THE PENNYCOMEQUICKS (VOLUME 2 OF 3)




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Title: The Pennycomequicks (Volume 2 of 3)
Author: S. Baring-Gould
Release Date: February 04, 2015 [EBook #48162]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1


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Produced by Al Haines.





                         *THE PENNYCOMEQUICKS*

                               *A Novel*


                                   BY

                            S. BARING GOULD

                               AUTHOR OF
    'MEHALAH,' 'COURT ROYAL,' 'JOHN HERRING,' 'THE GAVEROCKS,' ETC.



                            IN THREE VOLUMES

                                VOL. II.



                                 LONDON
                       SPENCER BLACKETT & HALLAM
        MILTON HOUSE, 35, ST. BRIDE STREET, LUDGATE CIRCUS, E.C.
                                  1889

                        [_All rights reserved_]




                         *CONTENTS OF VOL. II.*


CHAPTER

   XVII. MISFORTUNES NEVER COME SINGLY
  XVIII. JOHN DALE
    XIX. BACKING OUT
     XX. A FACE IN THE DARK
    XXI. HYACINTH BULBS
   XXII. YES OR NO?
  XXIII. EARLE SCHOFIELD
   XXIV. A RECOGNITION
    XXV. WITHOUT BELLS
   XXVI. HYMEN
  XXVII. AN ALARM
 XXVIII. THE SPARE ROOM
   XXIX. RECOGNITION
    XXX. EXEUNT
   XXXI. ESTRANGEMENT
  XXXII. THE FLIGHT OF EROS
 XXXIII. EXILE




                         *THE PENNYCOMEQUICKS.*



                            *CHAPTER XVII.*

                    *MISFORTUNES NEVER COME SINGLY.*


Next morning Salome was agreeably surprised to find her mother better,
brighter, and without the expression of mingled alarm and pain that her
face had worn for the last two days.  She refrained from telling her
about the mysterious nocturnal visitor, because it was her invariable
practice to spare the old lady everything that might cause her anxiety
and provoke a relapse.  It could do no good to unnecessarily alarm her,
and Salome knew how to refrain from speaking unnecessarily.

Before paying her mother her morning visit, Salome made an attempt to
get at the bottom of the matter that puzzled her and rendered her
uneasy.  It was the duty of the housemaid to lock the doors at night.
Salome sent for her, and inquired about that which gave admission to the
garden.  The girl protested that she had fastened up as usual, and had
not neglected any one of the doors.

Notwithstanding this assurance, Salome remained unshaken in her
conviction that the open doorway was due to the neglect of the servant.
She knew that in the class of domestics, truth is esteemed too precious
to be wasted by telling it, and that the asseveration of a maid charged
with misdemeanour is to be read like morning dreams.  She did not pursue
the matter with the young woman, so as not to involve her in fresh
falsehoods; she, herself, remained of the same opinion.

On her way across the hall to her mother's room, Salome noticed that the
garden-door was not only locked, but that the key had been withdrawn
from it. This Philip had done last night, and he had not replaced it.
It now occurred to her that she had omitted taking a step which might,
and probably would, have led to the detection of the trespasser. The
door led into the garden, but egress from the garden could only be had
through the door in the wall of the lower or vegetable garden, rarely
used, generally locked, through which manure was brought, and the man
occasionally employed in the garden passed when there employed.  As this
gate would certainly be locked, the man who had gone out of the house
into the garden could only have escaped thence with difficulty.  If he
had been at once pursued, he might have been captured before he could
scale the wall.  This had not occurred to her or to Philip at the time.

'Salome, my dear,' said Mrs. Cusworth, after her daughter had kissed her
and congratulated her on her improvement, 'I am thankful to say that I
am better. A load that has troubled and oppressed me for some days has
been lifted off my heart.'

'I am glad, mamma,' said the girl, 'that at last you are reconciled to
the change.  It was inevitable.  I dare say you will feel better when we
are settled at Redstone.'

'My dear,' answered Mrs. Cusworth, 'I must abandon the idea of going
there.'

'Where?  To Redstone?'

'Yes.  The house is beyond my means.  I cannot possibly afford it.'

'But--mamma.'  Salome was startled.  'I have already secured the
lodgings.'

'Only for a quarter, and it would be better to sacrifice a quarter's
rent than turn out again in three months.  I could not endure the shift
again, so quickly following this dreadful change.'

'But--mamma!'  Salome was greatly taken aback. 'This is springing a
surprise on me.  We have no other house into which we can go.'

'A cottage, quite a cottage, such as the artisans occupy, must content
us.  We shall have to cut our coat according to our cloth.'

'Mamma!  You allowed me to engage Redstone.'

'I did not then know how we were circumstanced. To make both ends meet
we shall have to pinch.'

'But why pinch?  You told me before that we had enough on which to live
quietly but comfortably.'

'I was mistaken.  I have had a great and unexpected loss.'

'Loss, mamma!  What loss?'

'I mean--well,' the old lady stammered, 'I mean a sore disappointment.
I am not so well off as I had supposed.  I had miscalculated my
resources.'

'Have you only just discovered what your means really are?'

'You must not excite her,' said Janet reproachfully.

'I do not wish to do so,' explained Salome.  'But I am so surprised, so
puzzled--and this is such an upset of our plans at the last moment,
after I had engaged the lodgings--I do not know what to think about it.'
She paused, considered, and said with a flush in her face: 'Mamma, you
surely had not reckoned on poor uncle's will?'

Mrs. Cusworth hesitated, then said: 'Of course, it is a severe blow to
me that no provision had been made for you and me.  We might fairly have
reckoned on receiving something after what was done for Janet, and you
were his favourite.'

'Oh, mamma, you did not count on this?'

'Remember that you are left absolutely destitute. What little I have
saved will hardly support us both. Janet can do nothing for us just
now.'

'Because of the Prussians,' said Mrs. Baynes. 'Wait a bit; as soon as we
have swept them from the face of fair France, I shall make you both come
to me at Elboeuf.'

'Mamma,' said Salome, 'I am still puzzled.  You knew very well that
uncle's will was worthless when you let me make arrangements for
Redstone, and now that I have settled everything you knock over my
plans.  If you had told me----'

'I could not tell you.  I did not know,' said the widow.  'That is to
say, I had misreckoned my means.'

'Then there is no help for it.  I must try to get out of the agreement
for Redstone, if I can.  I am afraid the agent will not let me off.  We
shall have to pay double rent, and there is little chance of
underletting Redstone at this time of the year.'

'Better pay double than have to make a double removal; it will be less
expense in the end.'

'Perhaps so,' answered Salome; then she left her mother's room that she
might go upstairs and think over this extraordinary change of plans.
She was painfully aware that she had been treated without due
consideration, subjected unnecessarily to much trouble and annoyance.

In the hall she saw Mr. Philip Pennycomequick. He beckoned to her to
follow him to the garden-door, and she obeyed.  He unlocked the door.

'I took away the key last night,' he said, 'and now you see my reason.'

He pointed to the turf.

A slight fall of snow, that comminuted snow that is like meal, had taken
place at sundown, and it had covered the earth with a fine film of
white, fine as dust.  No further fall had taken place during the night.

A track of human feet was impressed on the white surface from the door
to the steps that gave access to the vegetable garden.

Without exchanging a word, both followed the track, walking wide of it,
one on each side.  A footprint marked each step, and the track led, less
distinctly, down the lower garden to the door in the wall at the bottom,
through which it doubtless passed, as there were no signs of a scramble.
The door was locked.

'Have you the key?' asked Philip.

'I have not.  There is one on Mr. Pennycomequick's bunch, and my mother
has a second.'

'It matters not,' said Philip.  'Outside is a path along which the mill
people have gone this morning to their work, and have trampled out all
the traces of our mysterious visitor.  The prints are those of unshod
feet.  The shape of the impression tells me that.'

They returned to the house.

'This unpleasant incident convinces me of one thing,' said Philip.  'It
will not do for me to live in this place alone.  I can explain this
mysterious affair in one or other way.  Either one of the servants
having a brother, cousin, or lover, whom she wished to favour with the
pick of my uncle's clothes, that she knew were laid out for
distribution, allowed him to come and choose for himself----'

'Or else----'

'Or else the gardener left the little door in the wall ajar.  Some
passing tramp, seeing it open, ventured in, and finding nothing worth
taking in the garden, pursued his explorations to the house, where he
was fortunate enough to find another door open, through which he
effected his entrance and helped himself to what he first laid hands on.
He would have taken more had he not been disturbed by you.'

'He was not disturbed by me.'

'He may have seen you pass down the stairs, and so have taken the alarm
and decamped.  My second explanation is the least probable, for it
demands a double simultaneous neglect of fastening doors by two
independent persons, the housemaid and the gardener.'

'The gardener has not been working for some weeks.'

'Then how this has occurred concerns me less than the prevention of a
recurrence,' said Philip.  'I must have a responsible person in the
house.  May I see your mother?'

As he asked, he entered the hall, and Janet at the same moment came out
of her mother's sitting-room with a beaming face.  She slightly bowed to
Philip, and said eagerly to her sister, 'Salome, the postman is coming
down the road.  I am sure he brings me good news.  I am going to the
door to meet him.'

Salome admitted Philip into the sitting-room.  She would have withdrawn,
but he requested her to stay.

'What I have to say to Mrs. Cusworth,' he said shortly, 'concerns you as
well as your mother.'

He took a chair at the widow's request, and then, in his matter-of-fact
business fashion, plunged at once into the subject of his visit.

'I dare say that you have wondered, madam, that neither Mrs. Sidebottom
nor I have made any call on you lately with a proposal.  The fact is
that only yesterday did my aunt and I arrive at a definite and permanent
settlement.  You are aware that she has acted as administratrix of my
uncle's property.  We have, after some difference, come to an
arrangement, and by that arrangement I take the factory under my
management--that, however, is not a matter of interest to you.  What
does concern you is the agreement we have struck about the house, which
is become practically mine, I shall live in it henceforth and conduct
the business so successfully carried on by my uncle, and I hope and
trust without allowing it to decline. You are well aware that Mrs.
Sidebottom gave you formal notice to quit: this was a formality, because
at the time nothing was settled relative to the firm and the house.
Please not to consider for a moment that there was a slight intended.
As far as I am concerned, nothing could have been more foreign to my
wishes. Do not allow that notice to affect your arrangements.'

'We accepted the notice, and have made our plans to leave,' said Salome
quietly.

'In the first uncertainty as to what would be done,' said Philip, 'Mrs.
Sidebottom came to you, Mrs. Cusworth, and I fear spoke with haste and
impetuosity. She was excited, and at the time in a state of irritation
with me, who had withstood her wishes.  Since then an arrangement has
been concluded between us which leaves me the house.  This house
henceforth belongs to me, and not to my aunt, who ceases to have
authority within its walls.  I am going to live here. But, madam, as you
may well believe, I am incapable of managing domestic affairs.  I have
been unused to have such duties devolve on me.  I shall be engaged in
mastering new responsibilities which will occupy my whole attention, and
it is imperative that I should be spared the distraction of
housekeeping.  The event of last night--the appearance of a man invading
this house----'

Mrs. Cusworth turned deadly pale, and a look of fear came into her eyes.
Salome hastily turned to Philip, and her appealing glance told him he
must not touch on a subject that would alarm and agitate her mother.

'I mean,' said Philip hastily, 'that a man, inexperienced like myself,
entering a large house in which there are domestics, of whose freaks and
vagaries he knows nothing, and desires to know less, is like a colonist
in Papua, of the natives of which nothing certain has been revealed.
They may be cannibals; they may, on the other hand, be inoffensive.  Of
landladies in lodging-houses I have had a long and bitter experience.  I
have run the gamut of them, from the reduced gentlewoman to the wife of
an artisan, and I believe it is one of those professions which, like
vivisection, dries up the springs of moral worth.  It will be essential
to my happiness, I may say to my success in the business, to have a
responsible person to manage the house for me.  You, madam, will relieve
me from grave embarrassments if you will consent to remain here on the
same terms as heretofore.  It will indeed be conferring on me a lasting
favour, which I know I am not justified in asking.'

'It is very good of you to suggest this,' began the widow.

'On the contrary,' interrupted Philip, 'it is selfish of me to propose
it--to wish to retain you in a place where you must be surrounded by
sorrowful reminiscences, and tie you to work when you ought to be free
from every care.'

'I thank you,' said Mrs. Cusworth.  'It so happens that I am distressed
by pecuniary losses, and I am therefore glad to accept your offer.'

'I am sorry, madam, that you have met with losses. But I do not wish to
force you to accept obligations for which you do not feel yourself equal
without understanding exactly how matters stand.  Mrs. Sidebottom and I
have consulted together about the probable wishes of my deceased uncle,
and we unite in thinking that he never intended to leave Miss Cusworth
unprovided for.  The will he had drawn out perhaps erred on the side of
excessive liberality to her and disregard of the claims of his own
relations.  That was cancelled--how, we cannot say.  Suffice it to say,
it was cancelled, but without cancelling the obligation to do something
for Miss Cusworth.  We are quite sure that Mr. Pennycomequick intended
to provide for her, and Mrs. Sidebottom and I agree in proposing for her
acceptance such a sum as was invested by my late uncle for the benefit
of Mrs. Baynes on her marriage a twelve month ago.'

He was the lawyer--formal, cold, stiff--as he spoke, measuring his
sentences and weighing his words. Even when he endeavoured to be
courteous, as when inviting the widow to stay on in his house, he spoke
without ease of manner, graciousness, and softness of tone.

'Of course,' said Mrs. Cusworth, 'it has been a great disappointment to
us that we received nothing from Mr. Pennycomequick----'

'Mother!' interrupted Salome, quivering, flushing to the roots of her
hair, then turning white. Mrs. Cusworth was one of those ordinary women
who think it becomes them not to receive a favour as a favour, but as a
due.  Salome at once felt the grace and kindness of the arrangement
proposed for her advantage by Philip, and had little hesitation in
attributing it to him, and freeing Mrs. Sidebottom from the initiative,
at least, in it.  But her mother supposed it due to her dignity to
receive it as a concession to a legitimate claim.

Salome did not look in Philip's face.  Afraid that her mother might say
something further that was unsuited to the situation, she interposed:

'Mr. Pennycomequick,' she said, in a low, gentle voice, 'you said just
now that you had no claim on our services.  You have created such a
claim.  Your proposal is so generous, so kindly intentioned, and so far
transcending what we had any right to ask or to expect, that you lay us
under an obligation which it will be a pleasure for us to discharge.  My
dear mother is not herself able to do much with her hands, but she is
like a general in a battlefield--on a commanding eminence she issues her
directions, and I am her orderly who fly about carrying her commands. We
accept with gratitude and pleasure your offer to continue in this house,
at least for a while.  For that other offer that concerns me alone, will
you allow me time to consider it?'

At that moment, before Philip could reply, the door was burst open, and
Janet rushed in, with a face of despair, holding an open letter before
her.

'Mamma!  Oh, mamma!  The Prussians have killed him.  Albert--has been
shot!'




                            *CHAPTER XVIII.*

                              *JOHN DALE.*


In the cabin of the _Conquering Queen_, Mr. Pennycomequick had much time
for thought before he was sufficiently recovered to leave his berth.  He
fell to wondering what Salome and her mother, Mrs. Sidebottom and his
nephew, had thought of his disappearance.

'Can you get me a back newspaper, or some account of the flood?' he
asked of Ann Dewis.  'I am interested to hear what happened, and whether
I am among those accounted to have fallen victims.'

After several trials, Mrs. Dewis procured what was required in pamphlet
form--a reprint from one of the West Riding papers of its narrative of
the inundation, of the appearance of the country after it had subsided,
from its special correspondent, and full lists of the lost and drowned.
Mr. Pennycomequick read this account by the light that descended from
the hatchway; read about the havoc effected in Keld-dale, the walls
thrown down, the cottages inundated, the roads and the embankments torn
up, and then among the names of those lost he read his own, with the
surprising information that the body had been recovered, and though
frightfully mutilated, had been identified.

This was news indeed.  That he was esteemed dead did not surprise Mr.
Pennycomequick when he learned how long he had been ill, but that some
other body should have been mistaken for his was indeed inexplicable.

'By this time,' said he to himself, 'Salome will have proved my will and
Louisa will have exhausted her vituperation of my memory.'

It took him two days to digest what he had learned. As he recovered, his
mind recurred to those thoughts which had engaged him on the night of
the flood, as he walked on the towpath by the canal.

If he were to return to Mergatroyd when supposed to be dead, he was
confident that Salome and her mother would receive him with unfeigned
delight, and without reluctance surrender to him what they had received
through his bequest.  But he was by no means sure of himself, that in
the joy of his return he would be able to control his feelings so as not
to show to Salome what their real nature was.

He recalled his prayer to Heaven, that he might have the way pointed out
to him which he should go, and startlingly, in a manner unexpected, in a
direction not anticipated, the hand of Providence had flashed out of the
sky and had pointed out his course.  It had snapped his tie to
Mergatroyd--at all events temporarily; had separated him from Salome,
and set him where he had leisure and isolation in which to determine his
conduct.  Jeremiah was a man of religious mind, and this consideration
profoundly affected him.  He had been carried from his home, and his
name blotted out of the book of the living.

What would be the probable consequences were he to return to Mergatroyd
as soon as he was recovered? The very desire he felt to be back, to see
Salome again, was so strong within him that it constituted evidence to
his mind that if he were at home, in the exuberant joy of meeting her
again he would let drop those words which his judgment told him ought
not to be spoken.  Other thoughts besides these exercised his mind.

He turned to the past, to his dead brother Nicholas, and his conscience
reproached him for having maintained the feud so persistently and so
remorselessly. Nicholas had suffered for what he had done, and by
suffering had expiated his fault.  He, Jeremiah, had, moreover, visited
on the guiltless son the resentment he bore to the father.  He
endeavoured to pacify his conscience by the reflection that he had made
a provision for Philip in his will; but this reflection did not satisfy
him.  Philip was the representative of the family, and Jeremiah had no
right to exclude him from the firm without a trial of his worth.

Then he turned to another train of ideas connected with his present
condition.

Was his health likely to be sufficiently restored to enable him to
resume the old routine of work?  Would a resumption of his duties
conduce to the re-edification of his health?  Would it not retard, if
not prevent, complete recovery?  Would it not be a better course for him
to shake himself free from every care--keep his mind disengaged from
business till his impaired constitution had been given time to recover?
He knew that rheumatic fever often seriously affected the heart, and he
asked himself whether he dare return to the conflict of feeling, the
inner struggle, sure to attend a recurrence to the same condition as
before.  Would it not be the wisest course for him to go abroad for a
twelvemonth or more, to some place where his mind might recover its
balance, his health be re-established--and he might acquire that perfect
mastery over his feelings which he had desired, but which he had lost.

What did he care about the fortune he had amassed--by no means a large
one, but respectable?  He was a man of simple habits and of no ambition.
He was interested in his business, proud of the good name the firm had
ever borne.  He would be sorry to think that Pennycomequick should cease
to be known in Yorkshire as the title of an old-established reliable
business associated with figured linen damasks.  But was his presence in
the factory essential to its continuance?

He looked at Ann Dewis squatted by the fire smoking.  For seventeen
years she had kept Earle Schofield's pipe going, which he had put into
her mouth, and she had been faithful to a simple request. He had put his
mill into Salome's hands, and had said, 'Keep it going.'  Was she less
likely to fulfil his wish than had been Ann Dewis to the desire of Earle
Schofield?

He was not concerned as to his means of subsistence should he determine
to remain as one dead.  He had an old friend, one John Dale, at
Bridlington, the only man to whom he was not reserved and
suspicious--the only man of whom he took counsel when in doubt and
difficulty.

John Dale had a robust common-sense, and to him Jeremiah resolved to
apply.  When John Dale first went to Bridlington he had been lent a
considerable sum of money by his friend, which had not been repaid, but
which, now that Dale had established a good practice as a surgeon, he
was ready and willing to repay.  John Dale had been constituted trustee
on the occasion of Janet's marriage.  He had paid visits to Mergatroyd,
and Jeremiah had visited Bridlington; but as both were busy men, such
visits had been short and few.  Though, however, they saw little of each
other, their mutual friendship remained unimpaired.

As soon as Mr. Pennycomequick was sufficiently recovered to leave the
barge, he provided himself with a suit of clothes at a slop-shop, and
settled into an inn in the town of Hull, whence he wrote to Dale to come
to him.  He had his purse in his pocket when he was carried away from
Mergatroyd, and the purse contained a few sovereigns, sufficient to
satisfy his immediate necessities.

''Pon my word, never was so astonished in my life!' shouted John Dale,
as he burst into the room occupied by his friend, then stood back,
looked at him from head to foot, and roared.

Mr. Pennycomequick was strangely altered.  He had been accustomed to
shave his face, with the exception of a pair of cutlets that reached no
lower than the lobe of his ears.  Now his face was frouzy with hair:
lips, jaws, cheeks, chin, throat, were overgrown, and the hair had got
beyond the primary stage of stubbledom.  He had been wont to attire
himself in black or Oxford mixture of a dark hue, to wear a suit of
formal cut, and chiefly to affect a double-breasted frock coat that gave
a specially substantial mercantile look to the man. The suit in which he
was now invested was snuff-coloured and cut away in stable fashion.

'Upon my word, this is a regeneration!  Dead as a manufacturer, alive as
a man on the turf.  Is the moral transformation as radical?  What is the
meaning of this?  I saw your death in the papers.  I wrote to Salome
about it, a letter of condolence, and had her reply.  How came you to
life again, you impostor, and in this guise?'

The doctor--he was really a surgeon--but everyone called him Dr. Dale,
was a stout, florid man, with his hair cut short as that of a Frenchman,
like the fur on the back of a mole.  He was fresh, boisterous in manner
when out of the sick-room, but when engaged on a patient, laid aside his
roughness and noise.  His cheeriness, his refusal to take a gloomy view
of a case, made him popular, and perhaps went some way towards
encouraging nature to make an effort to throw off disease.

Jeremiah told him the story of his escape.

'And now,' said Dale, 'I suppose you are going back.  By Jove, I should
like to see the faces when you reappear in the family circle thus
dressed and behaired.'

'Before I consider about going back, I want you to overhaul me,' said
Jeremiah, 'and please to tell me plainly what you find.  I'm not a woman
to be frightened at bad news.'

'At once, old man.  Off with those togs,' shouted the surgeon.

When the medical examination was over, Dale told Mr. Pennycomequick that
his heart was weak, but that there was no organic derangement.  He must
be careful of himself for some time to come.  He must avoid climbing
hills, ascending many stairs.

'As, for instance, the several flights of my factory.'

'Yes--you must content yourself with the office.'

'I might as well give up at once the entire management if I may not go
to the several departments and see what is going on there.'

'You must economize the pulsations of your heart for awhile.  You will
find yourself breathless at every ascent.  Your heart is at fault, not
your lungs.  The machine is weak, and you must not make an engine of
one-horse power undertake work that requires one of five.  If you could
manage to knock off work altogether----'

'For how long?'

'That depends.  You are not a boy with super-abundant vitality and any
amount of recuperative power.  After the age of fifty we have to husband
our strength; we get well slowly, not with a leap.  A child is down
to-day and up to-morrow.  An old man who is down to-day is up perhaps
that day month.  The thing of all others for you would be to go abroad
for a bit, to--let us say, the South of France or Sicily, or better
still, Cairo, lead a _dolce far niente_ life, forget worries, neglect
duties, disregard responsibilities, and let Nature unassisted be your
doctor and nurse.'

'Now look here, Dale,' said Mr. Pennycomequick, 'your advice jumps with
my own opinion.  I have been considering whilst convalescent what was
the good of my drudging on at Mergatroyd.  I have made a fortune--a
moderate one, but one that contents me--and have no need to toil through
the last years of life, to fag out the final straws of existence.'

'Fag out!' exclaimed Dale, 'you dog, you--why, you have gone into the
Caldron of Pelias, and have come forth rejuvenated.'

'If I remember the story aright,' retorted Jeremiah, 'Pelias never came
out of the caldron.  I am like Pelias in this, that I have gone into the
waters of Lethe.'

'Now, Jeremiah, old boy,' said the surgeon, 'let this be a settled
thing, you husband your strength for a twelvemonth at least, and you
will then be vigorous as ever.  If you insist on going into harness at
once, in two years I shall be attending your funeral.'

'Very well,' said Jeremiah, 'if things are in order at Mergatroyd, I
will go, but I cannot allow the business to fall into confusion.  To
tell you the truth, I have reasons which make me wish not to go back
there till I am quite restored, but I should like to know what is going
on there.'

'That I can perhaps tell you.  I have had a letter from Salome.  Do you
know, my friend, when I have been away from Bridlington, on a holiday, I
have been on thorns, thinking that everything must be going out of gear
on account of my absence, that my _locum tenens_ has let patients slip
and mismanaged difficult cases; yet when I have returned I have found
that I was not missed--all has gone on swimmingly without me.  You will
find that it has been the same at Mergatroyd.'

'But what says Salome?'

'In the first place that cricket, Janet, is back.  She was sent home
lest an Uhlan should fall in love with her or she fall in love with an
Uhlan, and now her husband is dead.  Like a fool he served as a
volunteer, uncalled for, as he was an Englishman.'

'Albert Baynes dead!  Then you will have some work on your hands as
trustee.'

'So I shall.  Now about your affairs.  It seems that the will you drew
up against my advice, without taking legal opinion, was so much
waste-paper; Salome says merely that it proved invalid, so Mrs.
Sidebottom had to take out letters of administration, and divide your
property between her and your nephew Philip.'

'What!--Salome get nothing!  I shall go back at once and send those two
vultures to the right about.'

'Have patience; they came out better than you might have expected.  It
has been arranged that Philip shall live in your house and undertake the
management of the factory, and he has asked Mrs. Cusworth to remain on
in the old place in the same position as she occupied before.'

'I am glad they have had the grace not to turn her out.'

'That is not all.  As it was clearly your wish that Salome should be
liberally provided for, your sister and nephew have agreed to fund for
her the same amount that was invested for her sister Janet.  Now I do
not know what your will was, but it seems to me that nothing could have
been better, even if you had the disposing of it.  Your natural heirs
get their rights, and your pet Salome is honourably and even handsomely
treated by them.'

Jeremiah said nothing; his chin fell on his breast. He had not thought
that Mrs. Sidebottom would do a generous thing.  Of Philip he knew
nothing; but what he had just heard predisposed him in his favour.

'Now take my advice, Jeremiah,' continued Dr. Dale. 'Let Philip go on
where he is.  He has thrown up his place in a solicitor's office at
Nottingham, and, as Salome writes, is devoting himself energetically to
the work of the mill, and learning all the ramifications of the
business.  You wanted someone to relieve you, and you have the man--the
right man, already in the place.'

'He may get everything wrong.'

'I do not believe it.  You have an aversion to lawyers, but let me tell
you that a lawyer's office is an excellent school; there men learn to
know human nature, how to deal with men, and get business habits. The
fellow must have a good heart, or he would not have come to an
arrangement with his aunt to part with a large sum of money for Salome.
Besides, Salome is no fool, and she writes of him in high praise for his
diligence, his regular habits, and his kindness and consideration for
her mother.'

John Dale paused for Jeremiah to say something; but his friend remained
silent, with his head down, thinking.

'If you go back,' said the doctor, 'you will throw everything wrong.
You will worry yourself and will take the spirit out of Philip.  Trust
him.  He is on his mettle.  If he makes a blunder, that is natural, and
he will suffer for it; but he will commit none that is fatal; he is too
shrewd for that.'

'Dale,' said Mr. Pennycomequick, 'if I make up my mind not to return to
Mergatroyd, I make up my mind at the same time to leave those there in
ignorance that I am still alive.'

'As you like.  It would not be amiss.  Then Philip would work with
better energy.  If things go wrong I can always drop you a line and
recall you, and you can appear as _Deus ex machinâ_, and set all to
rights. I have often thought that half the aggravation of leaving this
world must be the seeing things going to sixes and sevens without being
able to right them, a business we have got together being scattered, a
reputation we have built up being pulled down; to have to see things
going contrary to our intentions, and be unable to put out a finger to
mend them; to hear ourselves criticised, and ill-natured, and false
stories told of us, and be incapable of saying a word in our own
defence.  I will tell you a story.  At one time when I went to
dinner-parties I was the first to go. But on one occasion I stayed, and
Mr. and Mrs. Smith left before me.  No sooner were their backs turned
than the company fell to criticising the Smiths, their pretensions, the
airs they gave themselves, till the Brownes departed, whereupon the
conversation became scandalous about the Brownes: then the Jones family
departed.  Thereupon I learned that the Joneses were living beyond their
means, and were on the verge of bankruptcy.  So on till the last was
gone.  After that I have never been the first to leave; I try to be
last, so as to leave only my host and hostess behind to discuss and
blacken me.  Now, Jeremiah, you have gone out quickly and unexpectedly,
and if you could steal back to Mergatroyd unperceived, then you will
find that the maxim _De mortuis nil nisi bonum_ is not being observed.
You are fortunate; you can return at will and correct false estimates.
That is not given save to the exceptionally privileged.'

'You will go to Mergatroyd for me,' said Mr. Pennycomequick, 'and see
with your own eyes how things are?'

'Certainly I will.  Do you know, old fellow,' said Dale, with a twinkle
in his eye, 'I have sometimes feared for you, feared lest you should
make a ghastly fool of yourself, and make that dear little piece of
goods, Salome, your wife.  It would not do, old boy; if you had done it
I would have ceased to respect you; you would have lost the regard and
provoked the ridicule of everyone in Mergatroyd.  Old boy, it would
never have done.'

'No,' said Mr. Pennycomequick, 'it would never have done; you are right,
it would never have done.'

'It would have been a cruelty to her,' pursued Dale, 'for Nature never
designed Winter to mate with Spring, to bring a frost on all the sweet
blossoms of youth, and in checking the rising sap, perhaps to kill the
plant.'

'No,' said Jeremiah, 'it would never have done.'




                             *CHAPTER XIX*

                             *BACKING OUT.*


'You will dine with us to-night, Philip,' said Mrs. Sidebottom.  'Now
that we have settled our business, it will be quite fascinating to have
a bright and cheerful evening together.  We will take the crape off our
heads and hearts.  Lamb shall sing us some of his comic songs, and I
will play you any music you like on the piano.  You shall listen, and
the _motif_ of our entertainment shall be "Begone, dull care."  I wish
there were anyone invitable in this place, but there is not, and,
moreover, though I do not care for the opinion of these barbarians, it
is too soon after the funeral to have a dinner-party; we must mind the
proprieties wherever we are.'

Mrs. Sidebottom was in good spirits.  She had managed for herself well.
The estate of Mr. Pennycomequick had been divided between herself and
Philip, but as the business was already charged with her jointure, he
deducted this from the total before dividing.  She still retained her
hold on the factory, remained as a sleeping partner in the firm, though,
as Philip found to his cost before long, she was a sleeping partner
given to walking in her sleep.  Philip was to be the active member of
the firm.  It was by no means her wish that the mill should be sold and
the business pass away, because it was prosperous.  If it had fallen
into Lambert's hands it would have been different, for she knew well
that her son would have been incompetent to conduct it.  She was
cheerful now that all was concluded, perfectly satisfied with herself,
for the terms she had made with her nephew did not err on the side of
generosity.

'And now,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, 'I really do intend to get Lamb to
insert a hyphen in his name, and spell the final syllable with a capital
Q.  I have ascertained from a really learned man that our name is most
respectful; and, like all good names, is territorial.  It is of ancient
British origin, and means the Wick or settlement as the head of a Combe,
that is a valley.  When you know this you feel that it has an
aristocratic flavour, and that is older than trade.  I think that when
written Penycombe-Quick it will have an air, Philip, an air of such
exalted respectability as will entitle us to look on those who were
entered on the Roll of Battle Abbey as parvenus.  I intend to have
Lamb's cards printed thus.  I like the American way of combining the
paternal name with that acquired at marriage.  If I call myself Mrs.
Penycombe-Quick-Sidebottom I flatter myself I shall carry weight.'

There is a characteristic of some persons, not so rare as might be
supposed, but subdued in England as a token of ill-breeding, yet one
which among foreigners, judging from our experience, is not forbidden by
the social code.  This characteristic is the sudden transformation of
manner and behaviour at the touch of money.  We meet with and enjoy
ready hospitality, suavity of manner, that lasts till some difference
arises about a coin, when all at once the graces we admired give place
to roughness, a coarseness and greed quite out of proportion to the
amount under dispute.  In England we may feel aggrieved, but we strive
to conceal our chagrin; not so the foreigner, who will fall into a
paroxysm of fury over a sou or a kreutzer.

Mrs. Sidebottom was a lady of this calibre.  Chatty, cordial with those
who did not cross her, she was transformed, when her interests were
touched, into a woman pugnacious, unscrupulous and greedy.  A phenomenon
observed in certain religious revivals is the impatience of wearing
clothes that takes those seized by spiritual frenzy.  In the ecstasy of
devotion or hysteria, they tear off their garments and scatter them on
the ground.  So, when Mrs. Sidebottom was possessed by the spirit of
greed, she lost control over herself, she flung aside ordinary courtesy,
divested herself of every shred of politeness, stripped off every
affectation of disinterestedness, and showed herself in bald, unblushing
rapacity.  In dealing with Philip about the inheritance of Jeremiah, her
masterful pursuit of her own advantage, her overbearing manner, her
persistency, had gained for her notable advantages.  She had used the
privileges of her age, relationship, sex, to get the better of her
nephew, and only when her ends were gained did she smilingly, without an
apology, resume those trappings of culture and good breeding which she
had flung aside.

Now that all was settled, as she supposed, she was again the woman of
the world, and the agreeable, social companion.

'Yes, aunt,' said Philip, 'I am glad we have come to a settlement.  If
it be not all that I could have desired, it at all events leaves me
vastly better off than I was before the death of my uncle.  With the
help of Providence, and a good heart, I trust that the respectable old
house of Pennycomequick will maintain its character and thrive
continuously.'

'You like trade,' said his aunt.  'Lambert never could have accustomed
himself to it.  By the way, there will be no necessity for you to change
the spelling of your name.'

'I have not an intention to do so.'

'Right.  Of course it is as well to keep on the name of the firm
unaltered.  With us, moving in a higher and better sphere, it is other.'

'There is one matter, aunt, that has not yet been definitely arranged,
and that is the last about which I need trouble you.'

'What matter?  I thought all was done.'

'That relative to Miss Cusworth.'

'What about Miss Cusworth?'

'You surely have not forgotten our compact.'

'Compact?  Compact?'

'The agreement we came to that she was to receive acknowledgment from
us.'

'Acknowledgment!  Fiddlesticks!'

'I am sorry to have to refresh your memory,' said Philip harshly, 'but
you may perhaps recall, now that I speak of it, that I threatened to
enter a _caveat_ against your taking out powers of administration,
unless you agreed to my proposition that the young lady should be given
the same sum as was invested for her sister, which was the least that
Uncle Jeremiah intended to do for her.'

'Now--what nonsense, Philip!  I never heard such stuff.  I refused to
listen to your proposal.  I distinctly recall my words, and I can swear
to them.  I told you emphatically that nothing in the world would induce
me to consent.'

'The threat I used did, however, dispose you to alter your note and
yield.'

'My dear Philip,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, assuming an air of solemnity, 'I
have taken out administrative authority and have administered, or am in
the process of administering.'

'Exactly.  You have acted, but you were only enabled to act because I
held back from barring your way.  You know that very well, aunt, and you
know on what terms I withdrew my opposition.  You accepted my terms, and
I look to you to fulfil your part of the compact.'

'I do not find it in the bond,' said Mrs. Sidebottom. 'I can quote
Shakespeare.  Come, Phil, I thought we had done with wrangling over
sordid mammon.  Let us enjoy ourselves.  I did not ask you to stay for
dinner that we might renew our disputes.  The tomahawk is buried and the
calumet drawn forth.'

'It was a bond, not, indeed, drawn up in writing, between us, because I
relied on your honour.'

'My dear Phil, I gave no definite promise, but I had to swear before the
man at the Probate Court that I would administer faithfully and justly
according to law, and the law was plain.  Not a word in it about
Cusworths.  I am in conscience bound to stand by my oath.  I cannot
forswear myself.  If there is one thing in the world I pride myself on,
it is my strict conscientiousness.'

'The cow that lows loudest yields least milk,' muttered Philip.  He was
greatly incensed.  'Aunt,' he said angrily, 'this is a quibble unworthy
of you. A perfectly clear understanding was come to between us, by the
terms of which you were to go halves with me in raising four or five
thousand pounds to fund, or otherwise dispose of for the benefit of Miss
Cusworth.'

'Four or five thousand fiddlesticks!'

'If I had opposed you,' said Philip grimly, 'some awkward questions
might have been asked relative to the cancelled will.'

'What questions?' asked Mrs. Sidebottom, looking him straight in the
face with defiance.

'As to how that will came to have the signature torn off.'

'They were perfectly welcome to ask that question, but I defy you to
find anyone who could answer it.'

She was right, and Philip knew it.  Whatever his suspicions might be, he
was without a grain of evidence to substantiate an accusation against
anyone. Moreover, much as he mistrusted his aunt, he could not bring
himself to believe her capable of committing so daring and wicked an
act.

'I wish that the old witch-drowning days were back,' said Mrs.
Sidebottom.  'It is clear to me that Salome has been exercising her
fascinations upon you.  Oh, that she could be pitched into a pool--that
one of scalding water, swarming with gold-fish, would suit admirably,
because of the colour of her hair.  Then sink or swim would be all
one--sink for innocence, swim for guilt--clear of her anyway.'

'Do you seriously mean to evade the arrangement come to between us?'
asked Philip.  He would not be drawn from his point to side issues.

'I never went into it.'

'I beg your pardon, you did agree to what I proposed.'

'Upon compulsion.  No, were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the
world, I would not yield on compulsion.  There you have Shakspeare
again, Phil.  I wonder whether you can tell me from what play I quote.
If you were a man of letters, you would cap my quotations.'

'There can be no question as to what were the intentions of Uncle
Jeremiah.'

'Ah, there I agree with you.  Having made a preposterous will, he tore
it up, to show that he did not intend to constitute Salome his heiress.'

What was Philip to say?  How bring his aunt to her terms of agreement?
He remained silent, with closed lips and contracted brows.

'Now, look here, Philip,' said Mrs. Sidebottom good-humouredly, 'I have
ordered shoulder of mutton and onion sauce: also quenilles of macaroni
and forced-meat, and marmalade pudding.  Come and discuss these good
things with us, instead of mauling these dry bones of business.'

'I have already spoken to Mrs. and Miss Cusworth. Relying on your word,
I told them what we purposed doing for them.'

'Then you made a mistake, and must eat your words.  What a pity it is,
Philip, that we are continually floundering into errors of judgment, or
acts that our common-sense reproves, so that we come out scratched and
full of thorns!  You will be wiser in the future.  Never make
promises--that is, in money matters.  If you persist in paying the hussy
the four or five thousand pounds, I have no objection to the sum coming
out of your own pocket.  Excuse me, I must laugh, to think how you, a
lawyer, have allowed yourself to be bitten.'

'I do not see how I am to pay the sum you mention without jeopardizing
the business.  I must have money in hand wherewith to carry it on.  If
you draw back----'

'There is no _if_ in the case.  I do draw back.  Do me the justice to
admit that I never rushed into it. You did, dazzled by the girl's eyes,
drawn by her hair.'

Philip rose.

'What--are you going, Phil?  Lamb will be here directly.  He is at the
White Hart, I believe, playing billiards.  It is disgusting that he can
find no proper gentlemen to play with, and no good players either.
Come, sit down again.  You are going to dine with us.  Some of your
uncle's old port and Amontillado sherry.  It must be drunk--we shall
hardly move it to York.'

'I cannot dine with you now.'

'Why not?'

'Under the circumstances I cannot.' he said coldly. 'I trusted to your
honour--I trusted to you as a lady, and,' he raised his head, 'as a
Pennycomequick----'

'How spelled?' asked Mrs. Sidebottom laughingly.

'I cannot sit down with you now, with my respect and confidence shaken.
I trust that you have spoken in jest, and that to-morrow you will tell
me so; but I am not fond of jokes--such jokes as these leave a scar.  I
could not accept my share of Uncle Jeremiah's property without making
recognition of the claims of the Cusworth family.  The father died in my
uncle's service; the mother and daughters have devoted themselves to
making uncle's life easy--and now to be cast out!  If you hold back, and
refuse to pay your share of two thousand pounds, I must pay the entire
amount; and if the business suffers, well, it suffers.  The
responsibility will be yours, and the loss yours also, in part.'

'Nonsense, Phil; you will not run any risk.'

'If you had taken your part, and I mine, we could have borne the loss
easily; but if I have the whole thrown on me, the consequences may be
serious. Ready money is as necessary as steam to make the mill run.'

'I don't believe--I cannot believe--that you, a man of reason--you, a
man with legal training--can act such a quixotish part?' exclaimed Mrs.
Sidebottom, becoming for the moment alarmed.  Then she calmed down
again.  'I see through you, Philip,' she said. 'Having failed to
persuade me, you seek to terrify me.  It will not do.  I do not believe
so badly of humanity as to think that you will act so wickedly. Come,
think no more of this.  I hope you like sirloin?'

'I refuse to sit down with you,' said Philip angrily.

'Then go!' exclaimed his aunt, with an explosion of spleen.  'Go as an
impracticable lout to your housekeeper's room, to sup on a bowl of gruel
and cottage-pie!'




                             *CHAPTER XX.*

                         *A FACE IN THE DARK.*


Mrs. Sidebottom was not at ease in her mind after the suggestion thrown
out by Philip that the business might suffer if so much capital were
suddenly withdrawn from it.  She recalled how it had been when her
brother Nicholas had insisted on taking out of it his share--how angry
Jeremiah had been; how, for awhile, the stability of the firm had been
shaken, and how crippled it had been for some years.  She remembered how
that her share of the profits had been reduced, and she had no desire to
meet with a recurrence of this shrinkage.  When Nicholas made that great
call on the resources of the firm, there was Jeremiah in the office,
thoroughly experienced, and he was able, through his ability and
knowledge, to pull through; but it was another matter now with Philip, a
raw hand, in authority.

Then, again, Mrs. Sidebottom knew her brother Jeremiah had contemplated
a large outlay in new and improved machinery.  To keep up with the
times, abreast with other competitors, it was necessary that this costly
alteration should be made.  But could it be done if four or five
thousand pounds were sacrificed to a caprice?

'Philip is such a fool!' she muttered.  'He inherits some of his
father's obstinacy, as well as his carelessness about money.  Nicholas
no sooner got money in his hands than he played ducks and drakes with
it; and Philip is bent on doing the same.  Four thousand pounds to that
minx, Salome!  There goes the church bell.  When will Lamb be in?'

Mrs. Sidebottom lit a bedroom candle, and went upstairs to dress for
dinner.  Whilst ascending, she was immersed in thought, and suddenly an
idea occurred to her which made her quicken her steps. Instead of
dressing for dinner, she put on her bonnet. The church bell had diverted
her thoughts into a new channel.  When dressed to go out, she rang for
the parlourmaid.  'Susan,' she said, 'I had forgotten. This is a holy
day.  I believe, I am morally certain, it is a saint's day, and
appointed by the Church to make us holy.  We must deny ourselves.  So
put off dinner half an hour.  I am going to church--to set an example.'

Mrs. Sidebottom was not an assiduous church-goer. She attended on
Sundays to do the civil to the parson, but was rarely or never seen
within the sacred walls on week days.  Consequently her announcement to
Susan, that she was about to assist at divine worship that evening, and
that dinner was to be postponed accordingly, surprised the domestic and
surprised and angered the cook, who did not object to unpunctuality in
herself, but resented it in her master and mistress.

'If Salome is not at church,' said Mrs. Sidebottom to herself, 'I shall
be taken with faintness; fan myself with my pocket-handkerchief, to let
the congregation see I am poorly, and will come away at the _Nunc
Dimittis_.'

But Mrs. Sidebottom tarried in church through the _Nunc Dimittis_,
professed her adhesion to the Creed, and declared her transgressions.
As she listened to the lessons, her mind reverted to the quenilles.
'They will be done to chips!' she sighed, and then forgetting herself,
intoned, 'A--men.'  At the prayers she thought of the shoulder of
mutton, and in the hymn hovered in soul over the marmalade-pudding.
Probably, if the hearts of other worshippers that evening had been
revealed, they would not have been discovered more wrapped in devotion
than that of Mrs. Sidebottom.  In the life of St. Modwenna, Abbess of
Stoke-on-Trent, we read that this holy woman had the faculty of seeing
the prayers of her nuns dancing like midges under the choir roof; they
could not pierce the vault, being deficient in the boring organ, which
is true devotion.  It is perhaps fortunate we have not the same gift.
On that evening a row of tittering girls sought to attract the attention
and engross the admiration of the choristers.  Five young ladies, hating
each other as rivals, sought by their attendance to catch the curate,
who was unmarried. Old Bankes was there, because he hoped to sell two
bags of potatoes to the parson.  Mary Saunders was there, because some
unpleasant stories had circulated concerning her character, and she
hoped to smother them by appearing at church on week days.  Mr. Gruff
was there, to find fault with the parson's conduct of the service, and
Mrs. Tomkins attended to see who were present.

When the service was concluded, Mrs. Sidebottom came out of church
beside Salome, who had been seated in front of her.  She at once
addressed her.

'My dear Miss Cusworth, how soothing it is to have week-day prayer.  I
have had so much of the world forced on me of late, that I felt I must
for the good of my soul to fly to the sanctuary.'

'There is always service on Thursday evening.'

'My goodness!--is this not a saint's day?  I thought it was, and I have
been so devout, too.  You don't mean to tell me there is no special call
for it?--and these saints--they are perfectly fascinating creatures.'

Mrs. Sidebottom could talk what she called 'goody' when there was need
for it; she generally talked it when chance led her into a poor man's
cottage.  As children are given lollipops by their elders, so the poor,
she thought, must be given 'goody talk' by their superiors.  She put on
her various suits of talk as occasion offered.  She had her scandal suit
and her pious suit, and her domestic-worry suit and her political
suit--just like those picture-books children have, whose one face does
for any number of transformation garments, and the same head figures now
as a bronze, then as Nell Gwynne, as a Quakeress, or as a tight-rope
dancer.

The author at one time knew a bedridden man who had two suits of
conversation--the one profane, abusive, brutal, the other pious,
sanctified, and seasoned with salt.  When his cottage-door was open, the
passer heard some such exclamations as these as he approached, addressed
to the wife: 'Now then, you ---- toad!'  Then a reference to her eyes
best left unquoted.  'If I could only get at you, I'd skin you!'  Then a
change.  'Fetch me my Boible; O my soul, be joyful, raise the sacred
hanthem!  Bah!  I thought 'twas the parson's step, and he'd give me a
shilling! Now then, you gallopading kangaroo!'  This, of course, was an
extreme case, and Mrs. Sidebottom was far too well-bred to go to
extremities.

'I was so glad you came in when you did,' said Mrs. Sidebottom.  'I was
really feeling somewhat faint.  I feared I would have been forced to
leave at the _Nunc Dimittis_, and I was just fanning myself with my
handkerchief, on which was a drop of eau de Cologne, when you came in,
and a whiff of cool air from the door revived me, so I was able to
remain.  I am so thankful!  The hymn afforded me such elevating
thoughts!  I felt as if I had wings of angels, which I could spread, and
upward fly!'

'I was late--I could not get away earlier.'

'And I am grateful to be able to walk back with you.  You will allow me
to take your arm.  I am still shaken with my temporary faintness.  I
have, I fear, been overdone.  I have had so much to try me of late. But
when the bell rang, I was drawn towards the sacred building.  Upon my
word, I thought it was a saint's day, and it was a duty as well as a
pleasure to be there.  I am so glad I went; and now I am able to walk
back with you, and after public worship--though the congregation was
rather thin--the mind is turned to devotion, and the thoughts are
framed, are, in fact, just what they ought to be, you know.  I have
wanted for some time to speak to you, and tell you how grieved I was
that I was forced to give your mother notice to leave.  I had no thought
of being inconsiderate and unkind.'

'I am aware of that,' answered Salome quietly. 'Mr. Philip
Pennycomequick has already told mamma that the notice was a mere
formality.  The explanation was a relief to us, as mamma was somewhat
hurt. She had tried to do her best for dear Mr. Pennycomequick.'

'You will have to induce her to forgive me.  What is religion for, and
churches built, and organs, and hot-water apparatus, and all that sort
of thing, but to cultivate in us the forgiving spirit.  I am, myself,
the most placable person in the world, and after singing such a hymn as
that in which I have just joined, I could forgive Susan if she dropped
the silver spoons on the floor and dinted them.'

No one would have been more astonished than Mrs. Sidebottom if told that
she was artificial, that she affected interests, sympathies, to which
she was strange.  At the time that she talked she felt what she said,
but the feeling followed the expression, did not originate it.

'My dear Miss Cusworth,' she went on, 'I am not one to bear a grudge.  I
never could.  When my poor Sidebottom was alive, if there had been any
unpleasantness between us during the day--and all married people have
their tiffs--when you are married you will have tiffs.  As I was saying,
if there had been any unpleasantness between us, I have shaken him at
night to wake him up, that he might receive my pardon for an incivility
said or done.'

'We had made our preparations to leave Mergatroyd,' said Salome, 'but my
mother has been ill again, and my poor sister has heard of the death of
her husband, who fell in a skirmish with the Germans.  So when Mr.
Philip Pennycomequick was so kind as to ask my mother to remain on in
the house, in the same capacity as heretofore, we were too thankful----'

'What!  You stay?'

'Yes, my mother is not in a condition to move just now, and my sister is
broken down with grief.  But, of course, this is only a temporary
arrangement.'

Mrs. Sidebottom said nothing for a moment.  Presently, however, she
observed: 'No doubt this is best, and I am very, very pleased to hear
it.  Philip did not mention it--I mean Mr. Pennycomequick.  I must not
any longer call him Philip, as he is now head of the family, unless the
captain be regarded also as a head, then the family will be like the
Austrian eagle--one body with two heads.  But, my dear Miss Cusworth,
tell me, did Mr. Pennycomequick say some foolish nonsense about three or
four thousand pounds?'

'He mentioned something of the sort to mamma.'

'It is all fiddlesticks,' said Mrs. Sidebottom confidentially.  'He is
the most inconsiderate and generous fellow in the world.  His father was
so before him. But it won't do.  The mill will suffer, the business fall
to the ground; we shall all go into the bankruptcy court.  I respect the
memory of my darling brother too highly to wish that the firm he managed
should collapse like a house of cards.  Philip is generous and all that
sort of thing, and he will try to press money on you.  You must not
consent to receive it, for two reasons--first, because it would smash
the whole concern, and next, because people would talk in a way you
would not like about you.  Do you understand--you could not receive a
large allowance from a young unmarried man.  However,' continued Mrs.
Sidebottom, 'do not suppose I wish you to waive all expectations of
getting anything.  I ask you only to trust me.  Lean on me and wait; I
have your interests at heart as much as my own.  I dare say you have
heard my brother say he would be driven to adopt improved machinery?'

'Yes, I heard him say that.'

'Very well.  My nephew, Philip, must reconstruct the mechanism of the
factory at the cost of several thousands.  Now, my dear brother did not
leave enough money to be used both on this and on satisfying your just
claims.  If you will wait, say till your marriage--then you may be sure
I and my son and nephew will strain every nerve to make you
comfortable.'

'Mrs. Sidebottom,' said Salome calmly, 'you are very kind.  When Mr.
Philip Pennycomequick made the request to my mother that she should stay
in the house, she consented, but only temporarily, till he is settled,
and has had time to look about him for someone who will be a more active
housekeeper than my mother can be; and at the same time it will be a
convenience to us, giving us breathing-time in which to recover from the
shock of Mr. Albert Baynes' death, and consider in what manner my sister
Janet's future will be tied up with our own.  As for that other very
generous offer--we had no time to give it a thought, as it came to us
simultaneously with the crushing news from France.'  Salome halted.
'You have passed your door, Mrs. Sidebottom.'

'Bless me!  So I have--I was so interested in what you were saying, and
so charmed with your noble sentiments.  Can I persuade you to enter and
dine with us--only shoulder of mutton, quenilles, and
marmalade-pudding.'

Salome declined: she must return immediately to her mother.

'Why!' exclaimed Mrs. Sidebottom, 'bless my soul, here is my nephew come
to meet us--I cannot, however, take the compliment as paid to me, for we
have parted in dudgeon.'

Philip had left his aunt's house in boiling indignation. She had led him
into a trap, from which escape was difficult.  He felt himself in honour
bound by the proposal he had made to Miss Cusworth; he could not
withdraw from it, and yet at that time to have to find the entire sum
mentioned would severely embarrass him.  He could not tell Salome that
he had been precipitate in making the offer, and crave her indulgence to
allow him to put off the fulfilment to a convenient season.  The only
way out of the difficulty that commended itself to him was to offer
Salome an annual sum, charged on the profit of the mill, till such time
as it suited her to withdraw her four thousand pounds and invest it
elsewhere; in a word, to take her into partnership.

Having come to this decision, he resolved on preparing it for her
acceptance at once, and he descended to the rooms occupied by the
Cusworths, there to learn that she had gone to church.  He at once took
his hat and walked to meet her.

He was ill-pleased to see her returning with his aunt hanging on her
arm; he mistrusted this exhibition of sudden affection in Mrs.
Sidebottom for one whom he knew she disliked.

'You see, Philip,' said his aunt, 'I thought it was a saint's day, and
the saints want encouragement; so I went to the parish church.  I put
dinner off--now can I induce you and Miss Cusworth to come in and pick a
little meat with me?--not bones, Philip, these we have pulled already
together.  I was taken with a little faintness in church, and Miss
Cusworth has kindly lent me support on my way home.'

The little group stood near the doorstep to the house occupied by Mrs.
Sidebottom.  A gaslight was at the edge of the footway, a few paces
lower down the road.  Mrs. Sidebottom disengaged her hand from the arm
of Salome--then the girl started, shrank back, and uttered an
exclamation of terror.

'What is the matter?' asked Mrs. Sidebottom.

'I have seen it again,' said the girl, in a low tone.

'Seen what?' asked the lady.

'Never mind what,' interrupted Philip, divining immediately from
Salome's alarm and agitation what she meant.  'We must not keep my aunt
waiting in the street.  The ground is damp and the wind cold.
Good-night, Aunt Louisa.  I will escort Miss Cusworth home.'

When Philip was alone with Salome, he said: 'What was it?--what did you
see?'

'I saw that same man, standing by the lamp-post, looking at us.  He wore
_his_ hat and overcoat.  Again I was unable to see any face, because the
strong light fell from above, and it was in shadow.  You had your back
to the lamp, and the figure was in your rear. When you turned--it was
gone.'




                             *CHAPTER XXI*

                           *HYACINTH BULBS.*


The figure seen in the dark had diverted Philip from his purpose of
speaking to Salome about money.  He was not particularly eager to make
his proposal, because that proposition had in it a smack of evasion of
an offer already made; as though he had speedily repented of the
liberality of the first.  In this there was some moral cowardice, such
as is found in all but blunt natures, and induces them to catch at
excuses for deferring an unpleasant duty.  There exists a wide gulf
between two sorts of persons--the one shrinks and shivers at the
obligations to say or do anything that may pain another; the other
rushes at the chance with avidity, like a hornet impatient to sting.  On
this occasion Philip had a real excuse for postponing what he had come
out to say, for Salome was not in a frame of mind to attend to it; she
was alarmed and bewildered by this second encounter with a man whose
face she had not seen, and who was so mysterious in his proceedings.

Accordingly Philip went to bed that night without having discharged the
unpleasant task, and with the burden still weighing on him.

Next day, when he returned from the factory, in ascending the stairs he
met Salome descending with her hands full of hyacinth glasses, purple,
yellow and green, and a pair tucked under her arms.

She smiled recognition, and the faintest tinge of colour mounted to her
face.  Her foot halted, held suspended for a moment on the step, and
Philip flattered himself that she desired to speak to him, yet lacked
the courage to address him.

Accordingly he spoke first, volunteering his assistance.

'Oh, thank you,' she replied, 'I am merely taking the glasses and bulbs
to the Pummy cupboard again.'

'Thank you in English is the equivalent for _s'il vous plait_ and not of
_merci_,' he said, 'so I shall carry some of the glasses.  But--what is
the Pummy cupboard?'

'You do not know the names of the nooks and corners of your own house,'
said Salome, laughing. 'My sister and I gave foolish names to different
rooms and closets when we were children, and they have retained them, or
we have not altered them.  I had put the bulbs in a closet under the
staircase till we thought of changing quarters, and then I removed them
so as to pack them.  It was whilst I was thus engaged that I saw that
strange, inexplicable figure for the first time.  Now that I know we are
to remain here, I have put them in glasses to taste water, and am
replacing them in the dark, in the cupboard.'

'Have you many?'

'A couple of dozen named bulbs, all good.'

'I will help you to carry down the glasses and roots. Where are they?'

'In the drawing-room.  We kept the glasses there all summer in the
chiffonnier.'

'I hope you will be able to spare me one or two for my study.'

'Of course you shall have a supply in your window. They were procured
partly for Mr. Pennycomequick and partly for my mother.'

'You say "of course"; but I do not see the force of the words.  Remember
I have had a lodging-house experience; my sense of the fitness of things
is framed on that model, and my landlady never said "of course" to
anything I suggested which would give me pleasure, but cost her some
trouble.  I am like Kaspar Hauser, of whom you may have heard; he was
brought up in a solitary dark cell, and denied everything, except bare
necessaries; when he escaped and came among men, he had no notion how to
behave, and was lost in amazement to find they were not all gaolers.  I
had on my chimney-piece two horrible sprigs of artificial flowers,
originally from a bridecake, that from length of existence and
accumulation of soot were become so odious that at last I burnt them.
The landlady made me pay for them as though they were choice orchids.'

'You must not make me laugh,' said Salome, 'or I shall drop the glasses
from under my arms.'

'Then let me take them,' said Philip promptly; 'you have two in your
hands, that suffices.  I tire you with my reminiscences of lodging-house
life?'

'Not at all--they divert me.'

'It is the only subject on which my conversation flows.  I do not know
why it is that when I speak on politics I have a difficulty in
expressing my ideas, but when I come on landlady-dom, the words boil out
of my heart, like the water from a newly-tapped artesian well.  I have a
great mind to tell you my Scarborough experiences.'

'Do so.'

'Once when I was out of sorts I went to the sea-coast for a change--but
I am detaining you.'

'Well, I will put down the glasses and bulbs in the Pummy cupboard and
return to hear your story.'

Instead of going downstairs with Salome, Philip, though he had relieved
her of two glasses, went with them to the drawing-room, whence she had
taken them--which was in no way assisting her.  Moreover, when he was
there, he put down the glasses on the table and began examining the
names of the bulbs--double pink blush, single china blue, the queen of
the yellows, and so on.  He had offered to help Salome, but he was doing
nothing of the kind; he waited till she had filled the glasses with
water, planted a couple of bulbs in them, and consigned them to the
depths of the cupboard.  When she returned to the parlour, he was still
examining the names of the tubers.

'Now,' said he, 'I will tell you about my landlady at Scarborough.'  He
made no attempt to carry down glasses, he detained the girl from
prosecuting her work.  'I was at Scarborough for a week, and when I left
my lodgings the landlady charged me thirty shillings for a toilet set,
because there was a crack in the soap-dish.  I had not injured it.  I
pointed out the fact that the crack was gray with age, that the
discolouration betokened antiquity; but she was inaccessible to reason,
impossible to convince.  The injury done to the soap-dish spoiled the
whole set, she said, and I must pay for an entire set.  I might have
contested the point at law; but it was hardly worth my while, so I
agreed to pay the thirty shillings, only I stipulated that I should
carry off the fractured soap-dish with me.  Then she resisted; the
soap-dish, she argued, could be of no use to me.  I must leave it, and
at last, when I persisted in my resolve, she let me off with a couple of
shillings.'

'But why?'

'Because the cracked soap-dish was to her a source of revenue.  Every
lodger for years had been bled on account of that crack to the tune of
thirty shillings, and that cracked soap-dish was worth many pounds per
annum to that wretched woman.'  Then, with a sudden tightening of the
muscles at the corners of his mouth, he added, 'I know their tricks and
their ways! I have been brought up among landladies, as Romulus was
nursed by a wolf, and Jupiter was reared among goats.'

'I suppose there are good lodging-house keepers as well as bad ones,'
said Salome, laughing.

'Charity hopeth all things,' answered Philip grimly, 'but I never came
across one.  Just as colliers acquire a peculiar stoop and walk, and
horse-dealers a special twist in conscience, and sailors a peculiar
waddle, engendered by their professions, so does lodging-house keeping
produce a warp and crick and callousness in women with which they were
not born.  You do not know what it is, you cannot know what it is, to be
brought up and to form one's opinions among landladies.  It forces one
to see the world, to contemplate life through their medium as through
lenses that break and distort all rays.  Do you recall what the King of
Israel said when the King of Syria sent to him Naäman to be healed of
his leprosy?'

'Yes,' answered Salome, '"See how he seeketh a quarrel against me."'

'Exactly.  And those who live in furnished lodgings are kept continually
in the King of Israel's frame of mind.  Whatever the landlady does,
whatever she leaves undone, when she rolls her eyes round the room, when
she sweeps with them the carpet, one is always saying to one's self, see
how this woman seeketh a quarrel against me.  Landladies are the
cantharides of our nineteenth century civilization, the great source of
blister and irritation.  Even a man of means, who has not to count his
shillings, must feel his wretchedness in lodgings; but consider the
apprehensions, the unrest that must possess a man, pinched in his
circumstances who lives among landladies.  Her eye,' continued Philip,
who had warmed to his subject, 'is ever searching for spots on the
carpet, fraying of sofa edges, tears in the curtains, scratches in the
mahogany, chips in the marble mantelpiece.  I think it was among
Quarles' emblems that I saw a picture of man's career among traps and
snares on every side. In lodgings every article of furniture is a gin
ready to snap on you if you use it.'

Then Philip took up two hyacinth glasses, one yellow, the other blue,
but put down that which was blue, and took up another that was yellow,
not for æsthetic predilection, but to prolong the time.  It was a real
relief to him to unburden his memory of its gall, to go through his
recollections, like a Jew on the Paschal preparation, searching for and
casting out every scrap of sour leaven.

'I dare say you are wondering, Miss Cusworth,' he said, 'to what this
preamble on landladies is leading.'

Salome looked amused and puzzled; so perhaps is the reader.

Philip had been, as he said, for so many years in furnished lodgings,
and had for so many years had before his eyes nothing but a prospect of
spending all his days in them, and of expiring in the arms of
lodging-house keepers, that he had come to loathe the life.  Now that
his financial position was altered, and before him opened a career
unhampered and unsoured by pecuniary difficulties, a desire woke up in
him to enjoy a more cheerful, social life than that of his experience.
Now the difference between the days in his uncle's house at Mergatroyd
and those he had spent in lodgings at Nottingham did not differ
radically.  It was true that he no longer had the tongue of a landlady
hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles, but his day was no
brighter, quite as colourless.

He was beneath the same roof with an old lady who belonged, as his
suspicious eye told him, to the same clay as that out of which the
landlady is modelled, only circumstances had not developed in her the
pugnacity and acridity of the class.  In herself, she was an
uninteresting person, whom only the love and respect of her daughters
could invest with any favour. But those daughters were both charming.
His prejudice against Salome was gone completely, that against Janet
almost gone.  As his suspicions of Salome left, his dislike of Janet
faded simultaneously. He had conceived a mistrust of Salome because he
had conceived an aversion against Janet; now that he began to like
Salome, this liking influenced his regard for the sister.

The society of his aunt was no gain to Philip.  He disapproved of her
lack of principle and disliked her selfishness.  The tone of her mind
and talk were repugnant to him, and Lambert and he would never become
friends, because the cement of common interests was lacking.

Philip discovered himself not infrequently during the day looking at the
office clock, and wishing that worktime were over; not that he wearied
of his work, but that he was impatient to be home and have a chance of a
word with Salome.  When he returned from the factory, if he did not meet
her in the hall, or on the stairs, or see her in the garden, he was
disappointed.  It was remarkable how many wants he discovered that
necessitated a descent to Mrs. Cusworth's apartments, and how, when he
entered and found that one of the daughters was present, his visit was
prolonged, and the conversation was not confined to his immediate
necessity.  If on his entering, the tea-table was covered, he was easily
persuaded to remain for a cup.  His reserve, his coldness, did not
wholly desert him, except when he was alone with Salome, when her
freshness and frankness exercised on him a relaxing fascination; all his
restraint fell away at once, and he became natural, talkative, and
cheerful.

'The fact of the matter is,' said Philip, 'I have been lifting the veil
to you that covers furnished lodging-house life, and exposing my
wretchedness to enlist your sympathy because I am about to ask a
considerable favour.'

'I am sure we need no persuasion to do what we can for you.'

'It is this.  If your mother would not object, I should like to have my
meals with you all, just as my uncle was wont.  Having everything served
in my room recalls my past with too great intensity.  I have heard of a
prisoner who had spent many years in the Bastille, that in after-life,
when free, he could not endure to hear the clink of fireirons.  It
recalled to him his chains.  If there be things at which my soul revolts
it is steak, chops, cutlets.'

'Oh! it would indeed be a pleasure to us--such a pleasure!' and Salome's
face told Philip that what she spoke she felt; the colour deepened in
her cheeks, and the dimples formed at the corners of her mouth.

'And now,' she said, still with the smile on her face, playing about her
lips; 'and now, Mr. Pennycomequick, you will not be angry if I ask you a
favour.'

'I angry!'

'Must I enlist your sympathy first of all, and inveigle you into
promising before you know what the request is I am about to make?  I
might tell you that a young girl like me has a little absurd pride in
her, and that it is generous of a man to respect it, let it stand, and
not knock it over.'

'What is the favour?  I am too cautious--have been too long in a
lawyer's office to undertake anything the particulars and nature of
which I do not know.'

'It is this, Mr. Pennycomequick.  I want you not to say another word
about your kind and liberal offer to me.  I will not accept it, not on
any account, because I have no right to it.  So that is granted.'

'Miss Cusworth, I will not hear of this.'  Philip's face darkened,
though not a muscle moved.  'Why do you ask this of me?  What is the
meaning of your refusal?'

'I will not take that to which I have no right,' she replied firmly.

'You have a right,' answered Philip, somewhat sharply.  'You know as
well as I do that my uncle intended to provide for you, at least as he
did for Mrs. Baynes.  It was not his wish that you should be left
without proper provision.'

'I know nothing of the sort.  What he put into my hands was merely an
evidence that he had at one time purposed to do an unfair thing, and
that he repented of it in time.'

'Miss Cusworth, that cancelled will still remains to me a mystery, and I
do not see how I shall ever come to an understanding of how it was that
the signature was gone.  From your account my uncle----'

'Never mind going over that question again.  As you say, an
understanding of the mystery will never be reached.  Allow it to remain
unattempted.  I am content.'

'But, Miss Cusworth, we do not offer you a handsome, but a moderate
provision.'

'You cannot force me to take what I refuse to receive.  Who was that
king to whom molten gold was offered?  He shut his teeth against the
draught. So do I.  I clench mine and you cannot force them open.'

'What is the meaning of this?  Why do you refuse to have my uncle's
wishes carried out?  You put us in an invidious position.'

Salome had shut her mouth.  She shook her head. The pretty dimples were
in her cheeks.  Her colour had deepened.

'Someone has been talking to you,' said Philip.  'I know there has.  Who
was it?'

Salome again shook her head, with a provoking smile dappling and
dimpling her face; but seeing that Philip was seriously annoyed, it
faded, and she broke silence.

'There is a real favour you can do us, Mr. Pennycomequick, if you will.'

'What is that?' asked Philip.  His ease and cheerfulness were gone.  He
was angry, for he was convinced that Mrs. Sidebottom had said something
to the girl which had induced her to refuse the offer.

'It is this--mamma had all her money matters managed for her by dear Mr.
Pennycomequick.  She did not consult us about them, and we knew and know
nothing about her property.  I do not know how much she has, and in what
investment it is.  She did not, I believe, understand much about these
affairs herself, she trusted all to the management of Mr.
Pennycomequick.  He was so clever, so kind, and he did everything for
her without giving her trouble. But now that he is gone, I fancy she is
worried and bewildered about these things.  She does not understand
them, and she has been fretting recently because she supposes that she
has encountered a great loss. But that is impossible.  She has touched
nothing since Mr. Pennycomequick died, and what he had invested for her
must certainly have been invested securely.  It is not conceivable that
she has lost since his death.  I have been puzzling my head about the
matter, and I suspect that some of her vouchers have got among Mr.
Pennycomequick's papers, and she fancies they are lost to her.  It is of
course possible as he kept the management of her little moneys, that
some of her securities may have been taken with his. If you would kindly
look into this matter for her, I am sure she will be thankful, and
so--without saying--will I.  If you can disabuse her mind of the idea
that she has met with heavy losses, you will relieve her of a great,
haunting trouble.'

'I will do this cheerfully.  But this does not affect the
obligation----'

'My teeth are set again.  But--see! you offered to carry down my
glasses, and you have not done so. You have, moreover, hindered me in my
work.'

The house-door bell was rung.

'My aunt,' muttered Philip.  'I know the touch of her hand on knocker or
bell-pull.  I am beginning to entertain towards her some of the feelings
I had towards my landladies in the old unregenerate lodging-house days.
Confound her!  Why should she come now?'




                            *CHAPTER XXII.*

                              *YES OR NO?*


Philip was right.  He had recognised the ring of Mrs. Sidebottom.  As
soon as the door was opened her voice was audible, and Philip used a
strong expression, which only wanted raising another stage to convert it
into an oath.

Salome caught up a couple of hyacinth glasses and resumed her
interrupted occupation; and Philip went to the window to remove a
spring-nail that incommoded him.  There are certain voices which, when
coming unexpectedly on the ear, make the conscience feel guilty, though
it may be free from fault.  Such was that of Mrs. Sidebottom.  If Philip
had been studying his Bible instead of talking to Salome, when he heard
her, he would have felt as though he had been caught reading an improper
French novel; and if Salome had been engaged in making preserves in the
kitchen, she would have been conscious of inner horror and remorse as
though she had been concocting poison.  The reason of this is that those
who hear the voice know that the owner of the voice is certain, whatever
they do, to believe them to be guilty of some impropriety; and they are
frightened, not at what they have done, but at what they may be supposed
to have done.

'I suppose that Mr. Pennycomequick is in his room,' said Mrs.
Sidebottom, passing on, to the servant who had admitted her.  'It is not
his time to be at the office.'

She ascended the stairs to the study door, and in so doing passed
Salome, who bowed, and was not sorry to be unable to respond to the
proffered hand, having both of her own engaged, carrying glasses.

Philip heard his aunt enter the study, after a premonitory rap, and
remained where he was, hoping that as she did not find him in his room
she would conclude he was out, and retire.  But Mrs. Sidebottom was not
a person to be evaded thus; and after having looked round the room and
called at his bedroom door, she came out on the landing and entered the
drawing-room, when she discovered him, penknife in hand, removing his
spring-nail.

'Oh!' she said, with an eye on the bulbs and flower-glasses.  'Adam and
Eve in Paradise.'

'To whom entered the mischief-maker,' said Philip, promptly turning upon
her.

'Not complimentary, Philip.'

'You brought it on yourself.'

'It takes two to pick a quarrel,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, 'and I am in the
most amiable mood to-day. By the way, you might have inquired about my
health this morning, for you knew I was not well yesterday. As you had
not the grace to do so, I have come to announce to you that I am
better.'

'I did not suppose that you had been seriously ill.'

'Not seriously ill, but indisposed.  I nearly fainted in church last
night, as I told you; but you were otherwise occupied than in listening
to me.  Now, I want to know, Philip, what was that rigmarole about
something or someone seen in the dark?'

'There was no rigmarole, as you call it.'

'Oh! do not pick faults in my language.  You know what I mean.  What was
the excuse made by Miss Cusworth for taking your arm?'

'Miss Cusworth did not take my arm.'

'Because you had not the wit to offer it; and yet the hint given was
broad enough.'

'I am busy,' said Philip, in a tone of exasperation. His aunt's manner
angered him, so that he could not speak or act with courtesy towards
her.

'Oh yes.  Busy planting forget-me-not and love in a mist.  Come, do not
be cross.  What was the meaning of that exclamation?  I want to know,
for I also saw someone standing by the lamp-post, looking on.'

'I will tell you, and then, perhaps, you will be satisfied, Aunt Louisa.
And when satisfied, I trust you will no longer detain me from my
business.'

Then Philip shortly and plainly narrated to his aunt what had happened.
He did so because he thought it possible, just possible, that she might
be able to explain the apparition.

She was surprised and disconcerted by what she heard, but not for long.

'Who has the garden key?' she inquired.

'My uncle had one on his bunch.'

'And that bunch is in your possession?'

'Yes, and has not been out of it.  It is locked up in my bureau.'

'Very well, then, the fellow did not get in by that means.  Had anyone
else a key?'

'Yes, Mrs. Cusworth.'

'And is there a third?'

'No; that is all.'

'Where was Mrs. Cusworth's key on the night in question?'

'I did not inquire.  It was unnecessary.'

'Not at all unnecessary.  If the man did not obtain access by your key,
he did that of by the housekeeper.'

'This is preposterous,' said Philip irritably.  'You have made no
allowance for another contingency--that the door may have been left
unlocked and ajar by the gardener, when last at work.'

'That will not do.  The gardener has not been about the place for a
fortnight or three weeks.  You say that the servants may have allowed a
friend to take the pick of Jeremiah's clothes.  That explains nothing:
for it does not account for the garden door being unlocked, though it
might for the house door being left open.  Why should not the Cusworths
have needy relatives and hangers-on as well as the servant girls? Needy
relatives smelling of beer, with patched small clothes and pimply faces,
who fly about with the bats, and to whom the cast-off clothing, the good
hat and warm overcoat, would be a boon.  Who are these Cusworths?
Whence have they come?  Out of as great an uncertainty as this
mysterious figure.  They are creations out of nothing, like the
universe, but not, like it, to be pronounced very good.  Now, Philip, is
not my solution of the riddle the only logical one?'

'This is enough on the subject,' said Philip, especially chafed because
his aunt's explanation really was the simplest, and yet was one which he
was unwilling to allow.  'You charge high-minded, honourable people
with----'

'I charge them with doing no harm,' interrupted Mrs. Sidebottom.  'The
clothes were laid out to be distributed to the needy; and Mrs. Cusworth
was given the disposal of them.  If she chose to favour a relative, who
is to blame her?  Not I.  She would probably not care to have the sort
of relative who would touch his cap for Jeremiah's old suits, come
openly to the door in the blaze of day, and before the eyes of the
giggling maids.  No doubt she said to the moulting relative, "Come in
the dark; help yourself to new plumage, but do not discredit us by
proclaiming kinship."'

Philip was too angry to answer his aunt.  To change the subject he said,
'Miss Cusworth has refused to receive anything from us.  That some
influence has been brought to bear on her to induce this, I have no
doubt, and I have as little doubt as to whose influence was exerted.'
He looked fixedly at his aunt.

'I am glad she has had the grace to do so,' answered Mrs. Sidebottom
cheerily.  'No, Philip, you need not drive your eyes into me, as if they
were bradawls.  I can quite understand that she has told you all, and
laid the blame on me.  I do not deny my part in the transaction.  I am
not ashamed of it; on the contrary, I glory in it.  You were on the
threshold of a great folly, that jeopardized the firm of Pennycomequick,
and my allowance out of it as well.  I have stepped in to stop you.  I
had my own interests to look after.  I have saved you four thousand
pounds, which you could not afford to lose.  Am not I an aunt whose
favour is worth cultivating; an aunt who deserves to be treated with
elementary politeness?'

Then Philip's anger boiled up.

'We see everything through opposite ends of the telescope.  What is
infinitely small to me and far away, is to you present and immense; and
what to me is close at hand and overwhelming, is quite beyond your
horizon.  To my view of things we are committing a moral wrong when
technically right.  How that will was cancelled, and by whom, will
probably never be known; but nothing in the world will persuade me that
Uncle Jeremiah swung from one extremity of liberality to Miss Cusworth,
coupled with injustice to us, to the other extreme of generosity to us
and absolute neglect of her.  Such a thing could not be.  He would turn
in his grave if he thought that she, an innocent, defenceless girl, was
to be left in this heartless, criminal manner, without a penny in the
world, contrary to his wishes.'

'Why did he not make another will, if he wished it so much?'

'Upon my word,' said Philip angrily, 'I would give up my share readily
to have Uncle Jeremiah back, and know the rights of the matter of the
will.'  He stood looking at his aunt with eyes that were full of anger,
and the arteries in his temples dark and swollen.  'I shall take care,'
he said, 'that she is not defrauded of what is her due.'

Then he left the room, and slung the door after him with violence, and
certainly with discourtesy.  Never before had he lost his self-control
as he had lost it in Mrs. Sidebottom's presence on this occasion, but
before he had reached the foot of the staircase he had recovered his
cold and formal manner.

As he saw Salome come from the cupboard where she was arranging the
hyacinths, he bade her in an imperious manner attend him into the
breakfast-room, and she obeyed readily, supposing he had some domestic
order to give.

'Shut the door, please,' he said.  The anger raised by Mrs. Sidebottom
affected his address and behaviour to Salome.  A sea that has been
lashed into fury beats indiscriminately against every object, rock or
sand-bank.  He stationed himself with his back to the window, and signed
to the girl to face him.

'Miss Cusworth,' he said, putting his hands behind him, as though he
were standing before the hearth and not at a window, 'my aunt has
imposed on your ignorance, has taken a wicked advantage of your
generosity, in persuading you to decline the offer that was made you.'

'I decline it from personal motives, uninfluenced by her.'

'Do you mean to tell me she has not been meddling in the matter?  I know
better.'

'I do not deny that she spoke to me yesterday, but her words did not
prompt, they only served to confirm the resolution already arrived at.'

'But I will not allow you to refuse.  You shall have the money.'

'I never withdraw a word once given,' said Salome, with equal decision.

'Then you shall take a share in the mill--be a partner.'

'I cannot,' she said hastily, with a rush of colour. 'Indeed this is
impossible.'

'Why so?'

'It cannot be.  I will not go back from my word.'

'I have my conscience, that speaks imperiously,' said Philip.  'I
cannot, I will not be driven by your obstinacy to act dishonourably,
unjustly.'

Salome said nothing.  She was startled by his vehemence, by his
roughness of manner, so unlike what she had experienced from him.

'Very well,' said he hurriedly.  'You shall take me, and with me my
share of the mill, and so satisfy every scruple.  That, I trust, will
content you as it does me.'

The girl was frightened, and looked up suddenly to see if he meant what
he said.  His back was toward the window.  Had he occupied a reverse
position she would have seen that his eyes were not kindled with the
glow of love, that he spoke in anger, and to satisfy his conscience, not
because he had made up his mind that she, Salome, was the only woman
that could make him happy.

The Rabbis say that the first man was made male-female, and was parted
asunder, and that the perfect man is only to be found in the union of
the two severed halves.  So each half wanders about the world seeking
its mate, and gets attached to wrong halves, and this is the occasion of
much misery; only where the right organic sections coalesce is there
perfect harmony.

It did not seem as if Philip and Salome were the two halves gravitating
towards each other, for the attraction was small, and the thrust
together came from without--was due, in fact, to the uninviting hand of
Mrs. Sidebottom.

'Come,' said he, 'I wait for an answer.  I see no other way of getting
out of our difficulties.  What I now propose will assure to you and your
mother a right in this house, and Mrs. Sidebottom will be able to obtain
admission only by your permission.  Do you see?  I cannot, without a
moral wound and breakdown of my self-respect, accept a share of the mill
without indemnifying you, according to what I believe to have been the
intentions of my uncle.  You refuse to take anything to which you have
not a right.  Accept me, and you have all that has fallen to me.'

Certainly Philip's proposal was not made in a tender manner.  He
probably perceived that it was unusual and inappropriate, for he added
in a quieter tone, 'Rely on it, that I will do my utmost to make you
happy; and I believe firmly that with you at my side my happiness will
be complete.  I am a strictly conscientious man, and I will
conscientiously give you all the love, respect, and forbearance that a
wife has a right to demand.'

'You must give me time to consider,' said Salome timidly.

'Not ten minutes,' answered Philip hastily.  'I want an answer at once.
That woman upstairs--I mean my aunt--I--I particularly wish to knock her
down with the news that she is checkmated.'

Again Salome looked up at him, trying to form her decision by his face,
by the expression of his eyes, but she could not see whether real love
streamed out of them such as certainly did not find utterance by the
tongue.

Her heart was beating fast.  Did she love him?  She liked him.  She
looked up to him.  Some of the old regard which had been lavished on the
uncle devolved on Philip with the inheritance, as his by right, as the
representative of the house.  Salome had been accustomed all her life to
have recourse to old Mr. Pennycomequick in all doubt, in every trouble
to look to him as a guide, to lean on him as a stay, to fly to him as a
protector.  And now that she was friendless she felt the need of
someone, strong, trustworthy and kind, to whom she could have recourse
as she had of old to Mr. Pennycomequick.  Mrs. Sidebottom had been
hostile, but Philip had been friendly.  Salome recognised in him a
scrupulously upright mind, and with a girlish ignorance of realities,
invested him with a halo of goodness and heroism, which were not his
due.  There was in him considerable self-reliance; he was not a vain, a
conceited man; but he was a man who knew his own mind and resolutely
held to his opinion--that Salome saw, or believed she saw; and female
weakness is always inclined to be attracted by strength.

Moreover, her sister Janet had been strong in expressing her disapproval
of Philip, her dislike of his formal ways, his wooden manner, his want
of that ease and polish which she had come in France to exact of every
man as essential.  Salome had combated the ridicule, the detraction,
with which her sister spoke of Philip, and had become his champion in
her little family circle.

'I think--I really think,' said Salome, 'that you must give me time to
consider what you have said.'  She moved to leave the room.

'No,' answered he,' you shall not go.  I must have my answer in a Yes or
a No, at once.  Come, give me your hand.'

She hesitated.  It was a little wanting in consideration for her, thus
to press for an immediate answer.  He had promised to show her the
forbearance due to a wife, he was hardly showing her that due to a girl
at the most critical moment of her life.  She stood steeped in thought,
and alternate flushes of colour and pauses of pallor showed the changes
of feeling in her heart.

Philip so far respected her hesitation that he kept silence, but he was
not inclined to suffer the hesitation to continue long.

Love, Philip had never felt, nor had Salome; but Philip was conscious of
pleasure in the society of the girl, of feeling an interest in her such
as he entertained for no one else.  He respected and admired her.  He
was aware that she exerted over him a softening, humanizing influence,
such as was exercised over him by no one else.

Presently, doubtfully, as if she were putting forth her fingers to touch
what might scorch her, Salome extended her right hand.

'Is that yes?' he asked.

'Yes.'

'And,' said he, 'I have your assurance that you never go back from your
word.  Now,' there recurred his mind at that moment his aunt's sneer
about his lack of wit in not offering Salome his arm; 'and now,' he
said, 'let us go together and tell my aunt that you take all my share,
along with me.  Let me offer you--my arm.'




                            *CHAPTER XXIII.*

                           *EARLE SCHOFIELD.*


Philip Pennycomequick entered the hall, with Salome on his arm, but she
instantly disengaged her hand as she saw Mrs. Sidebottom, and was
conscious that there was something grotesque in her appearance hooked on
to Philip.

As to Philip, he had been so long exposed to the petrifying drip of
legal routine, unrelieved by any softening influences, that he was
rapidly approaching fossilization.

A bird's wing, a harebell, left to the uncounteracted effect of silex in
suspense, in time becomes stone, and the drudgery of office and the
sordid experience of lodging-house life had encrusted Philip, and
stiffened him in mind and manner.  He had the feelings of a gentleman,
but none of that ease which springs out of social intercourse; because
he had been excluded from intercourse with those of his class, men and
women, through the pecuniary straits in which his father had been for
many years.

When, therefore, Philip proposed to Salome, he knew no better than to
offer her his arm, as if to conduct her to dinner, or convey her through
a crowd from the opera.

If he had been told that it was proper for him to kiss his betrothed, he
would have looked in the glass and called for shaving-water, to make
sure that his chin and lip were smooth before delivering the salute
etiquette exacted.

The silicious drip had, as already said, encrusted Philip, but he had
not been sufficiently long exposed to it to have his heart petrified.

Many clerks in offices keep fresh and green in spite of the formality of
business, because they have in their homes everything necessary for
counteracting the hardening influence, or they associate with each other
and run out in mild Bohemianism.

Philip's father had existed, not lived, in lodgings, changing them
periodically, as he quarrelled with his landlady, or the landlady
quarrelled with him. Mr. Nicholas Pennycomequick had been a grumbler,
cynical, finding fault with everything and every person with which and
with whom he came in contact, as is the manner of those who have failed
in life.  Such men invariably regard the world of men as in league to
insult and annoy them; it never occurs to them to seek the cause of
their failure in themselves.

Philip had met with no love, none of the emollient elements which
constitute home.  He belonged, or thought he belonged, socially and
intellectually, to a class superior to that from which his fellow-clerks
were drawn.  The reverses from which his father had suffered had made
Philip proud, and had restrained him from association with the other
young men. Thrown on himself, he had become self-contained, rigid in his
views, his manners, and stiff in his movements.  When he offered his arm
to Salome, she did not like to appear ungracious and decline it.  She
touched it lightly, and readily withdrew her hand, as she encountered
the eye of Mrs. Sidebottom.

'Oh!' said that lady, 'I was only premature, Philip, in saying that your
arm was taken last night.'

'Only premature,' replied Philip; 'I have persuaded Miss Cusworth out of
that opinion which you forced on her when you took her arm.'

'She is, perhaps, easily persuaded,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, with a toss
of her head.

'I have induced her to agree to enter into partnership.'

'How?  I do not understand.  Is the firm to be in future Pennycomequick
and Co.--the Co. to stand for Cusworth?'

'You ask how,' said Philip.  'I reply, as my wife.'

He allowed his aunt a minute to digest the information, and then added:

'I am unable to ask you to stay longer at present, as I must inform Mrs.
Cusworth of the engagement.'

'Let me tender my congratulations,' said Mrs. Sidebottom; 'and let me
recommend a new lock on the garden-door, lest And Co. should bring in
through it a train of rapacious out-at-elbow relatives, who would hardly
be satisfied with a great-coat and a hat.'

Philip was too incensed to answer.  He allowed his aunt to open the
front-door unassisted.

When she was gone, he said to Salome:

'I am not in a humour to see your mother now. Besides, it is advisable,
for her sake, that the news should be told her through you.  I am so
angry with that insolent--I mean with Mrs. Sidebottom, that I might
frighten your mother.  I will come later.'

He left Salome and mounted to his study, where he paced up and down,
endeavouring to recover his composure, doubly shaken by his
precipitation in offering marriage without premeditation, and by his
aunt's sneer.  He had been surprised into taking the most important step
in life, without having given a thought to it before.  He was astonished
at himself, that he, schooled as he had been, should have acted without
consideration on an impulse.  He had been carried away, not by the
passion of love, but of anger.

In the story of the Frog-Prince, the faithful Eckhard fastened three
iron bands round his heart to prevent it from bursting with sorrow when
his master was transformed into a loathsome frog.  When, however, the
Prince recovered his human form, then the three iron bands snapped in
succession.  One hoop after another of hard constraint had been welded
about the heart of Philip, and now, in a sudden explosion of wrath, all
had given way like tow.

When Philip was alone, and had cooled, he became fully aware of the
gravity of his act; and, as a natural result, a reaction set in.

He knew little of Salome, nothing of her parentage; and though he laid
no store on pedigree, he was keenly aware that a union with one who had,
or might have, objectionable and impecunious relatives, as difficult to
drive away as horseflies, might subject him to much annoyance.

In a manufacturing district, little is thought of a man's ancestors so
long as he is himself respectable and his pockets are full.  Those who
begin life as millhands often end it as millheads, and the richest men
are sometimes the poorest in social qualifications.

Mrs. Sidebottom, with feminine shrewdness and malice, had touched Philip
where she knew he would feel the touch and would wince.  She had put her
finger at once on the weak point of the situation he was creating for
himself.

Philip was vexed at his own weakness; as vexed as he was surprised.  He
could not charge Salome with having laid a trap for him, nevertheless he
felt as if he had fallen into one.  He had sufficient consciousness of
the course he had taken to be aware that Mrs. Sidebottom had given the
impetus which had shot him, unprepared, into an engagement.  He
certainly liked Salome.  There was not a girl he knew whom he esteemed
more highly.  He respected her for her moral worth, and admired her for
her beauty.  She was not endowed with wealth by fortune, and yet, if she
came to him, she would not come poor, for she was jointured with the
four thousand pounds which he had undertaken to set apart for her.

That he could be happy with Salome he did not question; but he was not
partial to her mother, whom he regarded, not as a vulgar, but as an
ordinary woman.  She had not the refinement of Salome, nor the vivacity
of Janet.  How two such charming girls should have been turned out from
such a mould as Mrs. Cusworth was a marvel to Philip; but then it is
precisely the same enigma that all charming girls present to young men
who look at them, and then at their mothers, and cannot believe that
these girls will in time be even as their mothers.  The glow-worm is
surrounded by a moony halo till mated, and then appears but an ordinary
grub, and the birds assume rainbow tints whilst thinking of nesting, and
then hop about as dowdy, draggle-feathered fowls.

It was true that Philip had requested Mrs. Cusworth to remain in his
house before he proposed to her daughter; it was true also that he had
asked to be received at her table before he thought of an alliance; but
it was one thing to have this old creature as a housekeeper, and another
thing to be saddled with her as mother-in-law.  Moreover, it was by no
means certain but that Mrs. Cusworth might develop new and unpleasant
peculiarities of manner or temper, as mother-in-law, which would be held
in control so long as she was housekeeper, just as change of climate or
situation brings out humours and rashes which were latent in the blood,
and unsuspected.  Some asthmatic people breathe freely on gravel, but
are wheezy on clay; and certain livers become torpid below a hundred
feet from the sea-level, and are active above that line.  So Mrs.
Cusworth might prove amiable and commonplace in a situation of
subordination, but would manifest self-assertion and cock-a-hoopedness
when lifted into a sphere of authority.

According to the classic fable, Epimetheus--that is,
Afterthought--filled the world with discomfort and unrest; whereas
Prometheus--that is, Forethought--shed universal blessing on mankind.

For once, Philip had not invoked Prometheus, and now, in revenge,
Epimetheus opened his box and sent forth a thousand disquieting
considerations.  But it is always so--whether we act with forethought or
without.  Epimetheus is never napping.  He is sure to open his box when
an act is beyond recall.

In old English belief, the fairies that met men and won their love were
one-faced beings, convex as seen from the front, concave when viewed
from the rear. It is so with every blessing ardently desired, every
object of ambition.  We are drawn towards it, trusting to its solidity;
and only when we have turned round it do we perceive its vanity.  No man
has ever taken a decided step without a look back and a bitter laugh.
Where he saw perfection he sees defect, everything on which he had
reckoned is reversed to his eyes.

In Philip Pennycomequick's case there had been no ardent looking
forward, no idealization of Salome, no painting of the prospect with
fancy's brush; nevertheless, now when he had committed himself, and
fixed his fate, he stood breathless, aghast, fearful what next might be
revealed to his startled eyes. His past life had been without charm to
him, it had inspired him with disgust; but the ignorance in which he was
as to what the future had in store, filled him with vague apprehension.

He was alarmed at his own weakness.  He could no longer trust himself;
his faith in his own prudence was shaken.  It is said that the stoutest
hearts fail in an earthquake, for then all confidence in stability goes;
but there is something more demoralizing than the stagger of the earth
under our feet, and that is the reel and quake of our own
self-confidence.  When we lose trust in ourselves, our faith in the
future is lost.

There are moments in the night when the consequences of our acts appear
to us as nightmares, oppressing and terrifying us.  A missionary put a
magnifying-glass into the hand of a Brahmin, and bade him look through
it at a drop of water.  When the Hindu saw under his eye a crystal world
full of monsters, he put the glass aside, and perished of thirst rather
than swallow another animated drop of fluid. Fancy acts to us like that
inconsiderate missionary, shows us the future, and shows it to us
peopled with horrors, and the result is sometimes the paralysis of
effort, the extinction of ambition.  There are moments in the day, as in
the night, when we look through the lens into the future, and see forms
that smite us with numbness.  Such a moment was that Philip underwent in
his own room.  He saw Mrs. Cusworth develop into a prodigious nuisance;
needy kinsfolk of his wife swimming as sponges in the crystal element of
the future, with infinite capacity for suction; Janet's coquetry break
through her widow's weeds.  He saw more than that.  He had entered on a
new career, taken the management of a thriving business, to which he had
passed through no apprenticeship, and which, therefore, with the best
intentions, he might mismanage and bring to failure.  What if he should
have a family, and ruin come upon him then?

Philip wiped his brow, on which some cold moisture had formed in drops.
Was he weak?  What man is not weak when he is about to venture on an
untried path, and knows not whither it may lead?  Only such as have no
sense of the burden of responsibilities are free from moments of
depression and alarm such as came on Philip now.

It is not the sense of weakness and dread of the future stealing over
the heart that makes a man weak; it is the yielding to it, and, because
of the possible consequences, abandoning initiative.

With Philip the dread passed quickly.  He had youth, and youth is
hopeful; and he had a vast recuperative force of self-confidence, which
speedily rallied after the blow dealt his assurance.  When he had
recovered his balance of mind and composure of manner, he descended the
stairs to call on Mrs. Cusworth.

He found Janet in the room with her.  Salome had retired to her own
chamber, to solitude, of which she felt the need.

Philip spoke cheerfully to the old lady, and accepted Janet's sallies
with good humour.

'You will promise to be kind to Salome,' said Mrs. Cusworth.  'Indeed
she deserves kindness; she is so good a child.'

'Of that have no doubt.'

'And you will really love her?'

'I ought to be a hearty lover,' said Philip, with a slight smile, 'for I
am a hearty hater, and proverbially the one qualifies for the other.
Love and hatred are the two poles of the magnet; a weakly energized
needle that hardly repels at one end, will not vigorously attract at the
other.'

'But surely you hate no one!'

'Do I not?  I have been driven to the verge of it to-day, by my aunt;
but I pardon her because of the consequences that sprang out of her
behaviour.  She exasperated me to such a degree that I found courage to
speak, and but for the stimulus applied to me, might have failed to make
a bid for what I have now secured.'

'I am sorry to think that you hate anyone,' said the old lady.  'We
cannot command our likes and dislikes, but we can hold hatred in check,
which is an unchristian sentiment.'

'Then in hatred I am a heathen.  I shall become a good Christian in time
under Salome's tuition.  I shall place myself unreservedly at her feet
as a catechumen.'

'Sometimes,' said Janet, laughing, 'love turns to hate, and hate to
love.  A bishop's crosier is something like your magnetic needle.  At
one end is a pastoral crook, and at the other a spike, and in a careless
hand the crook that should reclaim the errant lamb may be turned, and
the spike transfix it.'

'I can no more conceive of love for Salome altering its quality than I
can imagine my detestation--no, I will call it hate, for a certain
person becoming converted to love.'

'But whom do you hate--not your aunt?'

'No; the man who ruined my father, made his life a burden to him, turned
his heart to wormwood, lost him his brother's love, and his sister's
regard--though that latter was no great loss--deprived him of his social
position, threw him out of the element in which alone he could breathe,
and bade fair to mar my life also.'

'I never heard of your troubles,' said Mrs. Cusworth; 'Mr.
Pennycomequick did not speak to us of your father.  He was very reserved
about family matters.'

'He never forgave my father so long as the breath was in him.  That was
like a Pennycomequick.  We are slow in forming attachments or dislikes,
but when formed we do not alter.  And I--I shall never forgive the man
who spoiled my father's career, and well-nigh spoiled mine.'

'Who was that, and how did he manage it?' asked Janet.

'How did he manage it?  Why, he first induced my father to draw his
money out of this business, and then swindled him out of it--out of
almost every pound he had.  By his rascality he reduced my poor father
from being a man comfortably off to one in straitened circumstances; he
deprived him of a home, drove him--can you conceive of a worse fate?--to
live and die in furnished lodgings.'

Mrs. Cusworth did not speak.  She was a little shocked at his
bitterness.  His face had darkened as with a suffusion of black blood
under the skin, and a hard look came into his eyes, giving them a
metallic glitter.  He went on, noticing the bad impression he had
made--he went on to justify himself.  'My father's heart was broken.  He
lost all hope, all joy in life, all interest in everything.  I think of
him as a wreck, over which the waves beat and which is piecemeal broken
up--partly by the waves, partly by wreckers. That has soured me.
Hamilcar brought up his son Hannibal to swear hatred to the Romans.  I
may almost say that I was reared in the same manner; not by direct
teaching, but by every privation, every slight, every discouragement--by
the sight of my father's crushed life, and by the hopelessness that had
come on my own, to sear a bitter implacable hatred of the name of
Schofield.'

'Of whom?'

'Schofield--Earle Schofield.  Earle was his Christian name--that is, his
forename.  He had not anything Christian about him.'

Philip detected a look--a startled, terrified exchange of
glances--between mother and daughter.

'I see,' continued Philip, 'that I have alarmed you by the strength of
my feelings.  If you had endured what my father and I have endured,
knowing that it was attributable to one man, then, also, you would be a
heathen in your feelings towards him and all belonging to him.'

The old lady and her daughter no longer exchanged glances; they looked
on the ground.

'However,' said Philip, in a lighter tone, and the shadow left his face,
'it is an innocuous feeling.  I know nothing more of the man since he
robbed my father.  I do not know where he is, whether he be still alive.
He is probably dead.  I have heard no tidings of him since a rumour
reached us that he had gone to America, where, if he has died, I have
sufficient Christianity in me to be able to say, "Peace to his ashes!"

He looked at Mrs. Cusworth.  The old woman was strangely agitated, her
face of the deadly hue that flesh assumes when the blood has retreated
to the heart.

Janet was confused and uneasy--but that was explicable.  Her mother's
condition accounted for it.

'Mr. John Dale!'  The maid opened the door and introduced the doctor
from Bridlington.

'Mr. Dale!'  Janet and her mother started up and drew a long breath, as
though relieved by his appearance from a situation embarrassing and
painful.

'Oh, Mr. Dale! how glad, how heartily glad we are to see you!'

Then turning, first to Philip and next to the surgeon, Janet said, with
a smile: 'Now I must introduce you--my guardian and my brother-in-law
prospective.'




                            *CHAPTER XXIV.*

                            *A RECOGNITION.*


Jeremiah Pennycomequick remained quietly at his friend's house at
Bridlington for some weeks.

'As so much time has slipped away since your disappearance,' said John
Dale, 'it does not much matter whether a little more be sent tobogganing
after it.  I can't go to Mergatroyd very well just now; I am busy, and
have a delicate case on my hands that I will not entrust to others.  If
you can and will wait my convenience, I promise you I will go.  If
not--go yourself.  But, upon my word, I should dearly like to be at
Mergatroyd to witness your resurrection.'

Jeremiah waited.  He had been weakened by his illness, and had become
alarmed about himself.  He shrank from exertion, from strong emotion,
fearing for his heart.  In an amusing story by a Swiss novelist, a man
believes that he has a fungus growing on his heart, and he comes to live
for this fungus, to eat only such things as he is convinced will
disagree with the fungus, to engage in athletic sports, with the hope of
shaking off the fungus, to give up reading the newspapers, because he
ceases to take interest in politics, being engrossed in his fungus, and
finally to discover that he has been subjected to a delusion, the fungus
existing solely in his imagination.

Mr. Pennycomequick had become alarmed about his heart; he put his finger
periodically to his pulse to ascertain its regularity, imagined himself
subject to spasms, to feel stabs; he suspected numbness, examined his
lips and eyelids at the glass to discover whether he were more or less
bloodless than the day before, and shunned emotion as dangerous to a
heart whose action was abnormal.  The rest from business, the relief
from responsibility, were good for him.  The even life at his friend's
house suited him.  But he did not rapidly gain strength.

He walked on the downs when the weather permitted, not too fast lest he
should unduly distress his heart, nor too slowly lest he should catch
cold.  He was dieted by his doctor, and ate docilely what was meted to
him; if he could have had his sleep and wakefulness measured as well, he
would have been content, but sleep would not come when called, banished
by thoughts of the past, and questions concerning the future.

John Dale was a pleasant man to be with; fond of a good story, and able
to tell one; fond of a good dinner, and--being a bachelor--able to keep
a cook who could furnish one; fond of good wine, and with a cellar
stocked with it.  He was happy to have his old comrade with him; and
Jeremiah enjoyed being the guest of John Dale, enjoyed discussing old
acquaintances, reviewing old scenes, refreshing ancient jokes.

Thus time passed, and passed pleasantly, though not altogether
satisfactorily to Jeremiah, who was impatient at being unwell, and
uneasy about his heart.

At length John Dale fulfilled his undertaking; he went to Mergatroyd to
see how matters progressed there.  He arrived, as has already been
stated, at a moment when his appearance afforded relief to the widow.
He talked with Janet, and with Salome; but he had not many hours at his
disposal, and his interviews with the Cusworths were necessarily brief.
He was obliged to consult with Janet about her affairs, and that
occupied most of his time.  From Salome he learned nothing concerning
the will more than what he had already heard.  She told him no
particulars; and, indeed, considered it unnecessary to discuss it, as
her engagement to Philip altered her prospects.

'But, bless me, this must have been a case of love at first sight!' said
Mr. Dale.  'Why, Salome, you did not know him till the other day!'

'No; I had not seen him till after the death of my dear uncle, but I,
somehow, often thought of and a little fretted about him.  I was
troubled that dear uncle had not made friends with his brother, and that
he kept his nephew at arm's length.  I pitied Mr. Philip before I knew
him.  I could not hear that he had done anything to deserve this
neglect; and what little was told me about the cause of difference
between uncle and his brother did not make me think that the
estrangement ought to last and be extended to the next generation.  In
my stupid way I sometimes tried to bring uncle to another mind, and to
think more kindly of them.  I was so grieved to think that Mr. Philip
should grow up in ignorance of the nobility and worth of his uncle's
character.  Do you know--Mr. Dale--one reason why I am glad that I am
going to marry Philip is that I may have a real right to call Mr.
Pennycomequick my uncle?  Hitherto I called him so to himself, and
mamma, and one or two others, but I knew that he was no relation.'

'How about the identification of Mr. Jeremiah's body?' asked the
surgeon.

'With that I had nothing to do.  I was not called on to give my opinion.
Mrs. Sidebottom swore to it. The body wore the surtout that I know
belonged to Mr. Pennycomequick, but that was all.  How he came by it I
cannot explain.  Mrs. Sidebottom was so convinced that her view was
correct that she had an explanation to give why the corpse wore hardly
any other clothes.  I did not believe when it was found, and I do not
believe now, that the body was that of uncle.'

'But you do not doubt that Mr. Pennycomequick is dead?'

'Oh no! of course not.  If he had been alive he would have returned to
us.  There was nothing to hinder him from doing so.'

'Nothing of which you are aware.'

John Dale heard a favourable account of Philip from everyone to whom he
spoke, except Janet, who did not appreciate his good qualities, and was
keenly alive to his defects.  He could not inquire at the factory, but
he was a shrewd man, and he picked up opinions from the station-master,
from some with whom he walked up the hill, from a Mergatroyd tradesman
who travelled with him in the same railway-carriage.  All were decidedly
in Philip's favour. The popular voice was appreciative.  He was regarded
as a man of business habits and integrity of character.

John Dale returned to Bridlington.

'News for you, old boy!' shouted he, as he entered his house, and then
looked steadily at Jeremiah to see how he would receive the news he
brought.  'What do you think?  Wonders will never cease.  Salome----'

'Well, what about Salome?'

Jeremiah's mouth quivered.  John Dale smiled. 'Young people naturally
gravitate towards each other. There is only one commandment given to men
that receives general and cheerful acceptance, save from a few perverse
creatures such as you and me--and that commandment is to be fruitful and
multiply and replenish the earth.  Salome is engaged to be married.'

Jeremiah's face became like chalk.  He put his hand over his eyes, then
hastily withdrew it.  Dale saw his emotion, and went on talking so as to
cover it and give him time to master it.  'I have read somewhere, that
in mediæval times in the German cities the marriageable young men were
summoned before the Burgomaster on New Year's Day, and ordered to get
married before Easter on pain of expulsion from the city.  Bachelorhood
was regarded as unpatriotic if not criminal.  It is a pity this law was
not in force here a few years ago--and that you and I were not policed
into matrimony.  Now it is too late; both of us have acquired bachelor
habits, and it would be cruelty to force us into a condition which we
have eschewed, and for which we have ceased to be fitted.'

'Whom is she going to marry?' asked Jeremiah, controlling his emotions
by an effort.

'No other than your nephew Philip.  I will tell you what I know.'

Then John Dale gave his friend a succinct account of what he had heard.
He told him what he had learned of Philip.

'Do you grudge her to your nephew?' asked Dale.

'I do not know Philip,' answered Jeremiah curtly.

'I heard nothing but golden opinions of him,' said Dale.  'The only
person to qualify these was that puss, Janet, and she of course thinks
no one good enough for her dear sister Salome.'

Jeremiah's heart swelled.  How easy it would be for him to spoil all the
schemes that had been hatched since his disappearance.  Philip was
reckoning on becoming a well-to-do manufacturer; on founding a
household; was looking forward to a blissful domestic life enriched with
the love of Salome.  Jeremiah had but to show himself; and all these
plans would disappear as the desert mirage; Philip would have to return
to his lawyer's clerkship and abandon every prospect of domestic
happiness and commercial success.

'One thing more,' said Dale, 'I do not quite like the looks of my little
pet, Janet.  Her troubles have worn her more than I suspected.  Besides
she never had the robustness of her sister.  It is hard that wits and
constitution should go to one of the twins, and leave the other scantily
provided with both.'

Jeremiah said no more.  He was looking gloomily before him into vacancy.
John Dale declared he must visit his patients, and left his friend.

Jeremiah continued for some minutes in a brown study; and then he, also,
rose, put on his overcoat and muffler, and went forth to the cliffs, to
muse on what he had heard, and to decide his future course.

The tidings of Salome's engagement were hard to bear.  He thought he had
taught himself to think of her no longer in the light of a possible
wife.  His good sense had convinced him that it would be unwise for him
to think of marriage with her; it told him also that he was as yet too
infirm of purpose to trust himself in her presence.

Could he now return?  If he did, in what capacity?--as the maker or
marrer of Philip's fortunes?  If he took him into partnership, so as to
enable him to marry, could he--Jeremiah--endure the daily spectacle of
his nephew's happiness?--endure to witness the transfer to another of
that love and devotion which had been given to him?  And if he banished
Philip, what would be the effect on Salome?  Would she not resent his
return, and regret that he had not died in the flood?  If he were to
allow those in Mergatroyd to know that he was alive it would be almost
the same thing as returning into their midst, as it would disconcert
their arrangements effectually.  The wisest course for himself, and the
kindest to them, would be for him to depart from England for a
twelvemonth or more, without giving token that he still existed, and
then on his return he would be able to form an unprejudiced opinion of
his nephew, and act accordingly. If he found him what, according to
Dale's account, he promised to become--a practical, hardworking,
honourable manager--he would leave the conduct of the business in his
hands, only reclaiming that share which had been grasped by Mrs.
Sidebottom, which, moreover, he would feel a----perhaps malicious
pleasure in taking from her.

He seated himself on one of the benches placed at intervals on the down
for the convenience of visitors, and looked out to sea.  The sun shone,
and the day, for a winter's day, was warm.  Very little air stirred, and
Jeremiah thought that to rest himself on the bench could do him no harm,
so long as he did not remain there till he felt chilled.

As he sat on the bench, immersed in his troubled thoughts, a gentleman
came up, bowed, and took a place at his side.

'Beautiful weather! beautiful weather!' said the stranger, 'and such
weather, I am glad to say, is general at Bridlington.  Of the three
hundred and sixty-five days in the year the average of days on which the
sun shines is two hundred and seventy-three decimal four.  When we get
an interruption of what we regard as bad weather, oh! what murmurers,
sad murmurers we are against a beneficent Providence. The so-called bad
weather dissipates the insalubrious gases and brings in a fresh supply
of invigorating ozone, life-sustaining oxygen, and the other
force-stimulating elements--elements.'

Jeremiah nodded.  He was not well pleased to be drawn into conversation
at this moment, when occupied with his own thoughts.

'"La santé avant tout," say the French,' continued the gentleman, 'with
that terseness which characterizes the Gallic tongue--the tongue, sir.'
When he repeated a word he ruffled and swelled and turned himself about
like a pluming turkey, and as though believing that he had said a good
thing.  'I agree with them; I would subordinate every consideration to
health, every consideration, sir, except religion, which towers, sir,
steeples and weather-cocks high above every other mundane
con--sid--er--ation.'  As he pronounced each syllable apart, as though
each was a pearl he dropped from his lips, he turned himself about,
scattering his precious particles, till he faced Jeremiah.  'You,
yourself, sir, I perceive, are in search of that inestimable prize,
health--Hygiene, I mean.'

Mr. Pennycomequick was startled at this random shot, and looked more
closely at his interlocutor.  He saw a man of about his own height, with
long hair, whiskers that were elaborately curled, and perhaps darkened
with antimony; a handsome man, but with a mottled face and a nose
inclined to redness.  There was a something--Jeremiah could not tell
what, it was in his face--that made him suspect he had seen the man
before; or, if he had not seen him before, had seen someone like him.
He looked again at his face, not steadily, lest he should seem
discourteous, but hastily, and withal searchingly.  No, he had not seen
him previously, and yet there was certainly something in his face that
was familiar.

'You are not, I presume, aware,' continued the gentleman, 'that there is
a very remarkable and unique feature of this bay which points it out
specially as the sanatorium of the future.  The iodine in the seaweed
here--the i-o-dine, sir--reaches a percentage unattained elsewhere.  It
has been analysed, and, whereas along the seaside resorts on the English
Channel it is two decimal four to five decimal one of potass, there is a
steady accession of iodine in the seaweed, as you mount the east
coast--the east coast, sir--till it reaches its maximum at the spot
where we now are; where the proportions are almost reversed, the iodine
standing at five, or, to be exact, four decimal eight, and the potass at
three decimal two. This is a very interesting fact, sir, and as
important as it is interesting--as it is in-ter-est-ing.'

The gentleman worked his elbows, as though uncomfortable in his
overcoat, that did not fit him.

'The iodine is suspended in the atmosphere, as also is the ozone; but it
is concentrated in the algae. Conceive of the advantage to humanity, and
contemplate the beneficence of Providence, not only in gathering into
one focus the distributed iodine of the universe, but also in
discovering this fact to me, and enabling me and a few others to whom I
confide the secret, to realize out of the iodine, I will not say a
competence, but a colossal fortune.'

'And pray,' said Jeremiah, with a tone of sarcasm in his voice, 'what is
the good of iodine when you have it?'

'What is the good--the good of iodine?'

The gentleman turned round solidly and looked at Mr. Pennycomequick from
head to foot.  'Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you do not know for
what purpose an all-wise Providence has put iodine in the world?  Why,
it is one of the most potent, I may say it is the _only_ agent for the
reduction of muscular, vascular, osseous, abnormal secretions.'  From
the way in which he employed such words as vascular, osseous, abnormal,
and secretions, it was apparent that they gave the speaker thorough
enjoyment to use them.  'For any and every form of disorder of the
cartilaginous system it is sovereign--sov-er-eign.'

'For the heart also?' asked Jeremiah, becoming interested in iodine.

'For all cardiac affections--supreme.  It is known as yet to very
few--only to such as know it through me--that Bridlington is a spot so
abounding in iodine, so marked out by nature as a resort for all those
who suffer from glandular affections, stiff joints, rickets, cardial
infirmities--and, according to a system I am about to make
public--tubercular phthisis.'

He turned himself about and shook his mouth, as shaking comfits out of a
bag, 'tu-ber-cular phthi-sis!'

After a pause, in which he smiled, well pleased with himself, he said,
'Perhaps you will condescend to take my card, and if I can induce you to
take a share in Iodinopolis----'

'Iodinopolis?'

'The great sanatorium of the future.  A company is being formed to buy
up land, to erect ranges of beautiful marine villas, to rear palatial
hotels.  There is a low church here already, and if we can persuade his
grace the Archbishop to help us to a high church also, the place will be
ready, the nest prepared for the birds.  Then we propose to give a bonus
to every physician who recommends a patient to Bridlington, for the
first three or four years, till the tide of fashion has set in so strong
that we can dispense with bonuses, the patients themselves insisting on
being sent here. What said Ledru Rollin?  "I am the leader of the
people, therefore I must follow them."  He handed his card to Mr.
Pennycomequick, who looked at it and saw:

'MR. BEAPLE YEO,
       Financier.'


Every now and then there came in the stranger's voice an intonation that
seemed familiar to Jeremiah; in itself nothing decided, but sufficient,
like a scent, to recall something, yet not pronounced enough to enable
him to determine what it was in the past that was recalled.  Again
Jeremiah looked at the gentleman, and his attention was all at once
directed to his great-coat.

'How odd--how strange!' he muttered.

'What, sir? what is strange?' asked the gentleman. 'That such a splendid
opportunity of making a fortune should lie at our feet--lie literally at
our feet, without figure of speech--for there it is, in the seaweed,
here it is, in the air we inhale, now humming in the grass of the down?
Perhaps you may like----' he fumbled in his great-coat pocket.

'Excuse me,' said Jeremiah, 'that overcoat bears the most extraordinary
resemblance to----' but he checked himself.

'Made by my tailor in New Bond Street,' said Mr. Yeo. 'Here, sir, is the
prospectus.  This is a speculation on which not only large capitalists
may embark, but also the widow can contribute her mite, and reap as they
have sown, the capitalist receiving in proportion as the widow--_as_ the
widow.  I myself, guarantee eighteen and a half per cent.  That I
guarantee on my personal security--but I reckon that the return will be
at the rate of twenty-four decimal three--the decimal is important,
because the calculation has been strict.'

Mr. Pennycomequick ran his eye over the list of managers.

'You will see,' said Mr. Yeo, 'that our chairman is the Earl of
Schofield.  His lordship has taken up a hundred and twenty shares of £10
each--the first call is for five shillings per share.'

'Earl Schofield!' murmured Mr. Pennycomequick. 'Earl Schofield!  Earl
Schofield!  I do not know much of the peerage--not in my line--but the
name is familiar to me.  Earl Schofield!--Excuse me, but there was a
great scoundrel----'

'Hah!' interrupted Mr. Yeo, and waved his cane, 'there is my secretary
signalling to me from away yonder on the dunes.  Excuse me--I must go to
him.'

He rose and walked hastily away.

'How very odd!' said Jeremiah.  'I could swear he was in my great-coat.'
He watched the man as he strode away.  'And that hat!--surely I know
that also.'




                             *CHAPTER XXV.*

                            *WITHOUT BELLS.*


Virgilius, Bishop of Salzburg in the eighth century, condemned the
erroneous doctrine held by some that we have antipodes.  It was, no
doubt, true that men in the Middle Ages had not their antipodes, but it
is certainly otherwise now.  Where our fathers' heads were, there now
are our feet.  Everything is the reverse in this Generation of what it
was in the last.  Medicine condemns those things which medicine did
enjoin, and enjoins those things which were forbidden.  What our parents
revered that we turn into burlesque, and what they cast aside as
worthless that we collect and treasure. Maxims that moulded the conduct
in the last generation are trampled underfoot in this, and principles
thought immutable are broken by the succeeding age, as royal seals are
broken on the death of the sovereign.  If we were bred up by our fathers
in high Toryism, when of age we turn a somersault and pose as Social
Democrats; if we learned the Gospel at our mother's knee we profess
Buddhism with the sprouting of our whiskers.  The social and moral
barriers set up by our fathers we throw down, and just as pigs when
driven in one direction turn their snouts the other way, so do we--so do
our children; which is an evidence in favour of Darwinianism, showing
that the porcine character still inheres.

It was regarded of old as a canon by romance writers, that the final
chapter of the last volume, be it the seventh as in the days of
Richardson, or the third as in these of Mudie and Smith, should end with
the marriage of the hero and heroine.  A cruel and wayward Fate held the
couple apart through the entire story, but they came together in the
end.  And there was a reason for this.  Marriage is the climax of the
romance of life.  It concludes one epoch and opens another, and that
which it opens is prosaic.  It was concluded, and concluded with some
show of reason that a romance should deal with the romantic period of
life and finish when that reaches its apogee.

The Parliament of Love at Toulouse in the twelfth century laid down that
love and marriage were mutually exclusive terms; that romance died to
the sound of wedding-bells, or at longest lingered to the expiration of
the honeymoon.  This law has governed novelists ever since.  The
ingenuity of the author has consisted in devising impediments to the
union of the lovers, and in knocking them out of their way as the story
neared its conclusion.

But in this revolutionary age we have discarded the rule; and carried
away by the innovating stream the author of this tale has ventured to
displace the marriage.  Had he been completely lost to reverence for the
ancient canons, in his desire to be original, he would have opened his
novel with a wedding procession, strutting to the carriages over strewn
flowers, holding bouquets, with the pealing of wedding-bells, whilst the
bridegroom's man circulates, tipping the parson, the curate, the
pewopener, the sexton, the clerk, the bellringers, and all the other
sharks that congregate about a bridegroom, as the fish congregate about
a ship on board of which is a corpse.  But, as the author is still held
in check by old rule, or prejudice, and yet yields somewhat to the
modern spirit of relaxation, he compromises between the extremes, and
introduces the marriage in the middle of his tale.

In a novel, a marriage is always built up of much romantic and
picturesque and floral adjunct.  It is supposed necessarily to involve
choral hymns, white favours, bridal veils, orange blossoms, tears in the
bride, flaming cheeks in the bridegroom, speeches at the breakfast, an
old slipper, and a shower of rice. Without these condiments a wedding is
a very insipid dish.

But here we are forced to innovate.

The marriage of Philip Pennycomequick and Salome Cusworth was hurried
on; there was no necessity for delay, and it was performed in a manner
so prosaic as to void it of every feature of romance and refinement.

In the parish church there was morning prayer every day at nine, and
this service Salome frequently attended.

On one morning--as it happened, a gray one, with a spitting sky--Philip
also attended matins, from 'the wicked man' to the final 'Amen.'  When,
however, the service was concluded--a service attended by five Sisters
of Mercy and three devout ladies--the vicar, instead of leaving the
desk, coughed, blew his nose, and glowered down the church.

Then the clerk began to fumble among some books, the five Sisters of
Mercy perked up, the devout ladies who had moved from their seats
towards the church door were seized with a suspicion that something
unusual was about to take place, and hastily returned to their places.
The Sisters of Mercy had with them one penitent, whom with sugar-plums
they were alluring into the paths of virtue.  It at once occurred to
these religious women that to witness a wedding would have an elevating,
healthy effect on their penitent, and they resolved to stay--for her
sake, for her sake only; they, for their parts, being raised above all
mundane interests.  Also, the servants of the vicarage, which adjoined
the churchyard, by some means got wind of what was about to occur, and
slipped ulsters over their light cotton gowns, and tucked their caps
under pork-pie hats, and tumbled into church breathing heavily.

Then Philip, trying to look as if nothing was about to happen, came out
of his pew, and in doing so stumbled over a hassock, knocked down his
umbrella which leaned against the pew, and sent some hymnals and church
services about the floor.  Then he walked up the church, and was joined
by Salome and her sister and mother.  No psalm was sung, no 'voice
breathed o'er Eden,' but the Sisters of Mercy intoned the responses with
vociferous ardour, and the penitent took the liveliest interest in the
ceremonial, expressing her interest in giggles and suppressed 'Oh my's!'

Finally, after 'amazement,' the parson, clerk, bride and bridegroom, and
witnesses adjourned to the vestry, where the vicar made his customary
joke about the lady signing her surname for the last time.

The bellringers knew nothing about the wedding, and having been
unforewarned were not present to ring a peal.  No carriage with white
favours to horses and driver was at the door of the church--no cab was
kept at Mergatroyd--no rice was thrown, no slipper cast.

The little party walked quietly and unobserved back to their house under
umbrellas, and on reaching home partook of a breakfast that consisted of
fried fish, bacon, eggs, toast, butter, and home-made marmalade.  No
guests were present, no speeches were made, no healths drunk.  There was
to be no wedding tour.  Philip could not leave the mill, and the
honeymoon must be passed in the smoky atmosphere of Mergatroyd, and
without the intermission of the daily routine of work.

As Philip walked home with Salome under the same umbrella, from the
points of which the discoloured water dropped, he said in a low tone to
her, 'I have, as you desired, offered your mother to manage her affairs
for her.  She has accepted my offer, and I have looked through her
accounts.  She has very little money.'

'I do not suppose she can have much; my poor father died before he was
in a position to save any considerable sum.'

'She has about five hundred pounds in Indian railway bonds, and a couple
of hundred in a South American loan, and some three hundred in home
railways--about fifteen to sixteen hundred pounds in all--that is to
say, she had this a little while ago.'

'And has it still, no doubt.'

'No; you yourself told me she had met with losses.'

'She informed me that she had, but I cannot understand how this can have
been.  I doubt entirely that she met with losses.'

'But she allowed me to see her book, and she has sold out some stock--in
fact, between two and three hundred pounds' worth.  She did that almost
immediately after my uncle's death.'

'But she has the money realized, I suppose.'

'Not at all.  It is gone.'

'Gone!'

'She cannot and will not account for it to me, except by the vague
explanation that she had a sudden and unexpected call upon her which she
was forced to meet.'

'But--she said nothing about this to me.  It is very odd.'

'It is, as you say, odd.  It is, of course, possible that Janet may have
had something to do with it, but I cannot say; your mother will not
enlighten me.'

'I cannot understand this,' said Salome musingly.

'I regret my offer,' said Philip.  'I would not have made it if I had
not thought I should be met with candour, and given the information I
desired.'

When Mrs. Sidebottom heard that the marriage had actually taken place,
then her moral sense reared like a cob unaccustomed to the curb.

'It is a scandal!' she exclaimed, 'and so shortly after my sweet
brother's death.  A bagman's daughter, too!'

'Uncle Jeremiah died in November,' said the captain.

'Well, and this is March.  To marry a bagman's daughter in March!  It is
a scandal, an outrage on the family.'

'My uncle would have had no objections, I suppose. Philip is as good as
Mr. Baynes.'

'As good!  How you talk, Lamb! as if all the brains in your skull had
gone to water.  Philip is a Pennycomequick, and Baynes is--of course, a
Baynes.'

'What of that?'

'Mr. Baynes was a manufacturer.'

'So is Philip.'

'Well, yes; for his sins.  But then he is allied to us who have dropped
an _n_, and capitalized a Q, and adopted and inserted a hyphen.  Mr.
Baynes was not in the faintest degree related to us.  Philip has behaved
with gross indecency.  A bagman's daughter within five months of his
uncle's death!  Monstrous.  If she had been his social equal we could
have waived the month--but, a bagman's daughter!  I feel as if allied to
blackbeetles.'

'Her father was about to be taken into partnership when he died,' argued
the captain.

'If he had been a partner, that would have been another matter, and I
should not have been so pained and mortified; but he was not, and a man
takes his position by the place he occupied when he died, not by that
which he might have occupied had he lived. Why, if Sidebottom had lived
and been elected Mayor of Northingham in the year of the Prince's visit
he might have been knighted, but that does not make me Lady Sidebottom.'

'You call him a bagman,' said Captain Lambert. 'But I should say he was
a commercial traveller.'

'And how does that mend matters?  Do seven syllables make a difference?
A dress-improver is no other than a bustle, and an influenza than a cold
in the head.'

'All I know is,' said the captain, 'that his daughters are deuced pretty
girls, and as good a pair of ladies as you will meet anywhere.  I've
known some of your grand ladies say awfully stupid things, and I can't
imagine Janet doing that; and some do rather mean things, and Salome
could not by any chance do what was unkind or ungenerous.  I've a deuce
of a mind to propose to Janet, as I have been chiselled out of my one
hundred and fifty.'

'Chiselled out!'

'Yes, out of my annuity.  If the will had been valid I should have had
that of my own; but now I have nothing, and am forced to go to you for
every penny to buy tobacco.  It is disgusting.  I'll marry Janet. I am
glad she is a widow and available.  She has a hundred and fifty per
annum of her own, and is certainly left something handsome by Baynes.'

'Fiddlesticks!' exclaimed Mrs. Sidebottom.

'I will, indeed, unless I am more liberally treated. I hate to be
dependent on you for everything.  I wish I had served a _caveat_ against
your getting administration of the property, and done something to get
the old will put to rights.'

Mrs. Sidebottom turned green with anger and alarm.

'I will go to Philip's wedding breakfast, or dinner, or dance, or
whatever he is going to have, and snatch a kiss from little Janet, pull
her behind the window-curtains and propose for her hundred and fifty, I
will.'

Lambert's mother was very angry, but she said no more.  She knew the
character of her son; he would not bestir himself to do what he
threatened.  His bark was worse than his bite.  He fumed and then turned
cold.

But Philip gave no entertainment on his wedding-day, invited no one to
his house; consequently Lambert had not the opportunity he desired for
pulling Janet behind the window-curtains, snatching a kiss and proposing
for her hundred and fifty pounds.

'I shall refuse to know them,' said Mrs. Sidebottom.

'And return to York?' asked her son.

'I can't leave at once,' answered his mother.  'I have the house on my
hands.  Besides, I must have an eye on the factory.  Lamb, if you had
any spirit in you, you would learn book-keeping, so as to be able to
control the accounts.  I do not trust Philip; how can I, when he marries
a bagman's daughter? It is a proof of deficiency in common sense, and a
lack of sense of rectitude.  Who was Salome's mother? We do not know her
maiden name.  These sort of people are like diatoms that fill the air,
and no one can tell whence they came and what they are.  They are
everywhere about us and all equally insignificant.'

Mrs. Sidebottom had but the ears of her son into which to pour her
discontent, for she had no acquaintances in Mergatroyd.

On coming there she had been met by the manufacturers' wives in a
cordial spirit.  Her brother was highly respected, and they hastened to
call on her and express their readiness to do her any kindness she might
need as a stranger in the town.  She would have been received into the
society there--a genial one--had she been inclined.  But she was
supercilious. She allowed the ladies of Mergatroyd to understand that
she belonged to another and a higher order of beings, and that the days
in which the gods and goddesses came down from Olympus to hold converse
with men were over.

The consequence was that she was left to herself, and now she grumbled
at the dulness of a place which was only dull to her, because of her own
want of tact. No more kindly, friendly people are to be found in England
than the north country manufacturers; but the qualities of frankness,
directness, which are conspicuous in them, were precisely those
qualities which Mrs. Sidebottom was incapable of appreciating, were
qualities which to her mind savoured of barbarism.

And yet Mrs. Sidebottom belonged, neither by birth nor by marriage nor
by acceptance, to a superior class.  She was the daughter of a
manufacturer, and the widow of a small country attorney.  As the
paralytic in the sheep-market waited for an angel to put him into the
pool, so did Mrs. Sidebottom spend her time and exhaust her powers in
vain endeavours to get dipped in the cleansing basin of county society,
in which she might be purged of the taint of trade. And, like the
paralytic of the story, she had to wait, and was disappointed annually,
and had the mortification of seeing some neighbour or acquaintance step
past her and enter the desired circle, whilst she was making ready and
beating about for an introducer.

She attended concerts, public balls, went to missionary meetings; she
joined working parties for charitable objects, took stalls at bazaars,
hoping by these means to get within the vortex of the fashionable world
and be drawn in, but was always disappointed.  Round every eddy may be
seen sticks and straws that spin on their own axes; they make dashes
inwards, and are repelled, never succeeding in being caught by the coil
of the whirlpool.  So was she ever hovering on the outskirts of the
aristocratic ring, ever aiming to pierce it, and always missing her
object.

A poem by Kenrick, written at the coronation of George III., represents
that celebrated beauty and toast, the Countess of Coventry, recently
deceased, applying to Pluto for permission to return to earth and mingle
in the entertainments of the Coronation. Pluto gives his consent; she
may go--but as a ghost remain unseen.

Then says the Countess:

    'A fig for fine sights, if unseen one's fine face,
    What signifies seeing, if one's self is not seen?'


So Mrs. Sidebottom found that it was very little pleasure to her to
hover about genteel society, and see into it, without herself being seen
in it.  Her descent to Mergatroyd was in part due to a rebuff she had
met with at York, quite as much as to her desire to conciliate her
half-brother.  She trusted that when she returned to York she would be
so much richer than before that this would afford her the requisite
momentum which might impel her within the magic circle, within which,
when once rotating, she would be safe, confident of being able to
maintain her place.

'My dear Lamb,' said she, 'I may inform you, in the strictest
confidence, that I see my way to becoming wealthy, really wealthy.
There is a speculation on foot, of which I have received information
through my York agent, to buy up land and build a great health resort
near Bridlington, to be called Iodinopolis or Yeoville, the name is not
quite fixed.  No one is to know anything about it but the few who take
preference shares.  I am most anxious to realize some of the securities
that came to me through my darling brother's death, so as to invest.
The manager is called Beaple Yeo.'

'Never heard of him.'

'And the chairman is the Earl of Schofield. Mr. Beaple Yeo and the Earl
together guarantee seventeen per cent--think of that, Lamb!--on their
own guarantee!--an Earl, too--and the funds are only three or three and
a half!'




                            *CHAPTER XXVI.*

                                *HYMEN.*


A twelvemonth slipped away, easily, happily; to none more so than to
Philip Pennycomequick.

To the Fates, how strange must seem the readiness with which women
plunge into matrimony, and the shyness with which some men look at it!
for matrimony is emphatically an institution designed for the comfort of
man irrespective of the interests of the woman.  The married man ceases
to have care about his meals, they come to him; he gives no thought to
his servants, they are managed for him; he is not troubled about his
clothing, it now hangs together, whereas formerly it fell to pieces.

When the married man prepares to shave, the soap-dish is full, his tidy
is clean, his razors in order; the bachelor finds all in confusion.
Before marriage, he who had a cook was served with India-rubber; after
it, he gets his meat succulent and well cooked.  Before marriage, the
linen went to the wash, and only half returned, silk handkerchiefs
returned as cotton, stockings came odd, jerseys in holes, sheets in
rags, and shirt-fronts enamelled with iron-mould; after marriage,
everything returns in good condition and in proper number.

But to the woman, matrimony is by no means a relief from cares.  On the
contrary, the woman passes through the ring into an arena of battle.  We
are told by anthropologists that in the primitive condition of society a
subdivision of tasks took place; one set of men undertook to till the
earth and manage the domestic animals, whilst another girded on their
arms and defended the infant community. These latter, for their
services, were fed by the tillers, housed, and clothed with food they
had not grown, houses they had not builded, clothing they had not woven.
The same subdivision of labour continues still in the family, where the
man is the tiller and toiler, and the woman is the military element.
She marches round the confines of his house, fights daily battles with
those foes of domestic felicity--the servants.  When they oversleep
themselves, she routs them out of their beds; when they neglect the
dusting, she flies in pursuit to bring them to their duties; when they
are impudent, she drives them out of the house.

With what unflagging zeal does she maintain her daily conflicts!  How
she countermines, discovers ambushes, circumvents, throws open the
gates, and charges the foe!

Now consider what was the life of the girl before she married.  She had
no worries, no warfare; she was petted, admired; she enjoyed herself,
indulged her caprices unrestrained, gave way to her humours unrebuked.
Her bonnets, her dresses were given to her, she had no care what she
might eat, any more than the lilies of the field, only, unlike them,
devoting herself to the thoughts of her clothing, for which, however,
she had not to pay.  Unmarried girls were anciently termed spinsters,
and are so derisively still in the banns, for they formerly spun the
linen for their future homes; now they toil not, neither do they spin.

Then comes marriage, and all is changed.  They enter into a world of
discords and _désagréments_. They have to grow long nails and to sharpen
their teeth; they have to haggle with shopkeepers, fight their servants;
whereas the husbands, those sluggard kings of creation, smack their lips
over their dinners, and lounge in their easy-chairs, and talk politics
with their friends, and smile, and smile, unconscious of the struggles
and passions that rage downstairs.

The eyes that, in the girl, looked at the beauties of creation, in the
married woman search out delinquencies in their domestics, and defects
in the household furniture.  The eyes that looked for violets now peer
for cobwebs; that lingered lovingly on the sunset glow, now examine the
coal-bill; and the ear that listed to the song of Philomel, is now on
the alert for a male voice in the kitchen.  The nose that of old inhaled
the perfume of the rose, now pokes into pots and pans in quest of
dripping.

From what has been said above, the reader may conclude that the position
of the wife, though a belligerent one, is at all events regal.  She is
queen of the house, and if she has trouble with her servants, it is as a
sovereign who has to resist revolutionary movements among her subjects.

No more mistaken idea can well be entertained.  As the Pope writes
himself, 'Servant of the servants of Heaven,' so does the lady of the
house subscribe herself servant of the servants of the establishment.
If she searches into their shortcomings, remonstrates, and resents them,
it is as the subject criticising, murmuring at, and revolting personally
against the tyranny of her oppressors.  So far from being the head of
the house, she is the door-mat, trampled on, kicked, set at nought,
obliged to swallow all the dirt that is brought into the house.

Marriage had produced a change in Philip.  It had made him less stony,
angular, formal.  Matrimony often has a remarkable effect on those who
enter into it, reducing their peculiarities, softening their
harshnesses, and accentuating those points of similarity which are to be
found in the two brought into close association, so that in course of
time a singular resemblance in character and features is observable in
married folk.  In an old couple there is to be seen occasionally a
likeness as that of brother and sister.  This is caused by their being
exposed to the same caresses and the same strokes of fortune; they are
weathered by the same breezes, moistened by the same rains.  In addition
to the exterior forces moulding a couple, comes the reciprocal action of
the inner powers--their passions, prejudices--so that they recoil on
each other.  They come to think alike, to feel alike, as well as to look
alike.  The man unconsciously loses some of his ruggedness, and the
woman acquires some of his breadth and strength. They become in some
measure reflectors to each other, the light one catches is cast on and
brightens the other, and they mirror whatever passes along the face of
the other.

The subtle, mysterious modelling process had begun on Philip, although
but recently married.  Janet was no longer in the house; she had
returned to France, and as her constitution was delicate had followed
advice, and gone to the South for the winter.

Mrs. Sidebottom and the captain had shaken off the dust from their feet
against Mergatroyd, and had returned to their favourite city, York,
where they resumed the interrupted gyrations about the whirlpool of
fashionable life, and Mrs. Sidebottom made her usual rushes, still
ineffectual, at its centre.

Consequently, Philip was left to the undisturbed influence of Salome,
and this influence affected him more than he was conscious of, and would
have allowed was possible.  He was very happy, but he was not the man to
confess it, least of all to his wife.  As a Canadian Indian deems it
derogatory to his dignity to express surprise at any wonder of
civilization shown him, so did Philip consider that it comported with
his dignity to accept all the comforts, the ease, the love that
surrounded him as though familiar with them from the beginning.
Englishmen who have been exposed to tropic suns in Africa, have their
faces shrivelled and lined.  When they returned to England, in the soft,
humid atmosphere the flesh expands, and drinks in moisture at every
pore.  The lines fade out, and the flesh becomes plump.  So did the
sweet, soothing influence of Salome, equable as it was gentle, fill,
relax, refresh the spirit of Philip, and restore to him some of the lost
buoyancy of youth.  Salome was admirably calculated to render him happy,
and Philip was not aware of the rare good fortune which had given him a
wife who had the self-restraint to keep her crosses to herself.  That is
not the way with all wives.  Many a wife makes a beast of burden of her
husband, lading him with crosses, heaping on his shoulders not only her
own, great or small, but also all those of her relatives, friends and
acquaintances. Such a wife cracks a whip behind her good man; drives him
through the town, stopping at every house and calling, 'Any old crosses!
Old crosses!  Old crosses!  Chuck them on; his back is broad to bear
them!' precisely as the scavenger goes through the streets with his cart
and burdens it with the refuse of every house.  Many a wife takes a
pride in thus breaking the back, and galling the sides, and knocking
together the knees of her husband with the crosses she piles on his
shoulders.

As we walk through the wilderness of life, burrs adhere to the coat of
Darby and to the skirts of Joan. Why should not each carry his or her
own burrs, if they refuse to be picked off and thrown away?  Why should
Joan collect all hers and poke them down the neck of Darby, and expect
him to work them down his back from the nape to the heel?  Little
thought had Philip how, unperceived and by stealth, Salome sought the
burrs that adhered to him, removed them and thrust them into her own
bosom, bearing them there with a smiling face, and leaving him
unconscious that he had been delivered from any, and that they were
fretting her.

We men are sadly regardless of the thousand little acts of forethought
that lighten and ease our course. We give no thanks, we are not even
aware of what has been done for us.  Nevertheless, our wives do not go
unrewarded, though unthanked, for what they have done or borne; their
gentle attentions have served to give us a polish and a beauty we had
not before we came into their tender hands.

A bright face met Philip when he returned from the factory every day.
If Salome saw that he was downcast, she exerted herself to cheer him; if
that he was cheerful, she was careful not to discourage him. Always neat
in person, fresh in face, and pleasant in humour, keeping out of
Philip's way whatever might annoy him, she made him as happy as he could
well be.

Perfectly happy Philip could not be, because unable to shake off the
sense of insecurity that attended his change of fortune.
Constitutionally suspicious, habituated to the shade, he was dazzled and
frightened when exposed to the light.  The access of good luck had been
too sudden and too great, for him to trust its permanency.  The fish
that has its jaws transfixed with broken hooks mistrusts the worm that
floats down the stream unattached to a line.  The expectation of
disappointment had been bred in him by painful and repeated experience,
and had engendered a sullen predetermination to mistrust Good Fortune.
He regarded her as a treacherous goddess, and when she smiled, he was
sure that she meditated a stab with a hidden dagger.

Such as are born in the lap of fortune, from which they have never been
given a fall, or where they have never been dosed with quassia through a
drenching spoon, such persons look on life with equanimity. Nothing
would surprise them more than a reverse. But with the step-sons of
fortune, the Cinderellas in the great household of humanity, who have
encountered heart-break after heart-break, it is otherwise.  When
Fortune comes their way offering gifts, they mistrust them as the gifts
of the Danai.  It is with them as with him who is haunted.  He knows
that the spectre lurks at hand, and when he is about to close his eyes,
will start up and scare him; when he is merry will rise above the table
and echo his laugh with a jeer. So do those who have been unlucky fear
ever lest misfortune should spring on them from some unforeseen quarter,
at some unprepared moment.

The dread lest there should be a revulsion in his affairs never wholly
left Philip, and took the edge off his happiness.  He had found little
difficulty in acquiring the requisite understanding of the business, and
obtaining a firm hold over the conduct of the factory.  There was no
prospect of decline in the trade.  Since the conclusion of the European
war, it had become brisk.  Peace had created a demand for figured
damasks.  He had no reason to dread a cessation of orders, a slackness
in the trade.




                            *CHAPTER XXVII.*

                              *AN ALARM.*


Within a twelvemonth of his marriage Philip had been given one of the
purest and best of the joys that spring out of matrimony--a child, a boy
called after his own name, Philip; and the father loved his first-born,
was proud of him, and was fearful lest the child should be snatched from
him.  As Polycrates was rendered uneasy because he was so powerful,
rich, and happy, and cast his most costly jewel into the sea as a gift
to the Fates, so was Philip inwardly disturbed with a suspicion that the
gloomy, envious Fates which had harassed him so long were now only
playing with him, and would exact of him some hostage.  What would
satisfy them?  His commercial prosperity?--his child?--his health?  In
vain did Polycrates seek to propitiate the Fates by casting from him his
most precious ring.  The ring was returned to him in the belly of a
fish, and kingdom and life were exacted of him.

'I never did understand what became of part of your mother's little
property,' said Philip one evening when alone with Salome; 'and I think
it odd that your mother should be reserved about it to me.'

'Oh, Philip!  It does not matter.  After all, it is only two hundred and
fifty pounds, and the loss is mamma's, not yours.'

'It does matter, Salome.  Two hundred and fifty pounds cannot have made
themselves wings and flown away without leaving their address.  Bo
Peep's sheep left their tails behind them.  This money ought to be
accounted for.  One thing I do know--the name of the person to whom it
passed.'

'Who was that?'

'One Beaple Yeo.  Have you any knowledge of the man?  Who is he?  What
had your mother to do with him?'

'I never heard his name before.'

'The money was drawn and paid to Beaple Yeo directly after the death of
Uncle Jeremiah.  I made inquiries at the bank, and ascertained this.
Who Beaple Yeo is your mother will not say, nor why she paid this large
sum of money to him.  I would not complain of this reticence unless she
had called me in to examine her affairs.'

'No, Philip, it was I who asked you to be so kind as to do for her the
same as Uncle Jeremiah.'

'She is perfectly welcome to do what she likes with her money: but if
she complains of a loss, and then seeks an investigation into her loss,
and all the time throws impediments in the way of inquiry--I say that
her conduct is not right.  It is like a client calling in a solicitor
and then refusing to state his case.'

'I was to blame,' said Salome meekly.  'Mamma has her little store--the
savings she has put by--and a small sum left by my father, and I ought
not to have interfered.  She did not ask me to do so, and it was
meddlesome of me to intervene unsolicited; but I did so with the best
intentions.  She had told me that she suffered from a loss which
crippled her, and I assumed that her money matters had become confused,
because no longer supervised.  I ought to have asked her permission
before speaking to you.'

'When I made the offer, she might have refused. I would not have been
offended.  What I do object to is the blowing of hot and cold with one
breath.'

'I dare say she thought it very kind of you to propose to take the
management; and there may have been a misunderstanding.  She wished you
to manage for the future and not inquire into the past.'

'Then she should have said so.  She complained of a loss, and became
reticent and evasive when pressed as to the particulars of this alleged
loss.'

'I think the matter may be dropped,' said Salome.

'By all means--only, understand--I am dissatisfied.'

'Hush!' exclaimed Salome.  'I hear baby crying.'

Then she rose to leave the room.

'Now look here,' said Philip, 'would it be fair to the doctor whom you
call in about baby to withhold from him the particulars of the ailments
you expect him to cure.'

'Never mind that now,' said Salome, and she kissed her husband to
silence him.  'Baby is awake and is crying for me.'

This brief conversation will serve to let the reader see an unlovable
feature in Philip's character.  He possessed a peculiarity not common in
men, that of harbouring a grievance and recurring to it.  Men usually
dismiss a matter that has annoyed them, and are unwilling to revert to
it.  It is otherwise with women, due to the sedentary life they lead at
their needlework.  Whilst their fingers are engaged with thread or
knitting-pins, their minds turn over and over again little vexations,
and roll them like snowballs into great grievances.  Probably the
solitary life Philip had led had tended to develop the same feminine
faculty of harbouring and enlarging his grievances.

The front-door bell tingled.  Salome did not leave the room to go after
baby till she heard who had come.  The door was thrown open upon them,
and Mrs. Sidebottom burst in.

This good lady had thought proper to swallow her indignation at the
marriage of Philip, because it was against her interest to be on bad
terms with her nephew; and after the first ebullition of bad temper she
changed her behaviour towards Philip and Salome, and became gracious.
They accepted her overtures with civility but without cordiality, and a
decent appearance of friendship was maintained.  She pressed Salome to
visit her at York, with full knowledge that the invitation would be
declined.  Occasionally she came from York to see how the mill was
working and what business was being transacted.

As she burst in on Philip and his wife, both noticed that she was
greatly disturbed; her usual assurance was gone.  She was distressed and
downcast.  Almost without a word of recognition cast to Salome, she
pushed past her at the door, entered the room, ran to her nephew and
exclaimed, 'Oh, Philip!  You alone can help me.  Have you heard?  You do
not know what has happened?  I am sure you do not, or you would have
come to York to my rescue.'

'What is the matter?  Take a chair, Aunt Louisa.'

'What is the matter!  Oh, my dear!  I cannot sit, I am in such a nervous
condition.  It is positively awful.  And poor Lamb a director.  I am
afraid it will damage his prospects.'

'But what has happened?'

'Oh--everything.  Nothing so awful since the Fire of London and the
Earthquake of Lisbon.  And Smithies recommended it.'

'What--Smithies, whom you sent here to investigate the books?' asked
Philip dryly.

'Oh, my dear!  It is always best to do business in a business way.  Of
course, I don't distrust you, but I am sure it gratifies you that I
should send my agent to run through the books.'

'Well, and what has your agent, Smithies, done now?'

'Oh, Smithies has done nothing himself.  Smithies is as much concerned
as myself.  But he is to blame for advising me to sell my bonds in
Indian railways and put the money into iodine or decimals, or something
of that sort, and persuading Lamb to become a director of the company.'

'What company?'

'Oh! don't you know?  The Iodinopolis Limited Liability Company.  It
promised to be a most successful speculation.  It had an earl at the
head.  The company proposed to open quarries for stone, others for lime,
erect houses, hotels, and churches, high and low, make a great harbour,
and Beaple Yeo----'

'Who?'

'Beaple Yeo, the chief promoter and secretary, and treasurer _pro tem_.
The speculation was certain to bring in twenty-five per cent., and he
gave his personal security for seventeen.'

'And have you much capital in this concern?'

'Well--yes.  The decimals grow thicker on this part of the coast than
anywhere else in the world, and the decimals have an extraordinary
healing effect in disease.  They are cast up on the shore, and exhale a
peculiar odour which is very stimulating.  I have smelt the decimals
myself--no, what am I saying, it is iodine, not decimals, but on my
soul, I don't know exactly what the decimals are, but this I can tell
you, they have run away with some good money of mine.'

'I do not understand yet.'

'How dense you are, Philip!  For the sake of the iodine, we were going
to build a city at or near Bridlington, to which all the sick people in
Europe who could afford it, would troop.  There was a crescent to be
called after Lamb.'

'Well, has the land been bought on which to build and open the
quarries?'

'No; that is the misfortune.  Mr. Yeo has been unable to induce the
landowners to sell, and so he has absconded with the money subscribed.'

'And is there no property on which to fall back?'

'Not an acre.  What is to be done?'

Philip smiled.  Now he understood what Mrs. Cusworth had done with her
two hundred and fifty pounds. She also had been induced to invest in
iodine or decimals.

'What is to be done?' repeated Philip.  'Bear your loss.'




                           *CHAPTER XXVIII.*

                           *THE SPARE ROOM.*


Philip insisted on Mrs. Sidebottom seating herself, and giving him as
connected and plain an account of the loss she had met with, as it was
in her power to give.  But to give a connected and plain account of
anything affecting the interests deeply is not more easy for some
persons than it is for a tipsy man to walk straight.  They gesticulate
in their narration, lurch and turn about in a whimsical manner.  But
Philip had been in a solicitor's office, and knew how to deal with
narrators of their troubles.  Whenever Mrs. Sidebottom swayed from the
direct path, he pulled her back into it; when she attempted to turn
round, or retrace her steps, he took her by the
shoulders--metaphorically, of course--and set her face in the direction
he intended her to go. Mr. Smithies was a man in whom Mrs. Sidebottom
professed confidence, and whom she employed professionally to watch and
worry her nephew; to examine the accounts of the business, so as to
ensure her getting from it her share to the last farthing.

Introduced by Mr. Smithies, Mr. Beaple Yeo had found access to her
house, and had gained her ear. He was a plausible man, with that
self-confidence which imposes, and with whiskers elaborately
rolled--themselves tokens and guarantees of respectability. He pretended
to be highly connected, and to have intimate relations with the
nobility.  When he propounded his scheme, and showed how money was to be
made, when, moreover, he assured her that by taking part in the
speculations of Iodinopolis she would be associated with the best of the
aristocracy, then she entered eagerly, voraciously, into the scheme. She
not only took up as many shares as she was able, but also insisted on
the captain becoming a director.

'I have,' Mr. Beaple Yeo had told her, 'a score of special
correspondents retained, ready, when I give the signal, to write up
Iodinopolis in all the leading papers in town and throughout the north
of England. I have arranged for illustrations in the pictorial
periodicals, and for highly-coloured and artistic representations to be
hung in the railway waiting-rooms. Success must crown our undertaking.'

When Philip heard the whole story, he was surprised that so promising a
swindle should have collapsed so suddenly.  He expressed this opinion to
his aunt.

'Well,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, 'you see the managers could get hold of no
land.  If they could have done that, everything would have gone well.
They intended to build a great harbour, and import their own timber, to
open their own quarries for building-stone, and burn their own lime, and
have their own tile-yards, so that they would have cut off all the
profits of timber-merchants, quarry-owners, lime-burners, tile-makers,
and gathered them into the pocket of the company.'

'And they have secured no land?'

'Not an acre.  Mr. Beaple Yeo did his best, but when he found he could
get no land, then he ran away with the money that had been paid up for
shares.'

'And what steps have been taken to arrest him?

'I don't know.  I have left that with Smithies.'

'And how many persons have been defrauded?'

'I don't know.  Perhaps Smithies does.'

'This is what I will do for you,' said Philip. 'Your loss is a serious
one, and no time must be let slip without an attempt to stop the rascal
with his loot.  I will go at once to York, see Smithies, who, I suspect,
has had his finger in the pie, and taken some of the plums to himself,
and then on to Bridlington and see what can be done there.  The police
must be put on the alert.'

'In the meanwhile, if you and Salome have no objection, I will remain
here,' said Mrs. Sidebottom. 'I am terribly cut up, am rendered ill.  My
heart, you know, is subject to palpitations.  When you return, I shall
see you directly, and learn the result.'

'Very well,' said Philip, 'stay here.  The spare room is vacant, and at
your service.'

Then he went off, packed his portmanteau, and left the house.  He was
vexed with his aunt for her folly, but he could not deny her his
assistance.

Mrs. Sidebottom shook her head when her nephew mentioned the spare
bedroom, but said nothing about it till he had left the house.  Then she
expressed her views to Salome.

'No, thank you,' she said; 'no, indeed--indeed not. I could not be
induced to sleep in that chamber.  No; not a hot bottle and a fire
combined could drive the chill out of it.  Remember what associations I
have connected with it.  It was in that apartment that poor Jeremiah was
laid after he had been recovered from the bottom of the canal.  I could
not sleep there.  I could not sleep there, no, not if it were to insure
me the recovery of all I have sunk on Iodinopolis and its decimals.  I
am a woman of finely-strung nature, with a perhaps perfervid
imagination.  Get me ready Philip's old room; I was in that once before,
and it is very cosy--inside the study.  No one occupies it now?'

'No; no one.'

'I shall be comfortable there.  But--as for that other bed--remembering
what I do----' she shivered.

Salome admitted that her objection was justifiable, if not reasonable,
and gave orders that the room should be prepared according to the wishes
of Mrs. Sidebottom.

'A preciously dull time I shall have here,' said this lady, when alone
in the room.  'I know no one in Mergatroyd, and I shall find no
entertainment in the society of that old faded doll, Mrs. Cusworth, or
in that of Salome, who, naturally, is wrapped up in her baby, and
capable of talking of nothing else.  I wonder whether there are any
novels in the house?'

She went in search of Salome, and asked for some light reading.

'Oh, we have heaps of novels,' answered Salome. 'Janet has left them;
she was always a novel-reader. I will bring you a basketful.  But what
do you say to a stroll?  I must go out for an hour; the doctor has
insisted on my taking a constitutional every day.'

'No, thank you,' said Mrs. Sidebottom.  'The wind is blowing, and your
roads are stoned with glass clinkers ground into a horrible dust of
glass needles that stab the eyes.  I remember it.  Besides, I am tired
with my journey from York.  I will sit in the arm-chair and read a
novel, and perhaps doze.'

A fire was burning in the bedroom, another in the study.  The former did
not burn freely at first; puffs of wind occasionally sent whiffs of
smoke out of the grate into the study.  Mrs. Sidebottom moved from one
room to the other, grumbling.  One room was cold and the other smoky.
Finally she elected to sit in the study.  By opening the door on to the
landing slightly, a draught was established which prevented the smoke
from entering the room.

She threw herself into a rocking-chair, such as is found in every
Yorkshire house, from that of the manufacturer to that of the mechanic.

'Bah!' groaned Mrs. Sidebottom, 'most of these books are about people
that cannot interest me; low-class creatures such as one encounters
daily in the street, and stands aside from.  I don't want them in the
boudoir.  Oh! here is one to my taste--a military novel, by a lady,
about officers, parades, and accoutrements.'

So she read languidly, shut her eyes, woke, read a little more, and shut
her eyes again.

'I hear the front-door bell,' she said.  'No one to see me, so I need
not say, "Not at home."'

Presently she heard voices in the room beneath her--the room given up to
Mrs. Cusworth--one voice, distinctly that of a man.

The circumstance did not interest her, and she read on.  She began to
take some pleasure in the story. She had come on an account of a mess,
and the colonel, some captains and lieutenants were introduced.  The
messroom conversation was given in full, according to what a woman
novelist supposes it to be.  Infinitely comical to the male reader are
such revelations.  The female novelist has a system on which she
constructs her dialogue.  She takes the talk of young girls in their
coteries, and proceeds to transpose their thin, insipid twaddle into
what she believes to be virile, pungent English, which is much like
attempting to convert milk and water into rum punch.  To effect this, to
the stock are added a few oaths, a pinch of profanity, a spice of
indecency, and then woman is grated over the whole, till it smacks of
nothing else.

Out of kindness to fair authoresses, we will give them the staple topics
that in real life go to make up after-dinner talk, whether in the
messroom, or at the bencher's table, or round the squire's mahogany.
And they shall be given in the order in which they stand in the male
mind:

1.  Horses.
2.  Dogs.
3.  Game.
4.  Guns.
5.  Cricket.
6.  Politics.
7.  'Shop.'


Where in all this is Woman?  Echo answers Where?  Conceivably, when
every other topic fails, she may be introduced, just in the same way as
when all game is done, even rabbits, a trap and clay pigeons are brought
out to be knocked over; so, possibly, a fine girl may be introduced into
the conversation, sprung out of a trap--but only as a last resource, as
a clay pigeon.

The house-door opened once more, this time without the bell being
sounded--opened by a latch-key--and immediately Mrs. Sidebottom heard
Salome's step in the hall.  Salome did not go directly upstairs to
remove her bonnet and kiss baby, but entered her mother's room.

Thereat a silence fell on the voices below--a silence that lasted a full
minute, and then was broken by the plaintive pipe of the widow lady.
She must have a long story to tell, thought Mrs. Sidebottom, who now put
down her book, because she had arrived at three pages of description of
a bungalow on the spurs of the Himalayas.  Then she heard a cry from
below, a cry as of pain or terror; and again the male voice was audible,
mingled with that of the widow, raised as in expostulation, protest, or
entreaty.  At times the voices were loud, and then suddenly drowned.

Mrs. Sidebottom laid the book open on the table, turned down to keep her
place.

'The doctor, I suppose,' she thought; 'and he has pronounced
unfavourably of baby.  Can't they accept his verdict and let him go?
They cannot do good by talk.  I never saw anything so disagreeable as
mothers, except grandmothers.  What a fuss they are making below about
that baby!'

Presently she took up the book again and tried to read, but found
herself listening to the voices below, and only rarely could she catch
the tones of Salome. All the talking was done by her mother and the
man--the doctor.

Then Mrs. Sidebottom heard the door of the widow's apartment open, and
immediately after a tread on the stairs.  Salome was no doubt ascending
to the nursery, but not hurriedly--indeed, the tread was unlike that of
Salome.  Mrs. Sidebottom put the novel down once more at the description
of a serpent-charmer, and went outside her door, moved by
inquisitiveness.

'Is that the doctor below?' she asked, as she saw that Salome was
mounting the stairs.  'What opinion does he give of little Phil?'

Then she noticed that a great change had come over her hostess.  Salome
was ascending painfully, with a hand on the banisters, drawing one foot
up after the other as though she were suffering from partial paralysis.
Her face was white as chalk, and her eyes dazed as those of a dreamer
suddenly roused from sleep.

'What is it?' asked Mrs. Sidebottom again.  'Is baby worse?'

Salome turned her face to her, but did not answer. All life seemed to
have fled from her, and she did not apparently hear the questions put to
her.  But she halted on the landing, her hand still on the banisters
that rattled under the pressure, showing how she was trembling.

'You positively must tell me,' said Mrs. Sidebottom. 'What has the
doctor said?'

But Salome, gathering up her energy, made a rush past her, ran up two or
three steps, then relaxed her pace, and continued to mount, ascending
the last portion of the stair as one climbing the final stretch of an
Alpine peak, fagged, faint, doubtful whether his strength will hold out
till he reach the apex.

Mrs. Sidebottom was offended.

'This is rude,' she muttered.  'But what is to be expected of a bagman's
daughter?'  She tossed her head and retreated to the study.

Reseating herself, she resumed her novel, but found no further interest
in it.

'Why,' she exclaimed suddenly, 'the doctor has not been upstairs; he has
not seen baby.  This is quaint.'

Mrs. Cusworth did not appear at dinner.  Salome told Mrs. Sidebottom
that her mother was very, very ill, and prayed that she might be
excused.

'Oh!' said Mrs. Sidebottom, 'I suppose the doctor called to see your
mother, and not the baby.  You are not chiefly anxious about the
latter?'

'Baby is unwell, but mamma is seriously ill,' answered Salome, looking
down at her plate.

'Her illness does not seem to have affected her conversational powers,'
said Mrs. Sidebottom.  'I heard her talking a great deal to the doctor;
but perhaps that is one of the signs of fever--is she delirious?'

Salome made no reply.  She maintained her place at table, deadly pale;
and though, during dinner, she endeavoured to talk, it was clear that
her mind was otherwise engaged.

Mrs. Sidebottom was thankful when dinner was over.  'Mrs. Philip will
never make a hostess,' she said to herself.  'She is heavy and dull.
You can't make lace out of stocking yarn.'

When Salome rose, Mrs. Sidebottom said, 'Do not let me detain you from
your mother; and, by the way, I don't know if you have family prayers,
like them; they are good for the servants, and are a token of
respectability--but you will excuse me if I do not attend.  I am awfully
interested in my novel, and tired after my journey--I shall go to bed.'

Mrs. Sidebottom did not, however, go to bed; she remained by the fire in
the study, trying to read, and speculating on Philip's chances of
recovering part if not all of her lost money--chances which she admitted
to herself were remote.

'There,' said she, 'the servants and the whole household are retreating
to their roosts.  They keep early hours here.  I suppose Salome sleeps
below with her mother.  Goodness preserve me from anything happening to
either the old woman or the baby whilst I am in the house.  These sort
of things upset the servants, and they send up at breakfast the eggs
hardboiled, the toast burnt, and the tea made with water that has not
been on the boil.'

Mrs. Sidebottom heaved a sigh.

'This is a stupid book after all,' she said, and laid down the novel.
'I shall go to bed.  Bother Mr. Beaple Yeo.'

Beaple Yeo stood between Mrs. Sidebottom just now and every enjoyment.
As she read her book Beaple Yeo forced himself into the story.  At meals
he spoiled the flavour of her food with iodine, and she knew but too
surely that he would strew her bed with decimals and banish sleep.

Mrs. Sidebottom drew up the blind of her bedroom window and looked forth
on the garden and the vale of the Keld, bathed in moonlight, a scene of
peace and beauty.  Mrs. Sidebottom was not a woman susceptible to the
charms of nature.  She was one of those persons to whom nothing is of
interest, nothing has charm, virtue, or value, unless it affects
themselves beneficially.  She had not formulated to herself such a view
of the universe, but practically it was this--the sun rises and sets for
Mrs. Sidebottom; the moon pursues her silver path about Mrs. Sidebottom;
for her all things were made, and all such things as do not revolve
about, enrich, enliven, adorn, and nourish Mrs. Sidebottom are of no
account whatever.

Now, as Mrs. Sidebottom looked forth she saw a dark figure in the
garden; saw it ascend the steps from the lower garden, cross the lawn,
and disappear as it passed in the direction of the house out of the
range of her vision.  The figure was that of a man in a hat and surtout,
carrying a walking-stick.

'Well, now,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, 'this is comical. That man must have
obtained admission through the locked garden door, like that other
mysterious visitant, and he is coming here after everyone is gone to
bed. Of course he will enter by the glass door.  I suppose he is the
doctor, and they let him come this way to visit the venerable fossil
without disturbing the maids. I do hope nothing will happen to her.  I
should not, of course, wear mourning for her, but for baby I should have
to make some acknowledgment, I suppose.  Bother it.'

Mrs. Sidebottom went to bed.  But, as Beaple Yeo had disturbed her day,
so did he spoil her night. She slept indifferently.  Beaple Yeo came to
her in her dreams, and rubbed her with decimals, and woke her.  But
other considerations came along with Beaple Yeo to fret and rouse her.
Mrs. Sidebottom was a woman of easy conscience.  That which was good for
herself was, therefore, right.  But there are moments when the most
obtuse and obfuscated consciences stretch themselves and open their
eyes.  And now, as she lay awake in the night, she thought of her
brother Jeremiah, of the readiness with which she had identified his
body, on the slenderest evidence. She might have made a mistake.  Then,
at once, the thought followed the course of all her ideas, and
gravitated to herself.  If she had made a mistake, and it should come
out that she had made a wrong identification--would it hurt her?

On this followed another thought, also disquieting. How came Jeremiah's
will to be without its signature? Should it ever transpire that this
signature had been surreptitiously turn away, what would be the
consequences to herself?

As she tossed on her bed, and was tormented, now by Beaple Yeo with his
speculation, then by Jeremiah asking about his will, she thought that
she heard snoring.

Did the sound issue from the room downstairs, tenanted by Mrs. Cusworth,
or from the spare chamber?

Mrs. Sidebottom attempted to feel unconcern, but found that impossible.
The snoring disturbed her, and it disturbed her the more because she
could not satisfy herself whence the sound came.

'Perhaps it is the cook,' she said.  'She may be occupying the room
overhead, and cooks are given to stertorous breathing.  Standing over
the stoves predisposes them to it.'

Finally, irritated, resolved to ascertain whence the sound proceeded,
Mrs. Sidebottom left her bed.  Her fire was burning.  She did not light
a candle.  She drew on a dressing-gown, and stole into the study, and
thence through the door (which, on account of the smoke; had been left
ajar) upon the landing-place.

There she halted and listened.

The gaslight in the hall below was left burning but lowered all night,
and the moon shone in through a window.

'I do believe the sound proceeds from the spare room,' she said, and
softly she stole to the door and turned the handle.

'There can be no one there,' she thought, 'because I was offered the
room, and yet the snoring certainly seems to proceed from it.  No one
can be there--this must be an acoustic delusion.'

Noiselessly, timidly, she half opened the door.  The hinges did not
creak.  She looked in inquisitively. The blind was drawn down, but the
moon, shining through it, filled the room with suffused light.

Mrs. Sidebottom's eyes sought the bed.  On it, where had lain the body
found in the canal, and much in the same position as that had been
placed there, lay the figure of a man, black against the white coverlet,
in a great-coat.  The face was not visible--the curtain interposed and
concealed it.

Mrs. Sidebottom's heart stood still.  A sense of sickness and faintness
stole over her.  She dared not take a step further to obtain a glimpse
of the face, and she feared to see it.

With trembling hand she closed the door, and stood on the landing with
beating heart, recovering herself.  'What a fool I am to be frightened!'
she said, after a minute, and with a sigh of relief.  'Of course--the
doctor.'




                            *CHAPTER XXIX.*

                             *RECOGNITION.*


In one of his essays, Goldsmith relates the anecdote of a painter who
set up a picture in the market-place, with a pot of black paint and a
brush beside it, and the inscription, 'Please indicate faults.'

When in the evening he revisited his picture, he found it smudged out
eventually, as everyone had discovered and marked out a blemish.  Next
day he set up a replica of the picture, with paint and brush as before,
and the inscription, 'Please indicate beauties.'

By evening, the entire canvas was covered with black.  Everyone had
found a beauty, where previously everyone had detected a fault.

The modern novelist sends his work into the great forum, and without
inviting, expects criticism.  The printer's ink is always available
wherewith to draw attention to his defects.  In Goldsmith's apologue the
critics found beauties, in the present they see only blemishes, which
they dab at venomously, and the sorrowful author sits at evening over
his despised and bespattered production, bewildered, and ashamed to find
that his earnest work, that has called out his most generous feelings,
over which he has fagged and worn himself, is a mass of blunders, a
tissue of faults.

Now, one of the salient defects in the work of the author of this story,
according to his reviewers, is that he makes his personages talk more
smartly than they would naturally.  But, he asks, would it be tolerable
to the reader, would it be just to the printer--to force upon them the
literal transcript of the ordinary conversation that passes between
people every day? When we were schoolboys we had a pudding served to us
on Wednesdays which we call milestone pudding, not because it was hard,
but because it was a plum-pudding with a mile between the plums.  Is
there not a good mile between our _bon mots_?  Is it legitimate art, is
it kind, to make the reader pursue a conversation through several pages
of talk void of thought, stuffed with matter of everyday interest?  Is
it not more artistic, and more humane, to steam the whole down to an
essence, and then--well, add a grain of salt and a pinch of spice?

The reader shall be the judge.  We will take the morning dialogue
between Mrs. Sidebottom and Salome at breakfast.

'Good-morning, Mrs. Sidebottom.'

'I wish you good-morning, Salome.'

Author: Cannot that be taken for granted?  May it not be struck out with
advantage?

'I hope you slept well,' said Salome.

'Only so so.  How is your poor mother?'

'Not much better, thank you.'

'And darling baby?'

'About the same.  We have, indeed, a sick house. Tea or coffee, please?'

'Tea, please.'

'Sugar?'

'Sugar, please.'

'How many lumps?'

'Two will suffice.'

'I think you will find some grilled rabbit.  Would you prefer buttered
egg?'

'Thank you, rabbit,' said Mrs. Sidebottom.  'I will help myself.'

'I hope your room was comfortable.  You must excuse us, we are all much
upset in the house, servants as well as the rest.  We have had a good
deal to upset us of late, and when we are upset it upsets the servants
too.'

Author: Now, there!  Because we have dared to copy down, word for word,
what was said at breakfast, our heroine has revealed herself as
tautological.  There were positively four upsets in that one little
sentence. And we are convinced that if the reader had to express the
same sentiment he or she would not be nice as to the literary form in
which the sentence was couched, would not cast it thus--'We have been
much upset; we have had much of late to disturb our equilibrium, and
when we are thrown out of our balance then the servants as well are
affected.'  That would be better, no doubt, but the reader would not
speak thus, and Salome did not.

The author must be allowed to exercise his judgment and give only as
much of the conversation as is necessary, and not be obliged to record
the grammatical slips, the clumsy constructions, the tedious repetitions
that disfigure our ordinary conversation.

The English language is so simple in structure that it invites a
profligate usage of it; it allows us to pour forth a flood of words
without having first thought out what we intended to say.  The sentences
tumble higgledy-piggledy from our lips like children from an untidy
nursery--some unclothed, one short of a shoe, and another over-hatted.
Do we get the Parliamentary debates as they were conducted?  Where are
the 'hems' and 'haws,' the 'I means' and 'you knows'?  What has become
in print of the vain repetitions and the unfinished sentences?  Is not
all that put into order by the judicious reporter?  In like manner the
novelist is armed with the reporter's powers, and exercising the same
discretion passes the words of his creations through the same mill.
Using, therefore, the privilege of a reporter, we will once more enter
the gallery and take down the conversation that ensued at the
breakfast-table between Mrs. Sidebottom and Salome.

'My dear Mrs. P.,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, 'I hope that you were not
obliged to call up the doctor in the night.'

'No,' answered Salome, raising her eyebrows.

'But what is the matter with your mother?'

'She has long suffered from heart complaint, and recently she has had
much to trouble her.  She has had a great shock and is really very
unwell, and so is dear baby also; and between both and--and--other
matters, I hardly know what I am about.'

'So I perceive,' said Mrs. Sidebottom; 'you have upset the cream.'

Salome had a worn and scared look.  Her face had lost every particle of
colour the day before.  It remained as pale now.  She looked as if she
had not slept.  Her eyes were sunken and red.

'My dear,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, 'never give in. If I had given in to
all the trials that have beset me I should have been worn to
fiddle-strings.  My first real trial was the loss of Sidebottom, and the
serious reduction of my income in consequence; for though he called a
house an 'ouse, yet he was in good practice. There is a silver lining to
every cloud.  I don't suppose I could have got into good society so long
as Sidebottom lived, with his dissipated habits about his _h_'s. His
aspirate stood during our married life as a wall between us, like
that--like that which separated Pyramus from Thisbe.'

Salome made no answer.

'You can have no idea,' continued Mrs. Sidebottom, 'how startled I was
in the night by the snoring of the doctor.'

'The doctor?'  Salome looked up surprised.

'Yes--he slept, you know, in the spare room.'

A rush of crimson mounted to Salome's cheeks, and then faded from them,
leaving them such an ashy gray as succeeds the Alpengluth on the snow
peaks at sundown.

'Do you know?--well, really, I must confess my weakness--I was made
quite nervous by the snoring. I was so anxious, naturally so anxious for
your poor dear mother, and I thought the sounds might proceed from her,
and if so I trembled lest they portended apoplexy.  Then again, I could
not make out whence the snoring proceeded.  So, being of an inquiring
mind--my dear, if we had not inquiring minds we should not have made
Polar expeditions, and discovered the electric telegraph, and measured
the distances of the planets--I was resolved to satisfy myself as to
those sounds, and I stole out of my room and listened on the landing;
and when I was satisfied that the snoring issued from the spare
apartment, which I had supposed to be empty, I had the boldness to open
the door and peep in.'

'At what o'clock?' asked Salome faintly.

'Oh! gracious goodness, I cannot tell.  Somewhere in the small hours.
You must know that as I looked out of my window before going to bed I
saw the doctor coming through the garden.  The moon was shining, and I
adore the moon, so I stood at my window in quite a poetic frame.  I
suppose you told him to come through the garden so as not to disturb the
household.'

Salome hesitated.  She was trying to pour out a second cup of tea for
Mrs. Sidebottom, but her hand shook, and she was obliged to set down the
pot.  She breathed painfully, and looked at Mrs. Sidebottom with a daze
of terror in her eyes.

'Thank you,' said the lady, 'I said I would have a little more tea.
Bless me!  How your feelings have overcome you.  Family affection is
charming, idyllic, but--don't spill the tea as you did the cream.'

'Would you kindly pour out for yourself?' asked Salome.  'It is true
that my hand shakes.  I am not very well this morning.'

'Delighted.  As I was saying,' pursued Mrs. Sidebottom, drawing the
teapot, sugar-basin, and cream-jug to herself--'as I was saying, in the
small hours of the night I was aroused by the snoring and could not
sleep.  So I rose, and opened the spare room door and looked in.'

Salome's frightened eyes were riveted on her.

'I looked in, and saw a man lying on the bed.  I could not see his face.
The curtain was in the way, and there was no light save that of the
moon.  At first I was frightened, and inclined to cry out for
sal-volatile, I was so faint.  But after a moment or two I recovered
myself.  This man had on more clothing than--that other one.  He wore
boots and so on. After the first spasm of dismay I recovered myself, for
I said, "It is the doctor sleeping in the house because Mrs. Cusworth is
ill."  It was the doctor, was it not?'

Salome's scared face, her strange manner, now for the first time
inspired Mrs. Sidebottom with the suspicion that she had not hit on the
true solution of the mystery.

'But, goodness gracious me!' she exclaimed, 'if it was not the doctor,
who could it be?  And in the house at night--as on that former
occasion--and when Philip is absent, too!'

Salome started from her seat.

'Excuse me,' she said hastily, 'I am--I am unwell.'

She tottered to the door.

Mrs. Sidebottom, with kindled suspicion, rose also, and deserted an
unfinished egg and some buttered toast to go after her.  Salome had
opened the door and passed through.  Before she could close it behind
her, Mrs. Sidebottom had grasped it and was at her heels, asking if she
really were ill, and if she needed help.

At the same moment that both entered the hall, they saw a man descending
the stairs, a man in hat and great-coat, with a leather bag in one hand
and a cane in the other.  He wore his hair long, and had dark whiskers,
curled, but not in the freshest of curls.  His nose was red, and his
face mottled.

'Mr. Beaple Yeo!' shrieked Mrs. Sidebottom.  'My money!  I want--I will
have my money!'

The man stood for a moment irresolute on the stairs.

Then a key was turned in the front-door lock, and Philip appeared from
the street--returned by an early train.

'Oh, Philip!' screamed Mrs. Sidebottom.  'Here is the man--Beaple Yeo
himself!  Has been hiding in the spare bedroom all night.  He has my
money.'

In an instant, the man darted into Mrs. Cusworth's room, and locked the
door behind him.




                             *CHAPTER XXX.*

                               *EXEUNT.*


The man descending the stairs had hesitated, and his hesitation had lost
him.  Had he made a dash at Mrs. Sidebottom and Salome, swept them aside
and gone down the passage to the garden door, he would have escaped
before Philip entered.  But the sight of Mrs. Sidebottom, her vehement
demand for her money, made him turn from her and fly into Mrs.
Cusworth's room.  Thence he, no doubt, thought to escape to the garden,
through the window.

For some moments, after Philip appeared and Mrs. Sidebottom had told him
that the swindler was in his house, all three--he, Salome, and Mrs.
Sidebottom, stood in the hall, silent.

Then a servant, alarmed by the cry, appeared from the kitchen, and
Philip at once bade her hasten after a policeman.

Salome laid her hand on his arm and said supplicatingly, 'No, Philip;
no, please!'

But he disregarded her intervention, and renewed the command to the
servant, who at once disappeared to obey it.

Then he strode towards the door leading to Mrs. Cusworth's apartments,
but Salome, quick as thought, threw herself in his way, and stood
against the door, with outstretched arms.

'No, Philip; not--not, if you love me.'

'Why not?'--spoken sternly.

'Because----'  She faltered, her face bowed on her bosom; then she
recovered herself, looked him entreatingly in the eyes, and said, 'I
will tell you afterwards--in private.  I cannot now.  Oh, Philip--I
beseech you!'

'Salome,' said her husband very gravely, 'that man is in there.'

'I know, I know he is,' she answered timorously.

'Oh, Philip, don't mind her.  He will get away, and he has my money!'
entreated Mrs. Sidebottom on her part.

'Why do you seek to shelter him?' asked Philip of his wife, ignoring the
words of his aunt.

'I cannot tell you now.  Will you not trust me? Do allow him to escape.'

'Salome!' exclaimed Philip, in such a tone as made her shiver, it
expressed so much indignation.

She could say no more in urgence of what she had asked, but looked at
him steadily with her great imploring eyes.

Mrs. Sidebottom was not silent; she poured in a discharge of canister,
and was cut short by Philip, who, turning sternly to her, said:

'I request your silence.  The scoundrel cannot escape.  The windows of
both rooms are barred, because on the ground floor.  He cannot break
forth. I have him as in a trap.  It is merely a question with me--which
my wife must help me to decide--whether to burst open the door now, or
wait till the arrival of the constable.'

Then Salome slowly, with heaving breast, and without taking her eyes off
her husband's face, let fall her arms and stood back.  But even then, as
he put his foot against the door, she thrust forth her hand against Mrs.
Sidebottom, and said: 'Not she!  No, Philip, as you honour me!  If you
love me--not she!'

Then he turned and said to Mrs. Sidebottom: 'Aunt, I must ask you to
remain in the hall.  When the maid rings the front door bell, open and
let her and the constable in, and bring them at once into Mrs.
Cusworth's apartments.  Do not enter before.'

He did not burst open the door till he had knocked thrice, and his knock
had remained unnoticed.  Then, with foot and shoulder against it, he
drove it in, and the lock torn off fell on the floor.  Instantly, Salome
entered after him and shut the door behind her, and stood against it.

The old suspicion, sullenness, and doggedness which Philip had nurtured
in him through long years of discouragement and distress, evil tempers
that had been laid to sleep for a twelvemonth, rose full of energy to
life again.  He was angered at the thought that the wretch whom he was
pursuing should have taken refuge under his own roof, and worst of all,
that his own wife should spread out her arms to protect him.

The hero of a story should be without such blemishes that take from him
all lustre and rob him of sympathy. But the reader must consider these
evil passions in him as bred of his early experience.  They grew
necessarily in him, because the seed was sown in him when his heart was
receptive, and rich to receive whatever crop was sown there.  And again,
we may ask: Is the reader free from evil tempers, constitutional or
acquired?  The history of life is the history of man mastering or being
mastered by these; and such is the history of Philip.

In the sitting-room stood a scared group, looking at one another.  Mrs.
Cusworth by the fireplace, pale as chalk, hardly able to stand, unable
to utter a word of explanation or protect, and Beaple Yeo, with his hat
on, wearing a great-coat that Philip knew at once--that of his deceased
uncle, holding a leather bag in his hand, to which a strap was attached
that he was endeavouring to sling over his shoulder, but was incommoded
by his cane, of which he did not let go. His face was mottled and his
nose very purple--but he had not, like Mrs. Cusworth, lost his presence
of mind.

Philip looked hard at him, then his face became hard as marble, and he
said, 'So--we meet--Schofield.'

The man had forgotten to remove his hat when attempting to put the strap
over his head, and so failed; he at once hastily passed the cane into
the hand that held the bag, and said with an air of forced joviality, as
he extended his right palm, 'How d'y' do, my boy? glad to see you.'

'Put down that bag,' ordered Philip, ignoring the offered hand.  'Or,
here, give it me.'

'No, thank y', my son; got my night togs in there--comb and brush and
whisker-curlers.'

'Schofield,' said Philip grimly, 'I have sent for the constable.  He
will be here in two or three minutes. Give me up that bag.  I shall have
you arrested in this room.'

'No, you won't, my dear boy,' answered the fellow. 'But, by jove, it
isn't kindly--not kindly--hardly what we look for in our children.  But,
Lord bless you! bless you, the world is becoming frightfully neglectful
of the commandment with promise--with promise, my son.'

The impudence of the man, his audacity, and his manner, worked Philip
into anger; not the cold bitter anger that had risen before, but hot and
flaming.

'Come, no nonsense.  Give me that bag now, or I'll take it from you.
There is a warrant out for your arrest as Beaple Yeo.'  He put his hand
forward to snatch the bag from the fellow, but Beaple Yeo--or Schofield
quickly brought his stick round.

'My pippin!' said he, 'take care; I have a needle in this, that will run
you through if you touch me--though you are my son.'

Philip closed with him, wrenched the stick from him and placed it behind
him.  But Beaple would not be deprived of his weapon without an effort
to recover it, and he made a rush at Philip to beat him aside, as he
drew back, which would have led to a fresh test of strength, had not
Salome thrown herself between them, and clinging to her husband said.
'Oh, Philip! Philip!  He is my father!'

Philip stood back, and he and Schofield faced each other in silence, the
latter with his eye on Philip to note how he received the news.  Philip
grew grayer in tint; and every line in his face deepened; his eyes
became more like Cairngorm stones than ever--cold, hard, almost
inanimate.

'It is true,' said Schofield; 'my chuck has told you the fact--the very
fact.  Why should it have been kept from you so long?--so long?  The
Schofields are a family as good as the Pennycomequicks, and the name is
not so much of a mouthfiller, which, at least, is a consolation--a
consolation.  Now, perhaps, son-in-law, you will allow me to step by?
No? Upon my word there would be something un-Christian--something to
shock the moral sense even of an old Roman--a classic Roman--for a
son-in-law to suffer his father to be arrested beneath his own roof.
Besides, dear fellow, there are other considerations.  You would hardly
wish to have Pennycomequick's firm mixed up with Beaple Yeo, Esquire.
It might, you know--you know--injure, compromise, and all that sort of
thing--you understand----'

Philip turned to Mrs. Cusworth and asked her, 'Is it true, or--a lie?'

But the old lady was in no condition to answer. She opened her mouth and
shut it, like a gasping fish, but no sound issued from her lips.

Then Salome recovered her composure and said, 'Philip!  It is indeed
true.  He is my father.  I am not, nor is Janet, her daughter.  We are
the twin children of her sister, who was married to--and then who was
deserted by--this--this man Schofield.  She took us, she and her dear
good husband, and cared for us as their own--we did not know that we
were not her children--that we were her nieces--we were not told.'

'Is this really true?' asked Philip, again looking at Mrs. Cusworth, and
his face clouded with the blood that suffused it, but so far beneath the
skin that it did not colour, it only darkened it.  'Is this true--or is
it a lie told to persuade me to let this scoundrel escape? Either way it
will lose its effect.  I am just.  I will give him over to suffer the
consequences of his acts.'

Again Mrs. Cusworth tried to speak, but could not. She grasped at the
mantelshelf; she could hardly stay herself from falling.

'Very well,' said Philip, looking fixedly at Schofield. 'Let us suppose
that it is true; that I have been trifled with, deceived, dishonoured.
Very well.  We will suppose it is so.  Then let it come out.  I will be
no party to lying, dissimulation, to the screening of swindlers and
scoundrels of any sort.  My house is not a receiving house for stolen
goods.  I will return to the robbed that of which they have been
despoiled. Hand me the bag.'

He spoke with a hard, metallic voice; scarce a trace of feeling was in
it, save of the grate of animosity; his strong eye had no yielding in
it, no light, only a sort of phosphorescent glimmer passing over it.  He
stooped, picked up the cane, and held it in his right hand, like a
quarter-staff, and in his firm, knotted fist, cane though it was, it had
the appearance of being a weapon capable of being used with deadly
emphasis.

'Now, then,' said Philip, 'put down that bag; there, on the chair near
me.  Instantly.'

Schofield looked into his face and did not venture to disobey.  The iron
resolution, the forceful, earnest, the remorseless determination there
were not to be trifled with.  Schofield put down the bag as desired.

'The key.'

Sulkily, the fellow drew it from his trousers-pocket and flung it on the
ground.

'Pick it up.'

Schofield hesitated.  He would not stoop.  He dreaded a blow on the
head; on the back of the head, which would fell him if he stooped, such
a blow as he would himself deal the man before him if he had a stick in
his hand, and could induce him to bend at his feet.

As he hesitated, and a spark appeared in the eye of Philip, Salome
stooped, rose, and handed the key to her husband.

He did not thank her.  He did not look at her. He kept his eye steadily
on Schofield--scarcely glancing at the bag as he opened it, and then
only rapidly and cursorily at its contents--never for more than a second
allowing it to be off his opponent, never allowing him to move a muscle
unobserved, never to frame a thought unread.  But, for all the speed
with which he glanced at the contents of the bag, he saw that it
contained a great deal of money. It was stuffed with bank-notes, and the
figures on these notes were high.  Philip leisurely reclosed and
relocked the bag, put the key in his pocket and passed the strap over
his own head.

Then only did a slight, almost cruel smile, stir the corners of his lips
as he saw the blankness of Schofield and the break-up of his assurance.

'Now, I suppose, I may go?' said the rogue.

'No,' answered Philip, 'I do nothing by half.  I have my old scores
against Schofield as well as the new scores--which are not my
own--against Beaple Yeo.'

'But,' said the man, in a shaking voice, 'it will be so terribly bad for
you to have the concern here mixed up with me--and you should consider
that--the Bridlington scheme was a famous one, and was honest as the
daylight.  It must have rendered twenty-five per cent.--twenty-five as I
am an honest man--and I should have become a millionaire.  Then wouldn't
you have been proud of me, eh?--it was a good scheme and must have
answered, only who was to dream that no land could be bought?'

He eyed Philip craftily, then looked at the door, then again at
Philip--as soon expect to find yielding in him as to see honey distil
out of flint.  So he turned to Salome.  'Speak a word for your father,
child!' he said in a low tone.

Salome shrank from him and turned to Philip, who put out his steady hand
and thrust her back, not roughly but firmly, towards Schofield.

Then in a sudden frenzy of fear and anger the fellow screamed, 'Will you
let me pass?'

'The constable will be here directly, and then I will; not till then,'
said Philip.

'Bah! the constable!' scoffed Schofield.  'You have sent to have a
constable summoned.  But where is he?  Looking for a policeman is like
searching for a text.  You know he's somewhere, but can't for the life
of you put your thumb on him.  Look here, Philip,' he lowered his voice
to a sort of whine, 'I'm awfully penitent for what I have done.  Cut to
the heart, gnawing of conscience, and all that sort of thing.  It is a
case of the prodigal father returning to the discreet and righteous son,
and instead of running to meet me and help me, and giving me a good
dinner--a good dinner, you know, and all that sort of thing, you
threaten me with constables and conviction.  I couldn't do it myself.
'Pon my word I couldn't.  I suppose it is in us.  I'm too much of a
Christian--a true Christian, not a mere professor. I'm ashamed of you,
Philip; I'm sorry for you.  I sincerely am.  I'm terribly afraid for you
that you are the Pharisee despising me the humble, penitent Publican.'
The fellow was such a rascal that he could adapt himself to any
complexion of man with whom he was, and he tried on this miserable cant
with Philip in the hope that it would succeed.  But as he watched his
face, and saw no sign of alteration of purpose in it, he changed his
tone, and said sullenly, with a savagery in the sullenness: 'Come, let
me go; if I am brought to trial, I can tell you there will be pretty
things come out, which neither you nor your wife will like to hear, and
which will not suffer her to hold up her head very stiffly--eh?'

He saw that he had made Philip wince.

At that moment the house door-bell rang, and he heard that the
police-constable had arrived.

He turned, went to the fireplace, grasped the poker, and swinging it
above his head rushed upon Philip. Salome uttered a cry.  Mrs.
Cusworth's hand let go its grasp of the chimney-piece and she fell.

All happened in a moment--a blow of the poker on Philip's arm--and
Schofield was through the door and down the passage to the garden.

'Run after him, policeman, run!' screamed Mrs. Sidebottom, as she
admitted the constable.

But Schofield had gained the start, and when the policeman reached the
door in the wall of the lower garden he found it locked, and had to
retrace his steps to the house.  Time had been gained.  No sooner was
Schofield outside the garden than he relaxed his steps, and sauntered
easily along the path till he reached the canal.  He followed that till
he arrived at a barge laden with coal, over the side of which leaned a
woman, with a brown face, smoking a pipe.

'My lass!' said Schofield, 'I've summat to tell thee--in private;' and
he jumped on board and went down the ladder into the little cabin.

The woman, Ann Dewis, slowly drew her pipe out of her mouth and went
after him to the hatch, looked in, and said, 'What be 't, lad?  Eh,
Earle!  Tha'rt come.  Tak' t' pipe, I've kept it aleet a' these years.
Ah sed ah would, and ah've done it.'




                            *CHAPTER XXXI.*

                            *ESTRANGEMENT.*


One!  Two!  Three!

Hark! on the church bell: then, again--

One!  Two!  Three!

'It is a woman or a little girl,' said those listening.

Then again--

One!  Two!  Three!

'A woman.  Who can she be?  Who is ill?  But--how old?'  Then, again,
the bell--

One!  Two!  Three!--------up to forty-six.

'Aged forty-six!  Who can it be?'

Many faces appeared at the windows and doors of the street at
Mergatroyd, and when the sexton emerged from the belfry, he was saluted
with inquiries of, 'Who is dead?  Forty-six years old--who can she be?'

'Mrs. Cusworth.  Dropped dead with heart complaint.'

Now, in Yorkshire, when a man dies, then the bell tolls, Four, four,
four; when a boy, then Four, four, two; when a woman dies, then as
above, Thrice three; and when a girl, Three, three, two; after which, in
each case, the age is tolled.

'Fiddlesticks!--you may say what you will, it is fiddlesticks,' said
Mrs. Sidebottom impatiently.  She was in the study with Philip.  'I
never heard of anything so monstrous, so inhuman.  I could not have
believed it of you.  And yet--after what I have seen, I can believe
anything of you.'

Philip was unmoved.  'The plunder of that wretched fellow,' he said
unconcernedly, 'shall be placed in proper hands.  How much there is I
cannot now say, and I do not know how many persons he has defrauded, and
to what an extent.  Whether all will get back everything is not certain;
probably they will receive a part, perhaps a large part, but not all.'

'It is preposterous!' burst in Mrs. Sidebottom, 'I have been the means
of catching him.  No one would have had a farthing back but for my
promptitude, my energy, and my cleverness.  Did not I track him here,
and act as his gaoler, and drive him into a corner whilst you secured
the money?  And you say that I am to share losses equally with the rest!
No such a thing.  I shall have my money back in full; and the rest may
make the best of what remains, and thank me for getting them that.  As
for what you say, Philip, I don't care who hears me, I say it is
fiddlesticks--it is fiddlestick-ends.'

'I should have supposed, Aunt Louisa, that by this time you would have
known that when I say a thing I mean it, and if I mean a thing I intend
to carry it out unaltered.'  Then after a pause: 'And now I am sorry to
seem inhospitable, but under the painful circumstances--with death again
in this house, and with my child ill, I am obliged to recommend you to
return at once to York, and when there, not again to consult Mr.
Smithies.  It is more than probable that this reliable man of business
of yours, whom you set to watch me, has sold you to that rascal Beaple
Yeo--or whatever his name be.'

'Oh, gracious goodness!' exclaimed Mrs. Sidebottom. 'To be sure I will
return to York.  I wouldn't for the world incommode you in a house of
mourning.  I know what it is; the servants off such heads as they have,
which are heads of hair and nothing else, and everything in confusion,
and only tongues going.  I wouldn't stay with you at this most trying
time, Philip, not for worlds.  I shall be off by the next train.'

Philip was left to himself.

His wife was either upstairs with the baby, or was below with the corpse
of one whom she had looked up to and loved as a mother.  Surely it was
his place to go to her, draw her into the room where they could be by
themselves, put his arm about her, and let her rest her head on his
breast and weep, to the relief of her burdened heart.

But Philip made no movement to go to his wife.

She was alone, without a friend in the house.  Her sister was away, her
baby was ill.  A death entails many things that have to be considered,
arranged, and provided.  Philip knew this.  He sent word to the
registrar of the death; he did nothing more to assist Salome.  He rang
the bell, and when after a long time a servant replied to the summons,
he gave orders that clean sheets should be put on the bed lately
occupied by Mrs. Sidebottom.  He would, he said for awhile, sleep there.

Did it occur to Philip that there was cruelty in leaving his young wife
alone at night, with a sick baby, and with the body of the woman, who
had been to her as a mother, lying waiting for burial downstairs?  Did
it occur to him that she might feel infinite desolation at night, if he
were away from her?  He thought only of himself, of the wrong done to
him.

'She married me, and never told me who she was. She married me, lying
under a false name.'

Salome had not realized, indeed, had not perceived, how deep and fatal a
rift had been cloven in her relations with Philip.  The fall of her
mother, the efforts to restore life, the arrival of the doctor, the
conviction struggled against but finally submitted to that life was
extinct, had concentrated and engrossed all her faculties.  Then, when
she knew that death was again in the house, there sprang out of that
knowledge many imperious duties that exacted of Salome full attention
and much thought.  Mrs. Sidebottom had volunteered no help.  Upon Salome
everything depended.  She had not the time to consider how Philip would
take the startling revelation made to him.  Salome was not one to give
up herself to emotion.  She braced herself to the discharge of the
duties that devolved on her.  Quiet, very pale, and hollow-eyed, she
went about the house.  From the nursery she found that the nurse had
escaped, deserting the baby, that she might talk over the events that
had occurred in the kitchen.  The cook, Salome found, had made the
pastry with washing instead of baking powder, and the housemaid had
found too much to talk about to make the beds by four o'clock in the
afternoon.

Only, when everything in the house had been seen to, a woman provided to
attend to the dead, and all the trains off their lines set on them
again, only then could Salome sit down and write to her sister of their
common loss.

After this was done she wrote a few notes to friends, and then, lacking
stamps, came with the packet to Philip's door.

He was seated at his secretaire writing, or pretending to write, with
his brows bent, when he heard her distinct and gentle tap at the door.
He knew her tap, it was like that of no one else, and he called to her
to enter.

'My dear,' she said, 'I have not been able to come to you before.  I
have had so much to do; and--dear, I have wanted to speak to you; but,
as you know, in such a case as this, personal wants must be set aside.
Have you any stamps?  I require a foreign one.'

He hardly looked up from the desk, but signed with the quill that she
should shut the door.  He was always somewhat imperious in his manner.

She shut the door, and came over to him, and laid the letters on his
desk.

'You will stamp them for me, dear?' she said, and rested her hand
lightly on his shoulder.

Then she saw how stern and set his face was, and a great terror came
over her.

'Oh, Philip!' she said; and then, 'I know what you are taking to heart,
but there is no changing the past, Philip.'

Sometimes we have seen the reflection of the sun in rippled waters out
of doors sent within on the ceiling.  How it dances; is here and there;
now extinct, then once more it flashes out in full brilliancy.  So was
it with the colour in Salome's face; it started to one cheek, burnt
there a moment, then went to the temples, then died away wholly, and in
another moment was full in her face, the next to leave it ashy pale.
Her voice also quivered along with the colour in her face, in rhythmic
accord.  Philip withdrew his shoulder from the pressure of her hand, and
slowly stood up.

'I shall be obliged if you will take a chair,' said he formally, 'as I
desire an interview, but will undertake to curtail it as much as
possible, as likely to be painful to both.'

She allowed her hand to fall back, and then drew away a step.  She would
not take a chair, as he had risen from his.

'Philip,' she said, 'I am ready to hear all you have to say.'

She spoke with her usual self-possession.  She knew that they must have
an explanation about what had come out.  There was always something in
her voice that pleased; it was clear and soft, and the words were spoken
with distinctness.  In nothing, neither in dress, in movement, nor in
speech, was there any slovenliness in Salome.  There was some
perceptible yet indefinable quality in her voice which at once reached
the heart.

Philip felt this, but put the feeling from him, as he had her hand.

'Salome,' said he, not looking at her, except momentarily, 'a cruel
trick has been played on me.'

'Philip,' said she quietly but pleadingly, 'that man, as I told you, is
my father, but I did not know it till yesterday.  I had no idea but that
I was the daughter of those who had brought me here, and who gave
themselves out to be my parents.  I will tell you what I know, but that
is not much.  He--I mean that man--had married my mother, who was the
sister of her who is below, dead.  He got into trouble somehow; I do not
know what kind of trouble it was, but it was, I suppose, a disgraceful
one, for he had to leave the country, and it was thought he would not
venture back to England.  My real mother, grieved at the shame, died and
left us to her sister, who with her husband, Mr. Cusworth, cheerfully
undertook the care of us, adopted us as their own, and when they came
here shortly after, gave out that we were their children, partly to save
us the pain of knowing that our father had been a----well, what he was,
partly also to screen us from his pursuit should he return, and also, no
doubt, the more to attach us to themselves.  As you know, shortly before
Mr. Cusworth, our reputed father, was to be taken into partnership, a
terrible accident happened and he was killed.  Janet and I do not
remember him.  Since then mamma--I mean my aunt--and we children lived
in this house with dear, kind, Uncle Jeremiah.  Whether he knew the
truth about us I have not been told.  We never had any doubt that she
whom we loved and respected as a mother was our real mother.  Then, on
the occasion of the terrible flood and the death of Uncle Jeremiah' or
just after, he--I mean our father--reappeared suddenly, and without
having let mamma know that he was yet alive.  He came here in great
destitution, wanted money, and even clothing.  Mamma--you know whom I
mean, really aunt--she was in great straits what to do.  She did not
venture openly to allow him to appear, and she suffered him to visit her
secretly through the lower garden-door, and to come to her sitting-room;
she gave him money and he went away.  That was how her two hundred and
fifty pounds went, about which you asked so many questions, and which
she was afraid of your inquiring too much about.  My father had then
assumed the name of Beaple Yeo.  She also allowed him to take uncle's
great-coat and hat, which were laid out in the spare room for
distribution.  You told her to dispose of them as she saw fit.'

Philip hastily raised his hand.

Mrs. Sidebottom had hit the right nail on the head in her explanation of
that mysterious visit to his house--and then he had scouted her
explanation.  He lowered his hand again, and Salome, who had supposed
that he desired to speak, and had stopped, resumed what she was
relating.  'Mamma heard nothing more of him after that till yesterday,
when he reappeared.  He was, he said, again in trouble, which meant,
this time, that he must leave the country to avoid imprisonment.  But he
was not in a hurry to leave too hastily; he would wait till the
vigilance of the police was relaxed, nor would he go in the direction
they expected him to take.  He had come, he said, to ascertain Janet's
address.  He intended, he said, to go to her.  My mother refused to give
it.  I trust she remained firm in her refusal, but of that I am not
sure.  He said that if I had not been married he would have carried me
off with him; it would not be so dull for him if he had a daughter as a
companion.  Janet knew about him and her relationship to him.  I did
not.  When he came here first of all, Janet was in my mother's room, and
the matter could not be concealed from her.'

'Do you mean seriously to tell me that till yesterday you were ignorant
of all this?'

'Yes.'

'Ignorant when you married me that your name was Schofield, and not
Cusworth?'

'Of course, Philip; of course.'  She spoke with a leap of surprise in
her tone and in her eyes.  It was a surprise to her that he should for a
moment suppose it possible that she was capable of deceiving him, that
he could think her other than truthful.

'Then at that first visit you were told nothing; only Janet was let into
the secret?'

'Yes, dear Philip.'

'What! the giddy, light-hearted Janet was made a confidante in a matter
of such importance, and you the clear of intellect, prompt in action,
close of counsel, were left in the dark?  It is incredible.'

'But it is true, Philip.'

Thereupon ensued silence.

She looked steadily at him with her frank eyes.

'Surely, Philip, you do not doubt my word? Mamma only told Janet because
the secret could not be kept from her.  At that time my sister slept in
mamma's room, and spent the greater part of the day with her, so that it
was not possible to keep from her the sudden arrival of--of him.'  She
shuddered at the thought of the man who was her father.  She put her
hands over her face that burnt with an instantaneous blaze, but withdrew
them again directly, to say vehemently, 'But, Philip, surely it cannot
be.  You do not doubt me?'  She looked searchingly at him.  '_Me!_'

He made no reply.  His face was set.  Not a muscle moved in it.

'Philip!' she said, with a catch of pain--a sudden spasm in her heart
and throat.  'Philip, the sense of degradation that has come on me since
I have known the truth has been almost more than I could bear Not
because of myself.  What God sends me, that I shall find the strength to
bear.  I am nobody, and if I find that I am the child of someone worse
than nobody--I must endure it.  What crushes me is the sense of the
shame I have brought on you, Philip, and the sorrow that a touch of
dishonour should come to you through me.  But I cannot help it.  There
is no way out of it.  It has come on us without fault of ours, and we
must bear it--bear it together.  I'--she spread out her hands--'I would
lay down my life to save you from anything that might hurt you, that
might grieve your proud and honourable spirit.  But, Philip, I can do
nothing.  I cannot unmake the fact that I am his daughter and your
wife.'

'I shall never, never forgive that the truth was kept from me.  The
marriage was a fraud practised on me.'

'My dear mother--you know whom I mean--acted with the kindest
intentions, but I cannot excuse her for not speaking.'

'Janet knew, as you tell me, and she said nothing.'

'Mamma urged her to remain silent.'

'I was sacrificed,' said Philip bitterly.  'Upon my word, this is a
family that transmits from one generation to another the fine art of
hoaxing the unsuspicious.'

'Philip!'  A rush of indignant blood mantled her face, and then left it
again.  She heaved a sigh, and said, 'If I had known before I married
you whose daughter I was I would on no account have taken you.  I would
have taken no honest man for his own sake, no other for my own.'

'You know what Schofield was to me--to me above every man.  I can recall
when I told you and Janet and your mother how he had embittered my life,
how he had ruined my father--and you all kept silence.'

'Philip, you are mistaken; I never heard that.'

'At all events your mother and Janet heard me--heard me when they knew I
was engaged to you, and they told me nothing.  It was infamous,
unpardonable. They knew how I hated that man before I was married.  They
knew that I would rather have become allied to a Hottentot than to such
an one as he.  They let me marry you in ignorance--it was a fraud; and
how, I ask'--he raised his voice in boiling anger--'how can I trust
_you_ when you profess your ignorance?'  He sprang to his feet and
walked across the room.  'I don't believe in your innocence.  It was a
base, a vile plot hatched between you all, Schofield and the rest of
you.  Here am I--just set on my feet and pushing my way in an honest
business, and find myself bound by an indissoluble bond to the daughter
of the biggest scoundrel on the face of the globe.'

Salome did not speak.  To speak would be in vain.

He was furious; he had lost his trust in her.

She began to tremble, as she had trembled when Mrs. Sidebottom had seen
her on the stairs--a convulsive shivering extending from the shuddering
heart outwards to the extremities, so that every hair on her head
quivered, every fold in her gown.

'And now,' pursued Philip, 'the taint is transmitted to my child.  It
might have been endurable had I stood alone.  It is intolerable now.
These things run in the blood like maladies.'

She was nigh on fainting; she lifted one hand slightly in protest; but
he was too angry to attend to any protest.

'Can I doubt it?  The clever swindler defrauded my father, and the
clever daughter uses the inherited arts and swindles the son.  How do I
know but that the same falsehood, low, cunning, and base propensities
may not lurk inherent in my child, to break out in time and make me
curse the day that I gave to the world another edition of Beaple Yeo,
alias Schofield, bearing my hitherto untarnished name?'

Then she turned and walked to the door, with her hands extended as one
blind, stepping slowly, stiffly, as if fearful of stumbling over some
unseen obstacle. She went out, and he, looking sullenly after her, saw
of her only the white fingers holding the door, and drawing it ajar, and
trying vainly to shut it, pinching them in so doing, showing how dazed
she was--instinctively trying to shut the door, and too lost to what she
was about to see how to do it.




                            *CHAPTER XXXII.*

                         *THE FLIGHT OF EROS.*


The funeral of Mrs. Cusworth was over.

The blinds were drawn up at last.

When the service at the grave was concluded, Philip and Salome returned
to their home, if that may be called home from which the elements that
go to make up home--trust, sympathy, pity, forgiveness--have fled.

The sun streamed in at the windows, broke in with a rude impatience, as
the blinds mounted, and revelled on the floors again, and reflected
itself in glass and gilding and china, brought out into bloom again the
faded flowers on the carpets, and insisted on the bunches of roses and
jessamine and nondescripts on the wall-papers putting on their colours
and pretence of beauty.

But there was no sunshine streaming into the shadowed hearts of Philip
and Salome, because over both the hand of Philip held down the blinds.

Philip, always cold, uncommunicative, allowing no one to lay finger on
his pulse, resenting the slightest allusion to his life apart from
business--Philip had made no friend in Mergatroyd, only
acquaintances--drew closer about him the folds of reserve.

At one time much fuss was made about the spleen, but we have come now to
disregard it, to hold it as something not to be reckoned with; and
Philip regarded the heart as we do our spleens.

Philip was respected, but was not popular with his own class, and was
respected, but not popular, among the operatives of his mill.  Some men,
however self-contained, are self-revealing in their efforts after
concealment.  So was it with Philip.

Shrewd public opinion in Mergatroyd had gauged and weighed him before he
supposed that it was concerned about him.  It pronounced him proud and
honest, and capable, through integrity of purpose, of doing a cruel,
even a mean, thing.  He had been brought up apart from those modifying
forces which affect, or ought to affect, the conduct governed by
principle.  Principle is a good thing as a direction of the course of
conduct, but principle must swerve occasionally to save it from becoming
a destructive force. In the solar system every planet has its orbit, but
every orbit has its deflections caused by the presence of fellow
planets.  Philip as a child had never lain with his head on a gentle
bosom, from which, as from a battery, love had streamed, enveloping him,
vivifying, warming the seeds of good in him.  He reckoned with his
fellow-men as with pieces of mechanism, to be used or thrown aside, as
they served or failed.  He had been treated in that way himself, and he
had come to regard such a cold, systematic, material manner of dealing
with his brother men as the law of social life.

That must have been a strange experience--the coming to life of the
marble statue created by Pygmalion.  How long did it take the veins in
the alabaster to liquefy?  How long before the stony breast heaved and
pulsation came into the rigid heart?  How long before light kindled in
the blank eye, and how long before in that eye stood the testimony to
perfect liquefication, a tear?

There must have been in Galatea from the outset great deficiency in
emotion, inflexibility of mind, absence of impulse; a stony way of
thinking of others, speaking of others, dealing with others; an
ever-present supposition that everyone else is, has been, or ought to
be--stone.

Philip had only recently begun to mollify under the influence of Salome.
But the change had not been radical.  The softening had not extended far
below the surface, had not reached the hard nerves of principle.

In the society of his wife, Philip had shown himself in a light in which
no one else saw him.  As the sun makes certain flowers expand, and these
flowers close the instant the sun is withdrawn, so was it with him. He
was cheerful, easy, natural with her, talked and laughed and showed her
attentions; but when he came forth into the outer world again he
exhibited no signs of having unfurled.

Now that his confidence in his wife was shaken, Philip was close,
undemonstrative, in her presence as in that of his fellows.  He was not
the man to make allowances, to weigh degrees of fault.  Allowances had
not been made for his shortcomings in his past life, and why should he
deal with Salome as he had not been dealt by?  Fault is fault, whether
in the grain or in the ounce.

When Philip said the prayer of prayers at family devotions, and came to
the petition, 'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that
trespass against us,' he had no qualms of conscience, not a suspicion
that his conduct was ungenerous.

He forgave Salome--most certainly he forgave her. He bore no malice
against her for having deceived him.  He was ready to make her an
allowance of forty pounds per annum for her clothing, and thirty pounds
for pocket or pin money.  Should she fall ill, he would call in a
specialist regardless of expense; if she wanted to refurnish the
drawing-room he would not grudge the cost.  Would a man be ready to do
all this unless he forgave a trespass against him?  He could not take
her head, and lay it on his shoulder, and stroke the golden hair, and
kiss the tears from her eyes--but then he did not ask of Heaven to pet
and mollycoddle him, only to forgive him, and he did forgive Salome.

He saw that his wife's heart ached for her mother; that she felt keenly
the loss of her who had been to her the representative of all maternal
tenderness and consideration.  That was natural and inevitable.  But
everyone has to undergo some such partings; it is the lot of humanity,
and Salome must accommodate herself to her bereavement.  He saw that she
was without an intimate friend in the place, to whom she could pour out
her heart, and of whom take counsel; but then, he also had been
friendless, till he came not to require a friend and to value human
sympathy.  What he did not appreciate, she must learn to do without.

He saw that she was distressed and in agony of mind because he was
offended with her; but this afforded him no regret.  She had sinned
against him and must accept the consequences.  It was a law of nature
that sin should meet with punishment, and the sinner must accept his
chastisement as his due.  What were the consequences in comparison with
the weight of her transgression?

Procrustes had a bed on which he tied travellers, and if their length
exceeded that of the bed he cut off their extremities; but if they were
shorter, he had them stretched to equal it.  Philip had his iron bed of
principle, on which he extended himself, and to this he would fit his
poor, tender, suffering wife.

As he and Salome returned together from the funeral they hardly spoke to
each other on the way. Her hand was on his arm, trembling with grief and
mute, disregarded appeal.  He knew that she was crying, because she
continually put her kerchief to her eyes.  Tears are a matter of course
at funerals, as orange-blossoms are a concomitant of weddings. Mrs.
Cusworth, though not Salome's mother, had stood to her for eighteen
years in the relation of one; tears, therefore, thought Philip, were
proper on this occasion--very proper.

He did not blame her for crying--God forbid!

For his own part, Philip had regarded Mrs. Cusworth with dislike; he had
seen how commonplace, unintellectual a woman she was; but it was of
course right, quite right and proper, that Salome should see the good
side of the deceased.

Philip wore his stereotyped business face at the funeral, the face he
wore when going through his accounts, hearing a sermon, reprimanding a
clerk, paying his rates.  He was somewhat paler than usual, but the most
attentive observer could not say that this was caused by feeling and was
not the effect of contrast to his new suit of glossy black mourning.
Not once did he draw the little hand on his arm close to his side and
press it.  He let it rest there with as much indifference as if it were
his paletôt.

On reaching the house, he opened the door with his latchkey, and stood
aside to allow Salome to enter. Then he followed, hung his hat on the
stand, and blew his nose.  He had avoided blowing his nose at the grave
or in the street, lest it should give occasion to his being supposed to
affect a grief he did not feel; and Philip was too honest to pretend
what was unreal, and afraid to be thought to pretend.

He followed Salome upstairs.

On reaching the landing where was his study door, Salome turned to look
at him before ascending further.  Her face was white, her eyes red with
weeping.  Wondrously beautiful in colour and reflected light was her
ruddy gold hair bursting out from under the crape bonnet above her
pallid face.

She said nothing, but waited expectantly, with her brown eyes on his
face.  He received the look with imperturbable self-restraint, opened
his door, and without a word went into his study.

Salome's bosom heaved, a great sob broke from it; and then she hastily
continued her ascent.  She had made her final appeal, and it had been
rejected.

Mrs. Cusworth had died worth an inconsiderable sum, and that she had
left to Janet, as more likely to need it than Salome.

And now that the last rites had been paid to the kindhearted, if stupid
and illiterate old woman, who had loved Salome as her own child, Salome
turned to her baby to pour forth upon it, undivided, the rich torrent of
her love, gushing tinged with blood from a wounded heart.

There exists a sympathetic tie in nature and in human relations of which
Philip had never thought--that between the mother and the babe.  And now
the wrong done to the mother reacted, revenged itself on her child.  The
little one had been ailing for a while, now it became seriously ill.
The strain to which Salome had been put made itself felt in the weak
frame of the infant that clung to her breast.  Salome would allow no one
to nurse her darling but herself whilst its precious life was in danger,
and the child would, on its part, allow no one else to touch it.  It
sobbed and cried and demanded of its mother infinite patience and pity,
unwearied rocking in her arms and hugging to her heart, a thousand
kisses, and many tears, words of infinite love and soothing addressed to
it, soft sighs breathed over it from an utterly weary bosom, and earnest
prayers, voiceless often, but ever ascending, as the steam of the earth
to heaven.

For awhile, care for the babe excluded all other thoughts, devoured all
other cares.  Through the long still night Salome was by her child; she
did not go to bed, she sat in the room by its crib, sometimes taking it
on her lap, in her arms, then, when it was composed to sleep, laying it
again in its cradle.  She heard every stroke of the clock at every hour.
She could not sleep, she could but watch and pray.

Every hour or two Philip came to inquire after his child.  He stood by
the cradle when it was sleeping there, stooped and looked at the flushed
face and the little clenched hands; but when it was on Salome's lap or
in her arms he did not come so near, he stood apart, and instead of
examining the child himself, asked about it.  Salome controlled herself
from giving way to feeling; her composure, the confidence with which she
acted, impressed Philip with the idea that she had got over all other
troubles except that caused by the child's illness; and were this to
pass that she would be herself again.

But, through all her thought for the child ran the burning, torturing
recollection of what Philip had said concerning it.  She was not sure
that he desired that it should live--live to grow up a Beaple Yeo--a
Schofield.  The house was perfectly still.  All the servants were
asleep.  Only Salome was awake upstairs, when at four o'clock in the
morning, as the day was beginning to break raw and gray in the east, and
to look wanly in through the blind into the sick room--Philip entered.

Salome was kneeling by the crib--a swing crib of wood on two pillars.
She knelt by it, she had been rocking, rocking, rocking, till she could
no more stir an arm.  Aching in all her joints, with her pulses
hammering in her weary brain, she had laid both hands on the crib side,
and her brow against it also. Was she asleep, or was she only fagged out
and had slidden into momentary unconsciousness through exhaustion of
power?  Her beautiful copper hair, burnished in every hair, reflected
the light of the lamp on the dressing-table.  On one delicate white
finger was the golden hoop.  She did not hear Philip as he entered.
Hitherto, whenever he had come through the door, she had looked up at
him wistfully. Now only she did not, she remained by the crib, holding
to it, leaning her brow on it, and tilting it somewhat on one side.

He stood by her, and looked down on her, and for a while a softness came
over his heart, a stirring in its dead chambers as of returning life.
He saw how worn out she was.  He saw that she who had been so hearty, so
strong, in a few days had become thin and frail in appearance, that the
fresh colour had gone from her cheek, the brightness from her eye, that
the sweet dimple had left her mouth.  He saw her love and self-devotion
for her child, the completeness with which her soul was bound up in it.
And he saw how lonely she now was without her mother to talk to about
the maladies, the acquirements, and the beauty of her darling.

She did not glance up at that moment, or she would have seen tokens of
melting in his cold eye.

He remained standing by her, and he looked at the child now sleeping
quietly.  It was better, he trusted. It could hardly be so still unless
it was better.

Then, all at once.  Salome recovered consciousness, saw him, and said,
'Oh, Philip, you do not want him to die?'

Philip drew himself up.

'You have the crib too much tilted,' he said.  He put his hands to it to
counterbalance her weight, but she raised her head from the side and the
crib righted itself.  He still kept his hand where he had placed it,
without any reason for so doing.

'Philip,' she said again, with passionate entreaty in her voice, 'you do
not wish my darling to die?'

'How can you ask such a foolish question?' he answered.  'I am afraid
the long night-watching has been too much for you.'

'Oh, Philip--you do love him?  You do love him--although there is
something of me in him.  But----' she said hastily, 'he is mostly yours.
He is like you, he has dark hair and eyes, and his name is Philip, and
of course he _is_, he is a Pennycomequick!  Oh, Philip! You love him
dearly?'

'Of course I love him; he is my child.  Why do you doubt?'

'Because,' she said, 'I--I am his mother.  But that is all--I am only a
sort of superior nurse.  He is a Pennycomequick through and through, and
there is no--no--nothing of what you dread in him.'

'Yes, he is a Pennycomequick.'

'He can, he will be no other than a good and noble man.  He can, he will
be that, if God spares him.'

'So I trust.'

'Oh, Philip--he is better, so much better.  I am sure there is a turn.
I thank God--indeed, indeed I do.  Look at his dear little face; it is
cool again.'

He had his hand on the side of the crib, and he stooped to look at the
sleeping babe.  And, as he was so doing, Salome, who still knelt, put
her lips timidly to his hand and kissed it--kissed it as it rested on
the side of her babe's crib.

Then he withdrew his hand.  He took his kerchief out of his pocket,
wiped it, said coldly, 'Yes, the child is better,' and left the room.

Philip went to bed.  He had not asked Salome if she were going to rest,
he had not called up the nurse to relieve her, though he saw and
admitted that she was worn out.  He had withdrawn his hand from her lips
not with intention to hurt her, but to show her that he was opposed to
sentimentality, and not inclined to be cajoled into a renewal of
confidence by such arts.  That which angered and embittered him chiefly
was the fact that he was tied to a woman of such disreputable parentage.
Then, in the next place, he could not forgive the fraud practised on him
in making him marry her in ignorance of her real origin.  He did not
investigate the question whether Salome were privy to it.  He thought
that it was hardly possible she could have been kept in complete
ignorance of the truth.  It was known to her sister. Some suspicion of
it at least must have been entertained by her.  A fraud, a scandalous
one, had been perpetrated--on her own showing by her sister and reputed
mother--and even supposing she were not guilty of taking share in it,
she must reap the consequences of the acts of her nearest relatives.
Mrs. Cusworth and Mrs. Baynes were beyond the reach of his anger,
therefore it must fall on the one accessible.

Salome had acquired by marriage with him a good position and a
comfortable home, and it was conceivable that for the sake of these
prospective advantages she would have acquiesced, if not actually
concurring, in the wretched mean plot which had led to his connection
with her--the daughter of the most despicable of men, and his own
personal enemy.

Philip went to bed and fell asleep, satisfied with himself that he had
acted aright, and that suffering was necessary to Salome to make her
feel the baseness of her conduct.

Salome finding that the child fretted, took it out of the cot, drew it
to her bosom, and seated herself by the window.  She had raised the
blind and looked out at the silvery morning light breaking in the east,
and the pale east was not more wan than her own face.  When Psyche let
fall the drop of burning wax on the shoulder of Cupid, the god of Love
leaped up, spread his wings and fled.  Psyche stood at the window
watching his receding form, not knowing whither he went, but knowing
that he went from her without prospect of return.  So now did Salome
look from the window gazing forth into the cold sky, looking after lost
love--gone--gone, apparently, past recall.




                           *CHAPTER XXXIII.*

                                *EXILE.*


Days passed, and the house had settled into formal ways.  The meals were
at the usual hours, to the minute.  Philip went to the office at the
usual time, and at the usual time returned from it; everything had again
entered into its routine as before.  But the relations between husband
and wife were not improved.  They met at meals, rarely else.  At table a
conventional conversation was maintained.  Philip occupied his bachelor
apartments, and expressed no intention of leaving them.  Beyond the
formal inquiries after Salome's health in the morning, he took no
interest in her condition of mind and body.  He did not perceive that
she still suffered, was becoming thin, pale, and worn.  He could not
have invented a more cruel torture than this daily life of chill
intercourse between them, and Salome felt that it was becoming
insupportable.  She attended to the household duties.  She looked after
his comforts, saw that his room was properly dusted, that his papers,
his books were always in the same place, that his clothing was in order,
that strict punctuality was observed in all that concerned him--he
accepted this as of course, and was unaware that every element that
conduced to his well-being was not present naturally. He did not know
that his wife entered his room when he was away and rectified the little
neglects and transpositions of the housemaid; he did not know how much
time, and how many tears were given to his shirts and his socks and
collars.  He was unaware of the patient consideration devoted to the
dinner, to ensure that he should have an appetizing meal after his work
in the office during the day.  He did not entertain the suspicion that
the regularity of the house was only effected by constant urgency and
supervision.

That there was a change in the relations of Philip and his wife did not
strike the outer world, which had not been invited by him previously to
consider the nature and closeness of those relations.  In the presence
of others Philip was courteous and formal towards his wife now, but he
had been courteous and formal towards her in public before.  He had not
called upon the neighbours and acquaintances to rejoice with him because
he had found domestic happiness; he did not invite them now to lament
with him because he had discovered it to be chimerical.

He refused to Salome none of those attentions which are required by
common politeness; what she missed were those which spring out of real
affection.  His behaviour to her in public was unchanged, and he carried
this manner into his private interviews with her.  Such interviews were
now brief and business-like. He no longer spoke to her about what was
past, he never referred to her father.  He never allowed her to
entertain the smallest hope that his behaviour would change.

Philip rarely spoke to a servant, never except on business; and he was
surprised one day when the nurse ventured to intrude on his privacy and
ask leave to say something to him.

Philip gave the required permission ungraciously.

Then the woman said:

'Please, sir, the missus be that onconsiderate about hersen that she'd
never think o' telling nobody about nowt that was wrong with her.  And
so, I dare say, you don't know, sir, that it is not all well wi' her.
Shoo has sudden faintive's, and they come on ow'er often.  Shoo makes
light o't, but don't better of it. I sed to her, shoo ought to tell you,
but shoo wouldn't. And, please sir, shoo's a good missus, and too
precious to be let slip through the fingers for not looking after what's
amiss i' time.  So--sir--I've made bould to say a word aboot it.'

Philip was surprised, even shocked.

'I will see to it,' he said; and then, 'That will do.'

He took occasion to speak with Salome about her health, and now his eyes
were opened to see how delicate she had become.  She admitted her
fainting-fits, but made light of them.

'I have been overtaxed, that is all, Philip.  I shall soon be quite
myself again.'

'You have had a good deal of anxiety, no doubt, and that may account for
it.  Still--it would be a satisfaction to have an opinion.  Do you care
for Mr. Knight?'

'Oh no, Philip--he is very clever, but too young. I should not like to
have Mr. Knight here about me. But I assure you, it is nothing!--I mean
there is nothing really the matter with me.  It used to be said that I
had all the _physique_ of us two sisters, and Janet all the _verve_.'

'I wish you to have proper advice.  You understand. I wish it.'

'Then, Philip, I will let anyone you like come and see me, or I will go
to anyone you recommend.'

'I have no knowledge of doctors,' he said almost contemptuously.

'If I might have a choice----' she hesitated.

'Of course you may--in reason.'

'There is Mr. John Dale; he was dear Uncle Jeremiah's best friend, and
he is Janet's guardian.  I always liked him, and he knows about us
sisters. Besides, I do want to see him and ask him what he thinks about
Janet; but he is a long way off, he is at Bridlington.  If you think it
would be extravagant sending so far, I would go myself gladly and see
him.  Indeed, I dare say the journey would do me good.'

'Very well,' said Philip, 'I'll telegraph for Mr. Dale.'

'And then,' added Salome, 'if you do not object, he can overhaul baby
and see that the darling is sound as a bell.  But--there is no need at
all to telegraph. I know quite well what is the matter with me.  It is
nothing that any doctor can cure.'

'What is it?'

'I have had a good deal to worry me, to make me unhappy.  I cannot
sleep, I am always thinking.  I can see no way out of the trouble.  If
there were the tiniest thread to which I could lay hold, then I should
soon be well--but there is none.  It reminds me of what I have read
about the belief the North American Indians have concerning their
origin.  They were, they say, once in a vast black abyss in the centre
of the earth, and there were tiny fibres hanging from the roof, and some
of them laid hold of these fibres, and crawled up them, and following
them came to the surface of earth and saw the sun, but others never
touched a depending thread, and they wander on in timeless darkness,
without a prospect, and without cognizance of life.'

'Well----'

'And I am like these, only with this pang, that I have been in the
light.  No--there is no fibre hanging down for me.'

She spoke timidly, and in a tone of half inquiry.

He did not answer.

'Philip, you must believe my word when I say that I never knew till the
night before you heard it, that I was not what it had been given out I
was.'

'We will not debate that matter again,' said Philip sharply.  'It can
lead to nothing.'

'There is, then, no fibre,' she said sadly, and withdrew.

John Dale arrived, bluff, good-natured, boisterous.

'Hallo! what is the matter with you?' was his first salutation; and when
he had heard what her ailments of body were--she made light of them to
him--he shook his head and said bluntly, 'That's not all--it is mental.
Now, then, what is it all about?'

'Mamma was taken suddenly ill and died; it was a dreadful shock to me.
Then baby was unwell, and I had to watch him night and day; he would let
no one else be with him.'

'But the expression of your face is changed, and neither your mother nor
baby has done that.  You are in some trouble.  A doctor is a confessor.
Come, what is up?'

Then she told him--not all, but a good deal.  She told him who she was,
and how she had discovered her origin--that her father was the man who
had started the swindle about Iodinopolis, but that Beaple Yeo was not
his real name; he had assumed that in place of his true name, Schofield.

'What--the scoundrel who did for Nicholas Pennycomequick?'

Salome bowed her head.

'I see it all,' said Dale.  'I never met that fellow Schofield, but I
knew Nicholas Pennycomequick, and I know how he was ruined.  I had no
idea that the fellow Yeo, whom I met at Bridlington, was the same. Now,
my dear child, I understand more than you have told me.  I shall not
give you any medicine, but order you away from Mergatroyd.'

'I cannot--I cannot leave baby.'

'Then take baby with you.'

Salome shook her head.

She also saw that nothing would do her good save an escape from the
crushing daily oppression of Philip's coldness and stiff courtesy.

A day or two later she received a letter with a foreign postmark, and
she tore it open eagerly, for she recognised her sister's handwriting.

The letter was short.  Janet complained of not getting any better; her
strength was deserting her. And she added: 'Oh, Salome, come to me, come
to me if you can, and at once.  He is here.'

There was no explanation as to who was implied, but Salome understood.
Her sister was ill, weak, and was pestered by the presence of that
man--that horrible man who was their father.

She went to Philip's door and tapped.  She was at once admitted.

'Philip,' she said, 'I refused to take Mr. Dale's advice on Tuesday, I
will take it now if you will allow me.  I have heard from Janet.  She is
ill.'  The tears came into her eyes.  'She is very ill, and entreats me
to fly to her without delay.'

She said nothing to him of who she had heard was with her sister.

'I am quite willing that you should go,' he said.

The words were hard.  The lack of feeling in them touched her to the
quick.

'Very well, Philip,' she said; 'with your consent I will go.  Baby must
do without me for a while, unless,' she brightened, 'unless you will
allow me to take baby and nurse with me.'

'No,' answered Philip, 'on no account.  Go yourself, but I cannot
entertain that other proposal.'

She sighed.

'Where is Janet?' he asked.

'At Andermatt--on the St. Gothard.  The air is bracing there.'

'Very well.  You will want money.  You shall have it.'

'And how long may I stay?'

'That entirely remains with yourself.  As far as I am concerned, I am
indifferent.'

So Salome was to go.  She was now filled with a feverish impatience to
be off--not that she cared for herself, that the change might do her
good--but because the leaving home would be to her agony, and she was
desirous to have the pang over.

She felt that she could not endure to live as she had of late, under the
same roof with her husband and yet separated from him, loving him with
her faithful, sincere heart, and meeting with rebuff only; guiltless,
yet regarded as guilty, her self-justification disregarded, her word
treated as unworthy of credence. No--she could not endure the daily
mortification, and she knew that it would be well for her to leave; but
for all that she knew that the leaving home would be to her the acutest
torture she could suffer.  She must leave her dear child, uncertain when
she would see it again.  She did not hide from herself that if she left,
she left not to return till some change had taken place in Philip's
feelings towards her.  She could not return to undergo the same freezing
process.  But she raised no hopes on what she knew of Philip's
character.  As far as she was acquainted with it--it was unbending.
Salome had that simple faith which leads one to take a step that seems
plain, without too close a questioning as to ultimate consequences.  She
had been told by the doctor whom she trusted that she must go away from
Mergatroyd, and immediately came the call of her sister.  To her mind,
this was a divine indication as to the course she must take, and she
prepared accordingly to take it.

At the best of times it is not without misgiving and heartache that we
leave home, if only for a holiday, and only for a few weeks; we discover
fresh beauties in home, new attractions, things that require our
presence, and obstruct our departing steps.  A certain vague fear always
rises up, lest we should never return, at least, that when we return
something should be changed that we value, something going wrong that we
have left right, some one face be missing that we hold to with infinite
love.  It is a qualm bred of the knowledge of the uncertainty of all
things in this most shifting world, a qualm that always makes itself
felt on the eve of departure.  With Salome this was more than a qualm;
she was going, she knew not to what; she was going, she knew not for how
long; and the future drew a gray impenetrable veil before her eyes--she
could not tell, should she return, to what that return would be.  She
did not reckon about her child.  She could not, she would not be
separated from it--but whether Philip would let the child go to her, or
insist on her return to the child, that she did not ask.  The future
must decide.  Whatever she saw to be her duty, that she would do.  That
was Salome's motive principle.  She would do her duty anywhere, at any
sacrifice: when she saw what her duty was.

A cab was procured from the nearest town, four miles distant, to take
Salome to the station.

Oh the last clasp of her babe!  The tearful eyes, the quivering mouth,
the beating heart, the inner anguish; and then----as she ran downstairs,
with her veil drawn over her face, Philip encountered her un the
landing, and offered her--not his cheek, not his heart--but his arm to
take her to the cab.



                            END OF VOL. II.



                 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.






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