly; 'only, there is praise one cannot trust oneself to listen
to long----'

'And it really makes you uncomfortable to be talked to about
"Illusion"?' said Mabel.

'I will be quite frank, Miss Langton,' said Mark (and he really felt
that he must for his own peace of mind convince her of this);
'_really_ it does. Because, you see, I feel all the time--I hope, that
is--that I can do much better work in the future.'

'And we have all been admiring in the wrong place? I see,' said Mabel,
with apparent innocence, but a rather dangerous gleam in her eyes.

'Oh, I know it sounds conceited,' said Mark, 'but the real truth is,
that when I hear such kind things said about a work which--which gave
me so very little trouble to produce, it makes me a little
uncomfortable sometimes, because (you know how perversely things
happen sometimes), because I can't help a sort of fear that my next
book, to which I really am giving serious labour, may be utterly
unnoticed, or--or worse!'

There was no possibility of mistaking this for mock-modesty, and
though Mabel thought such sensitiveness rather overstrained, she liked
him for it notwithstanding.

'I think you need not fear that,' she said; 'but you shall not be made
uncomfortable any more. And you are writing another book? May I ask
you about that, or is that another indiscretion?'

Mark was only too delighted to be able to talk about a book which he
really _had_ written; it was at least a change; and he plunged into
the subject with much zest. 'It deals with things and men,' he
concluded, 'on rather a larger scale than "Illusion" has done. I have
tried to keep it clear of all commonplace characters.'

'But then it will not be quite so lifelike, will it?' suggested Mabel;
'and in "Illusion" you made even commonplace characters interesting.'

'That is very well,' he said, a little impatiently, 'for a book which
does not aim at the first rank. It is easy enough to register exactly
what happens around one. Anybody who keeps a diary can do that. The
highest fiction should idealise.'

'I'm afraid I prefer the other fiction, then,' said Mabel. 'I like to
sympathise with the characters, and you can't sympathise with an ideal
hero and heroine. I hope you will let your heroine have one or two
little weaknesses, Mr. Ernstone.'

'Now you are laughing at me,' said Mark, more humbly. 'I must leave
you to judge between the two books, and if I can only win your
approval, Miss Langton, I shall prize it more than I dare to say.'

'If it is at all like "Illusion----" Oh, I forgot,' Mabel broke off
suddenly. 'That is forbidden ground, isn't it? And now, will you come
into the drawing-room and be introduced to my mother? We shall find
some tea there.'

Mrs. Langton was a little sleepy after a long afternoon of
card-leaving and call-paying, but she was sufficiently awake to be
gracious when she had quite understood who Mark was.

'So very kind of you to write to my little daughter about such
nonsense,' she said. 'Of course I don't mean that the story itself was
anything of the kind, but little girls have such silly fancies--at
least mine seem to have. _You_, were just the same at Dolly's age,
Mabel.... Now _I_ never recollect worrying myself about such ideas....
I'm sure I don't know how they get it. But I hear it is such a
wonderful book you have written, Mr. Ernstone. I've not read it yet.
My wretched health, you know. But really, when I think how clever you
must be, I feel quite afraid to talk to you. I always consider it must
require so _much_ cleverness and--and perseverance--you know, to write
_any_ book.'

'Oh, Mabel, only think,' cried Dolly, now quite herself again, from
one of the window-seats, 'Frisk has run away again, and been out ever
since yesterday morning. I forgot that just now. So Mr. Ernstone can't
see him after all!'

And Mabel explained to her mother that they had recognised in the
author of 'Illusion' the unknown rescuer of Dolly's dog.

'You mustn't risk such a valuable life as yours is now any more,' said
Mrs. Langton, after purring out thanks which were hazily expressed,
owing to an imperfect recollection of the circumstances. 'You must be
more selfish after this, for other people's sakes.'

'I'm afraid such consideration would not be quite understood,' said
Mark, laughing.

'Oh, you must expect to be misunderstood, else there would be no merit
in it, would there?' said Mrs. Langton, not too lucidly. 'Dolly, my
pet, there's something scratching outside the door. Run and see what
it is.'

Mark rose and opened the door, and presently a ridiculous little
draggled object, as black as a cinder, its long hair caked and clotted
with dried mud, shuffled into the room with the evident intention of
sneaking into a warm corner without attracting public notice--an
intention promptly foiled by the indignant Dolly.

'O-oh!' she cried; 'it's Frisk. Look at him, everybody--_do_ look at
him.'

The unhappy animal backed into the corner by the door with his eyes on
Dolly's, and made a conscience-stricken attempt to sit up and wave one
paw in deprecation, doubtless prepared with a plausible explanation of
his singular appearance, which much resembled that of 'Mr. Dolls'
returning to Jenny Wren after a long course of 'three-penn'orths.'

'Aren't you ashamed of yourself?' demanded Dolly. '(Don't laugh, Mr.
Ernstone, _please_--it encourages him so.) Oh, I believe you're the
very worst dog in Notting Hill.'

The possessor of that bad eminence sat and shivered, as if engaged in
a rough calculation of his chances of a whipping; but Dolly governed
him on these occasions chiefly by the moral sanction--an immunity he
owed to his condition.

'And this,' said Dolly, scathingly, 'this is the dog you saved from
the train, Mr. Ernstone! There's gratitude! The next time he shall be
left to be killed--he's not worth saving!'

Either the announcement or the suspense, according as one's estimate
of his intellectual powers may vary, made the culprit snuffle
dolefully, and after Dolly had made a few further uncomplimentary
observations on the general vileness of his conduct and the extreme
uncleanliness of his person, which he heard abjectly, he was dismissed
with his tail well under him, probably to meditate that if he did not
wish to rejoin his race altogether, he really would have to pull up.

Soon after this sounds were heard in the hall, as of a hat being
pitched into a corner, and a bag with some heavy objects in it
slammed on a table to a whistling accompaniment. 'That's Colin,' said
Dolly, confidentially. 'Mother says he ought to be getting more repose
of manner, but he hasn't begun yet.'

And soon after Colin himself made his appearance. 'Hullo, Mabel!
Hullo, mother! Yes, I've washed my hands and I've brushed my hair.
It's _all_ right, really. Well, Dolly. What, Mr. Ashburn here!' he
broke off, staring a little as he went up to shake hands with Mark.

'I ought to have explained, perhaps,' said Mark. 'Ernstone is only the
name I write under. And I had the pleasure of having your son in my
form at St. Peter's for some time. Hadn't I, Colin?'

'Yes, sir,' said Colin, shyly, still rather overcome by so unexpected
an apparition, and thinking this would be something to tell 'the
fellows' next day.

Mabel laughed merrily. 'Mr. Ashburn, I wonder how many more people you
will turn out to be!' she said. 'If you knew how afraid I was of you
when I used to help Colin with his Latin exercises, and how angry when
you found me out in any mistakes! I pictured you as a very awful
personage indeed.'

'So I am,' said Mark, 'officially. I'm sure your brother will agree to
that.'

'I don't think he will,' said Mabel. 'He was so sorry when they moved
him out of your form, that you can't have been so very bad.'

'I liked being in the Middle Third, sir,' said Colin, regaining
confidence. 'It was much better fun than old--I mean Mr. Blatherwick's
is. I wish I was back again--for _some_ things,' he qualified
conscientiously.

When the time came to take his leave, Mrs. Langton asked for his
address, with a view to an invitation at no distant time. A young man,
already a sort of celebrity, and quite presentable on other accounts,
would be useful at dances, while he might serve to leaven some of her
husband's slightly heavy professional dinners.

Mabel gave him her hand at parting with an air of entire friendliness
and good understanding which she did not usually display on so short
a probation. But she liked this Mr. Ashburn already, who on the last
time she had met him had figured as a kind of hero, who was the
'swell' master for whom, without having seen him, she had caught
something of Colin's boyish admiration, and who, lastly, had stirred
and roused her imagination through the work of his own.

Perhaps, after all, he was a little conceited, but then it was not an
offensive conceit, but one born of a confidence in himself which was
fairly justified. She had not liked his manner of disparaging his
first work, and she rather distrusted his idealising theories; still,
she knew that clever people often find it difficult to do justice to
their ideas in words. He _might_ produce a work which would take rank
with the very greatest, and till then she could admire what he had
already accomplished.

And besides he was good-looking--very good-looking; his dark eyes had
expressed a very evident satisfaction at being there and talking to
her--which of course was in his favour; his manner was bright and
pleasant: and so Mabel found it agreeable to listen to her mother's
praise of their departed visitor.

'A very charming young man, my dear. You've only to look at him to see
he's a true genius; and so unaffected and pleasant with it all. Quite
an acquisition, really.'

'_I_ found him, mother,' interrupted Dolly; 'he wouldn't have come but
for me. But I'm rather disappointed in him myself; he didn't seem to
care to talk to _me_ much; and I don't believe he knows much about
fairies.'

'Don't be ungrateful, Dolly,' said Mabel. 'Who saved Frisk for you?'

'Oh, _he_ did; I know all that; but not because he liked Frisk, or me
either. It was because--I don't know _why_ it was because.'

'Because he is a good young man, I suppose,' said Mrs. Langton
instructively.

'No, it wasn't that; he doesn't look so _very_ good; not so good as
poor Vincent did; more good than Harold, though. But he doesn't care
about dogs, and he doesn't care about me, and I don't care about
him!' concluded Dolly, rather defiantly.

As for Mark, he left the house thoroughly and helplessly in love. As
he walked back to his rooms he found a dreamy pleasure in recalling
the different stages of the interview. Mabel's slender figure as she
stood opposite him by the mantelpiece, her reserve at first, and the
manner in which it had thawed to a frank and gracious interest; the
suspicion of a critical but not unkindly mockery in her eyes and tone
at times--it all came back to him with a vividness that rendered him
deaf and blind to his actual surroundings. He saw again the group in
the dim, violet-scented drawing-room, the handsome languid woman
murmuring her pleasant commonplaces, and the pretty child lecturing
the prodigal dog, and still felt the warm light touch of Mabel's hand
as it had lain in his for an instant at parting.

This time, too, the parting was not without hope; he might look
forward to seeing her again after this. A summer of golden dreams and
fancies had indeed begun for him from that day, and as he thought
again that he owed these high privileges to 'Illusion,' events seemed
more than ever to be justifying an act which was fast becoming as
remote and unreproachful as acts will, when the dread of
discovery--that great awakener of conscience--is sleeping too.




CHAPTER XV.

HAROLD CAFFYN MAKES A DISCOVERY.


Harold Caffyn had not found much improvement in his professional
prospects since we first made his acquaintance; his disenchantment was
in fact becoming complete. He had taken to the stage at first in
reliance on the extravagant eulogies of friends, forgetting that the
standard for amateurs in any form of art is not a high one, and he
was very soon brought to his proper level. A good appearance and
complete self-possession were about his sole qualifications, unless we
add the voice and manner of a man in good society, which are not by
any means the distinctive advantages that they were a few years ago.
The general verdict of his fellow-professionals was, 'Clever enough,
but no actor,' and he was without the sympathy or imagination to
identify himself completely with any character and feelings opposed to
his own; he had obtained one distinct success, and one only--at a
_matinée_, when a new comedy was presented in which a part of some
consequence had been entrusted to him. He was cast for a cool and
cynical adventurer, with a considerable dash of the villain in him,
and played it admirably, winning very favourable notices from the
press, although the comedy itself resulted as is not infrequent with
_matinées_, in a dismal fiasco. However, the _matinée_ proved for a
time of immense service to him in the profession, and even led to his
being chosen by his manager to represent the hero of the next
production at his own theatre--a poetical drama which had excited
great interest before its appearance--and if Caffyn could only have
made his mark in it, his position would have been assured from that
moment. But the part was one of rather strained sentiment, and he
could not, rather than would not, make it effective. In spite of
himself, his manner suggested rather than concealed any extravagances
in the dialogue, and, worse still, gave the impression that he was
himself contemptuously conscious of them; the consequence being that
he repelled the sympathies of his audience to a degree that very
nearly proved fatal to the play. After that unlucky first night the
part was taken from him, and his engagement, which terminated shortly
afterwards, was not renewed.

Caffyn was not the man to overcome his deficiencies by hard and
patient toil; he had counted upon an easy life with immediate
triumphs, and the reality baffled and disheartened him. He might soon
have slid into the lounging life of a man about town, with a moderate
income, expensive tastes, and no occupation, and from that perhaps
even to shady and questionable walks of life. But he had an object
still in keeping his head above the social waters, and the object was
Mabel Langton.

He had long felt that there was a secret antagonism on her side
towards himself, which at first he had found amusement in provoking to
an occasional outburst, but was soon piqued into trying to overcome
and disarm, and the unexpected difficulty of this had produced in him
a state of mind as nearly approaching love as he was capable of.

He longed for the time when his wounded pride would be salved by the
consciousness that he had at last obtained the mastery of this wayward
nature, when he would be able to pay off the long score of slights and
disdains which he had come to exaggerate morbidly; he was resolved to
conquer her sooner or later in defiance of all obstacles, and he had
found few natures capable of resisting him long after he had set
himself seriously to subdue them.

But Mabel had been long in showing any sign of yielding. For some time
after the loss of the 'Mangalore' she had been depressed and silent to
a degree which persuaded Caffyn that his old jealousy of Holroyd was
well-grounded, and when she recovered her spirits somewhat, while she
was willing to listen and laugh or talk to him, there was always the
suggestion of an armistice in her manner, and any attempt on his part
to lead the conversation to something beyond mere badinage was sure to
be adroitly parried or severely put down, as her mood varied.

Quite recently, however, there had been a slight change for the
better; she had seemed more pleased to see him, and had shown more
sympathy and interest in his doings. This was since his one success at
the _matinée_, and he told himself triumphantly that she had at last
recognised his power; that the long siege was nearly over.

He would have been much less complacent had he known the truth, which
was this. At the _matinée_ Mabel had certainly been at first surprised
almost to admiration by an unexpected display of force on Caffyn's
part. But as the piece went on, she could not resist an impression
that this was not acting, but rather an unconscious revelation of his
secret self; the footlights seemed to be bringing out the hidden
character of the man as though it had been written on him in
sympathetic ink.

As she leaned back in the corner of the box he had sent them, she
began to remember little traits of boyish malice and cruelty. Had they
worked out of his nature, as such strains sometimes will, or was this
stage adventurer, cold-blooded, unscrupulous, with a vein of
diabolical humour in his malevolence, the real Harold Caffyn?

And then she had seen the injustice of this and felt almost ashamed of
her thoughts, and with the wish to make some sort of reparation, and
perhaps the consciousness that she had not given him many
opportunities of showing her his better side, her manner towards him
had softened appreciably.

Caffyn only saw the effects, and argued favourably from them. 'Now
that fellow Holroyd is happily out of the way,' he thought, 'she
doesn't care for anybody in particular. I've only to wait.'

There were considerations other than love or pride which made the
marriage a desirable one to him. Mabel's father was a rich man, and
Mabel herself was entitled independently to a considerable sum on
coming of age. He could hardly do better for himself than by making
such a match, even from the pecuniary point of view.

And so he looked about him anxiously for some opening more suitable to
his talent than the stage-door, for he was quite aware that at present
Mabel's father, whatever Mabel herself might think, would scarcely
consider him a desirable _parti_.

Caffyn had been lucky enough to impress a business friend of his with
a firm conviction of his talents for business and management, and this
had led to a proposal that he should leave the stage and join him,
with a prospect of a partnership should the alliance prove a success.

The business was a flourishing one, and the friend a young man who had
but recently succeeded to the complete control of it, while Caffyn had
succeeded somehow in acquiring a tolerably complete control of _him_.
So the prospect was really an attractive one, and he felt that now at
last he might consider the worst obstacles to his success with Mabel
were disposed of.

He had plenty of leisure time on his hands at present, and thought he
would call at Kensington Park Gardens one afternoon, and try the
effect of telling Mabel of his prospects. She had been so cordial and
sympathetic of late that it would be strange if she did not express
some sort of pleasure, and it would be for him to decide then whether
or not his time had come to speak of his hopes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. and Miss Langton were out, he was told at the door. 'Miss Dolly
was in,' added Champion, to whom Caffyn was well known.

'Then I'll see Miss Dolly,' said Caffyn, thinking that he might be
able to pass the time until Mabel's return. 'In the morning-room is
she? All right.'

He walked in alone, to find Dolly engaged in tearing off the postage
stamp from a letter. 'Hallo, Miss Juggins, what mischief are you up to
now?' he began, as he stood in the doorway.

'It's not mischief at all,' said Dolly, hardly deigning to look up
from her occupation. 'What have you come in for, Harold?'

'For the pleasure of your conversation,' said Caffyn. 'You know you
always enjoy a talk with me, Dolly.' (Dolly made a little mouth at
this.) 'But what are you doing with those scissors and that envelope,
if I'm not indiscreet in asking?'

Dolly was in a subdued and repentant mood just then, for she had been
so unlucky as to offend Colin the day before, and he had not yet
forgiven her. It had happened in this way. It had been a half-holiday,
and Colin had brought home an especial friend of his to spend the
afternoon, to be shown his treasures and, in particular, to give his
opinion as an expert on the merits of Colin's collection of foreign
postage-stamps.

Unhappily for Colin's purpose, however, Dolly had completely enslaved
the friend from the outset. Charmed by his sudden interest in the most
unboyish topics, she had carried him off to see her doll's house, and,
in spite of Colin's grumbling dissuasion, the base friend had gone
meekly. Worse still, he had remained up there listening to Dolly's
personal anecdotes and reminiscences and seeing Frisk put through his
performances, until it was too late to do anything like justice to the
stamp album, over which Colin had been sulkily fuming below, divided
between hospitality and impatience.

Dolly had been perfectly guiltless of the least touch of coquetry in
thus monopolising the visitor, for she was not precocious in this
respect, and was merely delighted to find a boy who, unlike Colin,
would condescend to sympathise with her pursuits; but perhaps the boy
himself, a susceptible youth, found Dolly's animated face and eager
confidences more attractive than the rarest postal issues.

When he had gone, Colin's pent-up indignation burst out on the
unsuspecting Dolly. She had done it on purpose. She knew Dickinson
major came to see his stamps. What did _he_ care about her rubbishy
dolls? And there she had kept him up in the nursery for hours wasting
his time! It was too bad of her, and so on, until she wept with grief
and penitence.

And now she was seizing the opportunity of purchasing his forgiveness
by an act of atonement in kind, in securing what seemed to her to be
probably a stamp of some unknown value--to a boy. But she did not tell
all this to Caffyn.

'Do you know about stamps--is this a rare one?' she said, and brought
the stamp she had removed to Caffyn. The postmark had obliterated the
name upon it.

'Let's look at the letter,' said Caffyn; and Dolly put it in his
hand.

He took it to the window, and gave a slight start. 'When did this
come?' he said sharply.

'Just now,' said Dolly; 'a minute or two before you came. I heard the
postman, and I ran out into the hall to see the letters drop in the
box, and then I saw this one with the stamp, and the box wasn't
locked, so I took it out and tore the stamp off. Why do you look like
that, Harold? It's only for Mabel, and she won't mind.'

Caffyn was still at the window; he had just received a highly
unpleasant shock, and was trying to get over it and adjust himself to
the facts revealed by what he held in his hand.

The letter was from India, bore a Colombo postmark, and was in Vincent
Holroyd's hand, which Caffyn happened to know; if further proof were
required he had it by pressing the thin paper of the envelope against
the inclosure beneath, when several words became distinctly legible,
besides those visible already through the gap left by the stamp. Thus
he read, 'Shall not write again till you----' and lower down Holroyd's
full signature.

And the letter had that moment arrived. He saw no other possible
conclusion than that, by some extraordinary chance, Holroyd had
escaped the fate which was supposed to have befallen him. He was
alive; a more dangerous rival after this than ever. This letter might
even contain a proposal!

'No use speaking to Mabel after she has once seen this. Confound the
fellow! Why the deuce couldn't he stay in the sea? It's just my
infernal luck!'

As he thought of the change this letter would work in his prospects,
and his own complete powerlessness to prevent it, the gloom and
perplexity on his face deepened. He had been congratulating himself on
the removal of this particular man as a providential arrangement made
with some regard to his own convenience. And to see him resuscitated,
at that time of all others, was hard indeed to bear. And yet what
could he do?

As Caffyn stood by the window with Holroyd's letter in his hand, he
felt an insane temptation for a moment to destroy or retain it. Time
was everything just then, and even without the fragment he had been
able to read, he could, from his knowledge of the writer, conclude
with tolerable certainty that he would not write again without having
received an answer to his first letter. 'If I was only alone with it!'
he thought impatiently. But he was a prudent young man, and perfectly
aware of the consequences of purloining correspondence; and besides,
there was Dolly to be reckoned with--she alone had seen the thing as
yet. But then she _had_ seen it, and was not more likely to hold her
tongue about that than any other given subject. No, he could do
nothing; he must let things take their own course and be hanged to
them!

His gloomy face filled Dolly with a sudden fear; she forgot her
dislike, and came timidly up to him and touched his arm. 'What's the
matter, Harold?' she faltered. 'Mabel won't be angry. I--I haven't
done anything _wrong_, have I, Harold?'

He came out of his reverie to see her upturned face raised to his--and
started; his active brain had in that instant decided on a desperate
expedient, suggested by the sight of the trouble in her eyes. 'By
Jove, I'll try!' he thought; 'it's worth it--she's such a child--I may
manage it yet!'

'Wrong!' he said impressively, 'it's worse than that. My poor Dolly,
didn't you really know what you were doing?'

'N--no,' said Dolly; 'Harold, don't tease me--don't tell me what isn't
true ... it--it frightens me so!'

'My dear child, what can I tell you? Surely you know that what you did
was stealing?'

'Stealing!' echoed Dolly, with great surprised eyes. 'Oh, no,
Harold--not _stealing_. Why, of course I shall tell Mabel, and ask her
for the stamp afterwards--only if I hadn't torn it off first, she
might throw it away before I could ask, you know!'

'I'm afraid it was stealing all the same,' said Caffyn, affecting a
sorrowfully compassionate tone; 'nothing can alter that now, Dolly.'

'Mabel won't be angry with me for that, I know,' said Dolly; 'she will
see how it was really.'

'If it was only Mabel,' said Caffyn, 'we should have no reason to
fear; but Mabel can't do anything for you, poor Dolly! It's the _law_
that punishes these things. You know what law is?--the police, and the
judges.'

The piteous change in the child's face, the dark eyes brimming with
rising tears, and the little mouth drawn and trembling, might have
touched some men; indeed, even Caffyn felt a languid compunction for
what he was doing. But his only chance lay in working upon her fears;
he could not afford to be sentimental just then, and so he went on,
carefully calculating each word.

'Oh, I won't believe it,' cried Dolly, with a last despairing effort
to resist the effect his grave pity was producing; 'I can't. Harold,
you're trying to frighten me. I'm not frightened a bit. _Say_ you are
only in fun!'

But Caffyn turned away in well-feigned distress. 'Do I look as if it
was fun, Dolly?' he asked, with an effective quiver in his low voice;
he had never acted so well as this before. 'Is that this morning's
paper over there?' he asked, with a sudden recollection, as he saw the
sheet on a little round wicker table. 'Fetch it, Dolly, will you?'

'I must manage the obstinate little witch somehow,' he thought
impatiently, and turned to the police reports, where he remembered
that morning to have read the case of an unhappy postman who had
stolen stamps from the letters entrusted to him.

He found it now and read it aloud to her. 'If you don't believe me,'
he added, 'look for yourself--you can read. Do you see now--those
stamps were marked. Well, isn't _this_ one marked?'

'Oh, it is!' cried Dolly, 'marked all over! Yes, I do believe you now,
Harold. But what shall I do? I know--I'll tell papa--he won't let me
go to prison!'

'Why, papa's a lawyer--you know that,' said Caffyn; 'he has to _help_
the law--not hinder it. Whatever you do, I shouldn't advise you to
tell him, or he would be obliged to do his duty. You don't want to be
shut up for years all alone in a dark prison, do you, Dolly? And yet,
if what you've done is once found out, nothing can help you--not your
father, not your mamma--not Mabel herself--the law's too strong for
them all!'

This strange and horrible idea of an unknown power into whose clutches
she had suddenly fallen, and from which even love and home were unable
to shield her, drove the poor child almost frantic; she clung to him
convulsively, with her face white as death, terrified beyond tears.
'Harold!' she cried, seizing his hand in both hers, 'you won't let
them! I--I can't go to prison, and leave them all. I don't like the
dark. I _couldn't_ stay in it till I was grown up, and never see Mabel
or Colin or anybody. Tell me what to do--only tell me, and I'll do
it!'

Again some quite advanced scoundrels might have hesitated to cast so
fearful a shadow over a child's bright life, and the necessity annoyed
Caffyn to some extent, but his game was nearly won--there would not be
much more of it.

'I mustn't _do_ anything for you,' he said; 'if I did my duty, I
should have to give you up to---- No, it's all right, Dolly, I should
never dream of doing that. But I can do no more. Still, if you choose,
you can help _yourself_--and I promise to say nothing about it.'

'How do you mean?' said Dolly; 'if--if I stuck it together and left
it?'

'Do you think that wouldn't be seen? It would, though! No, Dolly, if
anyone but you and I catches sight of that letter, it will all be
found out--must be!'

'Do you mean?--oh, no, Harold, I couldn't _burn_ it!'

There was a fire in the grate, for the morning, in spite of the
season, had been chilly.

'Don't suppose _I_ advise you to burn it,' said Caffyn. 'It's a bad
business from beginning to end--it's wrong (at least it isn't right)
to burn the letter. Only--there's no other way, if you want to keep
out of prison. And if you make up your mind to burn it, Dolly, why you
can rely on me to keep the secret. _I_ don't want to see a poor
little girl shut up in prison if I can help it, _I_ can tell you. But
do as you like about it, Dolly; I mustn't interfere.'

Dolly could bear it no more; she snatched the flimsy foreign paper,
tore it across and flung it into the heart of the fire. Then, as the
flames began to play round the edges, she repented, and made a wild
dart forward to recover the letter. 'It's Mabel's,' she cried; 'I'm
afraid to burn it--I'm afraid!'

But Caffyn caught her, and held her little trembling hands fast in his
cool grasp, while the letter that Holroyd had written in Ceylon with
such wild secret hopes flared away to a speckled grey rag, and floated
lightly up the chimney. 'Too late now, Dolly!' he said, with a ring of
triumph in his voice. 'You would only have blistered those pretty
little fingers of yours, my child. And now,' he said, indicating the
scrap of paper which bore the stamp, 'if you'll take my advice, you'll
send that thing after the other.'

For the sake of this paltry bit of coloured paper Dolly had done it
all, and now that must go!--she had not even purchased Colin's
forgiveness by her wrong--and this last drop in her cup was perhaps
the bitterest. She dropped the stamp guiltily between two red-hot
coals, watched that too as it burnt, and then threw herself into an
arm-chair and sobbed in passionate remorse.

'Oh, why did I do it?' she wailed; 'why did you make me do it,
Harold?'

'Come, Dolly, I like that,' said Caffyn, who saw the necessity for
having this understood at once. '_I_ made you do nothing, if you
please--it was all done before I came in. I may think you were very
sensible in getting rid of the letter in that way--I do--but you did
it of your own accord--remember that.'

'I was quite good half an hour ago,' moaned the child, 'and now I'm a
wicked girl--a--a thief! No one will speak to me any more--they'll
send me to prison!'

'Now don't talk nonsense,' said Caffyn, a little alarmed, not having
expected a child to have such strong feelings about anything. 'And
for goodness' sake don't cry like that--there's nothing to cry about
_now_.... You're perfectly safe as long as you hold your tongue. You
don't suppose I shall tell of you, do you?' (and it really was highly
improbable). 'There's nothing to show what you've done. And--and you
didn't mean to do anything bad, I know _that_, of course. You needn't
make yourself wretched about it. It's only the way the law looks at
stealing stamps, you know. Come, I must be off now; can't wait for
Mabel any longer. But I must see a smile before I go--just a little
one, Juggins--to thank me for helping you out of your scrape, eh?'
(Dolly's mouth relaxed in a very faint smile.) 'That's right--now
you're feeling jolly again; cheer up, you can trust me, you know.' And
he went out, feeling tolerably secure of her silence.

'It's rough on her, poor little thing!' he soliloquised as he walked
briskly away; 'but she'll forget all about it soon enough--children
do. And what the deuce could I do? No, I'm glad I looked in just then.
Our resuscitated friend won't write again for a month or two--and by
that time it will be too late. And if this business comes out (which I
don't imagine it ever will) _I've_ done nothing anyone could lay hold
of. I was very careful about that. I must have it out with Mabel as
soon as I can now--there's nothing to be gained by waiting!'

_Would_ Dolly forget all about it? She did not like Harold Caffyn, but
it never occurred to her to disbelieve the terrible things he had told
her. She was firmly convinced that she had done something which, if
known, would cut her off completely from home and sympathy and love;
she who had hardly known more than a five minutes' sorrow in her happy
innocent little life, believed herself a guilty thing with a secret.
Henceforth in the shadows there would lurk something more dreadful
even than the bogeys with which some foolish nursemaids people shadows
for their charges--the gigantic hand of the law, ready to drag her off
at any moment from all she loved. And there seemed no help for her
anywhere--for had not Harold said that if her father or anyone were
to know, they would be obliged to give her up to punishment.

Perhaps if Caffyn had been capable of fully realising what a deadly
poison he had been instilling into this poor child's mind, he might
have softened matters a little more (provided his object could have
been equally well attained thereby), and that is all that can be said
for him. But, as it was, he only saw that he must make as deep an
impression as he could for the moment, and never doubted that she
would forget his words as soon as he should himself.

But if there was some want of thought in the evil he had done, the
want of thought in this case arose from a constitutional want of
heart.




CHAPTER XVI.

A CHANGE OF FRONT.


'Well, Jane,' said Mr. Lightowler one evening, when he had invited
himself to dine and sleep at the house in Malakoff Terrace, 'I suppose
you haven't heard anything of that grand young gentleman of yours
yet?'

The Ashburns, with the single exception of Trixie, had remained
obstinately indifferent to the celebrity which Mark had so suddenly
obtained; it did not occur to most of them indeed that distinction was
possible in the course he had taken. Perhaps many of Mahomet's
relations thought it a pity that he should abandon his excellent
prospects in the caravan business (where he was making himself so much
respected), for the precarious and unremunerative career of a prophet.

Trixie, however, had followed the book's career with wondering
delight; she had bought a copy for herself, Mark not having found
himself equal to sending her one, and she had eagerly collected
reviews and allusions of all kinds, and tried hard to induce Martha
at least to read the book.

Martha had coldly declined. She had something of her mother's hard,
unimaginative nature, and read but little fiction; and besides, having
from the first sided strongly against Mark, she would not compromise
her dignity now by betraying so much interest in his performances.
Cuthbert read the book, but in secret, and as he said nothing to its
discredit, it may be presumed that he could find no particular fault
with it. Mrs. Ashburn would have felt almost inclined, had she known
the book was in the house, to order it to be put away from among them
like an evil thing, so strong was her prejudice; and her husband,
whatever he felt, expressed no interest or curiosity on the subject.

So at Mr. Lightowler's question, which was put more as a vent for his
own outraged feelings than any real desire for information, Mrs.
Ashburn's face assumed its grimmest and coldest expression as she
replied--'No, Solomon. Mark has chosen his own road--we neither have
nor expect to have any news of him. At this very moment he may be
bitterly repenting his folly and disobedience somewhere.'

Upon which Cuthbert observed that he considered that extremely
probable, and Mr. Ashburn found courage to ask a question. 'I--I
suppose he hasn't come or written to _you_ yet, Solomon?' he said.

'No, Matthew,' said his brother-in-law, 'he has not. I'd just like to
see him coming to me; he wouldn't come twice, I can tell him! No, I
tell you, as I told him, I've done with him. When a young man repays
all I've spent on him with base ingratitude like that, I wash my hands
of him--I say deliberately--I wash my 'ands. Why, he might have worked
on at his law, and I'd a' set him up and put him in the way of making
his living in a few years; made him a credit to all connected with
him, I would! But he's chosen to turn a low scribbler, and starve in a
garret, which he'll come to soon enough, and that's what I get for
trying to help a nephew. Well, it will be a lesson to me, I know
that. Young men have gone off since my young days; a lazy, selfish,
conceited lot they are, all of 'em.'

'Not _all_, Solomon,' said his sister. 'I'm sure there are young men
still who--Cuthbert, _how_ long was it you stayed at the office after
hours to make up your books? Of his own free will, too, Solomon! And
_he's_ never had anyone to encourage him, or help him on, poor boy!'

Mrs. Ashburn was not without hopes that her brother might be brought
to understand in time that the family did not end with Mark, but she
might have spared her pains just then.

'Oh,' he said, with a rather contemptuous toss of the head, 'I wasn't
hinting. I've nothing partickler against him--_he's_ steady enough, I
dessay. One of the other kind's enough in a small family, in all
conscience! Ah, Jane, if ever a man was regularly taken in by a boy, I
was by his brother Mark--a bright, smart, clever young chap he was as
I'd wish to see. Give that feller an education and put him to a
profession, thinks I, and he'll be a credit to you some of these days.
And see what's come of it!'

'It's very sad--very sad for all of us, I'm sure,' sighed Mrs.
Ashburn.

At this, Trixie, who had been listening to it all with hot cheeks and
trembling lips, could hold out no longer.

'You talk of Mark--Uncle and all of you,' she said, looking prettier
for her indignation, 'as if he was a disgrace to us all! You seem to
think he's starving somewhere in a garret, and unknown to everybody.
But he's nothing of the sort--he's famous already, whether you believe
it or not. You ought to be proud of him.'

'Beatrix, you forget yourself,' said her mother; 'before your uncle,
too.'

'I can't help it,' said Trixie; 'there's no one to speak up for poor
Mark but me, ma, and I must. And it's all quite true. I hear all about
books and things from--at the Art School where I go, and Mark's book
is being talked about _everywhere_! And you needn't be afraid of his
coming to you for money, Uncle, for I was told that Mark will be able
to get as much money as ever he likes for his next books; he will be
quite rich, and all just by writing! And nobody but you here seems to
think the worse of him for what he has done! I'll show you what the
papers say about him presently. Why, even _your_ paper, ma, the
"Weekly Horeb," has a long article praising Mark's book this week, so
I should think it can't be so very wicked. Wait a minute, and you
shall see!'

And Trixie burst impetuously out of the room to fetch the book in
which she had pasted the reviews, leaving the others in a rather
crestfallen condition, Uncle Solomon especially looking straight in
front of him with a fish-like stare, being engaged in trying to
assimilate the very novel ideas of a literary career which had just
been put before him.

Mrs. Ashburn muttered something about Trixie being always headstrong
and never given to serious things, but even she was a little shaken by
the unexpected testimony of her favourite oracle, the 'Horeb.'

'Look here, Uncle,' said Trixie, returning with the book and laying it
down open before him. 'See what the ---- says, and the ----; oh, and
all of them!'

'_I_ don't want to see 'em,' he said, sulkily pushing the book from
him. 'Take the things away, child; who cares what they say? They're
all at the same scribbling business themselves; o' course they'd crack
up one another.'

But he listened with a dull, glazed look in his eyes, and a grunt now
and then, while she read extracts aloud, until by-and-by, in spite of
his efforts to repress it, a kind of hard grin of satisfaction began
to widen his mouth.

'Where's this precious book to be got?' he said at last.

'Are you so sure he's disgraced you, _now_, Uncle?' demanded Trixie
triumphantly.

'Men's praise is of little value,' said Mrs. Ashburn, harshly. 'Your
uncle and we look at what Mark has done from the Christian's
standpoint.'

'Well, look here, y' know. Suppose we go into the matter now; let's
talk it out a bit,' said Uncle Solomon, coming out of a second brown
study. 'What 'ave you got against Mark?'

'What have I got against him, Solomon?' echoed his sister in supreme
amazement.

'Yes; what's he done to set you all shaking your heads at?'

'Why, surely there's no need to tell you? Well, first there's his
ingratitude to _you_, after all you've done for him!'

'Put me out of the question!' said Mr. Lightowler, with a magnanimous
sweep of his hand, 'I can take care of myself, I should 'ope. What _I_
want to get at is what he's done to _you_. What do _you_ accuse the
boy of doing, Matthew, eh?'

Poor little Mr. Ashburn seemed completely overwhelmed by this sudden
demand on him. 'I? oh, I--well, Jane has strong views, you know,
Solomon, decided opinions on these subjects, and--and so have I!' he
concluded feebly.

'Um,' said Mr. Lightowler, half to himself, 'shouldn't a' thought that
was what's the matter with _you_! Well, Jane, then I come back to you.
What's he done? Come, he hasn't robbed a church, or forged a cheque,
has he?'

'If you wish me to tell you what you know perfectly well already, he
has, in defiance of what he knows I feel on this subject, connected
himself with a thing I strongly disapprove of--a light-minded
fiction.'

'Now you know, Jane, that's all your confounded--I'm speaking to you
as a brother, you know--your confounded narrer-minded nonsense!
Supposing he has written a "light-minded fiction," as you call it,
where's the harm of it?'

'With the early training you received together with me, Solomon, I
wonder you can ask! You know very well what would have been thought of
reading, to say nothing of writing, a novel in our young days. And it
cuts me to the heart to think that a son of mine should place another
stumbling-block in the hands of youth.'

'Stumbling grandmother!' cried Mr. Lightowler. 'In our young days, as
you say, we didn't go to playhouses, and only read good and improving
books, and a dull time we 'ad of it! I don't read novels myself now,
having other things to think about. But the world's gone round since
then, Jane. Even chapel-folk read these light-minded fictions
nowadays, and don't seem to be stumblin' about more than usual.'

'If they take no harm, their own consciences must be their guide; but
I've a right to judge for myself as well as they, I think, Solomon.'

'Exactly, but not for them too--that's what _you're_ doin', Jane. Who
the dickens are you, to go about groaning that Mark's a prodigal son,
or a lost sheep, or a goat, or one of those uncomplimentary animals,
all because he's written a book that everyone else is praising? Why
are you to be right and all the rest of the world wrong, I'd like to
know? Here you've gone and hunted the lad out of the house, without
ever consulting _me_ (who, I think, Jane, I _do_ think, have acted so
as to deserve to be considered and consulted in the matter), and all
for what?'

'I'm sure, Solomon,' said Mrs. Ashburn, with one or two hard sniffs
which were her nearest approach to public emotion; 'I'm sure I never
expected this from you, and you were quite as angry with Mark as any
of us.'

'Because I didn't know all--I was kep' in the dark. From what you said
I didn't know but what he'd written some rubbish which wouldn't keep
him in bread and cheese for a fortnight, and leave him as unknown as
it found him. Naterally I didn't care about _that_, when I'd hoped
he'd be a credit to me. But it appears he _is_ being a credit to
me--he's making his fortune, getting famous, setting the upper circles
talking of him. I thought Sir Andrew, up at the Manor House, was
a-chaffing me the other day when he began complimenting me on my
nephew, and I answered him precious short; but I begin to think now as
he meant it, and I went and made a fool of myself! All I ever asked of
Mark was to be a credit to me, and so long as he goes and is a credit
to me, what do I care how he does it? Not _that_!'

At sentiments of such unhoped-for breadth, Trixie was so far carried
away with delight and gratitude as to throw her arms round her uncle's
puffy red neck, and bestow two or three warm kisses upon him. 'Then
you won't give him up after all, will you, Uncle?' she cried; '_you_
don't think him a disgrace to you!'

Uncle Solomon looked round him with the sense that he was coming out
uncommonly well. 'There's no narrermindedness about _me_, Trixie, my
girl,' he said; 'I never have said, nor I don't say now, that I have
given your brother Mark up; he chose not to take the advantages I
offered him, and I don't deny feeling put out by it. But what's done
can't be helped. I shall give a look into this book of his, and if I
see nothing to disapprove of in it, why I shall let him know he can
still look to his old uncle if he wants anything. I don't say more
than that at present. But I do think, Jane, that you've been too 'ard
on the boy. We can't be all such partickler Baptists as _you_ are, yer
know!'

'I'm glad to hear you say that, Solomon,' quavered Mr. Ashburn;
'because I said as much to Jane (if you recollect my mentioning it, my
dear?) at the time; but she has decided views, and she thought
otherwise.'

The unfortunate Jane, seeing herself deserted on all sides, began to
qualify, not sorry in her inmost heart to be able to think more
leniently, since the 'Weekly Horeb' sanctioned it, of her son's act of
independence.

'I may have acted on imperfect knowledge,' she said; 'I may have been
too hasty in concluding that Mark had only written some worldly and
frivolous love-tale to keep minds from dwelling on higher subjects. If
so, I'm willing to own it, and if Mark was to come to me----'

But Mr. Lightowler did not care to lose his monopoly of magnanimity in
this way. 'That comes too late now, Jane,' he said; 'he won't come
back to you now, after the way you've treated him. You've taken your
line, and you'll have to keep to it. But he shan't lose by that while
_I_ live--or afterwards, for that matter--he was always more of a son
to me than ever you made of him!'

And when he went to bed, after some elaboration of his views on the
question, he left the family, with one exception, to the highly
unsatisfactory reflection that they had cut themselves off from all
right to feel proud and gratified at Mark's renown, and that the
breach between them was too wide now to be bridged.




CHAPTER XVII.

IN WHICH MARK MAKES AN ENEMY AND RECOVERS A FRIEND.


Mark's fame was still increasing, and he began to have proofs of this
in a pleasanter and more substantial form than empty compliment. He
was constantly receiving letters from editors or publishers inviting
him to write for them, and offering terms which exceeded his highest
expectations. Several of these proposals--all the more tempting ones,
in fact--he accepted at once; not that he had anything by him in
manuscript just then of the kind required from him, but he felt a
vague sense of power to turn out something very fine indeed, long
before the time appointed for the fulfilment of his promises.

But, so far, he had not done any regular literary work since his
defection: he was still at St. Peter's, which occupied most of his
time, but somehow, now that he could devote his evenings without
scruple to the delights of composition, those delights seemed to have
lost their keenness, and besides, he had begun to go out a great deal.

He had plenty of time before him, however, and his prospects were
excellent; he was sure of considerable sums under his many agreements
as soon as he had leisure to set to work. There could be no greater
mistake than for a young writer to flood the market from his
inkstand--a reflection which comforted Mark for a rather long and
unexpected season of drought.

Chilton and Fladgate had begun to sound him respecting a second book,
but Mark could not yet decide whether to make his _coup_ with 'One
Fair Daughter' or 'Sweet Bells Jangled.' At first he had been
feverishly anxious to get a book out which should be legitimately his
own as soon as possible, but now, when the time had come, he hung
back.

He did not exactly feel any misgivings as to their merits, but he
could not help seeing that with every day it was becoming more and
more difficult to put 'Illusion' completely in the shade, and that if
he meant to effect this, he could afford to neglect no precautions.
New and brilliant ideas, necessitating the entire reconstruction of
the plots, were constantly occurring to him, and he set impulsively to
work, shifting and interpolating, polishing and repolishing, until he
must have invested his work with a dazzling glitter--and yet he could
not bring himself to part with it.

He was engaged in this manner one Wednesday afternoon in his rooms,
when he heard a slow heavy step coming up the stairs, followed by a
sharp rap at the door of his bedroom, which adjoined his sitting-room.
He shouted to the stranger to come in, and an old gentleman entered
presently by the door connecting the two rooms, in whom he recognised
Mr. Lightowler's irascible neighbour. He stood there for a few moments
without a word, evidently overcome by anger, which Mark supposed was
due to annoyance at having first blundered into the bedroom. 'It's old
Humpage,' he thought. 'What can he want with _me_?' The other found
words at last, beginning with a deadly politeness. 'I see I am in the
presence of the right person,' he began. 'I have come to ask you a
plain question.' Here he took something from his coat-tail pocket, and
threw it on the table before Mark--it was a copy of 'Illusion.' 'I am
told you are in the best position to give me information on the
subject. Will you kindly give me the name--the _real_ name--of the
author of this book? I have reasons, valid reasons for requiring it.'
And he glared down at Mark, who had a sudden and disagreeable
sensation as if his heart had just turned a somersault. Could this
terrible old person have detected him, and if so what would become of
him?

Instinct rather than reason kept him from betraying himself by words.
'Th-that's a rather extraordinary question, sir,' he gasped faintly.

'Perhaps it is,' said the other; 'but I've asked it, and I want an
answer.'

'If the author of the book,' said Mark, 'had wished his real name to
be known, I suppose he would have printed it.'

'Have the goodness not to equivocate with me, sir. It's quite useless,
as you will understand when I tell you that I happen to _know_'--(he
repeated this with withering scorn)--'I happen to know the name of the
real author of this--this precious production. I had it, let me tell
you, on very excellent authority.'

'Who told you?' said Mark, and his voice seemed to him to come from
down stairs. Had Holroyd made a confidant of this angry old gentleman?

'A gentleman whose relation I think you have the privilege to be, sir.
Come, you see _I_ know you, Mr.--Mr. Cyril Ernstone,' he sneered. 'Are
you prepared to deny it?'

Mark drew a long sweet breath of relief. What a fright he had had!
This old gentleman evidently supposed he had unearthed a great
literary secret; but why had it made him so angry?

'Certainly not,' he replied, firm and composed again now. 'I _am_ Mr.
Cyril Ernstone. I'm very sorry if it annoys you.'

'It _does_ annoy me, sir. I have a right to be annoyed, and you know
the reason well enough!'

'Do you know,' said Mark languidly, 'I'm really afraid I don't.'

'Then I'll tell you, sir. In this novel of yours you've put a
character called--wait a bit--ah, yes, called Blackshaw, a retired
country solicitor, sir.'

'Very likely,' said Mark, who had been getting rather rusty with
'Illusion' of late.

'_I'm_ a retired country solicitor, sir! You've made him a man of low
character; you show him up all through the book as perpetually mixing
in petty squabbles, sir; on one occasion you actually allow him to get
drunk Now what do you mean by it?'

'Good heavens,' said Mark, with a laugh, 'you don't seriously mean to
tell me you consider all this personal?'

'I do very seriously mean to tell you so, young gentleman,' said Mr.
Humpage, showing his teeth with a kind of snarl.

'There are people who will see personalities in a proposition of
Euclid,' said Mark, now completely himself again, and rather amused by
the scene; 'I should think you must be one of them, Mr. Humpage. Will
it comfort you if I let you know that I--that this book was written
months before I first had the pleasure of seeing you.'

'No, sir, not at all. That only shows me more clearly what I knew
already. That there has been another hand at work here. I see that
uncle of yours behind your back here.'

'Do you though?' said Mark. 'He's not considered literary as a general
rule.'

'Oh, he's quite literary enough to be libellous. Just cast your eye
over this copy. Your uncle sent this to me as a present, the first
work of his nephew. I thought at first he was trying to be friendly
again, till I opened the book! Just look at it, sir!' And the old man
fumbled through the leaves with his trembling hands. 'Here's a passage
where your solicitor is guilty of a bit of sharp practice--underlined
by your precious uncle! And here he sets two parties by the
ears--underlined by your uncle, in red ink, sir; and it's like that
all through the book. _Now_ what do you say?'

'What _can_ I say?' said Mark, with a shrug. 'You must really go and
fight it out with my uncle; if he is foolish enough to insult you,
that's not exactly a reason for coming here to roar at _me_.'

'You're as bad as he is, every bit. I had him up at sessions over that
gander, and he hasn't forgotten it. You had a hand in that affair,
too, I remember. Your victim, sir, was never the same bird
again--you'll be pleased to hear that--never the same bird again!'

'Very much to its credit, I'm sure,' said Mark. 'But oblige me by not
calling it _my_ victim. I don't suppose you'll believe me, but the one
offence is as imaginary as the other.'

'I _don't_ believe you, sir. I consider that to recommend yourself to
your highly respectable uncle, you have deliberately set yourself to
blacken my character, which may bear comparison with your own, let me
tell you. No words can do justice to such baseness as that!'

'I agree with you. If I had done such a thing no words could; but as I
happen to be quite blameless of the least idea of hurting your
feelings, I'm beginning to be rather tired of this, you see, Mr.
Humpage.'

'I'm going, sir, I'm going. I've nearly said my say. You have not
altered my opinion in the least. I'm not blind, and I saw your face
change when you saw me. You were _afraid_ of me. You know you were.
What reason but one could you have for that?'

Of course Mark could have explained even this rather suspicious
appearance, but then he would not have improved matters very much; and
so, like many better men, he had to submit to be cruelly
misunderstood, when a word might have saved him, although in his case
silence was neither quixotic nor heroic.

'I can only say again,' he replied in his haughtiest manner, 'that
when this book was written, I had never seen you, nor even heard of
your existence. If you don't believe me, I can't help it.'

'You've got your own uncle and your own manner to thank for it if I
don't believe you, and I don't. There are ways of juggling with words
to make them cover anything, and from all I know of you, you are
likely enough to be apt at that sort of thing. I've come here to tell
you what I think of you, and I mean to do it before I go. You've
abused such talents as you've been gifted with, sir; gone out of your
way to attack a man who never did you any harm. You're a hired
literary assassin--that's my opinion of you! I'm not going to take any
legal proceeding against you--I'm not such a fool. If I was a younger
man, I might take the law, in the shape of a stout horse-whip, into my
own hands; as it is, I leave you to go your own way, unpunished by me.
Only, mark my words--you'll come to no good. There's a rough sort of
justice in this world, whatever may be said, and a beginning like
yours will bring its own reward. Some day, sir, you'll be found out
for what you are! That's what I came to say!'

And he turned on his heel and marched downstairs, leaving Mark with a
superstitious fear at his heart at his last words, and some annoyance
with Holroyd for having exposed him to this, and even with himself for
turning craven at the first panic.

'I must look up that infernal book again!' he thought. 'Holroyd may
have libelled half London in it for all I know.'

Now it may be as well to state here that Vincent Holroyd was as
guiltless as Mark himself of any intention to portray Mr. Humpage in
the pages of 'Illusion'; he had indeed heard of him from the Langtons,
but the resemblances in the imaginary solicitor to Dolly's godfather
were few and trivial enough, and, like most of such half-unconscious
reminiscences, required the aid of a malicious dulness to pass as
anything more than mere coincidences.

But the next day, while Mark was thinking apprehensively of 'Illusion'
as a perfect mine of personalities, the heavy steps were heard again
in the passage and up the staircase; he sighed wearily, thinking that
perhaps the outraged Mr. Humpage had remembered something more
offensive, and had called again to give him the benefit of it.

However, this time the visitor was Mr. Solomon Lightowler, who stood
in the doorway with what he meant to be a reassuring smile on his
face--though, owing to a certain want of flexibility in his uncle's
features, Mark misunderstood it.

'Oh, it's you, is it?' he said bitterly. 'Come in, Uncle, _come_ in.
You undertook when I saw you last never to speak to me again, but _I_
don't mind if you don't. I had a thorough good blackguarding yesterday
from your friend Humpage, so I've got my hand in. Will you curse me
sitting down or standing? The other one stood!'

'No, no, it ain't that, my boy. I don't want to use 'ard words. I've
come to say, let bygones be bygones. Mark, my boy, I'm _proud_ of
yer!'

'What, of a literary man! My dear uncle, you can't be well--or you've
lost money.'

'I'm much as usual, thanky, and I haven't lost any money that I know
of, and--and I _mean_ it, Mark, I've read your book.'

'I know you have--so has Humpage,' said Mark.

Uncle Solomon chuckled. 'You made some smart 'its at 'Umpage,' he
said. 'When I first saw there was a country solicitor in the book, I
said to myself, "That's goin' to be 'Umpage," and you 'ad him fine, I
_will_ say that. I never thought to be so pleased with yer.'

'You need not have shown your pleasure by sending him a marked copy.'

'I was afraid he wouldn't see it if I didn't,' explained Mr.
Lightowler, 'and I owed him one over that gander, which he summonsed
me for, and got his summons dismissed for his trouble. But I've not
forgotten it. P'r'aps it was going rather far to mark the places; but
there, I couldn't 'elp it.'

'Well, I suppose you know that amounts to libel?' said Mark, either
from too hazy a recollection of the law on the subject of
'publication' or the desire to give his uncle a lesson.

'Libel! Why, I never wrote anything--only underlined a passage 'ere
and there. You don't call that libelling!'

'A judge might, and, any way, Uncle, it's deuced unpleasant for _me_.
He was here abusing me all the afternoon--when I never had any idea of
putting the hot-headed old idiot into a book. It's too bad--it really
is!'

''Umpage won't law me--he's had enough of that. Don't you be afraid,
and don't show yourself poor-spirited. You've done me a good turn by
showing up 'Umpage as what I believe him to be--what's the good of
pretending you never meant it--to me? You don't know how pleased
you've made me. It's made a great difference in _your_ prospects,
young man, I can tell yer!'

'So you told me at the "Cock,"' said Mark.

'I don't mean that way, this time. I dessay I spoke rather 'asty then;
I didn't know what sort of littery line you were going to take up
with, but if you go on as you've begun, you're all right. And when I
have a nephew that makes people talk about him and shows up them that
makes themselves unpleasant as neighbours, why, what I say is, Make
the most of him! And that brings me to what I've come about. How are
you off in the matter o' money, hey?'

Mark was already beginning to feel rather anxious about his expenses.
His uncle's cheque was by this time nearly exhausted, his salary at
St. Peter's was not high and, as he had already sent in his
resignation, that source of income would dry up very shortly. He had
the money paid him for 'Illusion,' but that of course he could not
use; he had not sunk low enough for that, though he had no clear ideas
what to do with it. He would receive handsome sums for his next two
novels, but that would not be for some time, and meanwhile his
expenses had increased with his new life to a degree that surprised
himself, for Mark was not a young man of provident habits.

So he gave his uncle to understand that, though he expected to be paid
some heavy sums in a few months, his purse was somewhat light at
present.

'Why didn't you come to me?' cried his uncle; 'you might a' known _I_
shouldn't have stinted you. You've never found me near with you. And
now you're getting a big littery pot, and going about among the nobs
as I see your name with, why, you must keep up the position you've
made--and you shall too! You're quite right to drop the
schoolmastering, since you make more money with your scribbling. Your
time's valuable now. Set to and scribble away while you're the
fashion; make your 'ay while the sun shines, my boy. I'll see yer
through it. I want you to do me credit. I want everyone to know that
you're not like some of these poor devils, but have got a rich old
uncle at your back. You let 'em know that, will yer?'

And, quite in the manner of the traditional stage uncle, he produced
his cheque book and wrote a cheque for a handsome sum, intimating that
that would be Mark's quarterly allowance while he continued to do him
credit, and until he should be independent of it. Mark was almost too
astounded for thanks at first by such very unexpected liberality, and
something, too, in the old man's coarse satisfaction jarred on him and
made him ashamed of himself. But he contrived to express his gratitude
at last.

'It's all right,' said Uncle Solomon; 'I don't grudge it yer. You just
go on as you've begun.' ('I hope that doesn't mean "making more hits
at Humpage,"' thought Mark.) 'You thought you could do without me, but
you see you can't; and look here, make a friend of me after this, d'ye
hear? Don't do nothing without my advice. I'm a bit older than you
are, and p'r'aps I can give you a wrinkle or two, even about littery
matters, though you mayn't think it. You needn't a' been afraid your
uncle would cast you off, Mark--so long as you're doing well. As I
told your mother the other day, there's nothing narrerminded about me,
and if you feel you've a call to write, why, I don't think the worse
of you for it. I'm not _that_ kind of man.'

And after many more speeches of this kind, in the course of which he
fully persuaded himself, and very nearly his nephew, that his views
had been of this broad nature from the beginning, and were entirely
uninfluenced by events, he left Mark to think over this new turn of
fortune's wheel, by which he had provoked a bitter foe and regained a
powerful protector, without deserving one more than the other.

He thought lightly enough of the first interview now; it was cheaply
bought at the price of the other. 'And after all,' he said to himself,
'what man has no enemies?'

But only those whose past is quite stainless, or quite stained, can
afford to hold their enemies in calm indifference, and although Mark
never knew how old Mr. Humpage's enmity was destined to affect him, it
was not without influence on his fortunes.




CHAPTER XVIII.

A DINNER PARTY.


Mrs. Langton did not forget Mark; and before many days had gone by
since his call, he received an invitation to dine at Kensington Park
Gardens on a certain Saturday, to which he counted the days like a
schoolboy. The hour came at last, and he found himself in the pretty
drawing-room once more. There were people there already; a stout judge
and his pretty daughter, a meek but eminent conveyancer with a
gorgeous wife, and a distinguished professor with a bland subtle
smile, a gentle voice and a dangerous eye. Other guests came in
afterwards, but Mark hardly saw them. He talked a little to Mrs.
Langton, and Mrs. Langton talked considerably to him during the first
few minutes after his entrance, but his thoughts kept wandering, like
his eyes, to Mabel as she moved from group to group in her character
of supplementary hostess, for Mrs. Langton's health did not allow her
to exert herself on these occasions.

Mabel was looking very lovely that evening, in some soft light dress
of pale rose, with a trail of pure white buds and flowers at her
shoulder. Mark watched her as she went about, now listening with
pretty submission to the gorgeous woman in the ruby velvet and the
diamond star, who was laying down some 'little new law' of her own,
now demurely acknowledging the old judge's semi-paternal compliments,
audaciously rallying the learned professor, or laughing brightly at
something a spoony-looking, fair-haired youth was saying to her.

Somehow she seemed to Mark to be further removed than ever from him;
he was nothing to her amongst all these people; she had not even
noticed him yet. He began to be jealous of the judge, and the
professor too, and absolutely to hate the spoony youth.

But she came to him at last. Perhaps she had seen him from the first,
and felt his dark eyes following her with that pathetic look they had
whenever things were not going perfectly well with him. She came now,
and was pleased to be gracious to him for a few minutes, till dinner
was announced.

Mark heard it with a pang. Now they would be separated, of course; he
would be given to the ruby woman, or that tall, keen-faced girl with
the _pince-nez_; he would be lucky if he got two minutes' conversation
with Mabel in the drawing-room later on. But he waited for
instructions resignedly.

'Didn't papa tell you?' she said; 'you are to take me in--if you
will?' If he would! He felt a thrill as her light fingers rested on
his arm; he could scarcely believe his own good fortune, even when he
found himself seated next to her as the general rustle subsided, and
might accept the delightful certainty that she would be there by his
side for the next two hours at least.

He forgot to consult his _menu_; he had no very distinct idea of what
he ate or drank, or what was going on around him, at least as long as
Mabel talked to him. They were just outside the radius of the big
centre lamp, and that and the talk around them produced a sort of
semi-privacy.

The spoony young man was at Mabel's right hand, to be sure, but he
had been sent in with the keen-faced young lady who came from Girton,
where it was well known that the marks she had gained in one of the
great Triposes under the old order, would--but for her sex--have
placed her very high indeed in the class list. Somebody had told the
young man of this, and, as he was from Cambridge too, but had never
been placed anywhere except in one or two walking races at Fenner's,
it had damped him too much for conversation just yet.

'Have you been down to Chigbourne lately?' Mabel asked Mark suddenly,
and her smile and manner showed him that she remembered their first
meeting. He took this opportunity of disclaiming all share in the
treatment of the unfortunate gander, and was assured that it was quite
unnecessary to do so.

'I wish your uncle, Mr. Humpage, thought with you,' he said ruefully,
'but he has quite made up his mind that I am a villain of the deepest
dye;' and then, encouraged to confide in her, he told the story of the
old gentleman's furious entry and accusation.

Mabel looked rather grave. 'How could he get such an idea into his
head?' she said.

'I'm afraid _my_ uncle had something to do with that,' said Mark, and
explained Mr. Lightowler's conduct.

'It's very silly of both of them,' she said; 'and then to drag _you_
into the quarrel, too! You know, old Mr. Humpage is not really my
uncle--only one of those relations that sound like a prize puzzle when
you try to make them out. Dolly always calls him Uncle Anthony--he's
her godfather. But I wish you hadn't offended him, Mr. Ashburn, I do
really. I've heard he can be a very bitter enemy. He has been a very
good friend to papa; I believe he gave him almost the very first brief
he ever had; and he's kind to all of us. But it's dangerous to offend
him. Perhaps you will meet him here some day,' she added, 'and then we
may be able to make him see how mistaken he has been.'

'How kind of you to care about it!' said he, and his eyes spoke his
gratitude for the frank interest she had taken in his fortunes.

'Of course I care,' said Mabel, looking down as she spoke. 'I can't
bear to see anyone I like and respect--as I do poor Uncle
Anthony--persist in misjudging _anybody_ like that.'

Mark had hoped more from the beginning of this speech than the
conclusion quite bore out, but it was delightful to hear her talking
something more than society nothings to him. However, that was ended
for the present by the sudden irruption of the spoony young man into
the conversation; he had come out very shattered from a desperate
intellectual conflict with the young lady from Girton, to whom he had
ventured on a remark which, as he made it, had seemed to him likely to
turn out brilliant. 'You know,' he had announced solemnly, 'opinions
may differ, but in these things I must say I don't think the
exception's _always_ the rule--eh? don't you find that?' And his
neighbour replied that she thought he had hit upon a profound
philosophical truth, and then spoilt it by laughing. After which the
young man, thinking internally 'it _sounded_ all right, wonder if it
was such bosh as she seems to think,' had fled to Mabel for sanctuary
and plunged into an account of his University disasters.

'I should have floored my "General" all right, you know,' he said,
'only I went in for too much poetry.'

'Poetry?' echoed Mabel, with a slight involuntary accent of surprise.

'Rhymes, you know, not regular poetry!'

'But, Mr. Pidgely, I don't quite see; why can't you floor generals
with rhymes which are not regular poetry? Are they so particular in
the army?'

'It isn't an army exam.; it's at Cambridge; and the rhymes are all the
chief tips done into poetry--like "Paley" rhymes, y' know. Paley
rhymes give you, for instance, all the miracles or all the parables
right off in about four lines of gibberish, and you learn the
gibberish and then you're all right. I got through my Little-go that
way, but I couldn't the General. Fact is, my coach gave me too _many_
rhymes!'

'And couldn't you recollect the--the tips without rhymes?'

'Couldn't remember _with_ 'em,' he said. 'I could have corked down the
verses all right enough, but the beggars won't take them. I forgot
what they were all about, so I had to show up blank papers. And I'd
stayed up all one Long too!'

'Working?' asked Mabel, with some sympathy.

'Well--and cricketing,' he said ingenuously. 'I call it a swindle.'

'He talks quite a dialect of his own,' thought Mabel surprised.
'Vincent didn't. I wonder if Mr. Ashburn can.'

Mr. Ashburn, after a short period of enforced silence spent in
uncharitable feelings respecting fair-haired Mr. Pidgely, had been
suddenly attacked by the lady on his left, a plump lady with queer
comic inflections in her voice, the least touch of brogue, and a
reputation for daring originality.

'I suppose now,' she began, 'ye've read the new book they're talking
so much about--this "Illusion"? And h'wat's your private opinion? I
wonder if I'll find a man with the courage to agree with me, for _I_
said when I'd come to the last page, "Well, they may say what they
like, but I never read such weary rubbish in all me life," and I never
did!'

Mark laughed--he could not help it--but it was a laugh of real
enjoyment, without the slightest trace of pique or wounded vanity in
it. 'I'll make a confession,' he said. 'I do think myself that the
book has been luckier than it deserves--only, as the--the man who
wrote it is a--a very old friend of mine--you see, I mustn't join in
abusing it.'

Mabel heard this and liked Mark the better for it. 'I suppose he
couldn't do anything else very well without making a scene,' she
thought, 'but he did it very nicely. I hope that woman will find out
who he is though; it will be a lesson to her!' Here Mabel was not
quite fair, perhaps, for the lady had a right to her opinion, and
anything is better than humbug. But she was very needlessly pitying
Mark for having to listen to such unpalatable candour, little dreaming
how welcome it was to him, or how grateful he felt to his critic. When
Mark was free again, after an animated discussion with his candid
neighbour, in which each had amused the other and both were on the way
to becoming intimate, he found the spoony youth finishing the
description of a new figure he had seen in a _cotillon_. 'You all sit
down on chairs, don't you know,' he was saying, 'and then the rest
come through doors;' and Mabel said, with a spice of malice (for she
was being excessively bored), that that must be very pretty and
original.

Mr. Langton was chatting ponderously at his end of the table, and Mrs.
Langton was being interested at hers by an account the judge's lady
was giving of a _protégé_ of hers, an imbecile, who made his living by
calling neighbours who had to be up early.

'Perhaps it's prejudice,' said Mrs. Langton, 'but I do _not_ think I
should like to be called by an _idiot_; he might turn into a maniac
some day. They do quite suddenly at times, don't they?' she added,
appealing to the professor, 'and that wouldn't be _nice_, you know, if
he did. What _would_ you do?' she inquired generally.

'Shouldn't get up,' said a rising young barrister.

'_I_ should--under the bed, and scream,' said the lively young lady he
had taken down. And so for some minutes that end of the table applied
itself zealously to solving the difficult problem of the proper course
to take on being called early by a raving maniac.

Meanwhile Mabel had succeeded in dropping poor Mr. Pidgely and
resuming conversation with Mark; this time on ordinary topics--pictures,
books, theatres, and people (especially people); he talked well, and
the sympathy between them increased.

Then as the dessert was being taken round, Dolly and Colin came in.
'_I've_ had ices, Mabel,' said the latter confidentially in her ear
as he passed her chair on his way to his mother; but Dolly stole
quietly in and sat down by her father's side without a word.

'Do you notice any difference in my sister Dolly?' Mabel asked Mark,
with a little anxious line on her forehead.

'She is not looking at all well,' said Mark, following the direction
of her glance. There certainly was a change in Dolly; she had lost all
her usual animation, and sat there silent and constrained, leaving the
delicacies with which her father had loaded her plate untouched, and
starting nervously whenever he spoke to her. When good-natured Mr.
Pidgely displayed his one accomplishment of fashioning a galloping pig
out of orange-peel for her amusement, she seemed almost touched by his
offering, instead of slightly offended, as the natural Dolly would
have been.

'I don't think she is ill,' said Mabel, 'though I was uneasy about
that at first. Fräulein and I fancy she must be worrying herself about
something, but we can't get her to say what it is, and I don't like to
tease her; very likely she is afraid of being laughed at if she tells
anybody. But I do so wish I could find out; children can make
themselves so terribly wretched over mere trifles sometimes.'

But the hour of 'bereavement,' as Mr. Du Maurier calls it, had come;
gloves were being drawn on, the signal was given. Mr. Pidgely, after
first carefully barricading the path on his side of the table with his
chair, opened the door, and the men, left to themselves, dropped their
hypocritical mask of resigned regret as the handle turned on Mrs.
Langton's train, and settled down with something very like relief.

Mark, of course, could not share this, though it is to be feared that
even he found some consolation in his cigarette; the sound of Mabel's
voice had not ceased to ring in his ears when her father took him by
the arm and led him up to be introduced to the professor, who was
standing before a picture. The man of science seemed at first a
little astonished at having an ordinary young man presented to him in
this way, but when his host explained that Mark was the author of the
book of which the professor had been speaking so highly, his manner
changed, and he overwhelmed him with his courtly compliments, while
the other guests gathered gradually nearer, envying the fortunate
object of so marked a distinction.

But the object himself was horribly uncomfortable; for it appeared
that the professor in reading 'Illusion' had been greatly struck by a
brilliant simile drawn from some recent scientific discoveries with
which he had had some connection, and had even discovered in some
passages what he pronounced to be the germ of a striking theory that
had already suggested itself to his own brain, and he was consequently
very anxious to find out exactly what was in Mark's mind when he
wrote. Before Mark knew where he was, he found himself let in for a
scientific discussion with one of the leading authorities on the
subject, while nearly everyone was listening with interest for his
explanation. His forehead grew damp and cold with the horror of the
situation--he almost lost his head, for he knew very little about
science. Thanks, however, to his recent industry, he kept some
recollection of the passages in question, and without any clear idea
of what he was going to say, plunged desperately into a long and
complicated explanation. He talked the wildest nonsense, but with such
confidence that everyone in the room but the professor was impressed.
Mark had the mortification of seeing, as the great man heard him out
with a quiet dry smile, and a look in his grey eyes which he did not
at all like, that he was found out. But the professor only said at the
end, 'Well, that's very interesting, Mr. Ashburn, very interesting
indeed--you have given me a really considerable insight into
your--ah--mental process.' And for the rest of the evening he talked
to his host. As he drove home with his wife that night, however, his
disappointment found vent: 'Never been so taken in in my life,' he
remarked; 'I did think from his book that that young Ernstone and I
would have something in common; but I tried him but got nothing out
of him but rubbish; probably got the whole thing up out of some
British Association speech and forgotten it! I hate your shallow
fellows, and 'pon my word I felt strongly inclined to show him up,
only I didn't care to annoy Langton!'

'I'm glad you didn't, dear,' said his wife; 'I don't think
dinner-parties are good places to show people up in, and really Mr.
Ernstone, or Ashburn, whatever his name is, struck me as being so very
charming--perhaps you expected too much from him.'

'H'm, I shall know better another time,' he said.

But the incident, even as it was, left Mark with an uncomfortable
feeling that his evening had somehow been spoilt, particularly as he
did not succeed in getting any further conversation with Mabel in the
drawing-room afterwards to make him forget the unpleasantness. Vincent
Holroyd's work was still proving itself in some measure an avenger of
his wrongs.




CHAPTER XIX.

DOLLY'S DELIVERANCE.


About a week after the dinner recorded in the last chapter, Mark
repaired to the house in Kensington Park Gardens to call as in duty
bound, though, as he had not been able to find out on what afternoon
he would be sure of finding Mrs. Langton at home, he was obliged to
leave this to chance. He was admitted, however--not by the stately
Champion, but by Colin, who had seen him from the window and hastened
to intercept him.

'Mabel's at home, somewhere,' he said, 'but will you come in and speak
to Dolly first? She's crying awfully about something, and she won't
tell me what. Perhaps she'd tell you. And do come, sir, please; it's
no fun when she's like that, and she's always doing it now!' For Colin
had an unlimited belief, founded as he thought on experience, in the
persuasive powers of his former master.

Mark had his doubts as to the strict propriety of acceding to this
request--at all events until it had been sanctioned by some higher
authority than Colin--but then he remembered Mabel's anxiety on the
night of the dinner; if he could only set this child's mind at ease,
would not that excuse any breach of conventionality--would it not win
a word of gratitude from her sister? He could surely take a little
risk and trouble for such a reward as that; and so, with his usual
easy confidence, he accepted a task which was to cost him dear enough.
'You'd better leave me to manage this, young man,' he said at the
door. 'Run off to your sister Mabel and explain things, tell her where
I am and why, you know.' And he went into the library alone. Dolly was
crouching there in an arm-chair, worn out by sobbing and the weight of
a terror she dared not speak of, which had broken her down at last.
Mark, who was good-natured enough in his careless way, was touched by
the utter abandonment of her grief; for the first time he began to
think it must be something graver than a mere childish trouble, and,
apart from all personal motives, longed sincerely to do something, if
he could, to restore Dolly to her old childish self. He forgot
everything but that, and the unselfish sympathy he felt gave him a
tact and gentleness with which few who knew him best would have
credited him. Gradually, for at first she would say nothing, and
turned away in lonely hopelessness, he got her to confess that she was
very unhappy; that she had done something which she must never, never
tell to anybody.

Then she started up with a flushed face and implored him to go away
and leave her. '_Don't_ make me tell you!' she begged piteously. 'Oh,
I know you mean to be kind, I _do_ like you now--only I can't tell
you, really. Please, _please_ go away--I'm so afraid of telling you.'

'But why?' said Mark. 'I'm not very good myself, Dolly--you need not
be afraid of me.'

'It isn't that,' said Dolly, with a shudder; 'but _he_ said if I told
anyone they would have to send me to prison.'

'Who dared to tell you a wicked lie like that?' said Mark indignantly,
all the manhood in him roused by the stupid cruelty of it. 'It wasn't
Colin, was it, Dolly?'

'No, not Colin; it was Harold--Harold Caffyn. Oh, Mr. Ashburn,' she
said, with a sudden gleam of hope, 'wasn't it _true_? He said papa was
a lawyer, and would have to help the law to punish me----'

'The infernal scoundrel!' muttered Mark to himself, but he saw that he
was getting to the bottom of the mystery at last. 'So he told you
that, did he?' he continued; 'did he say it to tease you, Dolly?'

'I don't know. He often used to tease, but never like that before, and
I _did_ do it--only I never never meant it.'

'Now listen to me, Dolly,' said Mark. 'If all you are afraid of is
being sent to prison, you needn't think any more about it. You can
trust me, can't you? You know I wouldn't deceive you. Well, I tell you
that you can't have done anything that you would be sent to prison
for--that's all nonsense. Do you understand? Harold Caffyn said that
to frighten you. No one in the world would ever dream of sending you
to prison, whatever you'd done. Are you satisfied now?'

Rather to Mark's embarrassment, she threw her arms round his neck in a
fit of half-hysterical joy and relief. 'Tell me again,' she cried;
'you're _sure_ it's true--they can't send me to prison? Oh, I don't
care now. I am so glad you came--so glad. I _will_ tell you all about
it now. I want to!'

But some instinct kept Mark from hearing this confession; he had
overcome the main difficulty--the rest was better left in more
delicate hands than his, he thought. So he said, 'Never mind about
telling me, Dolly; I'm sure it wasn't anything very bad. But suppose
you go and find Mabel, and tell her; then you'll be quite happy
again.'

'Will _you_ come too?' asked Dolly, whose heart was now completely
won.

So Mark and she went hand-in-hand to the little boudoir at the back of
the house where they had had their first talk about fairies, and found
Mabel in her favourite chair by the window; she looked round with a
sudden increase of colour as she saw Mark.

'I mustn't stay,' he said, after shaking hands. 'I ought not to come
at all, I'm afraid, but I've brought a young lady who has a most
tremendous secret to confess, which she's been making herself, and you
too, unhappy about all this time. She has come to find out if it's
really anything so very awful after all.'

And he left them together. It was hard to go away after seeing so
little of Mabel, but it was a sacrifice she was capable of
appreciating.




CHAPTER XX.

A DECLARATION--OF WAR.


On the morning of the day which witnessed Dolly's happy deliverance
from the terrors which had haunted her so long, Mabel had received a
note from Harold Caffyn. He had something to say to her, he wrote,
which could be delayed no longer--he could not be happy until he had
spoken. If he were to call some time the next morning, would she see
him--alone?

These words she read at first in their most obvious sense, for she had
been suspecting for some time that an interview of this kind was
coming, and even felt a little sorry for Harold, of whom she was
beginning to think more kindly. So she wrote a few carefully worded
lines, in which she tried to prepare him as much as possible for the
only answer she could give, but before her letter was sent Dolly had
told her story of innocent guilt.

Mabel read his note again and tore up her reply with burning cheeks.
She _must_ have misunderstood him--it could not be _that_; he must
have felt driven to repair by confession the harm he had done. And
she wrote instead--'I shall be very willing to hear anything you may
have to say,' and took the note herself to the pillar-box on the hill.

Harold found her answer on returning late that night to his room, and
saw nothing in it to justify any alarm. 'It's not precisely gushing,'
he said to himself, 'but she couldn't very well say more just yet. I
think I am pretty safe.' So the next morning he stepped from his
hansom to the Langtons' door, leisurely and coolly enough. Perhaps his
heart was beating a little faster, but only with excitement and
anticipation of victory, for after Mabel's note he could feel no
serious doubts.

He was shown into the little boudoir looking out on the square, but
she was not there to receive him--she even allowed him to wait a few
minutes, which amused him. 'How like a woman!' he thought. 'She can't
resist keeping me on the tenterhooks a little, even now.' There was a
light step outside, she had come at last, and he started to his feet
as the door opened. 'Mabel!' he cried--he had meant to add 'my
darling'--but something in her face warned him not to appear too sure
of her yet.

She was standing at some distance from him, with one hand lightly
resting on a little table; her face was paler than usual, she seemed
rather to avoid looking at him, while she did not offer to take his
outstretched hand. Still he was not precisely alarmed by all this.
Whatever she felt, she was not the girl to throw herself at any
fellow's head; she was proud and he must be humble--for the present.

'You had something to say to me--Harold?' With what a pretty shy
hesitation she spoke his name now, he thought, with none of the
sisterly frankness he had found so tantalising; and how delicious she
was as she stood there in her fresh white morning dress. There was a
delightful piquancy in this assumed coldness of hers--a woman's dainty
device to delay and heighten the moment of surrender! He longed to
sweep away all her pretty defences, to take her to his arms and make
her own that she was his for ever. But somehow he felt a little
afraid of her; he must proceed with caution. 'Yes,' he said, 'there is
something I must say to you--you will give me a hearing, Mabel, won't
you?'

'I told you I would hear you. I hope you will say something to make me
think of you differently.'

He did not understand this exactly, but it did not sound precisely
encouraging.

'I hoped you didn't think me a very bad sort of fellow,' he said. And
then, as she made no answer, he plunged at once into his declaration.
He was a cold lover on the stage, but practice had at least given him
fluency, and now he was very much in earnest--he had never known till
then all that she was to him: there was real passion in his voice, and
a restrained power which might have moved her once.

But Mabel heard him to the end only because she felt unable to stop
him without losing control over herself. She felt the influence of his
will, but it made her the more thankful that she had so powerful a
safeguard against it.

He finished and she still made no response, and he began to feel
decidedly awkward; but when at last she turned her face to him,
although her eyes were bright, it was not with the passion he had
hoped to read there.

'And it really was that, after all!' she said bitterly. 'Do you know,
I expected something very different.'

'I said what I feel. I might have said it better perhaps,' he
retorted, 'but at least tell me what you expected me to say, and I
will say that.'

'Yes, I will tell you. I expected an explanation.'

'An explanation!' he repeated blankly; 'of what?'

'Is there nothing you can remember which might call for some excuse if
you found I had heard of it? I will give you every chance, Harold.
Think--is there nothing?'

Caffyn had forgotten the stamp episode as soon as possible, as a
disagreeable expedient to which he had been obliged to resort, and
which had served its end, and so he honestly misunderstood this
question.

'Upon my soul, no,' he said earnestly. 'I don't pretend to have been
any better than my neighbours, but since I began to think of you, I
never cared about any other woman. If you've been told any silly
gossip----'

Mabel laughed, but not merrily. 'Oh, it is not _that_--really it did
not occur to me to be jealous at any time--especially now. Harold,
Dolly has told me everything about that letter,' she added, as he
still looked doubtful.

He understood now at all events, and took a step back as if to avoid a
blow. _Everything!_ his brain seemed dulled for an instant by those
words; he thought that he had said enough to prevent the child from
breathing a syllable about that unlucky letter, and now Mabel knew
'everything!'

But he recovered his power of thought almost directly, feeling that
this was no time to lose his head. 'I suppose I'm expected to show
some emotion,' he said lightly; 'it's evidently something quite too
terrible. But I'm afraid _I_ want an explanation this time.'

'I think not, but you shall have it. I know that you came in and found
that poor child tearing off the stamp from some old envelope of mine,
and had the wickedness to tell her she had been stealing. Do you deny
it?'

'Some old envelope!' The worst of Caffyn's fear vanished when he heard
that. She did not know that it contained an unread letter then; she
did not guess--how could she, when Dolly herself did not know
it--where the letter had come from. He might appease her yet!

Caffyn's first inference, it may be said, was correct; in Dolly's mind
her guilt had consisted in stealing a marked stamp, and her hurried
and confused confession had, quite innocently and unconsciously, left
Mabel ignorant of the real extent and importance of what seemed to her
a quite imaginary offence.

'Deny it!' he said, 'of course not; I remember joking her a little
over something of the sort. Is _that_ all this tremendous indignation
is about--a joke?'

'A joke!' she said indignantly; 'you will not make anyone but
yourself merry over jokes like that. You set to work deliberately to
frighten her; you did it so thoroughly that she has been wretched for
days and days, ill and miserable with the dread of being sent to
prison. You _did_ threaten her with a prison, Harold; you told her she
must even be afraid of her own father--of all of us.... Who can tell
what she has been suffering, all alone, my poor little Dolly! And you
dare to call that a joke!'

'I never thought she would take it all so literally,' he said.

'Oh, you are not stupid, Harold; only a cruel fool could have thought
he was doing no harm. And you have seen her since again and again; you
must have noticed how changed she was, and yet you had no pity on her!
Can't you really see what a thing you have been doing? Do you often
amuse yourself in that way, and with children?'

'Hang it, Mabel,' said Caffyn uneasily, 'you're very hard on me!'

'Why were you hard on my darling Dolly?' Mabel demanded. 'What had she
done to you--how could you find pleasure in torturing her? Do you hate
children--or only Dolly?'

He made a little gesture of impatient helplessness. 'Oh, if you mean
to go on asking questions like that--' he said, 'of course I don't
hate your poor little sister. I tell you I'm sorry she took it
seriously--very sorry. And--and, if there's anything I can do to make
it up to her somehow; any--any amends, you know----'

The hardship, as he felt at the time, of his peculiar position was
that it obliged him to offer such a lame excuse for his treatment of
Dolly. Without the motive he had had for his conduct, it must seem
dictated by some morbid impulse of cruelty--whereas, of course, he had
acted quite dispassionately, under the pressure of a necessity--which,
however, it was impossible to explain to Mabel.

'I suppose "amends" mean caramels or chocolates,' said Mabel;
'chocolates to compensate for making a child shrink for days from
those who loved her! She was fretting herself ill, and we could do
nothing for her: a very little more and it might have killed her.
Perhaps your sense of humour would have been satisfied by that? If it
had not been for a friend--almost a stranger--who was able to see what
we were all blind to, that a coward had been practising on her fears,
we might never have guessed the truth till--till it was too late!'

'I see now,' he said; 'I thought there must be someone at the bottom
of this; someone who, for purposes of his own, has contrived to put
things in the worst light for me. If you can condescend to listen to
slanderers, Mabel, I shall certainly not condescend to defend myself.'

'Oh, I will tell you his name,' she said, 'and then even you will have
to own that he had no motive for doing what he did but natural
goodness and kindness. I doubt even if he has ever met you in his
life; the man who rescued our Dolly from what you had made her is Mr.
Mark Ashburn, the author of 'Illusion' (her expression softened
slightly, from the gratitude she felt, as she spoke his name, and
Caffyn noted it). 'If you think he would stoop to slander _you_---- But
what is the use of talking like that? You have owned it all. No
slander could make it any worse than it is!'

'If you think as badly of me as that,' said Caffyn, who had grown
deadly pale, 'we can meet no more, even as acquaintances.'

'That would be my own wish,' she replied.

'Do you mean,' he asked huskily, 'that--that everything is to be over
between us? Has it really come to that, Mabel?'

'I did not know that there ever was anything between us, as you call
it,' she said. 'But of course, after this, friendship is impossible.
We cannot help meeting. I shall not even tell my mother of this, for
Dolly's sake, and so this house will still be open to you. But if you
force me to protect Dolly or myself, you will come here no more.'

Her scornful indifference only filled him with a more furious desire
to triumph over it; he had felt so secure of her that morning, and now
she had placed this immeasurable distance between them. He had never
felt the full power of her beauty till then, as she stood there with
that haughty pose of the head and the calm contempt in her eyes; he
had seen her in most moods--playfully perverse, coldly civil, and
unaffectedly gracious and gentle--and in none of them had she made his
heart ache with the mad passion that mastered him now.

'It shall not end like this!' he said violently; 'I won't let you make
a mountain of a molehill in this way, Mabel, because it suits you to
do so. You have no right to judge me by what a child chooses to
imagine I said!'

'I judge you by the effects of what you did say. I can remember very
well that you had a cruel tongue as a boy--you are quite able to
torture a child with it still.'

'It is your tongue that is cruel!' he retorted; 'but you shall be just
to me. I love you, Mabel--whether you like it or not--you shall not
throw me off like this. Do you hear? You liked me well enough before
all this! I will force you to think better of me; you shall own it
one day. No, I'm mad to talk like this--I only ask you to forgive
me--to let me hope still!'

He came forward as he spoke and tried to take her hands, but she put
them quickly behind her. 'Don't dare to come nearer!' she said; 'I
thought I had made you feel something of what I think of you. What can
I say more? Hope! do you think I could ever trust a man capable of
such deliberate wickedness as you have shown by that single action?--a
kind of malice that I hardly think can be human. No, you had better
not hope for that. As for forgiving you, I can't even do that now;
some day, perhaps, when Dolly has quite forgotten, I may be able to
forget too, but not till then. Have I made you understand yet? Is that
enough?'

Caffyn was still standing where she had checked his advance; his face
was very grey and drawn, and his eyes were fixed on the Eastern rug at
his feet. He gave a short savage laugh. 'Well, yes,' he said, 'I
think perhaps I _have_ had enough at last. You have been kind enough
to put your remarks very plainly. I hope, for your own sake, I may
never have a chance of making you any return for all this.'

'I hope so too,' she said; 'I think you would use it.'

'Thanks for your good opinion,' he said, as he went to the door. 'I
shall do my best, if the time comes, to deserve it.'

She had never faltered during the whole of this interview. A righteous
anger had given her courage to declare all the scorn and indignation
she felt. But now, as the front door closed upon him, the strength
that had sustained her so long gave way all at once; she sank
trembling into one of the low cushioned chairs, and presently the
reaction completed itself in tears, which she had not quite repressed
when Dolly came in to look for her.

'Has he gone?' she began; and then, as she saw her sister's face,
'Mabel! Harold hasn't been bullying _you_?'

'No, darling, no,' said Mabel, putting her arms round Dolly's waist.
'It's silly of me to cry, isn't it? for Harold will not trouble either
of us again after this.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile Harold was striding furiously down the other side of the
hill in the direction of Kensal Green, paying very little heed where
his steps might be leading him, in the dull rage which made his brain
whirl.

Mabel's soft and musical voice, for it had not ceased to be that, even
when her indignation was at its highest, rang still in his ears. He
could not forget her bitter scornful speeches; they were lashing and
stinging him to the soul.

He had indeed been hoist with his own petard; the very adroitness with
which he had contrived to get rid of an inconvenient rival had only
served to destroy his own chances for ever.

He knew that never again would Mabel suffer him to approach her on the
old friendly footing--it would be much if she could bring herself to
treat him with ordinary civility--he had lost her for ever, and hated
her accordingly from the bottom of his heart. 'If I can ever humble
you as you have humbled me to-day, God help you, my charming Mabel!'
he said to himself. 'To think that that little fool of a child should
have let out everything, at the very moment when I had the game in my
own hands! I have to thank that distinguished novelist, Mr. Mark
Ashburn, for that, though; _he_ must trouble himself to put his spoke
in my wheel, must he? I shan't forget it. I owe you one for that, my
illustrious friend, and you're the sort of creditor I generally _do_
pay in the long run.'

Only one thing gave him a gleam--not of comfort, precisely, but gloomy
satisfaction; his manoeuvre with the letter had at least succeeded
in keeping Holroyd apart from Mabel. 'He's just the fellow to think
he's jilted, and give her up without another line,' he thought;
'shouldn't wonder if he married out there. Miss Mabel won't have
_everything_ her own way!'

He walked on, past the huge gasometers and furnaces of the Gas
Company, and over the railway and canal bridges, to the Harrow Road,
when he turned mechanically to the right. His eyes saw nothing--neither
the sluggish barges gliding through the greasy black stream on his
right, nor the doleful string of hearses and mourning coaches which
passed him on their way to or from the cemetery. It was with some
surprise that, as he began to take note of his surroundings again, he
found himself in Bayswater, and not far from his own rooms. He thought
he might as well return to them as not, and as he reached the terrace
in which he had taken lodgings, he saw a figure coming towards him
that seemed familiar, and in whom, as he drew nearer, he recognised
his uncle, Mr. Antony Humpage. He was in no mood to talk about
indifferent topics just then, and if his respected uncle had only had
his back instead of his face towards him, Caffyn would have made no
great effort to attract his attention. As it was, he gave him the
heartiest and most dutiful of welcomes. 'You don't mean to say you've
actually been looking me up?' he began; 'how lucky that I came up
just then--another second or two and I should have missed you. Come
in, and let me give you some lunch?'

'No, my boy, I can't stay long. I was in the neighbourhood on
business, and I thought I'd see if you were at home. I won't come up
again now, I must get back to my station. I waited for some time in
those luxurious apartments of yours, you see, thinking you might come
in. Suppose you walk a little way back with me, eh? if you've no
better engagement.'

'Couldn't have a better one,' said Caffyn, inwardly chafing; but he
always made a point of obliging his uncle, and for once he had no
reason to consider his time thrown away. For, as they walked on
together in the direction of the Edgware Road, where the old gentleman
intended to take the Underground to King's Cross, Mr. Humpage, after
some desultory conversation on various subjects, said suddenly, 'By
the way, you know a good many of these writing fellows, Harold--have
you ever come across one called Mark Ashburn?'

'I've met him once,' said Caffyn, and his brows contracted. 'Wrote
this new book, "Illusion," didn't he?'

'Yes, he did--confound him!' said the other warmly, and then launched
into the history of his wrongs. 'Perhaps I oughtn't to say it at my
age,' he concluded, 'but I hate that fellow!'

'Do you though?' said Caffyn with a laugh; 'it's a singular
coincidence, but so do I.'

'There's something wrong about him, too,' continued the old man; 'he's
got a secret.'

('So have most of us!' thought his nephew.) 'But what makes you think
so?' he asked aloud, and waited for the answer with some interest.

'I saw it in the fellow's face; no young man with a clear record ever
has such a look as he had when I came in. He was green with fear, sir;
perfectly green!'

'Is that all?' and Caffyn was slightly disappointed. 'You know, I
don't think much of that. He might have taken you for a dun, or an
indignant parent, or something of that sort; he may be one of those
nervous fellows who start at anything, and you came there on purpose
to give him a rowing, didn't you?'

'Don't talk to me,' said the old man impatiently; 'there's not much
nervousness about _him_--he's as cool and impudent a rascal as ever I
saw when he's nothing to fear. It was guilt, sir, guilt. You remember
that picture of the Railway Station, and the look on the forger's face
when the detectives lay hold of him at the carriage door? I saw that
very look on young Ashburn's face before I'd spoken a dozen words.'

'What were the words?' said Caffyn. 'Proceed, good uncle, as we say in
our profession; you interest me much!'

'I'm sure I forget what I said--I was out of temper, I remember that.
I think I began by asking him for the real name of the author of the
book.'

Again Caffyn was disappointed. 'Of course he was in a funk then; he
knew he had put you into it. So you say at least; I've not read the
book myself.'

'It wasn't that at all, I tell you,' persisted the old man
obstinately; 'you weren't there, and I was. D'ye think I don't know
better than you? He's not the man to care for that. When he found what
I'd really come about he was cool enough. No, no, he's robbed, or
forged, or something, at some time or other, take my word for it--and
I only hope I shall live to see it brought home to him!'

'I hope it will _find_ him at home when it is,' said Caffyn; 'these
things generally find the culprits "out" in more senses than one, to
use an old Joe Miller. He would look extremely well in the Old Bailey
dock. But this is Utopian, Uncle.'

'Well--we shall see. I turn off here, so good-bye. If you meet that
libelling scoundrel again, you remember what I've told you.'

'Yes, I will,' thought Caffyn as he walked back alone. 'I must know
more of my dear Ashburn; and if there happens to be a screw loose
anywhere in my dear Ashburn's past, I shall do my humble best to give
it a turn or two. It's a charming amusement to unmask the perfidious
villain, as I suppose I must call myself after to-day, but it was
hardly safe to do it if he has his reasons for wearing a domino
himself. If I could only think that excellent uncle of mine had not
found a mare's nest! And if I can only put that screw on!'




CHAPTER XXI.

A PARLEY WITH THE ENEMY.


Mr. Fladgate was one of those domestically inclined bachelors who are
never really at ease in rooms or chambers, and whose tastes lead them,
as soon as they possess the necessary means, to set up a substantial
and well-regulated household of their own. He had a large
old-fashioned house in the neighbourhood of Russell Square, where he
entertained rather frequently in a solid unpretentious fashion. At his
Sunday dinners especially, one or two of the minor celebrities of the
day were generally to be met, and it was to one of these gatherings
that Mark was invited, as one of the natural consequences of the
success of 'Illusion.' He found himself, on arriving, in company with
several faces familiar to him from photographs, and heard names
announced which were already common property. There were some there
who had been famous once and were already beginning to be forgotten,
others now obscure who were destined to be famous some day, and a few,
and these by no means the least gifted, who neither had been nor would
be famous at any time. There were two or three constellations of some
magnitude on this occasion, surrounded by a kind of 'milky way' of
minor stars, amongst which the bar, the studios, and the stage were
all more or less represented.

Mark, as a rising man who had yet to justify a first success, occupied
a position somewhere between the greater and lesser division, and Mr.
Fladgate took care to make him known to many of the leading men in
the room, by whom he found himself welcomed with cordial
encouragement.

Presently, when he had shifted for a moment out of the nearest focus
of conversation, his host, who had been 'distributing himself,' as the
French say, amongst the various knots of talkers, came bustling up to
him. 'Er--Mr. Ashburn,' he began, 'I want you to know a very clever
young fellow here--known him from a boy--he's on the stage now, and
going to surprise us all some of these days. You'll like him. Come
along and I'll introduce him to you; he's very anxious to know _you_.'
And when Mark had followed him as he threaded his way across the room,
he found himself hurriedly introduced to the man with the cold light
eyes whom he had met at the Featherstones' on the day when he had
recognised Mabel Langton's portrait. Mr. Fladgate had already bustled
away again, and the two were left together in a corner of the room.
Dolly's revelations of the terrorism this man had exercised over her
had strengthened the prejudice and dislike Mark had felt on their
first meeting; he felt angry and a little uncomfortable now, at being
forced to come in contact with him, but there was no way of avoiding
it just then, and Caffyn himself was perfectly at his ease.

'I think we have met before--at Grosvenor Place,' he began blandly;
'but I dare say you have forgotten.'

'No,' said Mark, 'I remember you very well; and besides,' he added,
with a significance that he hoped would not be thrown away, 'I have
been hearing a good deal about you lately from the Langtons--from Miss
Langton, that is.'

'Ah!' said Caffyn; 'that would be flattering to most men, but when one
has the bad luck, like myself, to displease such a very impulsive
young lady as Miss Langton, the less she mentions you the better.'

'I may as well say,' returned Mark coldly, 'that, as to that
particular affair in which you were concerned, whatever my opinions
are, I formed them without assistance.'

'And you don't care to have them unsettled again by any plea for the
defence? That's very natural. Well, with Miss Langton's remarks to
guide me, I think I can guess what your own opinion of me is likely to
be just now. And I'm going to ask you, as a mere matter of fair play,
to hear my side of the question. You think that's very ridiculous, of
course?'

'I think we can do no good by discussing it any farther,' said Mark;
'we had better let the matter drop.'

'But you see,' urged Caffyn, 'as it is, the matter _has_ dropped--on
me, and really I do think that you, who I understand were the
means--of course from the best possible motives--of exposing me as a
designing villain, might give me an opportunity of defending myself. I
took the liberty of getting Fladgate to bring us together, expressly
because I can't be comfortable while I know you have your present
impressions of me. I don't expect to persuade Miss Langton to have a
little charity--she's a woman; but I hoped you at least would give me
a hearing.'

Mark felt some of his prejudice leaving him already; Caffyn had not
the air of a man who had been detected in a course of secret tyranny.
There was something flattering, too, in his evident wish to recover
Mark's good opinion; he certainly ought to hear both sides before
judging so harshly. Perhaps, after all, they had been making a little
too much of this business. 'Well,' he said at last, 'I should be very
glad if I could think things were not as bad as they seem. I will hear
anything you would like to say about it.'

'Quite the high moral censor,' thought the other savagely. 'Confound
his condescension!'

'I was sure you would give me a chance of putting myself right,' he
said, 'but I can't do it now. They're going down to dinner; we will
talk it over afterwards.'

At dinner conversation was lively and well sustained, though perhaps
not quite so sparkling as might have been expected from such an
assembly. As a rule, those who talked most and best were the men who
still had their reputation to make, and many of the great men there
seemed content to expose themselves to such brilliancy as there was
around them, as if silently absorbing it for future reproduction, by
some process analogous to the action of luminous paint.

Caffyn was placed at some distance from Mark, and as, after dinner, he
was entreated to sit down to the piano, which stood in a corner of the
room to which they had adjourned for cigars and coffee, it was some
time before their conversation was resumed.

Caffyn was at his best as he sat there rippling out snatches of
operatic _morceaux_, and turning round with a smile to know if they
were recognised. His performance was not remarkable for accuracy, as
he had never troubled himself to study music, or anything else,
seriously, but it was effective enough with a non-critical audience;
his voice, too, when he sang, though scarcely strong enough to fill a
room of much larger size, was pleasant and not untrained, and it was
some time before he was permitted to leave the music-stool.

He rattled off a rollicking hunting song, full of gaiety and _verve_,
and followed it up with a little pathetic ballad, sung with an accent
of real feeling (he could throw more emotion into his singing than his
acting), while, although it was after dinner, the room was hushed
until the last notes had died away, and when he rose at length with a
laughing plea of exhaustion, he was instantly surrounded by a buzz of
genuine gratitude. Mark heard all this, and the last remnants of his
dislike and distrust vanished; it seemed impossible that this man,
with the sympathetic voice, and the personal charm which was felt by
most of those present, could be capable of finding pleasure in working
on a child's terrors. So that when Caffyn, disengaging himself at
length from the rest, made his way to where Mark was sitting, the
latter felt this almost as a distinction, and made room for him with
cordiality. Somebody was at the piano again, but as all around were
talking, the most confidential conversations could be carried on in
perfect security, and Caffyn, seating himself next to Mark, set
himself to remove all prejudices.

He put his case very well, without obsequiousness or temper, appealing
to Mark as a fellow man-of-the-world against a girl's rash judgment.
'You know,' he said, in the course of his arguments, 'I'm not really
an incarnate fiend in private life. Miss Langton is quite convinced I
am. I believe I saw her looking suspiciously at my boots the other
day; but then she's a trifle hard on me. My worst fault is that I
don't happen to understand children. I'd got into a way of saying
extravagant things; you know the way one does talk rubbish to
children; well, of joking in that sort of way with little
What's-her-name. She always seemed to understand it well enough, and I
should have thought she was old enough to see the simpler kind of
joke, at all events. One day I chanced to chaff her about a stamp she
took off some envelope. Well, I daresay I said something about
stealing and prisons, all in fun, of course, never dreaming she would
think any more about it. A fortnight afterwards, suddenly there's a
tremendous hullabaloo. You began it. Oh, I know it was natural enough,
but you did begin it. You see the child looking pale and seedy, and
say at once, "something on her mind." Well, I don't know, and she
might have been such a little idiot as to take a chance word _au grand
sérieux_; it might have been something else on her mind; or she
mightn't have had anything on her mind at all. Anyway, she tells you a
long story about prisons, and how one Harold Caffyn had told her she
would go there, and so on, and you, with that vivid imagination of
yours, conjure up a tearful picture of a diabolical young man (me, you
know) coldly gloating over the terrors of a poor little innocent
ignorant child, eh? (Miss Dolly's nearly ten, and anything but
backward for her age; but that's of no consequence.) Well, then you go
and impart some of your generous indignation to Miss Langton; she
takes it in a very aggravated form, and gives it to me. Upon my word,
I think I've had rather hard lines!'

Mark really felt a little remorseful just then, but he made one more
attempt to maintain his high ground. 'I don't know that I should have
thought so much of the joke itself,' he said, 'but you carried it on
so long; you saw her brooding over it and getting worse and worse, and
yet you never said a word to undeceive the poor child!'

'Now, you know, with all respect to you, Ashburn,' said Caffyn, who
was gradually losing all ceremony, 'that about seeing her brooding is
rubbish--pure rubbish! I saw the child, I suppose, now and again; but
I didn't notice her particularly, and if I had, I don't exactly know
how to detect the signs of brooding. How do you tell it from
indigestion? and how are you to guess what the brooding is about? I
tell you I'd forgotten the whole thing. And _that_ was what all your
righteous wrath was based upon, was it? Well, it's very delightful, no
doubt, to figure as a knight-errant, or a champion, and all that kind
of thing--particularly when you make your own dragon--but when you
come prancing down and spit some unlucky lizard, it's rather a cheap
triumph. But there, I forgive you. You've made a little mistake which
has played the very deuce with me at Kensington Park Gardens. It's too
late to alter that now, and if I can only make you see that there has
been a mistake, and I'm not one of the venomous sort of reptiles after
all, why, I suppose I must be content with that!'

He succeeded in giving Mark an uneasy impression that he had made a
fool of himself. He had quite lost the feeling of superiority under
the tone of half-humorous, half-bitter remonstrance which Caffyn had
chosen to take, and was chiefly anxious now to make the other forget
his share in the matter. 'Perhaps I was too ready to put the worst
construction on what I heard,' he said apologetically, 'but after what
you've told me, why----'

'Well, we'll say no more about it,' said Caffyn; 'you understand me
now, and that's all _I_ cared about.' ('You may be a great genius, my
friend,' he was thinking, 'but it's not so very difficult to get round
you, after all!') 'Look here,' he continued, 'will you come and see me
one of these days--it would be a great kindness to me. I've got rooms
in Kremlin Road, Bayswater, No. 72.'

Mark changed countenance very slightly as he heard the address--it had
been Holroyd's. There was nothing in that to alarm him, and yet he
could not resist a superstitious terror at the coincidence. Caffyn
noticed the effect directly. 'Do you know Kremlin Road?' he said.

Something made Mark anxious to explain the emotion he felt he had
given way to. 'Yes,' he said, 'a--a very old friend of mine had
lodgings at that very house. He was lost at sea, so when you mentioned
the place I----'

'I see,' said Caffyn. 'Of course. Was your friend Vincent Holroyd, I
wonder?'

'You knew him?' cried Mark; 'you!'

('Got the Railway Station effect that _time_!' thought Caffyn. 'I
begin to believe my dear uncle touched a weak spot after all. If he
_has_ a secret, it's ten to one Holroyd knew it--knows it, by Jove!')

'Oh, yes, I knew poor old Holroyd,' he said; 'that's how I came to
take his rooms. Sad thing, his going down like that, wasn't it? It
must have been a great shock for you--I can see you haven't got over
it even yet.'

'No,' stammered Mark, 'no--yes, I felt it a great deal. I--I didn't
know you were a friend of his, too; did--did you know him well?'

'Very well; in fact I don't fancy he had any secrets from me.'

Like lightning the thought flashed across Mark's mind, what if Caffyn
had been entrusted with Holroyd's literary projects? But he remembered
the next moment that Holroyd had expressly said that he had never told
a soul of his cherished work until that last evening in Rotten Row.
Caffyn had lied, but with a purpose, and as the result confirmed his
suspicions he changed the subject, and was amused at Mark's evident
relief.

Towards the end of the evening Mr. Fladgate came up in his amiable way
and laid his hand jocularly on Caffyn's shoulder. 'Let me give you a
word of advice,' he said laughing; 'don't talk to Mr. Ashburn here
about his book.'

'Shouldn't presume to,' said Caffyn. 'But do you come down so heavily
on ignorant admiration, Ashburn, eh?'

'Oh, it isn't that,' said Mr. Fladgate; 'it's his confounded modesty.
I shall be afraid to tell him when we think about bringing out another
edition. I really believe he'd like never to hear of it again!'

Mark felt himself flush. 'Come,' he said, with a nervous laugh, 'I'm
not so bad as all that!'

'Oh, you're beginning to stand fire better. But (it's such a good
story you _must_ let me tell it, Mr. Ashburn, particularly as it only
does you credit). Well, he was so ashamed of having it known that he
was the author of "Illusion," that he actually took the trouble to get
the manuscript all copied out in a different hand! Thought he'd take
me in that way, but he didn't. No, no, as you young fellows say, I
"spotted" him directly; eh, Mr. Ashburn?'

'I'm afraid it's time for me to be off,' said Mark, dreading further
revelations, and too nervous to see that they could do him no possible
harm. But the fact was, Caffyn's presence filled him with a vague
alarm which he could not shake off.

Good-natured Mr. Fladgate was afraid he had offended him. 'I do hope
you weren't annoyed at my mentioning that about the manuscript?' he
said, as he accompanied Mark to the door. 'It struck me as so curious,
considering the success the book has had, that I really couldn't
resist telling it.'

'No, no,' said Mark, 'it's all right; I didn't mind in the least.
I--I'm not ashamed of it!'

'Why, of course not,' said his host; 'it will be something for your
biographer to record, eh? You won't have another cigar to take you
home? Well, good-night.'

'Good-night,' said Mark, and added some words of thanks for a pleasant
evening.

_Had_ he had such a pleasant evening? he asked himself, as he walked
home alone in the warm night air. He had been well treated by
everybody, and there had been men present whose attention was a
distinction in itself, and yet he felt an uneasiness which he found it
difficult to trace back to any particular cause. He decided at last
that he was annoyed to find that the casual mention of Holroyd's name
should still have power to discompose him--that was a weakness which
he must set himself to overcome.

At the same time no one could possibly discover his secret; there was
no harm done. And before he reached his lodgings, he decided that the
evening had been pleasant enough.




CHAPTER XXII.

STRIKING THE TRAIL.


It was Sunday once more--a bright morning in June--and Caffyn was
sitting over his late breakfast and the 'Observer' in his rooms at
Bayswater. He was in a somewhat gloomy and despondent frame of mind,
for nothing seemed to have gone well with him since his disastrous
reception in Mabel's boudoir. His magnificent prospects in commerce
had suddenly melted away into thin air, for his confiding friend and
intending partner had very inconsiderately developed symptoms of a
premature insanity, and was now 'under restraint.' He himself was in
debt to a considerable extent; his father had firmly refused to
increase what in his opinion was a handsome allowance; and Caffyn had
been obliged to go to a theatrical agent with a view of returning to
the boards, while no opening he thought it worth his while to accept
had as yet presented itself.

Mabel had not relented in the least. He had met her once or twice at
the Featherstones' and, although she had not treated him with any open
coolness, he felt that henceforth there must be an impassable barrier
between them. Now and then, even while she forced herself in public to
listen to him, the invincible horror and repugnance she felt would be
suddenly revealed by a chance look or intonation--and he saw it and
writhed in secret. And yet he went everywhere that there was a
possibility of meeting her, with a restless impulse of self-torture,
while his hate grew more intense day by day.

And all this he owed to Mark Ashburn--a fact which Harold Caffyn was
not the man to forget. He had been careful to cultivate him, had found
out his address and paid him one or two visits, in which he had
managed to increase the intimacy between them.

Mark was now entirely at his ease with him. His air of superiority had
been finally dropped on the evening of Mr. Fladgate's dinner, and he
seemed flattered by the assiduity with which Caffyn courted his
society. Still, if he had a secret, it was his own still. Caffyn
watched in vain for the look of sudden terror which he had once
succeeded in surprising. At times he began to fear that it was some
involuntary nervous contraction from which his own hopes had led him
to infer the worst, for he was aware that countenances are not always
to be depended upon; that a nervous temperament will sometimes betray
all the signs of guilt from the mere consciousness that guilt is
suspected. If that was the case here, he felt himself powerless. It is
only in melodramas that a well-conducted person can be steeped in
crime, and he did not see his way very clearly to accomplishing that
difficult and dangerous feat with Mark Ashburn.

So he hated Mark more intensely at the thought that, after all, his
past might be a blameless one. But even if this were not so, and he
had a secret after all, it might be long enough before some fortunate
chance gave Caffyn the necessary clue to it. Well, he would wait and
watch as patiently as he might till then, and however long the
opportunity might be in coming, when it came at last it should not
find him too indifferent or reluctant to make use of it.

While he thought out his position somewhat to this effect, his
landlady appeared to clear away the breakfast things; she was a
landlady of the better class, a motherly old soul who prided herself
upon making her lodgers comfortable, and had higher views than many of
her kind on the subjects of cookery and attendance. She had come to
entertain a great respect for Caffyn, although at first, when she had
discovered that he was 'one of them play-actors,' she had not been
able to refrain from misgivings. Her notions of actors were chiefly
drawn from the ramping and roaring performers at minor theatres, and
the seedy blue-chinned individuals she had observed hanging about
their stage-doors; and the modern comedian was altogether beyond her
experience.

So when she found that her new lodger was 'quite the gentleman, and
that partickler about his linen, and always civil and pleasant-spoken,
and going about as neat as a new pin, and yet with a way about him as
you could see he wouldn't stand no nonsense,' her prejudices were
entirely conquered.

'Good morning, Mr. Caffyn, sir,' she began; 'I come up to clear away
your breakfast, if you're quite done. Sarah Ann she's gone to chapel,
which she's a Primitive Methodist, she _says_, though she can't never
tell me so much as the text when she come back, and I tell her, "My
good gal," I ses to her, "what _do_ you go to chapel for?" and it's my
belief that as often as not she don't go near it. But there, Mr.
Caffyn, if a gal does her work about the 'ouse of a week, as I will
say for Sarah Ann----'

Caffyn groaned. Good Mrs. Binney had a way of coming in to discourse
on things in general, and it was always extremely difficult to get rid
of her. She did not run down on this occasion until after an
exhaustive catalogue, _à la_ Mrs. Lirriper, of the manners and customs
of a whole dynasty of maids-of-all-work, when she began to clear his
breakfast-table. He was congratulating himself on her final departure,
when she returned with a bundle of papers in her hand. 'I've been
meanin' to speak to you about these, this ever such a time,' she said.
'Binney, he said as I'd better, seeing as you've got his very rooms,
and me not liking to burn 'em, and the maids that careless about
papers and that, and not a line from him since he left.'

'It would certainly be better not to burn the rooms, unless they're
insured, Mrs. Binney, and I should be inclined to prefer their not
being burnt while I'm in them, unless you make a point of it,' said
Caffyn mildly.

'Lor, Mr. Caffyn, who was talking of burnin' rooms? You do talk so
ridiklus. It's these loose papers of Mr. 'Olroyd's as I came to speak
to you about, you bein' a friend of his, and they lyin' a burden on my
mind for many a day, and litterin' up all the place, and so afraid I
am as Sarah Ann'll take and light the fire with 'em one of these
mornings, and who knows whether they're not of value, and if so what
should I say if he came and asked me for 'em back again?'

'Well, he won't do that, Mrs. Binney, if it's true that he was drowned
in the "Mangalore," will he?'

'Drowned! and me never to hear it till this day. It's quite took me
aback. Poor dear gentleman, what an end for him--to go out all that
way only to be drowned! I do seem to be told of nothing but deaths and
dying this morning, for Binney's just 'eard that poor old Mr. Tapling,
at No. 5 opposite, was took off at last quite sudden late last night,
and he'd had a dropsy for years, and swell up he would into all manner
o' shapes as I've seen him doin' of it myself!'

'Well, I'll look over the papers for you, Mrs. Binney,' interrupted
Caffyn. 'I don't suppose there's anything of much importance, but I
can tell you what ought to be kept.' He would have solved her
difficulties by advising her to burn the whole of them, but for some
vague idea that he might be able to discover something amongst all
these documents which would throw some light upon Holroyd's relations
with Mark.

So when Mrs. Binney was at last prevailed on to leave him in peace, he
sat down with the sheaf of miscellaneous papers she had left him, and
began to examine them without much hope of discovering anything to the
purpose.

They seemed to be the accumulations of some years. There were rough
drafts of Latin and Greek verses, outlines for essays, and hasty
jottings of University and Temple lectures--memorials of Holroyd's
undergraduate and law-student days. Then came notes scribbled down in
court with a blunt corroded quill on borrowed scraps of paper, and
elaborate analyses of leading cases and Acts of Parliament, which
belonged to the period of zeal which had followed his call to the Bar.

He turned all these over carelessly enough, until he came upon some
sheets fastened together with a metal clip. 'This does not look like
law,' he said half aloud. '"Glamour--romance by Vincent Beauchamp."
Beauchamp was his second name, I think. So he wrote romances, did he,
poor devil! This looks like the scaffolding for one, anyway; let's
have a look at it. List of characters: Beaumelle Marston; I've come
across that name somewhere lately, I know; Lieutenant-Colonel
Duncombe; why, I know that gentleman, too! Was this ever published?
Here's the argument.' He read and re-read it carefully, and then went
to a bookshelf and took down a book with the Grosvenor Library label;
it was a copy of 'Illusion,' by Cyril Ernstone.

With that by his side he turned over the rest of Holroyd's papers, and
found more traces of some projected literary work; skeleton scenes,
headings for chapters, and even a few of the opening pages, with some
marginal alterations in red ink, all of which he eagerly compared with
the printed work before him.

Then he rose and paced excitedly up and down his room. 'Is _this_ his
secret?' he thought. 'If I could only be sure of it! It seems too good
to be true ... they might have collaborated, or the other might have
made him a present of a plot, or even borrowed some notions from
him.... And yet there are some things that look uncommonly suspicious.
Why should he look so odd at the mere mention of Holroyd's name? Why
did he get the manuscript recopied? Was it modesty--or something else?
And why does one name only appear on the title-page, and our dear
friend take all the credit to himself? There's something fishy about
it all, and I mean to get at it. Job was perfectly correct. It _is_
rash for an enemy to put his name to a book--especially some other
fellow's book. Mr. Mark Ashburn and I must have a little private
conversation together, in which I shall see how much I remember of the
action of the common pump.'

He sat down and wrote a genial little note, asking Mark, if he had no
better engagement, to come round and dine quietly with him at the
house in Kremlin Road that evening, gave it to his landlord with
directions to take a cab to Mark's rooms, and if he could, bring back
an answer, after which he waited patiently for his messenger's return.

Binney returned in the course of an hour or so, having found Mark in,
and brought a note which Caffyn tore open impatiently. 'I have a
friend coming to dinner to-night, Mr. Binney,' he said, turning round
with his pleasant smile when he had read the answer. 'It's Sunday, I
know, but Mrs. Binney won't mind for once, and tell her she must do
her very best; I want to give my friend a little surprise.'




CHAPTER XXIII.

PIANO PRACTICE.


Caffyn was conscious of a certain excitement that Sunday evening as he
waited for Mark Ashburn's arrival. He felt that he might be standing
on the threshold of a chamber containing the secret of the other's
life--the key of which that very evening might deliver into his hands.
He was too cautious to jump at hasty conclusions; he wished before
deciding upon any plan of action to be practically certain of his
facts; a little skilful manipulation, however, would most probably
settle the question one way or the other, and if the result verified
his suspicions he thought he would know how to make use of his
advantage. There is a passage in the 'Autocrat of the Breakfast Table'
where the author, in talking of the key to the side-door by which
every person's feelings may be entered, goes on to say, 'If nature or
accident has put one of these keys into the hands of a person who has
the torturing instinct, I can only solemnly pronounce the words that
justice utters over its doomed victims, "The Lord have mercy on your
soul!"' There, it is true, the key in question unlocks the delicate
instrument of the nervous system, and not necessarily a Bluebeard's
chamber of guilt; but where the latter is also the case to some extent
the remark by no means loses in significance, and if any man had the
torturing instinct to perfection, Caffyn might be said to be that
individual. There was nothing he would enjoy more than practising upon
a human piano and putting it hopelessly out of tune; but pleasant as
this was, he felt he might have to exercise some self-denial here, at
all events for the present, lest his instrument should become restive
and escape before he had quite made up his mind what air he could best
play upon it.

In the meantime Mark was preparing to keep the appointment in the
pleasantest and most unsuspecting frame of mind. After answering
Caffyn's note he had met the Langtons as they came out of church and
returned with them to lunch. Dolly was herself again now, her haunting
fears forgotten with the happy ease of childhood, and Mabel had made
Mark feel something of the gratitude she felt to him for his share in
bringing this about. He had gone on to one or two other houses, and
had been kindly received everywhere, and now he was looking forward to
a quiet little dinner with the full expectation of a worthy finish to
a pleasant day. Even when he mounted the stairs of the house which had
been once familiar to him, and stood in Holroyd's old rooms, he was
scarcely affected by any unpleasant associations. For one thing, he
was beginning to have his conscience tolerably well in hand; for
another, the interior of the rooms was completely transformed since he
had seen them last.

Then they were simply the furnished apartments of a man who cared but
little for his personal well-being; now, when he passed round the
handsome Japanese screen by the door, he saw an interior marked by a
studied elegance and luxury. The common lodging-house fireplace was
concealed by an elaborate oak over-mantel, with brass plaques and blue
china; the walls were covered with a delicate blue-green paper and
hung with expensive etchings and autotype drawings of an æsthetically
erotic character; small tables and deep luxurious chairs were
scattered about, and near the screen stood a piano and a low stand
with peacock's feathers arranged in a pale blue crackle jar. In spite
of the pipes and riding-whips on the racks, the place was more like a
woman's boudoir than a man's room, and there were traces in its
arrangements of an eye to effect which gave it the air of a
well-staged scene in a modern comedy.

It looked very attractive, softly lit as it was by shaded candles in
sconces and a porcelain lamp with a crimson shade, which was placed on
the small oval table near the fern-filled fireplace; and as Mark
placed himself in a low steamer chair and waited for his host to make
his appearance, he felt as if he was going to enjoy himself.

'I shall have my rooms done up something in this way,' he thought,
'when _my_ book comes out.' The blinds were half drawn and the windows
opened wide to the sultry air, and while he waited he could hear the
bells from neighbouring steeples calling in every tone, from harsh
command to persuasive invitation, to the evening services.

Presently Caffyn lounged in through the hangings which protected his
bedroom door. 'Sorry you found me unready,' he said; 'I got in late
from the club somehow, but they'll bring us up some dinner presently.
Looking at that thing, eh?' he asked, as he saw Mark's eye rest on a
small high-heeled satin slipper in a glass case which stood on a
bracket near him. 'That was Kitty Bessborough's once--you remember
Kitty Bessborough, of course? She gave it to me just before she went
out on that American tour, and got killed in some big railway smash
somewhere, poor little woman! I'll tell you some day how she came to
make me a present of it. Here's Binney with the soup now.'

Mrs. Binney sent up a perfect dinner, at which her husband assisted in
a swallow-tailed coat and white tie, a concession he would not have
made for every lodger, and Caffyn played the host to perfection,
though with every course he asked himself inwardly, 'Shall I open fire
on him yet?' and still he delayed.

At last he judged that his time had come; Binney had brought up coffee
and left them alone. 'You sit down there and make yourself at home,'
said Caffyn genially, thrusting Mark down into a big saddle-bag
arm-chair ('where I can see your confounded face,' he added inwardly).
'Try one of these cigars--they're not bad; and now we can talk
comfortably. I tell you what I want to talk about,' he said presently,
and a queer smile flitted across his face; 'I want to talk about that
book of yours. Oh, I know you want to fight shy of it, but I don't
care. It isn't often I have a celebrated author to dine with me, and
if you didn't wish to hear it talked about you shouldn't have written
it, you know. I want you to tell me a few facts I can retail to people
on the best authority, don't you know; so you must just make up your
mind to conquer that modesty of yours for once, old fellow, and
gratify my impertinent curiosity.'

Mark was feeling so much at ease with himself and Caffyn that even
this proposition was not very terrible to him just then. 'All right,'
he said lazily; 'what do you want to know first?'

'That's right. Well, first, I must tell you I've read the book. I'd
like to say how much I was struck by it if I might.'

'I'm very glad you liked it,' said Mark.

'Like it?' echoed Caffyn; 'my dear fellow, I haven't been so moved by
anything for years. The thought you've crammed into that book, the
learning, the passion and feeling of the thing! I envy you for being
able to feel you have produced it all.' ('That ought to fetch him,' he
thought.)

'Oh, as for that,' said Mark with a shrug, and left his remark
unfinished, but without, as the other noticed, betraying any
particular discomposure.

'Do you remember, now,' pursued Caffyn, 'how the central idea first
occurred to you?'

But here again he drew a blank, for Mark had long ago found it
expedient to concoct a circumstantial account of how and when the
central idea had first occurred to him.

'Well, I'll tell you,' he said. 'It shows how oddly these things are
brought about. I was walking down Palace Gardens one afternoon....'
and he told the history of the conception of 'Illusion' in his best
manner, until Caffyn raged internally.

'You brazen humbug!' he thought; 'to sit there and tell that string of
lies to _me_!' When it was finished he remarked, 'Well, that's very
interesting; and I have your permission to tell that again, eh?'

'Certainly, my dear fellow,' said Mark, with a wave of his hand. His
cigar was a really excellent one, and he thought he would try another
presently.

('We must try him again,' thought Caffyn; 'he's deeper than I gave him
credit for being.')

'I'll tell you an odd criticism I heard the other day. I was talking
to little Mrs. Bismuth--you know Mrs. Bismuth by name? Some fellow has
just taken the "Charivari" for her. Well, she goes in for letters a
little as well as the drama, reads no end of light literature since
she gave up tights for drawing-room comedy, and she would have it that
she seemed to recognise two distinct styles in the book, as if two
pens had been at work on it.'

('Now I may find out if that really was the case after all,' he was
thinking.) 'I thought you'd be amused with that,' he added, after a
pause. Mark really did seem amused; he laughed a little.

'Mrs. Bismuth is a charming actress,' he said, 'but she'd better read
either a little more or a little less light literature before she goes
in for tracing differences in style. You can tell her, with my
compliments, that a good many pens were at work on it, but only one
brain. Where is it your matches live?'

'I can't draw him,' thought Caffyn. 'What an actor the fellow is! And
yet, if it was all aboveboard, he wouldn't have said that! and I've
got Holroyd's handwriting, which is pretty strong evidence against
him. But I want more, and I'll have it.'

He strolled up to the mantelpiece to light a cigarette, for which
purpose he removed the shade from one of the candles, throwing a
stronger light on his friend's face, and then, pausing with the
cigarette still unlighted between his fingers, he asked suddenly: 'By
the way, Fladgate said some other fellow wrote the book for you the
other day!' That shot at least told; every vestige of colour left
Mark's face, he half rose from his chair, and then sat down again as
he retorted sharply: 'Fladgate said that! What the devil are you
talking about...? What fellow?'

'Why, you were there when he said it. Some amanuensis you gave the
manuscript to.'

The colour came back in rather an increased quantity to Mark's cheeks.
What a nervous fool he was! 'Oh, ah--_that_ fellow!' he said; 'I
remember now. Yes, I was absurdly anxious to remain unknown, you see,
in those days, and--and I rather wanted to put something in the way of
a poor fellow who got his living by copying manuscripts; and so, you
see----'

'I see,' said Caffyn. 'What was his name?'

'His name?' repeated Mark, who had not expected this and had no name
ready for such immediate use. 'Let me see; I almost forget. It began
with a B I know; Brown--Brune--something like that--I really don't
recollect just now. But the fact is,' he added with a desperate
recourse to detail, 'the first time I saw the beggar he looked so hard
up, dressed in----' ('Buckram!' thought Caffyn, but he said
nothing)--'in rags, you know, that I felt it would be quite a charity
to employ him.'

'So it is,' agreed Caffyn. 'Did he write a good hand? I might be able
to give him some work myself in copying out parts.'

'Oh, he'd be useless for that!' put in Mark with some alarm; 'he wrote
a wretched hand.'

'Well, but in the cause of charity, you know,' rejoined Caffyn, with
inward delight. 'Hang it, Ashburn, why shouldn't _I_ do an unselfish
thing as well as you? What's the fellow's address?'

'He--he's emigrated,' said Mark; 'you'd find it rather difficult to
come across him now.'

'Should I?' Caffyn returned; 'well, I daresay I should.'

And Mark rose and went to one of the windows for some air. He remained
there for a short time looking idly down the darkening street. A
chapel opposite was just discharging its congregation, and he found
entertainment in watching the long lighted ground-glass windows, as a
string of grotesque silhouettes filed slowly across them, like a
shadow pantomime turned serious.

When he was tired of that and turned away from the blue-grey dusk, the
luxurious comfort of the room struck him afresh. 'You've made yourself
uncommonly comfortable here,' he said appreciatively, as he settled
down again in his velvet-pile chair.

'Well, I flatter myself I've improved the look of the place since you
saw it last. Poor Holroyd, you see, never cared to go in for this kind
of thing. Queer reserved fellow, wasn't he?'

'Very,' said Mark; and then, with the perverse impulse which drives us
to test dangerous ice, he added: 'Didn't you say, though, the other
evening that he had no secrets from you?' ('Trying to pump _me_, are
you?' thought the other; 'but you don't!') 'Did I?' he answered,
'sometimes I fancy, now and then, that I knew less of him than I
thought I did. For instance, he was very busy for a long time before
he left England over something or other, but he never told me what it
was. I used to catch him writing notes and making extracts and so
on.... _You_ were a great friend of his, Ashburn, weren't you? Do you
happen to know whether he was engaged on some work which would account
for that, now? Did he ever mention to you that he was writing a book,
for instance?'

'Never,' said Mark; 'did he--did he hint that to you?'

'Never got a word out of him; but I daresay you, who knew him best,
will laugh when I tell you this, I always had my suspicions that he
was writing a novel.'

'A novel?' echoed Mark; 'Holroyd! Excuse me, my dear fellow, I really
can't help laughing--it does seem such a comic idea.'

And he laughed boisterously, overcome by the humour of the notion,
until Caffyn said: 'Well, I didn't know him as well as you did, I
suppose, but I shouldn't have thought it was so devilish funny as all
that!' For Caffyn was a little irritated that the other should believe
him to be duped by all this, and that he could not venture as yet to
undeceive him. It made him viciously inclined to jerk the string
harder yet, and watch Mark's contortions.

'He wasn't that sort of man,' said Mark, when he had had his laugh
out; 'poor dear old fellow, he'd have been as amused at the idea as I
am.'

'But this success of yours would have pleased him, wouldn't it?' said
Caffyn.

For a moment Mark was cut as deeply by this as the speaker intended;
he could give no other answer than a sigh, which was perfectly
genuine. Caffyn affected to take this as an expression of incredulity.
'Surely you don't doubt that!' he said; 'why, Holroyd would have been
as glad as if he had written the book himself. If he could come back
to us again, you would see that I am right. What a meeting it would
be, if one could only bring it about!'

'It's no use talking like that,' said Mark rather sharply. 'Holroyd's
dead, poor fellow, at the bottom of the Indian Ocean somewhere. We
shall never meet again.'

'But,' said Caffyn, with his eyes greedily watching Mark's face, 'even
these things happen sometimes; he may come back to congratulate you
still.'

'How do you mean? He's drowned, I tell you ... the dead never come
back!'

'The _dead_ don't,' returned Caffyn significantly.

'Do you--you don't mean to tell me he's _alive_!'

'If I were to say _yes_?' said Caffyn, 'I wonder how you would take
it.'

If he had any doubts still remaining, the manner in which Mark
received these words removed them. He fell back in his seat with a
gasp and turned a ghastly lead colour; then, with an evident effort,
he leaned forward again, clutching the arms of the chair, and his
voice was hoarse and choked when he was able to make use of it. 'You
have heard something,' he said. 'What is it? Why can't you tell it?
Out with it, man! For God's sake, don't--don't play with me like
this!'

Caffyn felt a wild exultation he had the greatest difficulty in
repressing. He could not resist enjoying Mark's evident agony a little
longer. 'Don't excite yourself, my dear fellow,' he said calmly. 'I
oughtn't to have said anything about it.'

'I'm not excited,' said Mark; 'see--I'm quite cool ... tell me--all
you know. He--he's alive then ... you have heard from him? I--I can
bear it.'

'No, no,' said Caffyn; 'you're deceiving yourself. You mustn't let
yourself hope, Ashburn. I have never heard from him from that day to
this. You know yourself that he was not in any of the boats; there's
no real chance of his having survived.'

For it was not his policy to alarm Mark too far, and least of all to
show his hand so early. His experiment had been successful; he now
knew all he wanted, and was satisfied with that. Mark's face relaxed
into an expression of supreme relief; then it became suspicious again
as he asked, almost in a whisper, 'I thought that--but then, why did
you say all that about the dead--about coming back?'

'You mustn't be angry if I tell you. I didn't know you cared so much
about him, or I wouldn't have done it. You know what some literary
fellow--is it Tennyson?--says somewhere about our showing a precious
cold shoulder to the dead if they were injudicious enough to turn up
again; those aren't the exact words, but that's the idea. Well, I was
thinking whether, if a fellow like poor Holroyd were to come back now,
he'd find anyone to care a pin about him, and, as you were his closest
friend, I thought I'd try how _you_ took it. It was thoughtless, I
know. I never dreamed it would affect you in this way; you're as white
as chalk still--it's quite knocked you over. I'm really very sorry!'

'It was not a friendly thing to do,' said Mark, recovering himself.
'It was not kind, when one has known a man so long, and believed him
dead, and then to be made to believe that he is still alive,
it--it----. You can't wonder if I look rather shaken.'

'I don't,' said Caffyn; 'I quite understand. He is not quite forgotten
after all, then? He still has a faithful friend in you to remember
him; and he's been dead six months? How many of us can hope for that?
You must have been very fond of him.'

'Very,' said Mark, with a sad self-loathing as he spoke the lie. 'I
shall never see anyone like him--never!'

('How well he does it, after all!' thought Caffyn. 'I shall have
plenty of sport with him.') 'Would it give you any comfort to talk
about him now and then,' he suggested, 'with one who knew him, too,
though not as well perhaps as you did?'

'Thanks!' said Mark, 'I think it would some day, but not yet. I don't
feel quite up to it at present.'

'Well,' said the other, with a wholly private grin, 'I won't distress
you by talking of him till you introduce the subject; and you quite
forgive me for saying what I did, don't you?'

'Quite,' said Mark. 'And now I think I'll say good-night!'

The horror of those few moments in which he had seen detection staring
him in the face still clung to him as he walked back to his lodgings.
He cursed his folly in ever having exposed himself to such tremendous
risks, until he remembered that, after all, his situation remained the
same. He had merely been frightened with false fire. If he had not
been very sure that the dead would never rise to denounce him, he
would not have done what he had done. How could Vincent Holroyd have
escaped? Still, it was an ugly thought, and it followed him to his
pillow that night and gave him fearful dreams. He was in a large
gathering, and Mabel was there, too; he could see her at the other end
of an immense hall, and through the crowd Holroyd was slowly, steadily
making his way to her side, and Mark knew his object; it was to
denounce _him_. If he could only reach him first, he felt that somehow
he could prevent him from attaining his end, and he made frantic
efforts to do so; but always the crowd hedged him in and blocked his
way with a stupid impassibility, and he struggled madly, but all in
vain. Holroyd drew nearer and nearer Mabel, with that stern set
purpose in his face, while Mark himself was powerless to move or
speak. And so the dream dragged itself on all through the night.

He had some thoughts, on waking, of setting his fears to rest for ever
by making some further inquiries, but when he read once more the
various accounts he had preserved of the shipwreck, he convinced
himself willingly enough that nothing of the kind was necessary. He
could dismiss the matter from his mind once for all, and by
breakfast-time he was himself again.

Caffyn, now that his wildest hopes of revenge were realised, and he
saw himself in a position to make terrible reprisals for the injury
Mark Ashburn had done him, revelled in a delicious sense of power, the
only drawback to his complete enjoyment of the situation being his
uncertainty as to the precise way of turning his knowledge to the best
account.

Should he turn upon Mark suddenly with the intimation that he had
found him out, without mentioning as yet that Holroyd was in the land
of the living? There would be exquisite pleasure in that, and what a
field for the utmost ingenuity of malice in constant reminders of the
hold he possessed, in veiled threats, and vague mocking promises of
secrecy! Could any enemy desire a more poignant retribution? He longed
to do all this, and no one could have done it better; but he was
habitually inclined to mistrust his first impulses, and he feared lest
his victim might grow weary of writhing; he might be driven to
despair, to premature confession, flight--suicide, perhaps. He was
just the man to die by his own hand and leave a letter cursing him as
his torturer, to be read at the inquest and get into all the papers.
No, he would not go too far; for the present he decided to leave Mark
in happy ignorance of the ruin tottering above him. He would wait
until he was even more prosperous, more celebrated, before taking any
decisive steps. There was little fear that he would see his revenge
some day, and meanwhile he must be content with such satisfaction as
he could enjoy in secret.

'I must put up with the fellow a little longer,' he thought. 'We will
go on mourning our dear lost friend together until I can arrange a
meeting somehow. A telegram or letter to the Ceylon plantation will
fetch him at any time, and I don't care about doing my charming Mabel
such a good turn as bringing him back to her just yet. I wonder how my
worthy plagiarist is feeling after last night. I think I will go round
and have a look at him.'




CHAPTER XXIV.

A MEETING IN GERMANY.


The summer went by, and Mark's anticipations of happiness were as
nearly borne out as such anticipations ever are. He and Mabel met
constantly. He saw her in the Row with her father and Dolly--and
sometimes had the bliss of exchanging a few words across the
railings--at dances and tennis-parties, and in most of the less
exclusive events of the season, while every interview left him more
deeply infatuated. She seemed always glad to see and talk with him,
allowing herself to express a decided interest in his doings, and
never once throwing on him the burden of a conversational deadlift in
the manner with which a girl knows how to discourage all but the
dullest of bores. Now and then, indeed, when Mark's conversation
showed symptoms of the occasional inanity common to most men who talk
much, she did not spare him; but this was due to a jealous anxiety on
her part that he should keep up to his own standard, and if she had
not liked him she would not have taken the trouble. He took her light
shafts so patiently and good-humouredly, too, that she was generally
seized by a contrition which expressed itself in renewed graciousness.
Already she had come to notice his arrival on lawns or in
drawing-rooms, and caught herself remembering his looks and words
after their meeting.

He was still busy with 'Sweet Bells Jangled,' for he had now decided
to make his _coup_ with that, but in other respects he was
unproductive. He had begun several little things in pursuance of his
engagements, but somehow he did not get on with them, and had to lay
them aside until the intellectual thaw he expected. Pecuniarily his
position was much improved; his uncle had kept his word, and put an
allowance at his disposal which made him tolerably easy about his
future. He removed to more fashionable quarters in South Audley
Street, and led the easy existence there he had long coveted. Still
Mr. Lightowler was an unpleasantly constant bluebottle in his
ointment. He came up regularly from Chigbourne to inspect him,
generally with literary advice and the latest scandal about his
detested neighbour, which he thought might be 'worked up into
something.' He had discovered the Row as an afternoon lounge where his
nephew ought to show himself 'among the swells,' and he insisted, in
spite of all Mark's attempts at evasion, in walking him about there.
Mark was not perhaps exactly ashamed of the man whose favours he was
accepting, at least he did not own as much even to himself, but there
were times when, as he met the surprised glances of people he knew
slightly, he could have wished that his loud-voiced and unpresentable
relative had not got quite such a tight hold of his arm.

At a hint from Trixie he had tendered the olive-branch to his family,
which they accepted rather as if it had been something he had asked
them to hold for him, and without the slightest approach to anything
like a scene. Trixie had, of course, been in communication with him
from the first, and kept her satisfaction to herself; Mr. Ashburn was
too timid, and his wife too majestic, to betray emotion, while the
other two were slightly disappointed. The virtuous members of a family
are not always best pleased to see the prodigal at any time, and it is
particularly disconcerting to find that the supposed outcast has been
living on veal instead of husks during his absence, and associating
rather with lions than swine. Mark was not offended at his reception,
however, he felt himself independent now; but his easy temper made him
anxious to be at peace with them, and if they were not exactly
effusive, they made no further pretence of disapproval, and the
reconciliation was perfectly genuine as far as it went.

'I am going to see you to the gate, Mark,' Trixie announced, as he
rose to go. It was not a long or a perilous journey, but she had an
object in accompanying him down the little flagged path. 'I've got
something to tell you,' she said, as they stood by the iron gate in
the hot August night. 'I wish I knew how to begin.... Mark--how would
you like a--a new brother, because I'm going to give you one?'

'Thanks very much, Trixie,' said Mark, 'but I think I can get along
without another of them.'

'Ah, but Jack would be a _nice_ one,' said Trixie.

Mark remembered then that he had noticed a decided improvement in her
dress and appearance. 'And who is this Jack whom you're so
disinterestedly going to make me a present of?' he asked.

'Jack is one of the masters at the Art School,' said Trixie; 'he's
awfully handsome--not in your style, but fair, with a longer
moustache, and he's too clever almost to live. He had one picture in
the Grosvenor this year, in the little room, down by the bottom
somewhere, but he hasn't sold it. And when I first went to the School
all the girls declared he came round to me twice as much as he did to
them, and they made themselves perfectly horrid about it; so I had to
ask him not to come so often, and he didn't--for a time. Then one day
he asked me if I would rather he never came to me at all, and--and I
couldn't say yes, and so somehow we got engaged. Ma's furious about
it, and so is Martha; but then, ma has never seen Jack----'

'And Martha _has_? I see!' put in Mark.

'Jack knows a lot about literature; he admires "Illusion" immensely,
Mark,' added Trixie, thinking in her innocence that this would enlist
his sympathy at once. 'He wants to know you dreadfully.'

'Well, Trixie,' said Mark paternally, 'you must bring him to see me.
We mustn't have you doing anything imprudent, you know. Let me see
what I think of him. I hope he's a good fellow?'

'Oh, he _is_,' said Trixie; 'if you could only see some of his
sketches!'

A day or two later, Mark had an opportunity of meeting his intending
brother-in-law, of whom he found no particular reason to disapprove,
though he secretly thought him a slightly commonplace young man, and
too inclined to be familiar with himself; and shortly after he started
for the Black Forest, whither Caffyn had prevailed upon him to be his
companion. He thought it would be amusing and serve to keep his
vengeance alive to have his intended victim always at hand, but the
result did not quite come up to his hopes. Mark had so lulled his
fears to rest that the most artfully planned introduction of Holroyd's
name failed to disturb him. He thought chiefly during their wanderings
of Mabel, and her smile and words at parting, and in this occupation
he was so pleasantly absorbed that it was impossible to rouse him by
any means short of the rudest awakening. And by-and-by a curious
change took place in Caffyn's feelings towards him; in spite of
himself the virulence of his hatred began to abate. Time and change of
scene were proving more powerful than he had anticipated; away from
Mabel, his hatred, even of her, flagged more and more with every day,
and he was disarmed as against Mark by the evident pleasure the latter
took in his society, for the most objectionable persons become more
bearable when we discover that they have a high opinion of us--it is
such a redeeming touch in their nature. And besides, with all the
reason Caffyn had for cherishing a grudge against Mark, somehow, as
they became more intimate, he slid gradually into a half-contemptuous
and half-affectionate tolerance. He began to think that he would find
satisfaction in standing by and letting events work themselves out; he
would let this poor fellow enjoy his fool's paradise as long as might
be. No doubt, the luxury of secretively enjoying the situation had a
great deal to do with this generosity of his, but the fact remains
that, for some reason, he was passing from an enemy to a neutral, and
might on occasion even become an ally, if nothing occurred to fan his
hatred to flame in the meanwhile.

Towards the end of their tour, they arrived at Triberg late one
Saturday evening, and on the Sunday, Caffyn, having risen late and
finding that Mark had breakfasted and gone out alone, was climbing the
path by the waterfall, when, on one of the bridges which span the
cascade, he saw a girl's figure leaning listlessly over the rough
rail. It was Gilda Featherstone, and he thought he could detect an
additional tinge in her cheeks and a light in her eyes as he came
towards her. Her father and mother were in one of the shelters above,
and Mrs. Featherstone's greeting when she recognised him was the
reverse of cordial. This young man might not have followed them there,
but it looked extremely like it, and if she could not order him out of
the Black Forest as if she had taken it for the summer, she would at
least give him no encouragement to stay.

Unfortunately, her husband behaved with an irritating effusiveness; he
liked Caffyn, and besides, had not seen an Englishman to talk to
familiarly for some days. They were going home next day, he had better
come with them. Well, if he could not do that (Mrs. Featherstone
having interposed icily, 'Mr. Caffyn has just told you, Robert, that
he is with a friend!') he must come to them the moment he returned to
England, and they would give him some shooting. Mrs. Featherstone had
to hear this invitation and Caffyn's instant acceptance of it with
what philosophy she might. It was useless to remonstrate with her
husband on his blindness, he had democratic views which might even
bear a practical test, and she could only trust to chance and her
mother-wit to prevent any calamity; but she was unusually silent as
they walked down the winding path back to the hotel where they were
all staying.

There was a midday _table d'hôte_, where the proprietor, a most
imposing and almost pontifical personage, officiated as at a religious
ceremonial, solemnly ladling out the soup to devout waiters as if he
were blessing each portion, after which he stood by and contented
himself with lending his countenance (at a rather high rate of
interest) to the meal. Caffyn's chair was placed next to Gilda's, and
they kept up a continuous flow of conversation. Mark saw them both
looking at him at one time, and wondered at the sudden change in
Caffyn's face, which (unless his fancy misled him) had a frown on it
that was almost threatening. But he was not allowed much time to
speculate on the causes, for Mrs. Featherstone (perhaps to emphasise
her disapproval of his companion) distinguished Mark by engrossing his
entire attention.

That afternoon Mark was sitting outside the hotel, taking his coffee
at one of the little round iron tables, by the inevitable trio of
scrubby orange trees in green tubs, when Caffyn, whom he had not seen
since leaving the table, came up and sat down beside him without a
word.

'Have you come out for some coffee?' asked Mark.

'No,' said Caffyn shortly, 'I came out to have a few words with you.'

The Featherstones had all gone off to attend the English afternoon
service; there was no one very near them, though in the one broad
street there was a certain gentle animation, of townspeople
promenading up and down in Sunday array, spectacled young officers,
with slender waists and neat uniforms, swaggering about; a portly and
gorgeous crier in a green uniform, ringing his bell over a departed
purse; little old walnut-faced women, sitting patiently by their
fruitstalls, and a band of local firemen in very baggy tunics, the
smallest men of whom had crept inside the biggest silver helmets,
preparing to execute a selection of airs.

'You look uncommonly serious about something, old fellow,' said Mark,
laughing lightly; 'what is it?'

'This,' said Caffyn, with a smouldering fire in his voice and eyes;
'I've just been told that you--_you_ are engaged to Mabel Langton. Is
it true?'

Mark was not displeased. This coupling of Mabel's name with his, even
though by a mere rumour, sent a delicious thrill through him; it
seemed to bring his sweetest hopes nearer realisation. The gay little
street vanished for an instant, and he was holding Mabel's hand in the
violet-scented drawing-room, but he came to himself almost directly
with a start.

'Who told you that?' he said, flushing slightly.

'Never mind who told me. Is it true? I--I warn you not to trifle with
me.'

'What on earth is the matter with you?' said Mark. 'No, it's not true;
as far as I know at present, there is not the remotest possibility of
such a thing coming to pass.'

'But you would make it possible if you could, eh?' asked Caffyn.

'I don't want to hurt your feelings, Caffyn,' said Mark, 'but really
you're going a little too far. And even if I had been engaged to Miss
Langton (which is very far from the case), I don't exactly see what
right you have, after--under the circumstances, you know--to go in for
the fire-eating business.'

'You mean I'm out of the running, whoever wins?' said Caffyn. 'I
daresay you're right; I'm not aware that I ever entered for the prize.
But never mind that. She has taken a dislike to me, but I may be
allowed to feel an interest in her still, I suppose. I should like to
see her happy, and if you could tell me that you were the man, why
then----'

'Well?' said Mark, as the other paused with a curious smile.

'Why, then I should feel at ease about her, don't you know,' he said
gently.

'I only wish I could ease your mind for you in that way,' said Mark,
'but it's too soon for that yet.'

'You _do_ mean to ask her, then?' said Caffyn, with his eyes on the
little brown-and-yellow imperial _postwagen_ which had just rattled up
to the hotel, and the driver of which, in his very unbecoming glazed
billycock hat with the featherbrush plume, was then cumbrously
descending from his box. Mark had not meant to confide in Caffyn at
all; he had only known him a short time, and, although their intimacy
had grown so rapidly, with a little more reflection he might have
shrunk from talking of Mabel to one whom, rightly or wrongly, she held
in abhorrence. But then Caffyn was so sympathetic, so subdued; the
temptation to talk of his love to somebody was so strong, that he did
not try to resist it.

'Yes, I do,' he said, and his dark eyes were soft and dreamy as he
spoke, 'some day ... if I dare. And if she says what I hope she will
say, I shall come to you, old fellow, for congratulations.'

He looked round, but Caffyn had started up abruptly and he was alone.
'Very odd of him,' thought Mark, until he saw him meeting the
Featherstones on their way back from the service.

Some minutes later, as Gilda and Caffyn were in a corner of the
exhibition of carved work at the lower end of the town, she took
advantage of the blaring of two big orchestral Black Forest organs,
each performing a different overture, and of the innumerable cuckoo
cries from the serried rows of clocks on the walls, to go back to
their conversation at the _table d'hôte_. 'Have you asked him yet?
Mabel is not engaged to him after all?' (her face fell as she gathered
this). 'It is all a mistake, then? Of course it was a great relief to
_you_ to hear that?'

'Was it?' was Caffyn's rejoinder; 'why?'

'Why? Because--oh, of course you would be relieved to hear it!' and
Gilda made a little attempt to laugh.

'Shall I tell you something?' he said gravely. 'Do you know that I've
just begun to think nothing would give me greater satisfaction now
than to hear that the rumour you told me of was an accomplished fact.'

'And that Mabel was engaged to Mr. Ashburn? Do you really _mean_ it?'
cried Gilda, and her face cleared again.

'I really mean it,' said Caffyn smiling; and it is just possible that
he really did.

'Gilda, you're not helping me in the least!' said Mrs. Featherstone,
coming up at this juncture; 'and there's your father threatening to
get that big clock with a horrid cuckoo in it for the hall at the
Grange. Come and tell him, if he _must_ have one, to buy one of the
long plain ones.' And Gilda went obediently, for she could feel an
interest in clocks and carvings now.




CHAPTER XXV.

MABEL'S ANSWER.


The wet autumn had merged into a premature season of fog and slush,
while a violent gale had stripped off the leaves long before their
time. Winter was at hand, and already one or two of the hardier
Christmas annuals, fresh from editorial forcing-houses, had blossomed
on the bookstalls, and a few masks and Roman candles, misled by
appearances, had stolen into humble shop-fronts long before November
had begun. All the workers (except the junior clerks in offices, who
were now receiving permission to enjoy their annual fortnight) were
returning, and even idlers, who had no country-house hospitality to
give or receive, were glad to escape some of their burden amongst the
mild distractions of a winter in town. Mrs. Langton, who detested the
country, had persuaded her husband to let their place 'Glenthorne' for
the last two winters, and she and her daughter had already returned to
Kensington Park Gardens after a round of visits, leaving Mr. Langton
to enjoy a little more shooting before the Courts reopened.

Caffyn was now away at the Featherstones' country seat, somewhere in
the Midlands, and Mark, who remained in town after their return from
Germany, had taken the earliest opportunity of calling on the
Langtons, when Mabel seemed more frankly glad to see him than he had
dared to hope, and in one short half-hour the understanding between
them had advanced several months. She showed the greatest interest in
his wanderings, and he described the various petty adventures in his
most effective manner, until even Mrs. Langton was roused to a little
indulgent laughter. When Dolly came in later, Mark was embraced
enthusiastically. 'I was so afraid you wouldn't be back in time for my
party,' she said. 'You will come--now won't you? It's to-morrow week;
my birthday, you know.' And of course Mark was delighted to promise to
come, as Mabel seconded the invitation.

'We're quite at a loss to know how to amuse the children,' she said a
little later. 'Perhaps you can help us to an idea?'

'We could have the Performing Pigmies,' said Mrs. Langton, 'but the
boys might tread on them, and that would be so expensive, you know.'

'Don't have any performing things, mother,' pleaded Dolly; 'have only
dancing.'

'Most of the boys hate dancing,' said Mabel.

'Some of them don't a bit,' urged Dolly, 'and those who do can stay
away; _I_ don't want them. But don't have entertainments; they always
leave a horrid mess that takes hours to clear away after them.'

'It's all very well for you, Dolly,' said Mabel, laughing, 'but I
shall have to keep the boys in order; and last time they played at
robbers, tramping about all over the house, and when everyone had gone
there was one of them left behind upstairs, Mr. Ashburn, howling to be
let out of the cupboard!'

'Bobby Fraser, that was,' said Dolly; 'stupid little duffer. We won't
have him this time. And, mother darling, I want to dance _all_ the
time; and it's my own party. Dancing is enough--it is _really_,' she
pleaded in a pretty frenzy of impatience. And Dolly got her own way as
usual.

Mabel was a little surprised at her own pleasure in seeing Mark again.
She had looked forward to meeting him, but without being prepared for
the wild joy that sprang up in her heart as he pressed her hand, and
with that unmistakable delight in his eyes at being in her presence.
'Do I care for him as much as that?' she asked herself, and the
question answered itself as such questions do.

Mark was his own master now, for he had given up his appointment at
St. Peter's, although Mr. Shelford strongly advised him to go in for
some regular profession besides literature.

'There'll come a day,' he told him, 'when you've played out all your
tunes and your barrel is worn smooth, and no one will throw you any
more coppers. Then you'll want a regular employment to fall back upon.
Why don't you get called?'

'Because I don't want to be tied down,' said Mark. 'I want to go about
and study character. I want to enjoy my life while I can.'

'So did the grasshopper,' said Mr. Shelford.

'You don't believe in me, I know,' said Mark. 'You think I shall never
do anything like "Illusion" again. Well, I believe in myself. I think
my tunes will last out my life at all events. I really work
uncommonly hard. I have two novels ready for the press at this
moment, which is pretty well for a mere grasshopper.'

'But wearing for a mere barrel-organ,' said the old gentleman. 'Be
careful; don't write too much. The public never forgive a
disappointment. Whatever you do, give them of your best.'

And shortly after this conversation Mark left his novel, 'Sweet Bells
Jangled,' with Chilton and Fladgate, mentioning terms which even to
himself seemed slightly exorbitant. He had a note from the firm in the
course of a day or two, appointing an interview, and on going up to
the publishing office found both of the partners waiting to receive
him. Mr. Chilton was a spare angular man, who confined himself chiefly
to the purely financial department.

'We have decided to accept your terms, subject to a few modifications
which we can discuss presently,' he said.

'You think the book is likely to be a success?' asked Mark, unable to
control his anxiety.

'Any work by the author of "Illusion" is sure to command attention,'
said Mr. Chilton.

'But you like the subject?' pursued Mark.

Mr. Chilton coughed. 'I can express no opinion,' he said. 'I don't
profess to be a judge of these matters. Fladgate has read the book; he
will tell you what he thinks about it.'

But Mr. Fladgate remained silent, and Mark, much as he longed to press
him, was too proud to do so. However, as the firm demanded a rather
considerable reduction of the original terms, Mr. Fladgate, in
explanation, admitted at length that he did _not_ consider 'Sweet
Bells Jangled' altogether up to the standard of Mark's first work, and
intimated that it would not be advisable to risk bringing it out
before the spring season.

'I see,' said Mark, nettled; 'you are not particularly hopeful about
it?'

'Oh,' said Mr. Fladgate, with a wave of his hand, 'I wouldn't say
that. Chance has a good deal to do with these affairs--a good deal to
do. I confess I miss some of the qualities that charmed me in your
"Illusion." It reads to me, if I may say so, like an earlier effort, a
much earlier effort; but it may hit the popular taste for all that;
and it is certainly in quite a different vein.'

Mark came away rather depressed, but he soon persuaded himself that a
publisher was a not infallible judge of literary merit; and then, the
firm had every object in depreciating the work whilst negotiations
were proceeding. For all that he felt uncomfortable now and then, and
he had not wholly got rid of his depression by the time of Dolly's
birthday party.

On his arrival, he found that Dolly's wish had been gratified. Dancing
was the main attraction, and in the principal room were the usual
iron-fisted pianist and red-faced cornet-player, who should be such
profound moralists with all their nightly experiences; and dainty
little girls were whirling round with the fortunate boys who had elder
sisters at home to bully them into acquiring the mysteries of the
valse, while the less favoured stood in doorways gibing with the
scornfulness of envy.

The least observing might trace the course of several naïve
preferences and innocent flirtations during the earlier part of the
evening. Big bright-faced boys in devoted attendance on shy and
unconscious small maidens many years their juniors, and, _en
revanche_, determined little ladies triumphantly towing about smaller
boys, who seemed sometimes elated, but mostly resigned, while one
youthful misogynist openly rebelled and fled to Mabel for protection,
declaring ungallantly that he would rather be 'at home in bed than
bothered like that any longer.'

Dolly was enjoying herself amazingly, dancing chiefly, however, with
her dearest girl friend for the time being, since none of the boys
danced well enough to please either of them. And besides, boys rather
bored Dolly, to whom dancing, as yet, was merely a particularly
delightful form of exercise, and who had no precocious tendencies to
coquetry. She deigned to dance once with Mark, after which he did his
duty by trotting out a succession of calm and self-possessed little
girls, who were as unchildlike as if they had been out for a season or
two. Then he thought he might reward himself by going to look for
Mabel, whom he found in one of the lower rooms endeavouring to amuse
the smaller and non-dancing members of the company. She was standing
under the centre lamp, flushed and laughing, with two or three
children clinging to her dress, and met his amused and admiring eyes
with a little gesture of comic despair.

'We've played all the games that were ever invented,' she said; 'and
now some of them are getting rough and the rest cross, and there's
half an hour before supper, and I don't in the least know what to do
with them till then.'

'Shall I see what _I_ can do with them?' said Mark rather rashly.

'Oh, if you would it would be so kind of you. I'm afraid you don't
know what you are exposing yourself to.'

Mark, not being devoted to children, felt more than a little dubious
himself; but he wanted to be associated with her in something, and
volunteered manfully.

'Look here,' he began, as they all stood about staring at him, 'Miss
Langton's a little tired. I--I am going to play with you a little now.
What shall we have, eh? Blind man's buff?'

But they had had that, and presently one small boy, bolder than the
rest, said, 'Play at being Jumbo'--a proposal which seemed generally
popular.

'Then may I leave you here?' said Mabel. 'I must go and speak to
mother about something. Don't let them be too tiresome.'

This was by no means what Mark had bargained for; but he found himself
deserted and reduced to 'play at being Jumbo' with the best possible
grace. It was a simple but severe game, consisting in the performer of
the principal _rôle_--who was Mark himself on this occasion--going
down on his hands and knees and staggering about the carpet, while
everyone else who could find room climbed on his back and thumped him
on the head. At last, in self-defence, he was obliged to get rid of
them by intimating that he had gone mad, when he had to justify his
words by careering round the room trumpeting fiercely, while the
children scuttled away before him in an ecstasy of sham terror. At
first Mark was profoundly miserable, and even glad that Mabel had not
remained to witness his humiliation; but by-and-by he began to enter
into the spirit of the thing, and had entirely forgotten his dignity
by the time Mabel reappeared. Caffyn (who had now returned from the
Featherstones', and had received an invitation from Mrs. Langton in
Mabel's absence: 'We've known him from a boy, my dear,' the former had
said in justification, 'and he can recite some things to keep the
children quiet, you know') stood in the doorway behind her, and looked
on with a smile of pity, but she saw nothing ridiculous in Mark just
then (and, as he was probably aware, he could stand such tests better
than most men). She only thought that his willingness to sacrifice
himself for others was a pleasant trait in his character.

'Don't get up, Ashburn; it's delightful to see you making yourself so
hot, my dear fellow,' said Caffyn. 'One doesn't get the chance of
seeing a successful author ramping about on all fours every day.'

'I _can't_ get up,' said Mark; and in fact a small but unpleasantly
sturdy boy had pounced on him as he paused for breath, and, with the
sense that he was doing something courageous, was in course of taming
the elephant with a hearth-brush.

'What a shame!' cried Mabel. 'Tommy, you horrid boy, you're hurting
Mr. Ashburn.' And the hearth-brush was certainly coming down with
considerable vigour on the small of the amateur elephant's back.

'I think myself,' gasped Mark, 'that I could bear being shipped off to
America now.'

'Yes, indeed,' she said compassionately; 'you mustn't be tormented any
more. Tommy, let the poor elephant alone; you've tamed him very
nicely.'

'Jumbo had his hind legs tied,' urged Tommy, who had a taste for
realism.

'I don't think that will be necessary,' objected Mark. 'I'm
beautifully tame now, Master Tommy; observe the mildness of my eye.'

'The game's over now,' said Mabel with decision. 'There, Mr. Ashburn,
your elephant life is over. Tommy, come and button my glove for me,
like a dear fellow. How dreadfully hot you are! And now Mr. Caffyn is
going to recite something; come upstairs, all of you, and listen.'

For Mrs. Langton had begged him to do something to amuse the children.
'I don't want them to dance too much,' she had said. 'If you could
manage to cool them down before supper.'

'_I'll_ cool them down!' said Caffyn to himself, with one of his
peculiar impulses to safe and secret malevolence. 'If you will get
them all together, dear Mrs. Langton,' he replied, 'I'll see what I
can do.' And accordingly he entertained them with a harrowing little
poem about a poor child dying of starvation in a garret, and dreaming
of wealthier and happier children enjoying themselves at parties,
which made all the children uncomfortable, and some of the less stolid
ones cry. And then he told them a ghost story, crammed with ingenious
horrors, which followed most of them home to bed.

Mabel listened in burning indignation; she would have liked to stop
him, but grown-up persons were beginning to filter in, and she was
afraid of making anything like a scene by interfering. However, when
he came up blandly after the performance she let him see her opinion
of it.

'Oh, they like to have their flesh creep,' he said with a shrug; 'it's
one of the luxuries of youth.'

'It isn't a wholesome one,' said she; 'but I know you have your own
theories of the proper way to amuse a child.' She felt a revival of
her disgust for the sly treachery he had revealed once before. He gave
her a cold keen glance, and the lines round his mouth tightened for an
instant.

'You haven't forgiven me, then?' he said.

'I can't forget,' she answered in a low voice.

'We both have good memories, it seems,' he retorted with a short
laugh as he held up a curtain for her to pass, and turned away.

It was after supper, and most of the children had been weeded out to
be replaced by children of a larger growth. Mark came up to Mabel as
she stood by the doorway while the musicians were playing the first
few bars of a waltz, and each couple was waiting for some other to
begin before them. 'You promised me a dance,' he said, 'in reward for
my agility as an elephant. Aren't your duties over now?'

'I think everybody knows everybody now, and no one is sitting out,'
said Mabel. 'But really I would rather not dance just yet; I'm a
little tired.' For the Fräulein was still away with her family in
Germany, and most of the work had fallen upon Mabel, who was feeling
some need of a rest. Mark did not try to persuade her.

'You must be,' he agreed. 'Will you--do you mind sitting this dance
out with me?'

She made no objection, and they were presently sitting together under
the soft light of the ribbed Chinese lanterns in a fernery at the back
of the rooms.

'When we go back,' said Mabel, 'I want to introduce you to a Miss
Torrington, a great admirer of your book. But you don't care for such
things, do you?'

'I wish with all my soul I might never hear of the book again,' said
Mark gloomily. 'I--I beg your pardon! It sounds ungrateful. And
yet--if you knew--if you only knew!' He was in one of his despondent
moods just then, when his skeleton came out of the cupboard and
gibbered at him. What right had he, with this fraud on his soul, to be
admitted even to the ordinary friendship of a sweet and noble girl?
What would she say to him if she knew? And for a moment he felt a mad
impulse to tell her.

'I wish you would tell me,' she said gently, as if answering the
impulse. But the suggestion, put into words, sobered him. She would
despise him; she must. He could not bear to see his shame reflected in
her eyes. So he told her half-truths only.

'It is only that I am so tired of being tied to a book,' he said
passionately. 'Tied? I _am_ a book. Everyone I meet sees in me, not a
man to be judged and liked for himself, but something to criticise and
flatter and compare with the nature he revealed in print.'

Half truth as this was, it was more sincere than such confidences are
apt to be.

'Your book is you, or a part of you,' said Mabel. 'It seems so absurd
that you should be jealous of it.'

'I am,' he said. 'Not so much with others, but when I am with you it
tortures me. When you show me any kindness I think, "She would not say
that, she would not do this, if I were not the author of 'Illusion.'
She honours the book, not you--only the book!"'

'How unjust!' said Mabel. She could not think it a perverted form of
diseased vanity. He plainly undervalued his work himself, and its
popularity was a real vexation to him. She could only be sorry for
him.

'But I see proof of it in others every now and then,' continued Mark,
'people who do not connect me at first with "Cyril Ernstone." Only the
other day some of them went so far as to apologise for having snubbed
me "before they knew who I was." I don't complain of that, of
course--I'm not such an idiot; but it does make me doubtful of the
other extreme. And I cannot bear the doubt in your case!'

His eyes were raised pleadingly to hers. He seemed longing, and yet
dreading, to speak more plainly. Mabel's heart beat quicker; there was
a subtle, delicious flattery in such self-abasement before her of a
man she admired so much. Would he say more then, or would he wait? As
far as she knew her own mind, she hoped he would wait a little longer.
She said nothing, being perhaps afraid of saying too much. 'Yet I know
it will be so,' said Mark; 'the book will be forgotten with the next
literary sensation, and I shall drop under with it. You will see me
about less often, till one day you pass me in the street and wonder
who I am, and if you ever met me at all.'

'I don't think I ever gave you the right to say that,' she said,
wounded at his tone, 'and you ought to know that I should not do
anything of the sort.'

'Will you tell me this,' he said, and his voice trembled with anxiety,
'if--if I had not written this book which was happy enough to give you
some pleasure--if I had met you simply as Mark Ashburn, a man who had
never written a line in his life, would you have been the same to me?
Would you have felt even such interest in me as I like to think
sometimes you do feel? Try to give me an answer.... You don't know how
much it will mean to me.'

Mabel took refuge in the impersonal. 'Of course,' she said, 'one often
likes a person one never saw very much for something he has done; but
I think if you ever do meet him and then don't like him for himself,
you dislike him all the more for disappointing you. It's a kind of
reaction, I suppose.'

'Tell me this too,' Mark entreated, 'is--is that _my_ case?'

'If it had been,' she said softly, 'do you think I should have said
that?'

Something in her tone gave Mark courage to dare everything.

'Then you do care for me a little?' he cried. 'Mabel, I can speak now.
I loved you ever since I first saw you in that old country church. I
never meant to tell you so soon, but I can't help it. I want you--I
can't live without you! Will you come to me, Mabel?'

She put both hands trustfully in his as she said, 'Yes, Mark,' and
without any more words just then on either side, their troth was
plighted. He was still holding the hands she had resigned to him,
hardly daring as yet to believe in this realisation of his dearest
hopes, when someone stepped quickly in through the light curtains. It
was Caffyn, and he put up his eyeglass to conceal a slight start as he
saw who were there.

'Sent to look for somebody's fan; told it was left on the folding
chair. Ah, sorry to trouble you, Ashburn; that's it behind you; I
won't say I found you sitting on it.' And he went out with his prize.

'I think, after that,' said Mabel, with a little laugh, though she was
annoyed too, 'you had better take me back again.'

And Mark obeyed, feeling that the unromantic interruption had
effectually broken the spell. Fortunately it had happened after, and
not before his fate had been decided.

The evening was over, and he was waiting to recover his hat and
overcoat when he was joined by Caffyn. 'Umbrella missing?' began the
latter; 'mine is, like the departed Christians on the tombstones, you
know, "not lost--but gone before." Are you going my way? Come on
then.'

When they were outside in the moonlight, he took Mark's arm and said,
'You've got something to tell me, haven't you?'

'I told you I should come to you for congratulations when we were at
Triberg,' said Mark, 'but I never hoped to be able to come so soon.
She has said "Yes," old fellow. I can't trust myself to talk about it
just yet, but I can't help telling you that.'

Caffyn clapped him on the back with a shout of rather wild laughter.
'What a fortunate beggar you are!' he said; 'fame, fortune--and now a
charming girl to crown it all. You'll be rousing the envy of the gods
soon, you know--unless you're careful!'




CHAPTER XXVI.

VISITS OF CEREMONY.


Mr. Langton, on being informed that Mark Ashburn proposed to become
his son-in-law, took a painfully prosaic view of the matter: 'I can
quite understand the fascination of a literary career to a young man,'
he had observed to Mark in the course of a trying interview; 'indeed,
when I was younger I was frequently suspected myself of contributing
to "Punch;" but I always saw where that would lead me, and, as a
matter of fact, I never did indulge my inclinations in that
direction,' he added, with the complacency of a St. Anthony. 'And the
fact is, I wish my son-in-law to have a more assured position: you
see, at present you have only written one book--oh, I am quite aware
that "Illusion" was well received--remarkably so, indeed; but then it
remains to be proved whether you can follow up your success, and--and,
in short, while that is uncertain I can't consent to any engagement;
you really must not ask me to do so.' And in this determination he was
firm for some time, even though secretly impressed on hearing of the
sum for which Mark had already disposed of his forthcoming novel, and
which represented, indeed, a very fair year's income. It was Uncle
Solomon, after all, that proved the heavy piece of ordnance which
turned the position at the crisis; he was flattered when his nephew
took him into his confidence, and pleased that he should have 'looked
so high,' which motives combined to induce him to offer his influence.
It was a somewhat desperate remedy, and Mark had his doubts of the
impression likely to be produced by such a relative, but it worked
unexpectedly well. Mr. Lightowler was too cautious to commit himself
to any definite promise, but he made it abundantly clear that he was a
'warm' man, and that Mark was his favourite nephew, for whom he was
doing something as it was, and might do more if he continued to behave
himself. After the interview in which this was ascertained, Mr.
Langton began to think that his daughter might do worse than marry
this young Ashburn after all. Mrs. Langton had liked Mark from the
first in her languid way, and the fact that he had 'expectations'
decided her to support his cause; he was not a brilliant _parti_, of
course, but at least he was more eligible than the young men who had
been exciting her maternal alarm of late. And under her grandfather's
will Mabel would be entitled on her marriage or coming of age to a sum
which would keep her in comfort whatever happened.

All these considerations had their effect, and Mr. Langton, seeing how
deeply his daughter's heart was concerned, withdrew his opposition,
and even allowed himself to be persuaded that there was no reason for
a long engagement, and that the marriage might be fixed to take place
early in the following spring. He only made two stipulations: one,
that Mark should insure his life in the usual manner; and the other,
that he should abandon his _nom de plume_ at once, and in the next
edition of "Illusion," and in all future writings, use the name which
was his by birth. 'I don't like _aliases_,' he said; 'if you win a
reputation, it seems to me your wife and family should have the
benefit of it;' and Mark agreed to both conditions with equal
cheerfulness.

Mr. Humpage, as may be imagined, was not best pleased to hear of the
engagement; he wrote a letter of solemn warning to Mabel and her
father, and, this being disregarded, he nursed his resentment in
offended silence. If Harold Caffyn was polite enough when in his
uncle's company to affect to share his indignation to the full,
elsewhere he accepted Mark's good fortune with cheerful indifference;
he could meet Mabel with perfect equanimity, and listen to her
mother's somewhat discursive eulogies of her future son-in-law with
patience, if not entire assent. Since his autumn visit to the
Featherstones, there had been changes in his position which may have
been enough to account for his philosophy; he had gained the
merchant's good opinion to such an extent that the latter, in defiance
of his wife's cautions, had taken the unusual step of proposing that
the young actor should give up the stage and occupy a recently vacated
desk in Mr. Featherstone's own palatial City offices. Even if his
stage ambition had not cooled long since, Caffyn was not the man to
neglect such a chance as this; he accepted gratefully, and already the
merchant saw his selection, unlikely as it had seemed at first,
beginning to be justified by his _protégé's_ clear head and command of
languages, while Gilda's satisfaction at the change was at least equal
to her father's. And so, whether Harold was softened by his own
prosperity, and whether other hopes or distractions came between him
and his former passion for revenge, he remained impassive throughout
all the preparations for a marriage which he could have prevented had
he chosen. At Triberg the thought that Mark (who had, as he
considered, been the chief means of ruining his hopes of Mabel) was to
be his successful rival had for an instant revived the old spirit; but
now he could face the fact with positive contentment, and his feeling
towards Mark was rather one of contemptuous amusement than of any
actual hostility.

Mark's introduction of Mabel to his family had not been altogether a
success; he regretted that he had carelessly forgotten to prepare them
for his visit as soon as he pulled the bell-handle by the gate, and
caught a glimpse of scared faces at one or two of the windows,
followed by sounds from within of wild scurry and confusion--'like a
lot of confounded rabbits!' he thought to himself in disgust. Then
they had been kept waiting in a chilly little drawing-room, containing
an assortment of atrocities in glass, china, worsted, and wax, until
Mark moved restlessly about in his nervous irritation, and Mabel felt
her heart sink in spite of her love; she had not expected to find
Mark's people in luxurious surroundings, but she was unprepared for
anything quite so hideous as that room. When Mrs. Ashburn, who had
felt that this was an occasion for some attention to toilette, made
her appearance, it was hardly a reassuring one: she was not exactly
vulgar perhaps, but she was hard, Mabel thought, narrow and ungenial;
but the fact was that the consciousness of having been taken unawares
robbed her welcome of any cordiality which it might otherwise have
possessed. She inferred from her first glance at Mabel's pretty
walking costume a fondness for dress and extravagance, which branded
her at once as a 'worldling,' between whom and herself there could be
nothing in common--in which last opinion she was most probably right,
as all Mabel's efforts to sustain a conversation could not save it
from frequent lapses. Martha, from shyness as much as stiffness, sat
by in almost complete silence; and though Trixie, the only other
member of the family who appeared, was evidently won at once by
Mabel's appearance, and did all she could to cover the others'
shortcomings, she was not sufficiently at her ease to break the chill;
and Mark, angry and ashamed as he was, felt paralysed himself under
its influence.

On the way back he was unusually silent, from a fear of the impression
such an ordeal as she had gone through must have left upon Mabel; and
the fact that she did not refer to the interview herself did not
reassure him. He need not have been afraid, however; she was not in
the least deterred by what she had seen. The sight of the home in
which he had been brought up had filled her with a loving pity,
suggesting as it did the petty constraints and miseries, the
unloveliness of all surroundings, and the total want of appreciation
which he must have endured there. And yet all this had not soured him;
in spite of it he had produced a great book, strong, yet refined and
tender, and free from any taint of narrowness or cynicism. As she
thought of this and glanced at Mark's handsome face, so bright and
animated in general, but clouded now with the melancholy which his
fine eyes could express at times, she longed to say something to
relieve it, and yet shrank from being the first to speak in her fear
of jarring him.

Mark spoke at last. 'Well, Mabel,' he said, looking down at her with a
rather doubtful smile, 'I told you that my mother was a--a little
peculiar.'

'Yes,' said Mabel frankly; 'we didn't quite get on together, did we,
Mark? We shall some day, perhaps; and even if not--I shall have you!'
And she laid her hand on his sleeve with a look of perfect
understanding and contentment which, little as he deserved it, chased
away all his fears.




CHAPTER XXVII.

CLEAR SKY--AND A THUNDERBOLT.


'Has any one,' asks George Eliot, in 'Middlemarch,' 'ever pinched into
its pilulous smallness the cobweb of pre-matrimonial acquaintance?'
And, to press the metaphor, the cobweb, as far as Mark and Mabel were
concerned, brilliantly as it shone in all its silken iridescence,
would have rolled up into a particularly small pill. Mark was anxious
that his engagement should be as short as possible, chiefly from an
uneasy fear that his great happiness might elude him after all. The
idea of losing Mabel became day by day, as he knew her better, a more
intolerable torture, and he could not rest until all danger of that
was at an end. Mabel had no fears of a future in which Mark would be
by her side; and if she was not blind to some little weaknesses in his
character, they did not affect her love and admiration in the
least--she was well content that her hero should not be unpleasantly
perfect. And the weeks slipped by, until Easter, which fell early that
year, had come and gone; the arrangements for the wedding were all
completed, and Mark began to breathe more freely as he saw his
suspense drawing to a happy end.

It was a bleak day towards the end of March, and Mark was walking
across the Park and Gardens from his rooms in South Audley Street to
Malakoff Terrace, charged with a little note from Mabel to Trixie, to
which he was to bring back an answer; for, although Mabel had not made
much progress in the affections of the rest of the Ashburn household,
a warm friendship had sprung up already between herself and Mark's
youngest sister--the only one of them who seemed to appreciate and
love him as he deserved. He felt buoyant and happy as he walked
briskly on, with the blustering north-easter at his back seeming to
clear his horizon of the last clouds which had darkened it. A very
few days more and Mabel would be his own--beyond the power of man to
sunder! and soon, too, he would be able to salve the wound which still
rankled in his conscience--he would have a book of his own. 'Sweet
Bells Jangled' was to appear almost immediately, and he had come to
have high hopes of it; it looked most imposing in proof--it was so
much longer than 'Illusion;' he had worked up a series of such
overwhelming effects in it; its pages contained matter to please every
variety of taste--flippancy and learning, sensation and sentiment,
careful dissection of character and audacious definition and
epigram--failure seemed to him almost impossible. And when he could
feel able to lay claim legitimately to the title of genius, surely
then the memory of his fraud would cease to reproach him--the means
would be justified by the result. He amused himself by composing
various critiques on the book (all of course highly eulogistic), and
thus pleasantly occupied the way until he gained the cheerful
Kensington High Street, the first half of which seems to belong to
some bright little market town many miles further from Charing Cross.
In the road by the kerbstone he passed a street singer, a poor old
creature in a sun-bonnet, with sharp features that had been handsome
once, and brilliant dark eyes, who was standing there unregarded,
singing some long-forgotten song with the remnants of a voice. Mark's
happiness impelled him to put some silver into her hand, and he felt a
half-superstitious satisfaction as he heard the blessing she called
down on him--as if she might have influence.

No one was at home at Malakoff Terrace but Trixie, whom he found
busily engaged in copying an immense plaster nose. 'Jack says I must
practise harder at features before I try the antique,' she explained,
'and so he gave me this nose; it's his first present, and considered a
very fine cast, Jack says.'

'Never saw a finer nose anywhere,' said Mark--'looks as if it had been
forced, eh, Trixie?'

'Mark, don't!' cried Trixie, shocked at this irreverence; 'it's
_David's_--Michael Angelo's David!' He gave her Mabel's note. 'I
can't write back because my hands are all charcoaly,' she explained;
'but you can say, "My love, and I will if I possibly can;" and, oh
yes, tell her I had a letter from _him_ this morning.'

'Meaning Jack?' said Mark. 'All right, and--oh, I say, Trixie, why
won't the governor and mater come to my wedding?'

'It's all ma,' said Trixie; 'she says she should only feel herself out
of place at a fashionable wedding, and she's better away.'

'It's to be a very quiet affair, though, thank Heaven!' observed Mark.

'Yes, but don't you see what she really wants is to be able to feel
injured by being out of it all--if she can, she'll persuade herself in
time that she never was invited at all; you know what dear ma is!'

'Well,' said Mark, with considerable resignation, 'she must do as she
pleases, of course. Have you got anything else to tell me, Trixie,
because I shall have to be going soon?'

'You mustn't go till I've given you something that came for you--oh, a
long time ago, when ma was ill. You see, it was like this: ma had her
breakfast in bed, and there was a tray put down on the slab where it
was, and it was sticky underneath or something, and so it stuck to the
bottom, and the tray wasn't wanted again, and Ann, of course, didn't
choose to wash it, so she only found it yesterday and brought it to
me.'

'Trixie,' said Mark, 'I can't follow all those "its." I gather that
I'm entitled to something sticky, but I haven't a notion what. Hadn't
you better get it, whatever it happens to be?'

'Why, it's a letter of course, goose!' said Trixie. 'I told you _that_
the very first thing: wait here, and I'll bring it to you.'

So Mark waited patiently in the homely little back parlour, where he
had prepared his work as a schoolboy in the old days, where he had
smoked his first cigar in his first Cambridge vacation. He smiled as
he thought how purely intellectual his enjoyment of that cigar had
been, and how for the first time he had appreciated the meaning of
'the bitter end;' he was smiling still when Trixie returned.

'Whom do you know in India, Mark?' she said curiously; 'perhaps it's
some admirer who's read the book. I hope it's nothing really
important; if it is, it wasn't our fault that--Mark, you're not _ill_,
are you?'

'No,' said Mark, placing himself with his back to the light, and
stuffing the letter, after one hasty glance at the direction, unopened
into his pocket. 'Of course not--why should I be?'

'Is there anything in the letter to worry you?' persisted Trixie. 'It
can't be a bill, can it?'

'Never mind what it is,' said Mark; 'have you got the keys? I--I
should like a glass of wine.'

'Ma left the keys in the cupboard,' said Trixie; 'how lucky! port or
sherry, Mark?'

'Brandy, if there is any,' he said, with an effort.

'Brandy! oh, Mark, have you taken to drinking spirits, and so early in
the morning?' she asked, with an anxious misgiving that perhaps that
was _de rigueur_ with all literary men.

'No, no, don't be absurd. I want some just now, and quick, do you
hear? I caught a chill walking across,' he explained.

'You had better try to eat something with it, then,' she advised;
'have some cake?'

'Do you want to make me ill in earnest?' he retorted peevishly,
thrusting away the brown cake, with a stale flavour of cupboard about
it, with which Trixie tried to tempt him; 'there, it's all
right--there's nothing the matter, I tell you.' And he poured out the
brandy and drank it. There was a kind of comfort, or rather
distraction, in the mere physical sensation to his palate; he thought
he understood why some men took to drinking. 'Ha!' and he made a
melancholy attempt at the sigh of satisfaction which some people think
expected of them after spirits. 'Now I'm a man again, Trixie; that
has driven off the chill. I'll be off now.'

'Are you _sure_ you're quite well again?' she said anxiously. 'Very
well, then I shan't see you again till you're in church next Tuesday;
and oh, Mark, I do so hope you'll be very, very happy!' He was on the
door-step by this time, and made no reply, while he kept his face
turned from her.

'Good-bye, then,' she said; 'you won't forget my message to Mabel,
will you?'

'Let me see, what was it?' he said. 'Ah, I remember; your love, and
you will if you can, eh?'

'Yes, and say I've had a letter from him this morning,' she added.

He gave a strange laugh, and then, as he turned, she saw how ghastly
and drawn his face looked.

'Have you though?' he said wildly; 'so have I, Trixie, so have I!' And
before she could ask any further questions he was gone.

He walked blindly up the little street and into the main road again,
unable at first to think with any clearness: he had not read the
letter; the stamp and handwriting on the envelope were enough for him.
The bolt had fallen from a clear sky, the thing he had only thought of
as a nightmare had really happened--the sea had given up its dead! He
went on; there was the same old woman in the sun-bonnet, still
crooning the same song; he laughed bitterly to think of the difference
in his own life since he had last seen her--only a short half-hour
ago. He pass