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THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY


BY

WALTER BESANT AND JAMES RICE


NEW YORK
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
9 AND 11 EAST 16TH STREET




TO

_EDMUND YATES_,

EDITOR OF "THE WORLD,"
IN WHICH PAPER "THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY"
WAS FIRST PUBLISHED,

This Story

IS INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHORS.




PREFACE.


The Golden Butterfly, which gives a name to this novel, was seen by an
English traveller, two years ago, preserved as a curiosity in a mining
city near Sacramento, where it probably still remains. This curious
freak of Nature is not therefore an invention of our own. To the same
traveller--Mr. Edgar Besant--we are indebted for the description on
which is based our account of Empire City.

The striking of oil in Canada in the manner described by Gilead P.
Beck was accomplished--with the waste of millions of gallons of the
oil, for want of casks and buckets to receive it, and with the result
of a promise of almost boundless wealth--by a man named Shaw, some ten
years ago. Shaw speculated, we believe; lost his money, and died in
poverty.

Names of great living poets and writers have been used in this book in
connection with a supposed literary banquet. A critic has expressed
surprise that we have allowed Gilead Beck's failure to appreciate
Browning to stand as if it were our own. Is a writer of fiction to
stop the action of his story in order to explain that it is his
character's opinion and not his own, that he states? And it surely is
not asking too much to demand of a critic that he should consider
first of all the consistency of a character's actions or speeches.
Gilead Beck, a man of no education and little reading, but of
considerable shrewdness, finds Browning unintelligible and harsh. What
other verdict could be expected if the whole of Empire City in its
palmiest days had been canvassed?

Moreover, we have never, even from that great writer's most ardent
admirers, heard an opinion that he is either easy to read, or musical.
The compliments which Mr. Beck paid to the guests who honoured his
banquet are of course worded just as he delivered them.

Gilead Beck's experiences as an editor are taken--with a little
dressing--from the actual experiences of a living Canadian journalist.

From their Virginian home Jack Dunquerque and Phillis his wife send
greetings to those who have already followed their fortunes. She only
wishes us to add that Mr. Abraham Dyson was right, and that the Coping
Stone of every woman's education is Love. Most people know this, she
says, from reading: but she never did read; and the real happiness is
to find it out for yourself.

    W. B.
    J. R.

    _March, 1877._




    PROLOGUE
    CHAPTER I.
    CHAPTER II.
    CHAPTER III.
    CHAPTER IV.
    CHAPTER V.
    CHAPTER VI.
    CHAPTER VII.
    CHAPTER VIII.
    CHAPTER IX.
    CHAPTER X.
    CHAPTER XI.
    CHAPTER XII.
    CHAPTER XIII.
    CHAPTER XIV.
    CHAPTER XV.
    CHAPTER XVI.
    CHAPTER XVII.
    CHAPTER XVIII.
    CHAPTER XIX.
    CHAPTER XX.
    CHAPTER XXI.
    CHAPTER XXII.
    CHAPTER XXIII.
    CHAPTER XXIV.
    CHAPTER XXV.
    CHAPTER XXVI.
    CHAPTER XXVII.
    CHAPTER XXVIII.
    CHAPTER XXIX.
    CHAPTER XXX.
    CHAPTER XXXI.
    CHAPTER XXXII.
    CHAPTER XXXIII.
    CHAPTER XXXIV.
    CHAPTER XXXV.
    CHAPTER XXXVI.
    CHAPTER XXXVII.
    CHAPTER XXXVIII.
    CHAPTER XXXIX.
    CHAPTER XL.
    CHAPTER XLI.
    CHAPTER XLII.
    CHAPTER XLIII.
    CHAPTER XLIV.
    CHAPTER XLV.
    CHAPTER THE LAST.




THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY.




PROLOGUE.


I.

"What do you think, chief?"

The speaker, who was leading by a half a length, turned in his saddle
and looked at his companion.

"Push on," growled the chief, who was a man of few words.

"If you were not so intolerably conceited about the value of your
words--hang it, man, you are not the Poet Laureate!--you might give
your reasons why we should not camp where we are. The sun will be down
in two hours; the way is long, the wind is cold, or will be soon. This
pilgrim has tightened his belt to stave off the gnawing at his
stomach; here is running water, here is wood, here is everything
calculated to charm the poetic mind even of Captain Ladds----"

"Road!" interrupted his fellow-traveller, pointing along the track
marked more by deep old wheel-ruts, grown over with grass, than by any
evidences of engineering skill. "Roads lead to places; places have
beds; beds are warmer than grass--no rattlesnakes in beds; miners in
hotels--amusing fellows, miners."

"If ever I go out again after buffaloes, or bear, or mountain-deer, or
any other game whatever which this great continent offers, with a
monosyllabic man, may I be condemned to another two months of buffalo
steak without Worcester sauce, such as I have had already; may I be
poisoned with bad Bourbon whisky; may I never again see the sweet
shady side of Pall Mall; may I----"

Here he stopped suddenly, for want of imagination to complete the
curse.

The first speaker was a young man of four and twenty--the age which is
to my sex what eighteen is to the other, because at four and twenty
youth and manhood meet. He of four and twenty is yet a youth, inasmuch
as women are still angels; every dinner is a feast, every man of
higher rank is a demigod, and every book is true. He is a man,
inasmuch as he has the firm step of manhood, he has passed through his
calf-love, he knows what claret means, and his heart is set upon the
things for which boys care nothing. He is a youth, because he can
still play a game of football and rejoice amazingly in a boat-race; he
is a man, because he knows that these things belong to the past, and
that to concern one's self seriously with athletics, when you can no
longer be an athlete in the games, is to put yourself on the level of
a rowing coach or the athletic critic of a sporting paper.

Being only four and twenty, the speaker was in high spirits. He was
also hungry. He was always both. What has life better to offer than a
continual flow of animal spirits and a perpetual appetite? He was a
tall, slight, and perhaps rather a weedy youth, a little too long of
leg, a little too narrow in the beam, a little spare about the
shoulders; but a youth of a ruddy and a cheerful countenance. To say
that the lines of his face were never set to gravity would be too
much, because I defy any man to laugh when he is sleeping, eating, or
drinking. At all other times this young man was ready to laugh without
stopping. Not a foolish cackle of idiotic vacuity such as may be heard
in Earlswood asylum or at a tea-party to meet the curate, but a
cheerful bubble of mirth and good-humour, proof that the spirit within
took everything joyously, seeing in every misadventure its humorous
side, and in every privation its absurdity.

The other who rode beside him was some years older at least. A man of
thirty-five, or perhaps more; a man with a hatchet-face--nose and
forehead in one straight line; long chin and long upper lip in
another; face red with health as well as bronzed with the sun--a good
honest face, supernaturally grave, grave beyond all understanding;
lips that were always tightly closed; eyes which sometimes sparkled in
response to some genial thought, or bubbled over at some joke of his
companion, but which, as a rule, were like gimlets for sternness, so
that strangers, especially stranger servants--the nigger of Jamaica,
the guileless Hindoo of his Indian station, and other members of the
inferior human brotherhood--trembled exceedingly when they met those
eyes. Captain Ladds was accordingly well served, as cold, reserved men
generally are. Mankind takes everything unknown _pro terribili_, for
something dreadful, and until we learn to know a man, and think we
know him, he is to be treated with the respect due to a possible
enemy. _Hostis_ means a stranger, and it is for strangers that we keep
our brickbats.

People who knew Ladds laughed at this reputation. They said the
gallant captain was a humbug; they pretended that he was as gentle as
a turtle-dove; beneath those keen eyes, they said, and behind that
sharp hatchet-face, lurked the most amiable of dispositions. At any
rate, Ladds was never known to thrash a native servant, or to swear
more than is becoming and needful at a syce, while his hatchet-face
had been more than once detected in the very act of looking as soft
and tender as a young mother's over her first-born. The name of this
cavalier was short and simple. It was Thomas Ladds. His intimate
friends called him Tommy.

They were in California, and were not buffalo-hunting now, because
there is not a buffalo within five hundred miles of Sacramento. Their
buffalo-hunting was over, having been accompanied by such small
hardships as have been already alluded to. They rode along a track
which was as much like a road as Richmond Park is like the Forest of
Arden. They were mounted on a pair of small nervous mustangs; their
saddles were the Mexican saddles used in the country, in front of
which was the never-failing horn. Round this was wound the horsehair
lariat, which serves the Western Nimrod for lassoing by day, and for
keeping off snakes at night, no snake having ever been known to cross
this barrier of bristly horsehair. You might as well expect a burgling
coolie, smeared with oil, and naked, to effect his escape by crawling
through a hedge of prickly pear. Also, because they were in a foreign
land, and wished to be in harmony with its institutions, they wore
immense steel spurs, inlaid with silver filigree, and furnished with
"lobs" attached to them, which jangled and danced to make melody, just
as if they formed part of an illustration to a Christmas book. Boots
of course, they wore, and the artistic instinct which, a year before,
had converted the younger man into a thing of beauty and a joy for the
whole Park in the afternoon, now impelled him to assume a _cummerbund_
of scarlet silk, with white-tasselled fringes, the like of which,
perhaps, had never before been seen on the back of a Californian
mustang. His companion was less ornate in his personal appearance.
Both men carried guns, and if a search had been made, a revolver would
have been found either hidden in the belt of each or carried _perdu_
in the trousers-pocket. In these days of Pacific Railways and
scampering Globe Trotters, one does not want to parade the revolver;
but there are dark places on the earth, from the traveller's as well
as from the missionary's point of view, where it would be well to have
both bowie and Derringer ready to hand. On the American continent the
wandering lamb sometimes has to lie down with the leopard, the
harmless gazelle to journey side by side with the cheetah, and the asp
may here and there pretend to play innocently over the hole of the
cockatrice.

Behind the leaders followed a little troop of three, consisting of one
English servant and two "greasers." The latter were dressed in plain
unpretending costume of flannel shirt, boots, and rough trousers.
Behind each hung his rifle. The English servant was dressed like his
master, but more so, his spurs being heavier, the pattern of his
check-shirt being larger, his saddle bigger; only for the silk
cummerbund he wore a leather strap, the last symbol of the honourable
condition of dependence. He rode in advance of the greasers, whom he
held in contempt, and some thirty yards behind the leaders. The
Mexicans rode in silence; smoking cigarettes perpetually. Sometimes
they looked to their guns, or they told a story, or one would sing a
snatch of a song in a low voice; mostly they were grave and
thoughtful, though what a greaser thinks about has never yet been
ascertained.

The country was so far in the Far West that the Sierra Nevada lay to
the east. It was a rich and beautiful country: there were park-like
tracts--supposing the park to be of a primitive and early
settlement-kind--stretching out to the left. These were dotted with
white oaks. To the right rose the sloping sides of a hill, which were
covered with the brush-wood called the chaparelle, in which grew the
manzanita and the scrub-oak, with an occasional cedar pine, not in the
least like the cedars of Lebanon and Clapham Common. Hanging about in
the jungle or stretching its arms along the side of the dry water
course which ran at the traveller's feet beside the road was the wild
vine loaded with its small and pretty grapes now ripe. Nature, in
inventing the wild grape, has been as generous as in her gift of the
sloe. It is a fruit of which an American once observed that it was
calculated to develop the generosity of a man's nature, "because," he
explained, "you would rather give it to your neighbour than eat it
yourself."

The travellers were low down on the western slopes of the Sierra; they
were in the midst of dales and glades--cañons and gulches, of perfect
loveliness, shut in by mountains which rose over and behind them like
friendly giants guarding a troop of sleeping maidens. Pelion was piled
on Ossa as peak after peak rose higher, all clad with pine and cedar,
receding farther and farther, till peaks became points, and ridges
became sharp edges.

It was autumn, and there were dry beds, which had in the spring been
rivulets flowing full and clear from the snowy sides of the higher
slopes; yet among them lingered the flowers of April upon the shrubs,
and the colours of the fading leaves mingled with the hues of the
autumn berries.

A sudden turn in the winding road brought the foremost riders upon a
change in the appearance of the country. Below them to the left
stretched a broad open space, where the ground had been not only
cleared of whatever jungle once grew upon it, but also turned over.
They looked upon the site of one of the earliest surface-mining
grounds. The shingle and gravel stood about in heaps; the gullies and
ditches formed by the miners ran up and down the face of the country
like the wrinkles in the cheek of a baby monkey; old pits, not deep
enough to kill, but warranted to maim and disable, lurked like
man-traps in the open; the old wooden aqueducts, run up by the miners
in the year '52, were still standing where they were abandoned by the
"pioneers;" here and there lay about old washing-pans, rusty and
broken, old cradles, and bits of rusty metal which had once belonged
to shovels. These relics and signs of bygone gatherings of men were
sufficiently dreary in themselves, but at intervals there stood the
ruins of a log-house, or a heap which had once been a cottage built of
mud. Palestine itself has no more striking picture of desolation and
wreck than a deserted surface-mine.

They drew rein and looked in silence. Presently they became aware of
the presence of life. Right in the foreground, about two hundred yards
before them, there advanced a procession of two. The leader of the
show, so to speak, was a man. He was running. He was running so hard,
that anybody could see his primary object was speed. After him, with
heavy stride, seeming to be in no kind of hurry, and yet covering the
ground at a much greater rate than the man, there came a bear--a real
old grisly. A bear who was "shadowing" the man and meant claws. A bear
who had an insult to avenge, and was resolved to go on with the affair
until he had avenged it. A bear, too, who had his enemy in the open,
where there was nothing to stop him, and no refuge for his victim but
the planks of a ruined log-house, could he find one.

Both men, without a word, got their rifles ready. The younger threw
the reins of his horse to his companion and dismounted.

Then he stood still and watched.

The most exhilarating thing in the whole world is allowed to be a
hunt. No greater pleasure in life than that of the Shekarry,
especially if he be after big game. On this occasion the keenness of
the sport was perhaps intensified to him who ran, by the reflection
that the customary position of things was reversed. No longer did he
hunt the bear; the bear hunted _him_. No longer did he warily follow
up the game; the game boldly followed _him_. No joyous sound of horns
cheered on the hunter: no shout, such as those which inspirit the fox
and put fresh vigour into the hare--not even the short eager bark of
the hounds, at the sound of which Reynard begins to think how many of
his hundred turns are left. It was a silent chase. The bear, who
represented in himself the field--men in scarlet, ladies, master,
pack, and everything--set to work in a cold unsympathetic way,
infinitely more distressing to a nervous creature than the cheerful
ringing of a whole field. To hunt in silence would be hard for any
man; to be hunted in silence is intolerable.

Grisly held his head down and wagged it from side to side, while his
great silent paws rapidly cleared the ground and lessened the
distance.

"Tommy," whispered the young fellow, "I can cover him now."

"Wait, Jack. Don't miss. Give Grisly two minutes more. Gad! how the
fellow scuds!"

Tommy, you see, obeyed the instinct of nature. He loved the hunt:
if not to hunt actively, to witness a hunt. It is the same feeling
which crowds the benches at a bullfight in Spain. It was the same
feeling which lit up the faces in the Coliseum when Hermann, formerly
of the Danube, prisoner, taken red-handed in revolt, and therefore
_moriturus_, performed with vigour, sympathy, and spirit the _rôle_ of
Actæon, ending, as we all know, in a splendid chase by bloodhounds;
after which the poor Teuton, maddened by his long flight and exhausted
by his desperate resistance, was torn to pieces, fighting to the end
with a rage past all acting. It is our modern pleasure to read of pain
and suffering. Those were the really pleasant days to the Roman ladies
when they actually witnessed living agony.

"Give Grisly two minutes," said Captain Ladds.

By this time the rest of the party had come up, and were watching the
movements of man and bear. In the plain stood the framework of a
ruined wooden house. Man made for log-house. Bear, without any
apparent effort, but just to show that he saw the dodge, and meant
that it should not succeed, put on a spurt, and the distance between
them lessened every moment. Fifty yards; forty yards. Man looked round
over his shoulder. The log-house was a good two hundred yards ahead.
He hesitated; seemed to stop for a moment. Bear diminished the space
by a good dozen yards--and then man doubled.

"Getting pumped," said Ladds the critical. Then he too dismounted, and
stood beside the younger man, giving the reins of both horses to one
of the Mexicans. "Mustn't let Grisly claw the poor devil," he
murmured.

"Let me bring him down, Tommy."

"Bring him down, young un."

The greasers looked on and laughed. It would have been to them a
pleasant termination to the "play" had Bruin clawed the man. Neither
hunter nor quarry saw the party clustered together on the rising
ground on which the track ran. Man saw nothing but the ground over
which he flew; bear saw nothing but man before him. The doubling
manoeuvre was, however, the one thing needed to bring Grisly within
easy reach. Faster flew the man, but it was the last flight of
despair; had the others been near enough they would have seen the cold
drops of agony standing on his forehead; they would have caught his
panting breath, they would have heard his muttered prayer.

"Let him have it!" growled Ladds.

It was time. Grisly, swinging along with leisurely step, rolling his
great head from side to side in time with the cadence of his
footfall--one roll to every half-dozen strides, like a fat German over
a _trois-temps_ waltz, suddenly lifted his face, and roared. Then
the man shrieked: then the bear stopped, and raised himself for a
moment, pawing in the air; then he dropped again, and rushed with
quickened step upon his foe; then--but then--ping! one shot. It has
struck Grisly in the shoulder; he stops with a roar.

"Good, young un!" said Ladds, bringing piece to shoulder. This time
Grisly roars no more. He rolls over. He is shot to the heart, and is
dead.

The other participator in this _chasse_ of two heard the crack of the
rifles. His senses were growing dazed with fear; he did not stop, he
ran on still, but with trembling knees and outstretched hands; and
when he came to a heap of shingle and sand--one of those left over
from the old surface-mines--he fell headlong on the pile with a cry,
and could not rise. The two who shot the bear ran across the
ground--he lay almost at their feet--to secure their prey. After them,
at a leisurely pace, strode John, the servant. The greasers stayed
behind and laughed.

"Grisly's dead," said Tommy, pulling out his knife. "Steak?"

"No; skin," cried the younger. "Let me take his skin. John, we will
have the beast skinned. You can get some steaks cut. Where is the
man?"

They found him lying on his face, unable to move.

"Now, old man," said the young fellow cheerfully, "might as well sit
up, you know, if you can't stand. Bruin's gone to the happy
hunting-grounds."

The man sat up, as desired, and tried to take a comprehensive view of
the position.

Jack handed him a flask, from which he took a long pull. Then he got
up, and somewhat ostentatiously began to smooth down the legs of his
trousers.

He was a thin man, about five and forty years of age; he wore an
irregular and patchy kind of beard, which flourished exceedingly on
certain square half-inches of chin and cheek, and was as thin as grass
at Aden on the intervening spaces. He had no boots; but a sort of
moccasins, the lightness of which enabled him to show his heels to the
bear for so long a time. His trousers might have been of a rough
tweed, or they might have been black cloth, because grease, many
drenchings, the buffeting of years, and the holes into which they were
worn, had long deprived them of their original colour and brilliancy.
Above the trousers he wore a tattered flannel shirt, the right arm of
which, nearly torn to pieces, revealed a tattooed limb, which was
strong although thin; the buttons had long ago vanished from the front
of the garment; thorns picturesquely replaced them. He wore a
red-cotton handkerchief round his neck, a round felt hat was on his
head; this, like the trousers, had lost its pristine colour, and by
dint of years and weather, its stiffness too. To prevent the hat from
flapping in his eyes, its possessor had pinned it up with thorns in
the front.

Necessity is the mother of invention: there is nothing morally wrong
in the use of thorns where other men use studs, diamond pins, and such
gauds; and the effect is picturesque. The stranger, in fact, was a law
unto himself. He had no coat; the rifle of Californian civilisation
was missing; there was no sign of knife or revolver; and the only
encumbrance, if that was any, to the lightness of his flight was a
small wooden box strapped round tightly, and hanging at his back by
means of a steel chain, grown a little rusty where it did not rub
against his neck and shoulders.

He sat up and winked involuntarily with both eyes. This was the effect
of present bewilderment and late fear.

Then he looked round him, after, as before explained, a few moments of
assiduous leg-smoothing, which, as stated above, looked ostentatious,
but was really only nervous agitation. Then he rose, and saw Grisly
lying in a heap a few yards off. He walked over with a grave face, and
looked at him.

When Henri Balafré, Duc de Guise, saw Coligny lying dead at his feet,
he is said--only it is a wicked lie--to have kicked the body of his
murdered father's enemy. When Henri III. of France, ten years later,
saw Balafré dead at his feet, he did kick the lifeless body, with a
wretched joke. The king was a cur. My American was not. He stood over
Bruin with a look in his eyes which betokened respect for fallen
greatness and sympathy with bad luck. Grisly would have been his
victor, but for the chance which brought him within reach of a
friendly rifle.

"A near thing," he said. "Since I've been in this doggoned country
I've had one or two near things, but this was the nearest."

The greasers stood round the body of the bear, and the English servant
was giving directions for skinning the beast.

"And which of you gentlemen," he went on with a nasal twang more
pronounced than before--perhaps with more emphasis on the word
"gentlemen" than was altogether required--"which of you gentlemen was
good enough to shoot the critter?"

The English servant, who was, like his master, Captain Ladds, a man of
few words, pointed to the young man, who stood close by with the other
leader of the expedition.

The man snatched from the jaws of death took off his shaky thorn-beset
felt, and solemnly held out his hand.

"Sir," he said, "I do not know your name, and you do not know mine. If
you did you would not be much happier, because it is not a striking
name. If you'll oblige me, sir, by touching that"--he meant his right
hand--"we shall be brothers. All that's mine shall be yours. I do not
ask you, sir, to reciprocate. All that's mine, sir, when I get
anything, shall be yours. At present, sir, there is nothing; but I've
Luck behind me. Shake hands, sir. Once a mouse helped a lion, sir.
It's in a book. I am the mouse, sir, and you are the lion. Sir, my
name is Gilead P. Beck."

The young man laughed and shook hands with him.

"I only fired the first shot," he explained. "My friend here----"

"No; first shot disabled--hunt finished then--Grisly out of the
running. Glad you're not clawed--unpleasant to be clawed. Young un did
it. No thanks. Tell us where we are."

Mr. Gilead P. Beck, catching the spirit of the situation, told them
where they were, approximately. "This," he said, "is Patrick's Camp;
at least, it was. The Pioneers of '49 could tell you a good deal about
Patrick's Camp. It was here that Patrick kept his store. In those old
days--they're gone now--if a man wanted to buy a blanket, that
article, sir, was put into one scale, and weighed down with gold-dust
in the other. Same with a pair of boots; same with a pound of raisins.
Patrick might have died rich, sir, but he didn't--none of the pioneers
did--so he died poor; and died in his boots, too, like most of the
lot."

"Not much left of the camp."

"No, sir, not much. The mine gave out. Then they moved up the hills,
where, I conclude, you gentlemen are on your way. Prospecting likely.
The new town, called Empire City, ought to be an hour or so up the
track. I was trying to find my way there when I met with old Grisly.
Perhaps if I had let him alone he would have let me alone. But I
blazed at him, and, sir, I missed him; then he shadowed me. And the
old rifle's gone at last."

"How long did the chase last?"

"I should say, sir, forty days and forty nights, or near about. And
you gentlemen air going to Empire City?"

"We are going anywhere. Perhaps, for the present, you had better join
us."


II.

Mr. Gilead P. Beck, partly recovered from the shock caused to his
nerves by the revengeful spirit of the bear, and in no way discomfited
by any sense of false shame as to his ragged appearance, marched
beside the two Englishmen. It was characteristic of his nationality
that he regarded the greasers with contempt, and that he joined the
two gentlemen as if he belonged to their grade and social rank. An
Englishman picked up in such rags and duds would have shrunk abashed
to the rear, or he would have apologised for his tattered condition,
or he would have begged for some garments--any garments--to replace
his own. Mr. Beck had no such feeling. He strode along with a swinging
slouch, which covered the ground as rapidly as the step of the horses.
The wind blew his rags about his long and lean figure as picturesquely
as if he were another Autolycus. He was as full of talk as that
worthy, and as lightsome of spirit, despite the solemn gravity of his
face. I once saw a poem--I think in the _Spectator_--on Artemus Ward,
in which the bard apostrophised the light-hearted merriment of the
Western American; a very fortunate thing to say, because the Western
American is externally a most serious person, never merry, never
witty, but always humorous. Mr. Beck was quite grave, though at the
moment as happy as that other grave and thoughtful person who has made
a name in the literature of humour--Panurge--when he escaped
half-roasted from the Turk's Serai.

"I ought," he said, "to sit down and cry, like the girl on the
prairie."

"Why ought you to cry?"

"I guess I ought to cry because I've lost my rifle and everything
except my Luck"--here he pulled at the steel chain--"in that darned
long stern chase."

"You can easily get a new rifle," said Jack.

"With dollars," interrupted Mr. Beck. "As for them, there's not a
dollar left--nary a red cent; only my Luck."

"And what is your Luck?"

"That," said Mr. Beck, "I will tell you by-and-by. Perhaps it's your
Luck, too, young boss," he added, thinking of a shot as fortunate to
himself as William Tell's was to his son.

He pulled the box attached to the steel chain round to the front, and
looked at it tenderly. It was safe, and he heaved a sigh.

The way wound up a valley--a road marked only, as has been said, by
deep ruts along its course. Behind the travellers the evening sun was
slowly sinking in the west; before them the peaks of the Sierra lifted
their heads, coloured purple in the evening light; and on either hand
rose the hill-sides, with their dark foliage in alternate "splashes"
of golden light and deepest shade.

It wanted but a quarter of an hour to sunset when Mr. Gilead P. Beck
pointed to a township which suddenly appeared, lying at their very
feet.

"Empire City, I reckon."

A good-sized town of wooden houses. They were all alike and of the
same build as that affected by the architects of doll's houses; that
is to say, they were of one story only, had a door in the middle, and
a window on either side. They were so small, also, that they looked
veritable dolls' houses.

There were one or two among them of more pretentious appearance, and
of several stories. These were the hotels, billiard-saloons, bars, and
gambling-houses.

"It's a place bound to advance, sir," said Mr. Beck proudly. "Empire
City, when I first saw it, which is two years ago, was only two years
old. It is only in our country that a great city springs up in a day.
Empire City will be the Chicago of the West."

"I see a city," said Captain Ladds; "can't see the people."

It was certainly curious. There was not a soul in the streets; there
was no smoke from the chimneys; there was neither carts nor horses;
there was not the least sign of occupation.

Mr. Gilead P. Beck whistled.

"All gone," he said. "Guess the city's busted up."

He pushed aside the brambles which grew over what had been a path
leading to the place, and hurried down. The others followed him, and
rode into the town.

It was deserted. The doors of the houses were open, and if you looked
in you might see the rough furniture which the late occupants
disdained to carry away with them. The two Englishmen dismounted, gave
their reins to the servants, and began to look about them.

The descendants of Og, king of Bashan, have left their houses in black
basalt, dotted about the lava-fields of the Hauran, to witness how
they lived. In the outposts of desert stations of the East, the Roman
soldiers have left their barracks and their baths, their jokes written
on the wall, and their names, to show how they passed away the weary
hours of garrison duty. So the miners who founded Empire City, and
deserted it _en masse_ when the gold gave out, left behind them marks
by which future explorers of the ruins should know what manner of men
once dwelt there. The billiard saloon stood open with swinging doors;
the table was still there, the balls lay about on the table and the
floor; the cues stood in the rack; the green cloth, mildewed, covered
the table.

"Tommy," said the younger, "we will have a game to-night."

The largest building in the place had been an hotel. It had two
stories, and was, like the rest of the houses, built of wood, with a
verandah along the front. The upper story looked as if it had been
recently inhabited; that is, the shutters were not dropping off the
hinges, nor were they flapping to and fro in the breeze.

But the town was deserted; the evening breeze blew chilly up its
vacant streets; life and sound had gone out of the place.

"I feel cold," said Jack, looking about him.

They went round to the back of the hotel. Old iron cog-wheels lay
rusting on the ground with remains of pumps. In the heart of the town
behind the hotel stretched an open space of ground covered with piles
of shingle and intersected with ditches.

Mr. Beck sat down and adjusted one of the thorns which served as a
temporary shirt-stud.

"Two years ago," he said, "there were ten thousand miners here; now
there isn't one. I thought we should find a choice hotel, with a
little monty or poker afterwards. Now no one left; nothing but a
Chinaman or two."

"How do you know there are Chinamen?"

"See those stones?"

He pointed to some great boulders, from three to six feet in diameter.
Some operation of a mystical kind had been performed upon them, for
they were jagged and chipped as if they had been filed and cut into
shape by a sculptor who had been once a dentist and still loved the
profession.

"The miners picked the bones of those rocks, but they never pick quite
clean. Then the Chinamen come and finish off. Gentlemen, it's a
special Providence that you picked me up. I don't altogether admire
the way in which that special Providence was played up to in the
matter of the bar; but a Christian without a revolver alone among
twenty Chinamen----"

He stopped and shrugged his shoulders.

"They'd have got my Luck," he concluded.

"Chief, I don't like it;" said the younger man. "It's ghostly. It's a
town of dead men. As soon as it is dark the ghosts will rise and walk
about--play billiards, I expect. What shall we do?"

"Hotel," growled the chief. "Sleep on floor--sit on chairs--eat off a
table."

They entered the hotel.

A most orderly bar: the glasses there; the bright-coloured bottles:
two or three casks of Bourbon whisky; the counter; the very dice on
the counter with which the bar-keeper used to "go" the miners for
drinks. How things at once so necessary to civilised life and so
portable as dice were left behind, it is impossible to explain.

Everything was there except the drink. The greasers tried the casks
and examined the bottles. Emptiness. A miner may leave behind him the
impedimenta, but the real necessaries of life--rifle, revolver, bowie,
and cards--he takes with him. And as for the drink, he carries that
away too for greater safety, inside himself.

The English servant looked round him and smiled superior.

"No tap for beer, as usual, sir," he said. "These poor Californians
has much to learn."

Mr. Gilead P. Beck looked round mournfully.

"Everything gone but the fixin's," he sighed. "There used to be good
beds, where there wasn't more'n two at once in them; and there used to
be such a crowd around this bar as you would not find nearer'n St.
Louis City."

"Hush!" said Jack, holding up his hand. There were steps.

Mr. Beck pricked up his ears.

"Chinamen, likely. If there's a row, gentlemen, give me something, if
it's only a toothpick, to chime in with. But that's not a Chinese
step; that's an Englishman's. He wears boots, but they are not miner's
boots; he walks firm and slow, like all Englishmen; he is not in a
hurry, like our folk. And who but an Englishman would be found staying
behind in the Empire City when it's gone to pot?"

The footsteps came down the stairs.

"Most unhandsome of a ghost," said the younger man, "to walk before
midnight."

The producer of the footsteps appeared.

"Told you he was an Englishman!" cried Mr. Beck.

Indeed, there was no mistaking the nationality of the man, in spite of
his dress, which was cosmopolitan. He wore boots, but not, as the
quick ear of the American told him, the great boots of the miner; he
had on a flannel shirt with a red silk belt; he wore a sort of blanket
thrown back from his shoulders; and he had a broad felt hat. Of course
he carried arms, but they were not visible.

He was a man of middle height, with clear blue eyes; the perfect
complexion of an Englishman of good stock and in complete health; a
brown beard, long and rather curly, streaked with here and there a
grey hair; square and clear-cut nostrils; and a mouth which, though
not much of it was visible, looked as if it would easily smile, might
readily become tender, and would certainly find it difficult to be
stern. He might be any age, from five and thirty to five and forty.

The greasers fell back and grouped about the door. The questions which
might be raised had no interest for them. The two leaders stood
together; and Mr. Gilead P. Beck, rolling an empty keg to their side,
turned it up and sat down with the air of a judge, looking from one
party to the other.

"Englishmen, I see," said the stranger.

"Ye-yes," said Ladds, not, as Mr. Beck expected, immediately holding
out his hand for the stranger to grasp.

"You have probably lost your way?"

"Been hunting. Working round--San Francisco. Followed track; accident;
got here. Your hotel, perhaps? Fine situation, but lonely."

"Not a ghost, then," murmured the other, with a look of temporary
disappointment.

"If you will come upstairs to my quarters, I may be able to make you
comfortable for the night. Your party will accommodate themselves
without our help."

He referred to the greasers, who had already begun their preparations
for spending a happy night. When he led the way up the stairs, he was
followed, not only by the two gentlemen he had invited, but also by
the ragamuffin hunter, miner, or adventurer, and by the valet, who
conceived it his duty to follow his master.

He lived, this hermit, in one of the small bed-rooms of the hotel,
which he had converted into a sitting-room. It contained a single
rocking-chair and a table. There was also a shelf, which served for a
sideboard, and a curtain under the shelf, which acted as a cupboard.

"You see my den," he said. "I came here a year or so ago by accident,
like yourselves. I found the place deserted. I liked the solitude, the
scenery, whatever you like, and I stayed here. You are the only
visitors I have had in a year."

"Chinamen?" said Mr. Gilead P. Beck.

"Well, Chinamen, of course. But only two of them. They take turns, at
forty dollars a month, to cook my dinners. And there is a half-caste,
who does not mind running down to Sacramento when I want anything. And
so, you see, I make out pretty well."

He opened the window, and blew a whistle.

In two minutes a Chinaman came tumbling up the stairs. His inscrutable
face expressed all the conflicting passions of humanity at
once--ambition, vanity, self respect, humour, satire, avarice,
resignation, patience, revenge, meekness, long-suffering, remembrance,
and a thousand others. No Aryan comes within a hundred miles of it.

"Dinner as soon as you can," said his master.

"Ayah! can do," replied the Celestial. "What time you wantchee?

"As soon as you can. Half an hour."

"Can do. My no have got cully-powder. Have makee finish. Have got?"

"Look for some; make Achow help."

"How can? No, b'long his pidgin. He no helpee. B'long my pidgin makee
cook chow-chow. Ayah! Achow have go makee cheat over Mexican man.
Makee play cards all same euchre."

In fact, on looking out of the window, the other Celestial was clearly
visible, manipulating a pack of cards and apparently inviting the
Mexicans to a friendly game, in which there could be no deception.

Then Ladds' conscience smote him.

"Beg pardon. Should have seen. Make remark about hotel. Apologise."

"He means," said the other, "that he was a terrible great fool not to
see that you are a gentleman."

Ladds nodded.

"Let me introduce our party," the speaker went on. "This is our
esteemed friend Mr. Gilead P. Beck, whom we caught in a bear-hunt----"

"Bar behind," said Mr. Beck.

"This is Captain Ladds, of the 35th Dragoons."

"Ladds," said Ladds. "Nibs, cocoa-nibs--pure aroma--best
breakfast-digester--blessing to mothers--perfect fragrance."

"His name is Ladds; and he wishes to communicate to you the fact that
he is the son of the man who made an immense fortune--immense, Tommy?"

Ladds nodded.

"By a crafty compound known as 'Ladds' Patent Anti-Dyspeptic Cocoa.'
This is Ladd's servant, John Boimer, the best servant who ever put his
leg across pig-skin; and my name is Roland Dunquerque. People
generally call me Jack; I don't know why, but they do."

Their host bowed to each, including the servant, who coloured with
pleasure at Jack's description of him; but he shook hands with Ladds.

"One of ours," he said. "My name is Lawrence Colquhoun. I sold out
before you joined. I came here as you see. And--now, gentlemen, I
think I hear the first sounds of dinner. Boimer--you will allow me,
Ladds?--you will find claret and champagne behind that curtain. Pardon
a hermit's fare. I think they have laid out such a table as the
wilderness can boast in the next room."

The dinner was not altogether what a man might order at the Junior
United, but it was good. There was venison, there was a curry, there
was some mountain quail, there was claret, and there was
champagne--both good, especially the claret. Then there was coffee.

The Honourable Roland Dunquerque, whom we will call in future, what
everybody always called him, Jack, ate and drank like Friar John. The
keen mountain air multiplied his normal twist by ten. Mr. Gilead P.
Beck, who sat down to dinner perfectly unabashed by his rags, was good
as a trencherman, but many plates behind the young Englishman. Mr.
Lawrence Colquhoun, their host, went on talking almost as if they were
in London, only now and then he found himself behind the world. It was
his ignorance of the last Derby, the allusion to an old and
half-forgotten story, perhaps his use of little phrases--not slang
phrases, but those delicately-shaded terms which imply knowledge of
current things--which showed him to have been out of London and Paris
for more than one season.

"Four years," he said, "since I left England."

"But you will come back to it again?"

"I think not."

"Better," said Jack, whose face was a little flushed with the wine.
"Much better. Robinson Crusoe always wanted to get home again. So did
Selkirk. So did Philip Quarles."

Then the host produced cigars. Later on, brandy-and-water.

The brandy and water made Mr. Gilead P. Beck, who found himself a good
deal crowded out of the conversation, insist on having his share. He
placed his square box on the table, and loosed the straps.

"Let me tell you," he said, "the story of my Luck. I was in Sonora
City," he began, patting his box affectionately, "after the worst
three months I ever had; and I went around trying to borrow a few
dollars. I got no dollars, but I got free drinks--so many free drinks,
that at last I lay down in the street and went to sleep. Wal,
gentlemen, I suppose I walked in that slumber of mine, for when I woke
up I was lying a mile outside the town.

"I also entertained angels unawares, for at my head there sat an
Indian woman. She was as wrinkled an old squaw as ever shrieked at a
buryin'. But she took an interest in me. She took that amount of
interest in me that she told me she knew of gold. And then she led me
by the hand, gentlemen, that aged and affectionate old squaw, to a
place not far from the roadside; and there, lying between two rocks,
and hidden in the chaparelle, glittering in the light, was this
bauble." He tapped his box. "I did not want to be told to take it. I
wrapped it in my handkerchief and carried it in my hand. Then she led
me back to the road again. 'Bad luck you will have,' she said; 'but it
will lead to good luck so long as that is not broken, sold, given
away, or lost.' Then she left me, and here it is."

He opened the little box. There was nothing to be seen but a mass of
white wool.

"Bad luck I _have_ had. Look at me, gentlemen. Adam was not more
destitute when the garden-gates were shut on him. But the good will
come, somehow."

He removed the wool, and, behold, a miracle of nature! Two thin plates
of gold delicately wrought in lines and curious chasing, like the
pattern of a butterfly's wing, and of the exact shape, but twice as
large. They were poised at the angle, always the same, at which the
insect balances itself about a flower. They were set in a small piece
of quaintly marked quartz, which represented the body.

"A golden butterfly!"

"A golden butterfly," said Mr. Beck. "No goldsmith made this
butterfly. It came from Nature's workshop. It is my Luck."

    "And If the butterfly fall and break,
    Farewell the Luck of Gilead Beck,"

said Jack.

"Thank you, sir. That's very neat. I'll take that, sir, if you will
allow me, for my motto, unless you want it for yourself."

"No," said Jack; "I have one already."

    "If this golden butterfly fall and break,
    Farewell the Luck of Gilead P. Beck,"

repeated the owner of the insect. "If you are going on, gentlemen, to
San Francisco, I hope you will take me with you."

"Colquhoun," said Ladds, "you do not mean to stay by yourself? Much
better come with us, unless, of course----"

Lying on the table was a piece of an old newspaper in which Jack had
wrapped something. Ladds saw Colquhoun mechanically take up the paper,
read it, and change color. Then he looked straight before him, seeing
nothing, and Ladds stopped speaking. Then he smiled in a strange
far-off way.

"I think I will go with you," he said.

"Hear, hear!" cried Jack. "Selkirk returns to the sound of the
church-going bell."

Ladds refrained from looking at the paper in search of things which
did not concern himself, but he perceived that Colquhoun had, like
Hamlet, seen something. There _was_, in fact, an announcement in
the fragment which greatly interested Lawrence Colquhoun:

    "On April 3, by the Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of Turk's Island,
    at St. George's Hanover Square, Gabriel Cassilis, of etc., to
    Victoria, daughter of the Late Admiral Sir Benbow Pengelley,
    K.C.B."

In the morning they started, Mr. Beck being provided with a new
rig-out of a rough and useful kind.

At the last moment one of the Chinamen, Leeching, the cook, besought
from his late master, as a parting favour and for the purpose of
self-protection, the gift of a pistol, powder, and ball.

Mr. Colquhoun gave them to him, thinking it a small thing after two
years of faithful service. Then Leeching, after loading his pistol,
went to work with his comrade for an hour or so.

Presently, Achow being on his knees in the shingle, the perfidious
Leeching suddenly cocked his pistol, and fired it into Achow's right
ear, so that he fell dead.

By this lucky accident Leeching became sole possessor of the little
pile of gold which he and the defunct Achow had scraped together and
placed in a _cache_.

He proceeded to unearth this treasure, put together his little
belongings, and started on the road to San Francisco with a smile of
satisfaction.

There was a place in the windings of the road where there was a steep
bank. By the worst luck in the world a stone slipped and fell as
Leeching passed by. The stone by itself, would not have mattered much,
as it did not fall on Leeching's head; but with it fell a rattlesnake,
who was sleeping in the warmth of the sun.

Nothing annoys a rattlesnake more than to be disturbed in his sleep.
With angry mind he awoke, looked around, and saw the Chinaman.
Illogically connecting him with the fall of the stone, he made for
him, and, before Leeching knew there was a rattlesnake anywhere near
him, bit him in the calf.

Leeching sat down on the bank and realized the position. Being a
fatalist, he did not murmur; having no conscience, he did not fear;
having no faith, he did not hope; having very little time, he made no
testamentary dispositions. In point of fact, he speedily curled up his
legs and died.

Then the deserted Empire City was deserted indeed, for there was not
even a Chinaman left in it.




CHAPTER I.

Joseph and His Brethren.


The largest and most solid of all the substantial houses in Carnarvon
Square, Bloomsbury, is Number Fifteen, which, by reason of its corner
position (Mulgrave Street intersecting it at right angles at this
point), has been enabled to stretch itself out at the back. It is a
house which a man who wanted to convey the idea of a solid income
without ostentation or attempt at fashion would find the very thing to
assist his purpose. The ladies of such a house would not desire to
belong to the world farther west; they would respect the Church, law,
and medicine; they would look on the City with favourable eyes when it
was represented by a partner in an old firm; they would have sound
notions of material comfort; they would read solid books, and would
take their pleasure calmly. One always, somehow, in looking at a house
wonders first of what sort its women are. There were, however, no
women at Number Fifteen at all, except the maids. Its occupants
consisted of three brothers, all unmarried. They were named
respectively Cornelius, Humphrey, and Joseph Jagenal. Cornelius and
Humphrey were twins. Joseph was their junior by ten years. Cornelius
and Humphrey were fifty--Joseph was forty. People who did not know
this thought that Joseph was fifty and his brethren forty.

When the Venerable the Archdeacon of Market Basing, the well-known
author of _Sermons on the Duty of Tithe-Offerings_, the _Lesbia of
Catullus_, and a _Treatise on the Right Use of the Anapæst in Greek
Iambic Verse_, died, it was found that he had bequeathed his little
savings, worth altogether about £500 a year, to his three sons in the
following proportions: the twins, he said, possessed genius; they
would make their mark in the world, but they must be protected. They
received the yearly sum of £200 apiece, and it was placed in the hands
of trustees to prevent their losing it; the younger was to have the
rest, without trustees, because, his father said, "Joseph is a dull
boy and will keep it." It was a wise distribution of the money.
Cornelius, then nineteen, left Oxford immediately, and went to
Heidelberg, where he called himself a poet, studied metaphysics, drank
beer, and learned to fence. Humphrey, for his part, deserted
Cambridge--their father having chosen that they should not be
rivals--and announced his intention of devoting his life to Art. He
took up his residence in Rome. Joseph stayed at school, having no
other choice. When the boy was sixteen, his guardians articled him to
a solicitor. Joseph was dull, but he was methodical, exact, and
endowed with a retentive memory. He had also an excellent manner, and
the "appearance of age," as port wine advertisers say, before he was
out of his articles. At twenty-five, Joseph Jagenal was a partner; at
thirty-five, he was the working partner; at forty, he was the senior
partner in the great Lincoln's-Inn firm of Shaw, Fairlight, and
Jagenal, the confidential advisers of as many respectable county
people as any firm in London.

When he was twenty-five, and became a partner, the brethren returned
to England simultaneously, and were good enough to live with him and
upon him. They had their £200 a year each, and expensive tastes.
Joseph, who had made a thousand for his share the first year of his
admission to the firm, had no expensive tastes, and a profound respect
for genius. He took in the twins joyfully, and they stayed with him.
When his senior partner died, and Mr. Fairlight retired, so that
Joseph's income was largely increased, they made him move from
Torrington Square, where the houses are small, to Carnarvon Square,
and regulated his household for him on the broadest and most liberal
scale. Needless to say, no part of the little income, which barely
served the twins with pocket-money and their _menus plaisirs_,
went towards the housekeeping. Cornelius, poet and philosopher,
superintended the dinner and daily interviewed the cook. Humphrey,
he devotee of art, who furnished the rooms according to the latest
designs of the most correct taste, was in command of the cellar.
Cornelius took the best sitting-room for himself, provided it with
books, easy-chairs, and an immense study-table with countless drawers.
He called it carelessly his Workshop. The room on the first floor
overlooking Mulgrave Street, and consequently with a north aspect, was
appropriated by Humphrey. He called it his Studio, and furnished it in
character, not forgetting the easy-chairs. Joseph had the back room
behind the dining-room for himself; it was not called a study or a
library, but Mr. Joseph's room. He sat in it alone every evening, at
work. There was also a drawing-room, but it was never used. They dined
together at half-past six: Cornelius sat at the head, and Humphrey at
the foot, Joseph at one side. Art and Intellect, thus happily met
together and housed under one roof, talked to each other. Joseph ate
his dinner in silence. Art held his glass to the light, and flashed
into enthusiasm over the matchless sparkle, the divine hues, the
incomparable radiance, of the wine. Intellect, with a sigh, as one who
regrets the loss of a sense, congratulated his brother on his vivid
passion for colour, and, taking another glass, discoursed on the
æsthetic aspects of a vintage wine. Joseph drank one glass of claret,
after which he retired to his den, and left the brethren to finish the
bottle. After dinner the twins sometimes went to the theatre, or they
repaired arm-in-arm to their club--the Renaissance, now past its prime
and a little fogyish; mostly they sat in the Studio or in the
Workshop, in two arm-chairs, with a table between them, smoked pipes,
and drank brandy and potash-water. They went to bed at any time they
felt sleepy--perhaps at twelve, and perhaps at three. Joseph went to
bed at half-past ten. The brethren generally breakfasted at eleven,
Joseph at eight. After breakfast, unless on rainy days, a uniform
custom was observed. Cornelius, poet and philosopher, went to the
window and looked out.

Humphrey, artist, and therefore a man of intuitive sympathies,
followed him. Then he patted Cornelius on the shoulder, and shook his
head.

"Brother, I know your thought. You want to drag me from my work; you
think it has been too much for me lately. You are too anxious about
me."

Cornelius smiled.

"Not on my own account too, Humphrey?"

"True--on your account. Let us go out at once, brother. Ah, why did
you choose so vast a subject?"

Cornelius was engaged--had been engaged for twenty years--upon an epic
poem, entitled the _Upheaving of Ælfred_. The school he belonged to
would not, of course, demean themselves by speaking of Alfred. To them
Edward was Eadward, Edgar was Eadgar, and old Canute was Knut. In the
same way Cicero became Kikero, Virgil was Vergil, and Socrates was
spelt, as by the illiterate bargee, with a _k_. So the French prigs of
the ante-Boileau period sought to make their trumpery pedantries pass
for current coin. So, too, Chapelain was in labour with the _Pucelle_
for thirty years; and when it came--But Cornelius Jagenal could not be
compared with Chapelain, because he had as yet brought forth nothing.
He sat with what he and his called "English" books all round him; in
other words, he had all the Anglo-Saxon literature on his shelves, and
was amassing, as he said, material.

Humphrey, on the other hand, was engaged on a painting, the
composition of which offered difficulties which, for nearly twenty
years, had proved insuperable. He was painting, he said, the "Birth of
the Renaissance." It was a subject which required a great outlay in
properties, Venetian glass, Italian jewelry, mediæval furniture,
copies of paintings--everything necessary to make this work a
masterpiece--he bought at Joseph's expense. Up to the present no one
had been allowed to see the first rough drawings.

"Where's Cæsar?" Humphrey would say, leading the way to the hall.
"Cæsar! Why, here he is. Cæsar must actually have heard us proposing
to go out."

Cornelius called the dog Kaysar, and he refused to answer to it; so
that conversation between him and Cornelius was impossible.

There never was a pair more attached to each other than these twin
brethren. They sallied forth each morning at twelve, arm-in-arm, with
an open and undisguised admiration for each other which was touching.
Before them marched Cæsar, who was of mastiff breed, leading the way.
Cornelius, the poet, was dressed with as much care as if he were still
a young man of five-and-twenty, in a semi-youthful and wholly-æsthetic
costume, in which only the general air, and not the colour, revealed
the man of delicate perceptions. Humphrey, the artist, greatly daring,
affected a warm brown velvet with a crimson-purple ribbon. Both
carried flowers. Cornelius had gloves; Humphrey a cigar. Cornelius was
smooth-faced, save for a light fringe on the upper lip. Humphrey wore
a heavy moustache and a full long silky beard of a delicately-shaded
brown, inclining when the sun shone upon it to a suspicion of auburn.
Both were of the same height, rather below the middle; they had
features so much alike that, but for the hair on the face of one, it
would have been difficult to distinguish between them. Both were thin,
pale of face, and both had, by some fatality, the end of their
delicately-carved noses slightly tipped with red. Perhaps this was due
to the daily and nightly brandy-and-water. And in the airy careless
carriage of the two men, their sunny faces and elastic tread, it was
impossible to suppose that they were fifty and Joseph only forty.

To be sure, Joseph was a heavy man, stout of build, broad in frame,
sturdy in the under-jaw; while his brothers were slight shadowy men.
And, to be sure, Joseph had worked all his life, while his brothers
never did a stroke. They were born to consume the fruits which Joseph
was born to cultivate.

Outside the house the poet heaved a heavy sigh, as if the weight of
the epic was for the moment off his mind. The artist looked round with
a critical eye on the lights and shadows of the great commonplace
square.

"Even in London," he murmured, "Nature is too strong for man. Did you
ever, my dear Cornelius, catch a more brilliant effect of sunshine
than that upon the lilac yonder?"

Time, end of April; season forward, lilacs on the point of bursting
into flower; sky dotted with swift-flying clouds, alternate
withdrawals and bursts of sunshine.

"I really must," said Humphrey, "try to fix that effect."

His brother took the arm of the artist and drew him gently away.

In front marched Cæsar.

Presently the poet looked round. They were out of the square by this
time.

"Where is Kaysar?" he said, with an air of surprise. "Surely, brother
Humphrey, the dog can't be in the Carnarvon Arms?"

"I'll go and see," said Humphrey, with alacrity.

He entered the bar of the tavern, and his brother waited outside.
After two or three minutes, the poet, as if tired of waiting, followed
the artist into the bar. He found him with a glass of brandy-and-water
cold.

"I had," he explained, "a feeling of faintness. Perhaps this spring
air is chilly. One cannot be too careful."

"Quite right," said the poet. "I almost think--yes, I really do
feel--ah! Thank you, my dear."

The girl, as if anticipating his wants, set before him a "four" of
brandy and the cold water. Perhaps she had seen the face before. As
for the dog, he was lying down with his head on his paws. Perhaps he
knew there would be no immediate necessity for moving.

They walked in the direction of the Park, arm-in-arm, affectionately.

It might have been a quarter of an hour after leaving the Carnarvon
Arms when the poet stopped and gasped--

"Humphrey, my dear brother, advise me. What would you do if you had a
sharp and sudden pain like a knife inside you?"

Humphrey replied promptly:

"If I had a sharp and sudden pain like a knife inside me, I should
take a small glass of brandy neat. Mind, no spoiling the effect with
water."

Cornelius looked at his brother with admiration.

"Such readiness of resource!" he murmured, pressing his arm.

"I think I see--ah, yes--Kaysar--he's gone in before us. The sagacity
of that dog is more remarkable than anything I ever read." He took his
small glass of brandy neat.

The artist, looking on, said he might as well have one at the same
time. Not, he added, that he felt any immediate want of the stimulant,
but he might; and at all times prevention is better than cure.

It was two o'clock when they returned to Carnarvon Square. They walked
arm-in-arm, with perhaps even a greater show of confiding affection
than had appeared at starting. There was the slightest possible lurch
in their walk, and both looked solemn and heavy with thought.

In the hall the artist looked at his watch.

"Pa--pasht two. Corneliush, Work----"

He marched to the Studio with a resolute air, and, arrived there, drew
an easy-chair before the fire, sat himself in it, and went fast
asleep.

The poet sought the workshop. On the table lay the portfolio of
papers, outside which was emblazoned on parchment, with dainty
scroll-work by the hands of his brother the artist, the title of his
poem:

    The Upheaving of Ælfred:

    AN EPIC IN TWENTY-FOUR CANTOS.

    BY CORNELIUS JAGENAL.

He gazed at it fondly for a few minutes; vaguely took up a pen, as if
he intended to finish the work on the spot; and then with a sigh,
thought being to much for brain, he slipped into his arm-chair, put up
his feet, and was asleep in two minutes. At half-past five, one of the
maids--they kept no footman in Carnarvon Square--brought him tea.

"I have been dozing, have I, Jane?" he asked. "Very singular thing for
me to do."

We are but the creatures of habit. The brethren took the same walk
every day, made the same remarks, with an occasional variation, and
took the same morning drams; they spent the middle of the day in
sleep, they woke up for the afternoon tea, and they never failed to
call Jane's attention to the singularity of the fact that they had
been asleep. This day Jane lingered instead of going away when the tea
was finished.

"Did master tell you, sir," she asked, "that Miss Fleming was coming
to-day?"

It was an irritating thing that, although Cornelius ordered the dinner
and sat at the head of the table, although Humphrey was in sole
command of the wine-cellar, the servants always called Joseph the
master. Great is the authority of him who keeps the bag; the power of
the penniless twins was a shadowy and visionary thing.

The master had told his brothers that Miss Fleming would probably have
to come to the house, but no date was fixed.

"Miss Fleming came this afternoon, sir," said Jane, "with a French
maid. She's in Mr. Joseph's room now."

"Oh, tell Mr. Humphrey, Jane, and we will dress for dinner. Tell Mr.
Humphrey, also, that perhaps Miss Fleming would like a glass of
champagne to-day."

Jane told the artist.

"Always thoughtful," said Humphrey, with enthusiasm. "Cornelius is for
ever thinking of others' comfort. To be sure Miss Fleming shall have a
glass of champagne."

He brought up two bottles, such was his anxiety to give full
expression to his brother's wishes.

When the dinner-bell rang, the brethren emerged simultaneously from
their rooms, and descended the stairs together, arm-in-arm. Perhaps in
expectation of dinner, perhaps in anticipation of the champagne,
perhaps with pleasure at the prospect of meeting with Joseph's ward,
the faces of both were lit with a sunny smile, and their eyes with a
radiant light, which looked like the real and genuine enthusiasm of
humanity. It was a pity that Humphrey wore a beard, or that Cornelius
did not; otherwise it would have been difficult to distinguish between
this pair so much alike--these youthful twins of fifty, who almost
looked like five-and-twenty.




CHAPTER II.

"Phillis is my only joy."


"My brothers, Miss Fleming!"

Joseph introduced the twins with a pride impossible to dissemble. They
were so youthful-looking, so airy, so handsome, besides being so nobly
endowed with genius, that his pride may be excused. Castor and Pollux
the wrong side of forty, but slim still and well preserved--these
Greek figures do not run tall--might have looked like Cornelius and
Humphrey.

They parted company for a moment to welcome the young lady, large-eyed
as Hêrê, who rose to greet them, and then took up a position on the
hearthrug, one with his hand on the other's shoulder, like the Siamese
twins, and smiled pleasantly, as if, being accustomed to admiration
and even awe, they wished to reassure Miss Fleming and put her at
ease.

Dinner being announced, Cornelius, the elder by a few moments, gave
his arm to the young lady. Humphrey, the younger, hovered close
behind, as if he too was taking his part in the chivalrous act. Joseph
followed alone, of course, not counting in the little procession.

Phillis Fleming's arrival at No. 15 Carnarvon Square was in a manner
legal. She belonged to the office, not to the shrine of intellect,
poesy, and art created by the twin brethren. She was an orphan and a
ward. She had two guardians: one of them, Mr. Lawrence Colquhoun,
being away from England; and the other, Mr. Abraham Dyson, with whom
she had lived since her sixth birthday, having finished his earthly
career just before this history begins, that is to say, in the spring
of last year. Shaw, Fairlight, and Jagenal were solicitors to both
gentlemen. Therefore Joseph found himself obliged to act for this
young lady when, Mr. Abraham Dyson buried and done with, it became a
question what was to be done with her. There were offers from several
disinterested persons on Miss Fleming's bereaved condition being
known. Miss Skimpit, of the Highgate Collegiate Establishment for
Young Ladies, proposed by letter to receive her as a parlour-boarder,
and hinted at the advantages of a year's discipline, tempered by
Christian kindness, for a young lady educated in so extraordinary and
godless a manner. The clergyman of the new district church at Finchley
called personally upon Mr. Jagenal. He said that he did not know the
young lady except by name, but that, feeling the dreadful condition of
a girl brought up without any of the gracious influences of Anglican
Ritual and Dogma, he was impelled to offer her a home with his
Sisterhood. Here she would receive clear dogmatic teaching and learn
what the Church meant by submission, fasting, penance, and
humiliation. Mr. Jagenal thought she might also learn how to bestow
her fortune on Anglo Catholic objects when she came of age, and
dismissed his reverence with scant courtesy. Two or three widows who
had known better days offered their services, which were declined with
thanks. Joseph even refused to let Miss Fleming stay with Mrs.
Cassilis, the wife of Abraham Dyson's second cousin. He thought that
perhaps this lady would not be unwilling to enliven her house by the
attraction of an heiress and a _débutante_. And it occurred to him
that, for a short time at least, she might, without offending a
censorious world, and until her remaining guardian's wishes could be
learned, take up her abode at the house of the three bachelors.

"I am old, Miss Fleming," he said, "Forty years old; a great age
to you, and my brothers, Cornelius and Humphrey, who live with me,
are older still. Cornelius is a great poet; he is engaged on a
work--_The Upheaving of Ælfred_--which will immortalise his name.
Humphrey is an artist; he is working at a group the mere conception of
which, Cornelius says, would make even the brain of Michel Angelo
stagger. You will be proud, I think, in after years, to have made the
acquaintance of my brothers."

She came, having no choice or any other wish, accompanied by her
French maid and the usual impedimenta of travel.

Phillis Fleming--her father called her Phillis because she was his
only joy--was nineteen. She is twenty now, because the events of this
story only happened last year. Her mother died in giving her birth;
she had neither brothers nor sisters, nor many cousins, and those far
away. When she was six her father died too--not of an interesting
consumption or of a broken heart, or any ailment of that kind. He was
a jovial fox-hunting ex-captain of cavalry, with a fair income and a
carefully cultivated taste for enjoyment. He died from an accident in
the field. By his will he left all his money to his one child and
appointed as her trustees his father's old friend, Abraham Dyson of
Twickenham and the City, and with him his own friend, Lawrence
Colquhoun, a man some ten years younger than himself, with tastes and
pursuits very much like his own. Of course, the child was taken to the
elder guardian's house, and Colquhoun, going his way in the world,
never gave his trust or its responsibilities a moment's thought.

Phillis Fleming had the advantage of a training quite different from
that which is usually accorded to young ladies. She went to Mr.
Abraham Dyson at a time when that old gentlemen, always full of
crotchety ideas, was developing a plan of his own for female
education. His theory of woman's training having just then grown in
his mind to finished proportions, he welcomed the child as a subject
sent quite providentially to his hand, and proceeded to put his views
into practice upon little Phillis. That he did so showed a healthy
belief in his own judgment. Some men would have hastened into print
with a mere theory. Mr. Dyson intended to wait for twelve years or so,
and to write his work on woman's education when Phillis's example
might be the triumphant proof of his own soundness. The education
conducted on Mr. Dyson's principles and rigidly carried out was
approaching completion when it suddenly came to an abrupt termination.
Few things in this world quite turn out as we hope and expect. It was
on the cards that Abraham Dyson might die before the proof of his
theory. This, in fact, happened; and his chief regret at leaving a
world where he had been supremely comfortable, and able to enjoy his
glass of port to his eightieth and last year, was that he was leaving
the girl, the creation of his theory, in an unfinished state.

"Phillis," he said, on his deathbed, "the edifice is now
complete,--all but the Coping-stone. Alas, that I could not live to
put it on!"

And what the Coping-stone was no man could guess. Great would be the
cleverness of him, who seeing a cathedral finished save for roof and
upper courses, would undertake to put on these, with all the
ornaments, spires, lanterns, gargoyles, pinnacles, flying buttresses,
turrets, belfries, and crosses drawn in the dead designer's lost
plans.

Abraham Dyson was a wealthy man. Therefore he was greatly respected by
all his relations, in spite of certain eccentricities, notably those
which forbade him to ask any of them to his house. If the nephews,
nieces and cousins wept bitterly on learning their bereavement, deeper
and more bitter were their lamentations when they found that Mr. Dyson
had left none of them any money.

Not one penny; not a mourning ring; not a single sign or token of
affection to one of them. It was a cruel throwing of cold water on the
tenderest affections of the heart, and Mr. Dyson's relations were
deeply pained. Some of them swore; others felt that in this case it
was needless to give sorrow words, and bore their suffering in
silence.

Nor did he leave any money to Phillis.

This obstinate old theorist left it all to found a college for girls,
who were to be educated in the same manner as Phillis Fleming, and in
accordance with the scheme stated to be fully drawn up and among his
papers.

Up to the present, Joseph Jagenal had not succeeded in finding the
scheme. There were several rolls of paper, forming portions of the
great work, but none were finished, and all pointed to the last
chapter, that entitled the "Coping-stone," in which, it was stated,
would be found the whole scheme with complete fulness of detail. But
this last chapter could not be found anywhere. If it never was found,
what would become of the will? Then each one of Mr. Dyson's relations
began to calculate what might fall to himself out of the inheritance.
That was only natural, and perhaps it was not every one who, like Mr.
Gabriel Cassilis, openly lamented the number of Mr. Dyson's collateral
heirs.

Not to be found. Joseph Jagenal's clerks now engaged in searching
everywhere for it, and all the relations praying--all fervently and
some with faith--that it might never turn up.

So that poor Phillis is sitting down to dinner with her education
unfinished--where is that Coping-stone? Every young lady who has had a
finishing year at Brighton may look down upon her. Perhaps, however,
as her education has been of a kind quite unknown in polite circles,
and she has never heard of a finishing year, she may be calm even in
the presence of other young ladies.

What sort of a girl is she?

To begin with, she has fifty thousand pounds. Not the largest kind of
fortune, but still something. More than most girls have, more than the
average heiress has. Enough to make young Fortunio Hunter prick up his
ears, smooth down his moustache, and begin to inquire about guardians;
enough to purchase a roomy cottage where Love may be comfortable;
enough to enable the neediest wooer, if he be successful, to hang up
his hat on the peg behind the door and sit down for the rest of his
years. Fifty thousand pounds is a sum which means possibilities. It
was her mother's, and, very luckily for her, it was so tied up that
Captain Fleming, her father, could not touch more than the interest,
which, at three per cent., amounts, as may be calculated, to fifteen
hundred a year. Really, after explaining that a young lady has fifty
thousand, what further praise is wanted, what additional description
is necessary? By contemplation of fifty thousand pounds, ardent youth
is inflamed as by a living likeness of Helen. Be she lovely or be she
loathly, be she young or old, be she sweet or shrewish--she has fifty
thousand pounds.

With her fifty thousand pounds the gods have given Phillis Fleming a
tall figure, the lines of which are as delicately curved as those of
any yacht in the Solent or of any statue from Greek studio. She is
slight, perhaps too slight; she has hair of a common dark brown, but
it is fine hair, there is a great wealth of it, it has a gleam and
glimmer of its own as the sunlight falls upon it, as if there were a
hidden colour lying somewhere in it waiting to be discovered; her
eyes, like her hair, are brown--they are also large and lustrous; her
lips are full; her features are not straight and regular, like those
of women's beauties, for her chin is perhaps a little short, though
square and determined; she has a forehead which is broad and rather
low; she wears an expression in which good temper, intelligence, and
activity are more marked than beauty. She is quick to mark the things
that she sees, and she sees everything. Her hands are curious, because
they are so small, so delicate, and so sympathetic; while her face is
in repose you may watch a passing emotion by the quivering of her
fingers, just as you may catch, if you have the luck, the laughter or
tears of most girls first in the brightness or the clouding of their
eyes.

There are girls who, when we meet them in the street, pass us like the
passing of sunshine on an April day; who, if we spend the evening in a
room where they are, make us understand something of the warmth which
Nature intended to be universal, but has somehow only made special;
whom it is a pleasure to serve, whom it is a duty to reverence, who
can bring purity back to the brain of a rake, and make a young man's
heart blossom like a rose in June.

Of such is Phillis Fleming.




CHAPTER III.

Phillis's Education.


The dinner began without much conversation; partly because the twins
were hungry, and partly because they were a little awed by the
presence of an unwonted guest in white draperies.

Phillis noted that, so far as she had learned as yet, things of a
domestic kind in the outer world were much like things at Mr. Dyson's,
that is to say, the furniture of the dining-room was similar, and the
dinner was the same. I do not know why she expected it, but she had
some vague notion that she might be called upon to eat strange dishes.

"The Böllinger, brother Cornelius," said the artist.

"Thoughtful of you, brother Humphrey," the poet answered. "Miss
Fleming, the Böllinger is in your honour."

Phillis looked puzzled. She did not understand where the honour came
in. But she tasted her glass.

"It is a little too dry for me," she said with admirable candour. "If
you have any Veuve Clicquot, Mr. Jagenal"--she addressed the younger
brother--"I should prefer that."

All three perceptibly winced. Jane, the maid, presently returned with
a bottle of the sweeter wine. Miss Fleming tasted it critically and
pronounced in its favor.

"Mr. Dyson, my guardian," she said, "always used to say the ladies
like their wine sweet. At least I do. So he used to drink Perier Jout
très sec, and I had Veuve Clicquot."

The poet laid his forefinger upon his brow and looked meditatively at
his glass. Then he filled it again. Then he drank it off helplessly.
This was a remarkable young lady.

"You have lived a very quiet life," said Joseph, with a note of
interrogation in his voice, "with your guardian at Highgate."

"Yes, very quiet. Only two or three gentlemen ever came to the house,
and I never went out."

"A fair prisoner, indeed," murmured the poet. "Danae in her tower
waiting for the shower of gold."

"Danae must have wished," said Phillis, "when she was put in the box
and sent to sea, that the shower of gold had never come."

Cornelius began to regret his allusion to the mythological maid for
his classical memory failed, and he could not at the moment recollect
what box the young lady referred to. This no doubt came of much poring
over Anglo-Saxon Chronicles. But he remembered other circumstances
connected with Danae's history, and was silent.

"At least you went out," said Humphrey, "to see the Academy and the
Water-colours."

She shook her head.

"I have never seen a picture-gallery at all. I have not once been
outside Mr. Dyson's grounds until to-day, since I was six years old."

Humphrey supported his nervous system, like his brother, with another
glass of the Böllinger.

"You found your pleasure in reading divine Poetry," said the Maker
softly; "perhaps in writing Poetry yourself."

"Oh dear no!" said Phillis. "I have not yet learned to read. Mr. Dyson
said that ladies ought not to learn reading till they are of an age
when acquiring that mischievous art cannot hurt themselves or their
fellow-creatures."

Phillis said this with an air of superior wisdom, as if there could be
no disputing the axiom.

Humphrey looked oceans of sympathy at Cornelius, who took out his
handkerchief as if to wipe away a tear, but as none was in readiness
he only sighed.

"You were taught other things, however?" Joseph asked.

"Yes; I learned to play. My master came twice a week, and I can play
pretty well; I play either by ear or by memory. You see," she added
simply, "I never forget anything that I am told."

Compensation of civilised nature. We read, and memory suffers. Those
who do not read remember. Before wandering minstrels learned to read
and write, the whole Iliad was handed down on men's tongues; there are
Brahmins who repeat all their Sacred Books word for word without slip
or error, and have never learned to read; there are men at Oxford who
can tell you the winners of Events for a fabulous period, and yet get
plucked for Greats because, as they will tell you themselves, they
really cannot read. Phillis did not know how to read. But she
remembered--remembered everything; could repeat a poem dictated twice
if it were a hundred lines long, and never forgot it; caught up an air
and learned how to play it at a sitting.

She could not read. All the world of fiction was lost to her. All the
fancies of poets were lost to her; all the records of folly and crime
which we call history were unknown to her.

Try to think what, and of what sort, would be the mind of a person,
otherwise cultivated, unable to read. In the first place, he would be
clear and dogmatic in his views, not having the means of comparison;
next, he would be dependent on oral teaching and rumor for his
information; he would have to store everything as soon as learned,
away in his mind to be lost altogether, unless he knew where to lay
his hand upon it; he would hear little of the outer world, and very
little would interest him beyond his own circle; he would be in the
enjoyment of all the luxuries of civilisation without understanding
how they got there; he would be like the Mohammedans when they came
into possession of Byzantium, in the midst of things unintelligible,
useful, and delightful.

"You will play to us after dinner, if you will be so kind," said
Joseph.

"Can it be, Miss Fleming," asked Humphrey, "that you never went
outside the house at all?"

"Oh no; I could ride in the paddock. It was a good large field and my
pony was clever at jumping; so I got on pretty well."

"Would it be too much to ask you how you managed to get through the
day?"

"Not at all," she replied; "it was very easy. I had a ride before
breakfast; gave Mr. Dyson his tea at ten; talked with him till twelve;
we always talked 'subjects,' you know, and had a regular course. When
we had done talking, he asked me questions. Then I probably had
another ride before luncheon. In the afternoon I played, looked after
my dress, and drew."

"You are, then, an Artist!" cried Humphrey enthusiastically.
"Cornelius, I saw from the first that Miss Fleming had the eye of an
Artist."

"I do not know about that; I can draw people. I will show you some of
my sketches, if you like, to-morrow. They are all heads and figures; I
shall draw all of you to-night before going to bed."

"And in the evening?"

"Mr. Dyson dined at seven. Sometimes he had one or two gentlemen to
dine with him; never any lady. When there was no one, we talked
'subjects' again."

Never any lady! Here was a young woman, rich, of good family,
handsome, and in her way accomplished, who had never seen or talked
with a lady, nor gone out of the house save into its gardens, since
she was a child.

Yet, in spite of all these disadvantages and the strangeness of her
position, she was perfectly self-possessed. When she left the table,
the two elder brethren addressed themselves to the bottle of Château
Mouton with more rapidity than was becoming the dignity of the wine.
Joseph almost immediately joined his ward. When the twins left the
dining-room with its empty decanters, and returned arm-in-arm to the
drawing-room, they found their younger brother in animated
conversation with the girl. Strange that Joseph should so far forget
his usual habits as not to go straight to his own room. The two bosoms
which heaved in a continual harmony with each other felt a
simultaneous pang of jealousy for which there was no occasion. Joseph
was only thinking of the Coping stone.

"Did I not feel it strange driving through the streets?" Phillis was
saying. "It is all so strange that I am bewildered--so strange and so
wonderful. I used to dream of what it was like; my maid told me
something about it; but I never guessed the reality. There are a
hundred things more than I can ever draw."

It was, as hinted above, the custom of this young person, as it was
that of the Mexicans, to make drawings of everything which occurred.
She was thus enabled to preserve a tolerably faithful record of her
life.

"Show me," said Joseph--"show me the heads of my brothers and myself,
that you promised to do, as soon as they are finished."

The brethren sat together on a sofa, the Poet in his favorite attitude
of meditation, forefinger on brow; the Artist with his eyes fixed on
the fire, catching the effects of colour. Their faces were just a
little flushed with the wine they had taken.

One after the other crossed the room and spoke to their guest.

Said Cornelius:

"You are watching my brother Humphrey. Study him, Miss Fleming; it
will repay you well to know that childlike and simple nature, innocent
of the world, and aglow with the flame of genius."

"I think I can draw him now," said Phillis, looking at the Artist as
hard as a turnkey taking Mr. Pickwick's portrait.

Then came Humphrey:

"I see your eyes turned upon my brother Cornelius. He is a great, a
noble fellow, Miss Fleming. Cultivate him, talk to him, learn from
him. You will be very glad some day to be able to boast that you have
met my brother Cornelius. To know him is a Privilege; to converse with
him is an Education."

"Come," said Joseph cheerfully, "where is the piano? This is a
bachelor's house, but there is a piano somewhere. Have you got it,
Cornelius?"

The Poet shook his head, with a soft sad smile.

"Nay," he said, "is a Workshop the place for music? Let us rather
search for it in the Realms of Art."

In fact it was in Mr. Humphrey's Studio, whither they repaired. The
girl sat down, and as she touched the keys her eyes lit up and her
whole look changed. Joseph was the only one of the three who really
cared for music. He stood by the fire and said nothing. The brethren
on either side of the performer displayed wonders of enthusiastic
admiration, each in his own way--the Poet sad and reflective, as if
music softened his soul; the Artist with an effervescing gaiety
delightful to behold. Joseph was thinking. "Can we"--had his thoughts
taken form of speech--"can we reconstruct from the girl's own account
the old man's scheme anew, provided the chapter on the Coping-stone be
never found? Problem given. A girl brought up in seclusion, without
intercourse with any of her sex except illiterate servants, yet bred
to be a lady: not allowed even to learn reading, but taught orally, so
as to hold her own in talk: required, to discover what the old man
meant by it, and what was wanted to finish the structure. Could it be
reading and writing? Could Abraham Dyson have intended to finish where
all other people begin?"

This solution mightily commended itself to Joseph, and he went to bed
in great good spirits at his own cleverness.

In the dead of night he awoke in fear and trembling.

"They will go into Chancery," he thought. "What if the Court refuses
to take my view?"

At three in the morning the brethren, long left alone with their
pipes, rose to go to bed.

Brandy-and-soda sometimes makes men truthful after the third tumbler,
and beguiles them with illusory hopes after the fourth. The twins were
at the end of their fourth.

"Cornelius," said the Artist, "she has £50,000."

"She has, brother Humphrey."

"It is a pity, Cornelius, that we, who have only £200 a year each, are
already fifty years of age."

"Humphrey, what age do we feel?"

"Thirty. Not a month more," replied the Artist, striking out with both
fists at an imaginary foe--probably old Time.

"Right. Not an hour above the thirty," said the Bard, smiting his
chest gently. "As for Joseph, he is too old----"

"Very much too old----"

"To think of marrying such a young----"

"Fresh and innocent----"

"Engaging and clever girl as Miss Phillis Fleming."

Did they, then, both intend to marry the young lady?




CHAPTER IV.

"To taste the freshness of the morning air."


Phillis retreated to her own room at her accustomed hour of ten. Her
nerves were excited; her brain was troubled with the events of this
day of emancipation. She was actually in the world, the great world of
which her guardian had told her, the world where history was made,
where wicked kings, as Mr. Dyson perpetually impressed upon her, made
war their play and the people their playthings. She was in the world
where all those things were done of which she had only heard as yet.
She had seen the streets of London, or some of them--those streets
along which had ridden the knights whose pictures she loved to draw,
the princesses and queens whose stories Mr. Dyson had taught her;
where the business of the world was carried on, and where there flowed
up and down the ceaseless stream of those whom necessity spurs to
action. As a matter of narrow fact, she had seen nothing but that part
of London which lies between Highgate Hill and Carnarvon Square; but
to her it seemed the City, the centre of all life, the heart of
civilisation. She regretted only that she had not been able to discern
the Tower of London. That might be, however, close to Mr. Jagenal's
house, and she would look for it in the morning.

What a day! She sat before her fire and tried to picture it all over
again. Horses, carriages, carts, and people rushing to and fro; shops
filled with the most wonderful exhibition of precious things;
eccentric people with pipes, who trundled carts piled with yellow
oranges; gentlemen in blue with helmets, who lounged negligently along
the streets; boys who ran and whistled; boys who ran and shouted; boys
who ran and sold papers; always boys--where were all the girls? Where
were they all going? and what were they all wishing to do?

In the evening the world appeared to narrow itself. It consisted of
dinner with three elderly gentlemen; one of whom was thoughtful about
herself, spoke kindly to her, and asked her about her past life; while
the other two--and here she laughed--talked unintelligently about Art
and themselves, and sometimes praised each other.

Then she opened her sketch-book and began to draw the portraits of her
new friends. And first she produced a faithful _effigies_ of the
twins. This took her nearly an hour to draw, but when finished it made
a pretty picture. The brethren stood with arms intertwined like two
children, with eyes gazing fondly into each other's and heads thrown
back, in the attitude of poetic and artistic meditation which they
mostly affected. A clever sketch, and she was more than satisfied when
she held it up to the light and looked at it, before placing it in her
portfolio.

"Mr. Humphrey said I had the eye of an artist," she murmured. "I
wonder what he will say when he sees this."

Then she drew the portrait of Joseph. This was easy. She drew him
sitting a little forward, playing with his watch-chain, looking at her
with deep grave eyes.

Then she closed her eyes and began to recall the endless moving
panorama of the London streets. But this she could not draw. There
came no image to her mind, only a series of blurred pictures running
into each other.

Then she closed her sketch-book, put up her pencils, and went to bed.
It was twelve o'clock. Joseph was still thinking over the terms of Mr.
Dyson's will and the chapter on the Coping-stone. The twins were
taking their third split soda--it was brotherly to divide a bottle,
and the mixture was less likely to be unfairly diluted.

Phillis went to bed, but she could not sleep. The steps of the
passers-by, the strange room, the excitement of the day kept her
awake. She was like some fair yacht suddenly launched from the dock
where she had grown slowly to her perfect shape, upon the waters of
the harbour, which she takes for the waters of the great ocean.

She looked round her bedroom in Carnarvon Square, and because it was
not Highgate, thought it must be the vast, shelterless and unpitying
world of which she had so often heard, and at thought of which, brave
as she was, she had so often shuddered.

It was nearly three when she fairly slept, and then she had a strange
dream. She thought that she was part of the great procession which
never ended all day long in the streets, only sometimes a little more
crowded and sometimes a little thinner. She pushed and hastened with
the rest. She would have liked to stay and examine the glittering
things exhibited--the gold and jewelry, the dainty cakes and delicate
fruits, the gorgeous dresses in the windows--but she could not. All
pushed on, and she with them; there had been no beginning of the rush,
and there seemed to be no end. Faces turned round and glared at
her--faces which she marked for a moment--they were the same which she
had seen in the morning; faces hard and faces hungry; faces cruel and
faces forbidding; faces that were bent on doing something
desperate--every kind of face except a sweet face. That is a rare
thing for a stranger to find in a London street. The soft sweet faces
belong to the country. She wondered why they all looked at her so
curiously. Perhaps because she was a stranger.

Presently there was a sort of hue and cry and everybody began running,
she with them. Oddly enough, they all ran after her. Why? Was that
also because she was a stranger? Only the younger men ran, but the
rest looked on. The twins, however were both running among the
pursuers. The women pointed and flouted at her; the older men nodded,
wagged their heads, and laughed. Faster they ran and faster she fled;
they distanced, she and her pursuers the crowd behind; they passed
beyond the streets and into country fields, where hedges took the
place of the brilliant windows; they were somehow back in the old
Highgate paddock which had been so long her only outer world. The
pursuers were reduced to three or four, among them, by some odd
chance, the twin brethren and as one, but who she could not tell,
caught up with her and laid his hand upon hers, and she could run no
longer and could resist no more, but fell, not with terror at all, but
rather a sense of relief and gladness, into a clutch which was like an
embrace of a lover for softness and strength, she saw in front of her
dead old Abraham Dyson, who clapped his hands and cried, "Well run,
well won! The Coping-stone, my Phillis, of your education!"

She woke with a start, and sat up looking round the room. Her dream
was so vivid that she saw the group before her very eyes in the
twilight--herself, with a figure, dim and undistinguishable in the
twilight, leaning over her; and a little distance off old Abraham
Dyson himself, standing, as she best remembered him, upright, and with
his hands upon his stick. He laughed and wagged his head and nodded it
as he said: "Well run, well won, my Phillis; it is the Coping-stone!"

This was a very remarkable dream for a young lady of nineteen. Had she
told it to Joseph Jagenal it might have led his thoughts into a new
channel.

She rubbed her eyes, and the vision disappeared. Then she laid her
head again upon the pillow, just a little frightened at her ghosts,
and presently dropped off to sleep.

This time she had no more dreams; but she awoke soon after it was
daybreak, being still unquiet in her new surroundings.

And now she remembered everything with a rush. She had left Highgate;
she was in Carnarvon Square; she was in Mr. Joseph Jagenal's house;
she had been introduced to two gentlemen, one of whom was said to have
a child-like nature all aglow with the flame of genius, while the
other was described as a great, a noble fellow, to know whom was a
Privilege and to converse with whom was an Education.

She laughed when she thought of the pair. Like Nebuchadnezzar, she had
forgotten her dream. Unlike that king, she did not care to recall it.

The past was gone. A new life was about to begin. And the April sun
was shining full upon her window-blinds.

Phillis sprang from her bed and tore open the curtains with eager
hand. Perhaps facing her might be the Tower of London. Perhaps the
Thames, the silver Thames, with London Bridge. Perhaps St. Paul's
Cathedral, "which Christopher Wren built in place of the old one
destroyed by the Great Fire." Phillis's facts in history were short
and decisive like the above.

No Tower of London at all. No St. Paul's Cathedral. No silver Thames.
Only a great square with houses all round. Carnarvon Square at dawn.
Not, perhaps, a fairy piece, but wonderful in its novelty to this
newly emancipated cloistered nun, with whom a vivid sense of the
beautiful had grown up by degrees in her mind, fed only in the
pictures supplied by the imagination. She knew the trees that grew in
Lord Manfield's park, beyond the paddock; she could catch in fine days
a glimpse of the vast city that stretches itself out from the feet of
breezy Highgate; she knew the flowers of her own garden; and for the
rest--she imagined it. River, lake, mountain, forest, and field, she
knew them only by talk with her guardian. And the mighty ocean she
knew because her French maid had crossed it when she quitted fair
Normandy, and told her again and again of the horrors encountered by
those who go down to the sea in ships.

So that a second garden was a new revelation. Besides it was bright
and pretty. There were the first flowers of spring, gay tulips and
pretty things, whose name she did not know or could not make out from
the window. The shrubs and trees were green with the first sweet
chlorine foliage of April, clear and fresh from the broken buds which
lay thick upon the ground, the tender leaflets as yet all unsullied by
the London smoke.

The pavement was deserted, because it was as yet too early for any
one, even a milk-boy, to be out. The only living person to be seen was
a gardener, already at work among the plants.

A great yearning came over her to be out in the open air and among the
flowers. At Highgate she rose at all hours; worked in the garden;
saddled and rode her pony in the field; and amused herself in a
thousand ways before the household rose, subject to no restraint or
law but one--that she was not to open the front-door, or venture
herself in the outer world.

"Mr. Jagenal said I was to do as I liked," she said, hesitating. "It
cannot be wrong to go out of the front-door now. Besides," reasoning
here like a casuist, "perhaps it is the back-door which leads to that
garden."

In a quarter of an hour she was ready. She was not one of those young
ladies who, because no one is looking at them, neglect their personal
appearance. On the contrary, she always dressed for herself;
therefore, she always dressed well.

This morning she wore a morning costume, all one colour, and I think
it was gray, but am not quite certain. It was in the graceful fashion
of last year, lying in long curved lines, and fitting closely to her
slender and tall figure. A black ribbon was tied round her neck, and
in her hat--the hats of last year did not suit every kind of face, but
they suited the face of Phillis Fleming--she wore one of those bright
little birds whose destruction for the purposes of fashion we all
deplore. In her hand she carried, as if she were still at Highgate and
going to saddle her pony, a small riding-whip. And thus she opened the
door, and slid down the stairs of the great silent house as stealthily
and almost as fearfully as the Lady Godiva on a certain memorable day.
It was a ghostly feeling which came over her when she ran across the
broad hall, and listened to the pattering of her own feet upon the
oilcloth. The broad daylight streamed through the _réverbère_; but yet
the place seemed only half lit up. The closed doors on either hand
looked as if dreadful things lurked behind them. With something like a
shudder she let down the door-chain, unbarred the bolts, and opened
the door. As she passed through she was aware of a great rush across
the hall behind her. It was Cæsar, the mastiff. Awakened by a noise as
of one burgling, he crept swiftly and silently up the kitchen-stairs,
with intent to do a desperate deed of valour, and found to his
rapturous joy that it was only the young lady, she who came the night
before, and that she was going out for an early morning walk--a thing
he, for his part, had not been permitted to do for many, many moons,
not since he had been brought--a puppy yet, and innocent--to the heart
of London.

No one out at all except themselves. What joy! Phillis shut the door
very carefully behind her, looked up and down the street, and then
running down the steps, seized the happy Cæsar by the paws and danced
round and round with him upon the pavement. Then they both ran a race.
She ran like Atalanta, but Cæsar led till the finish, when out of a
courtesy more than Castilian, he allowed himself to be beaten, and
Phillis won by a neck. This result pleased them both, and Phillis
discovered that her race had brought her quite to the end of one side
of the square. And then, looking about her, she perceived that a gate
of the garden was open, and went in, followed by Cæsar, now in the
seventh heaven. This was better, better, than leading a pair of twins
who sometimes tied knots with their legs. The gate was left open by
the under-gardener, who had arisen thus early in the morning with a
view to carrying off some of the finer tulips for himself. They raced
and chased each other up and down the gravel walks between the lilacs
and laburnums bursting into blossom. Presently they came to the
under-gardener himself, who was busy potting a selection of the
tulips. He stared as if at a ghost. Half-past five in the morning, and
a young lady, with a dog, looking at him!

He stiffened his upper lip, and put the spade before the flower-pots.

"Beg pardon, miss. No dogs allowed. On the rules, miss."

"William," she replied--for she was experienced in undergardeners,
knew that they always answer to the name of William, also that they
are exposed to peculiar temptations in the way of bulb--"William, for
whom you are potting those tulips?"

Then, because the poor youth's face was suffused and his countenance
was "unto himself for a betrayal," she whistled--actually whistled--to
Cæsar, and ran on laughing.

"Here's a rum start," said William. "A young lady as knows my name,
what I'm up to and all, coming here at five o clock in the blessed
morning when all young ladies as I ever heard of has got their noses
in their pillowses--else 'tain't no good being a young lady. Ketches
me a disposin' of the toolups. With a dawg, and whistles like a young
nobleman."

He began putting back the flowers.

"No knowin' who she mayn't tell, nor what she mayn't say. It's
dangerous, William."

By different roads, Montaigne wrote, we arrive at the same end.
William's choice of the path of virtue was in this case due to
Phillis's early visit.




CHAPTER V.

"Te duce Cæsar."


Tired of running, the girl began to walk. It was an April morning,
when the east wind for once had forgotten to blow. Walking, she
whistled one of the ditties that she knew. She had a very superior
mode of performing on that natural piccolo-flute, the human mouth; it
was a way of her own, not at all like the full round whistle of the
street-boy, with as much volume as in a bottle of '51 port, as full of
unmeaning sound as a later poem of Robert Browning's, and as
unmelodious as the instrument on which that poet has always played.
Quite the contrary. Phillis's whistle was of a curious delicacy and of
a bullfinch-like note, only more flexible. She trilled out an old
English ditty, "When Love was young," first simply, and then with
variations. Presently, forgetting that she was not in the old paddock,
she began to sing it in her fresh young voice, William the
under-gardener and Cæsar the dog her only audience. They were
differently affected. William grew sad, thinking of his sins. The dog
wagged his tail and rushed round and round the singer by way of
appreciation. Music saddens the guilty, but maketh glad those who are
clear of conscience.

It was half past six when she became aware that she was getting
hungry. In the old times it was easy to descend to the kitchen and
make what Indian people call a _chota hazri_, a little breakfast
for herself. Now she was not certain whether, supposing the servants
were about, her visit would be well received; or, supposing they were
not yet up, she should know where to find the kettle, the tea, and the
firewood.

She left the garden, followed by Cæsar, who was also growing hungry
after his morning walk, and resolved on going straight home.

There were two objections to this.

First, she did not know one house from another, and they were all
alike. Second, she did not know the number, and could not have read it
had she known it.

Mr. Jagenal's door was painted a dark brown; so were they all. Mr.
Jagenal's door had a knocker; so had they all. Could she go all round
the square knocking at every door, and waking up the people to ask if
Mr. Jagenal lived there? She knew little of the world, but it did
occur to her that it would seem unconventional for a young lady to
"knock in" at six in the morning. She did not, most unfortunately,
think of asking William the under-gardener.

She turned to the dog.

"Now, Cæsar," she said, "take me home."

Cæsar wagged his tail, nodded his head, and started off before her at
a smart walk, looking round now and then to see that his charge was
following.

"Lucky," said Phillis, "that I thought of the dog."

Cæsar proceeded with great solemnity to cross the road, and began to
march down the side of the square, Phillis expecting him to stop at
every house. But he did not. Arrived at the corner where Carnarvon
Street strikes off the square he turned aside, and looking round to
see that his convoy was steering the same course, he trudged sturdily
down that thoroughfare.

"This cannot be right," thought Phillis. But she was loath to leave
the dog, for to lose him would be to lose everything, and she
followed. Perhaps he knew of a back way. Perhaps he would take her for
a little walk, and show her the Tower of London.

Cæsar, no longer running and bounding around her, walked on with the
air of one who has an important business on hand, and means to carry
it through. Carnarvon Street is long, and of the half-dismal,
half-genteel order of Bloomsbury, Cæsar walked halfway down the
street. Then he suddenly came to a dead stop. It was in front of a
tavern, the Carnarvon Arms, the door of which, for it was an early
house, was already open, and the potboy was taking down the shutters.
The fact that the shutters were only half down made the dog at first
suspect that there was something wrong. The house, as he knew it,
always had the shutters down and the portals open. As, however, there
seemed no unlawfulness of licensed hours to consider, the dog marched
into the bar without so much as looking to see if Phillis was
following, and immediately lay down with his head on his paws.

"Why does he go in there?" said Phillis. "And what is the place?"

She pushed the door, which, as usual in such establishments, hung half
open by means of a leathern strap, and looked in. Nobody in the place
but Cæsar. She entered, and tried to understand where she was. A smell
of stale beer and stale tobacco hanging about the room smote her
senses, and made her sick and faint. She saw the bottles and glasses,
the taps and the counters, and she understood--she was in a
drinking-place, one of the wicked dens of which her guardian sometimes
spoke. She was in a tavern, that is, a place where workmen spend their
earnings and leave their families to starve. She looked round her with
curiosity and a little fear.

Presently she became aware of the early-risen potboy, who, having
taken down the shutters, was proceeding about his usual work behind
the bar, when his eyes fell upon the astonishing sight of a young
lady, a real young lady, as he saw at once, standing in the Bottle and
Jug department. He then observed the dog, and comprehended that she
was come there after Cæsar, and not for purposes of refreshment.

"Why, miss," he said, "Cæsar thinks he's out with the two gentlemen.
He brings them here regular, you see, every morning, and they takes
their little glass, don't they, Cæsar?"

Probably--thought watchful Phillis, anxious to learn,--probably a
custom of polite life which Mr. Dyson had neglected to teach her. And
yet he always spoke with such bitterness of public-houses.

"Will you take a drop of somethink, miss?" asked the polite assistant,
tapping the handles hospitably. "What shall it be?"

"I should like----" said Phillis.

"To be sure, it's full early," the man went on, "for a young lady and
all. But Lor' bless your 'art, it's never none too early for most,
when they've got the coin. Give it a name, miss, and there, the guvnor
he isn't hup, and we won't chalk it down to you, nor never ask you for
the money. On'y give it a name."

"Thank you very much," said Phillis. "I _should_ like to have a cup of
tea, if I could take it outside."

He shook his head, a gesture of disappointment.

"It can't be had here. Tea!"--as if he had thought better things of so
much beauty--"Tea! Swipes! After all, miss, it's your way, and no
doubt you don't know no better. There's a Early Caufy-'ouse a little
way up the street. You must find it for yourself, because the dawg he
don't know it; knows nothink about Tea, that dawg. You go out, miss,
and Cæsar he'll go to."

Phillis thanked him again for his attention, and followed his advice.
Cæsar instantly got up and sallied forth with her. Instead, however,
of returning to the square, he went straight on down Carnarvon Street,
still leading the way. Turning first to the right and then to the
left, he conducted Phillis through what seemed a labyrinth of streets.
These were mostly streets of private houses, not of the best, but
rather of the seediest. It was now nearly seven o'clock, and the signs
of life were apparent. The paper-boy was beginning, with the milk-man,
his rounds; the postman's foot was preparing for the first turn on his
daily treadmill of doorsteps and double knocks. The workmen, paid by
time, were strolling to their hours of idleness with bags of tools;
windows were thrown open here and there; and an early servant might be
seen rejoicing to bang her mats at the street-door. Phillis tried to
retain her faith in Cæsar, and followed obediently. It was easy to see
that the dog knew where he was going, and had a distinct purpose in
his mind. It was to be hoped, she thought, that his purpose included a
return home as soon as possible, because she was getting a little
tired.

Streets--always streets. Who were the people who lived in them all?
Could there be in every house the family life of which Mr. Dyson used
to tell her--the life she had never seen, but which he promised she
should one day see--the sweet life where father and mother and
children live together and share their joys and sorrows? She began to
look into the windows as she walked along, in the hope of catching a
hasty glance at so much of the family life as might be seen so early
in the morning.

She passed one house where the family were distinctly visible gathered
together in the front kitchen. She stopped and looked down through the
iron railings. The children were seated at the table. The mother was
engaged in some cooking operations at the fire. Were they about to
sing a hymn and to have family prayers before their breakfast? Not at
this house apparently, for the woman suddenly turned from her
occupation at the fire and, without any adequate motive that Phillis
could discern, began boxing the children's ears all round. Instantly
there arose a mighty cry from those alike who had already been boxed
and those who sat expectant of their turn. Evidently this was one of
the houses where the family life was not a complete success. The scene
jarred on Phillis, upsetting her pretty little Arcadian castle of
domestic happiness. She felt disappointed, and hurried on after her
conductor.

It is sad to relate that Cæsar presently entered another public-house.
This time Phillis went in after him with no hesitation at all. She
encountered the landlord in person, who greeted the dog, asked him
what he was doing so early, and then explained to Miss Fleming that he
was accustomed to call at the house every day about noon, accompanied
by two gentlemen, who had their little whack and then went away; and
that she only had to go through the form of coming and departing in
order to get Cæsar out too.

"Little whack," thought Phillis. "Little glass! What a lot of customs
and expressions I have to learn!"

For those interested in the sagacity of dogs, or in comparative
psychology, it may be noted as a remarkable thing that when Cæsar came
out of that second public-house he hesitated, as one struck suddenly
with a grievous doubt. Had he been doing right? He took a few steps in
advance, then he looked round and stopped, then he looked up and down
the street. Finally he came back to Phillis, and asked for
instructions with a wistful gaze.

Phillis turned round and said, "Home, Cæsar." Then, after barking
twice, Cæsar led the way back again with alacrity and renewed
confidence.

He not only led the way home, but he chose a short cut known only to
himself. Perhaps he thought his charge might be tired; perhaps he
wished to show her some further varieties of English life.

In the districts surrounding Bloomsbury are courts which few know
except the policeman; even that dauntless functionary is chary of
venturing himself into them, except in couples, and then he would
rather stay outside, if only out of respect to a playful custom, of
old standing, prevalent among the inhabitants. They keep flower-pots
on their first and second floors, and when a policeman passes through
the court they drop them over. If no one is hurt, there is no need of
an apology; if a constable receives the projectile on his head or
shoulder, it is a deplorable accident which those who have caused it
are the first to publicly lament. It was through a succession of these
courts that the dog led Phillis.

Those of the men who had work to do were by this time gone to do it.
Those who had none, together with those who felt strongly on the
subject of Adam's curse and therefore wished for none, stayed at home
and smoked pipes, leaning against the doorposts. The ideal heaven of
these noble Englishmen is for ever to lean against doorposts and for
ever to smoke pipes in a land where it is always balmy morning, and
where there are "houses" handy into which they can slouch from time to
time for a drink.

The ladies, their consorts, were mostly engaged in such household
occupations as could be carried on out of doors and within
conversation reach of each other. The court was therefore musical with
sweet feminine voices.

The children played together--no officer of the London School Board
having yet ventured to face those awful flower-pots--in a continuous
stream along the central line of the courts. Phillis observed that the
same game was universal, and that the players were apparently all of
the same age.

She also remarked a few things which struck her as worth noting. The
language of the men differed considerably from that used by Mr. Dyson,
and their pronunciation seemed to her to lack delicacy. The difference
most prominent at first was the employment of a single adjective to
qualify everything--an observance so universal as to arrest at once
the attention of a stranger. The women, it was also apparent, were all
engaged in singing together a kind of chorus of lamentation, in
irregular strophe and antistrophe, on the wicked ways of their men.

Rough as were the natives of this place, no one molested Phillis. The
men stared at her and exchanged criticisms on her personal appearance.
These were complimentary, although not poetically expressed. The women
stared harder, but said nothing until she had passed by. Then they
made remarks which would have been unpleasant had they been audible.
The children alone took no notice of her. The immunity from insult
which belongs to young ladies in English thoroughfares depends, I
fear, more upon force of public opinion than upon individual chivalry.
Una could trust herself alone with her lion: she can only trust
herself among the roughs of London when they are congregated in
numbers. Nor, I think, the spectacle of goodness and purity, combined
with beauty, produce in their rude breasts, by comparison with
themselves, those feelings of shame, opening up the way to repentance,
which are expected by self-conscious maidens ministering in the paths
of Dorcas.

Phillis walked along with steadfast eyes, watching everything and
afraid of nothing, because she knew of no cause for fear. The dog,
decreasing the distance between them, marched a few feet in advance,
right through the middle of the children, who fell back and formed a
lane for them to pass. Once Phillis stopped to look at a child--a
great-eyed, soft-faced, curly-haired, beautiful boy. She spoke to him,
asked him his name, held out her hand to him. The fathers and the
mothers looked on and watched for the result, which would probably
take the form of coin.

The boy prefaced his reply with an oath of great fulness and rich
flavour. Phillis had never heard the phrase before, but it sounded
unmusically on her ear. Then he held out his hand and demanded a
copper. The watchful parents and guardians on the door-steps murmured
approval, and all the children shouted together like the men of
Ephesus.

At this juncture Cæsar looked round. He mastered the situation in a
moment, surrounded and isolated his convoy by a rapid movement almost
simultaneous in flank and rear; barked angrily at the children, who
threatened to close in _en masse_ and make short work of poor Phillis;
and gave her clearly to understand once for all that she was to follow
him with silent and unquestioning docility.

She obeyed, and they came out of the courts and into the squares.
Phillis began to hope that the Tower of London would presently heave
in sight, or at least the silver Thames with London Bridge; but they
did not.

She was very tired by this time. It was nearly eight, and she had been
up and out since five. Even her vigorous young limbs were beginning to
feel dragged by her three hours' ramble. Quite suddenly Cæsar turned a
corner, as it seemed, and she found herself once more in Carnarvon
Square. The dog, feeling that he had done enough for reputation,
walked soberly along the pavement, until he came to No. 15, when he
ascended the steps and sat down.

The door was open, Jane the housemaid assiduously polishing the
bell-handles.

"Lor' a mercy, miss!" she cried, "I thought you was a-bed and asleep.
Wherever have you a-bin--with Cæsar too?"

"We went for a walk and lost ourselves," Phillis replied. "Jane, I am
very hungry; what time is breakfast?"

"The master has his at eight, miss. But Mr. Cornelius he told me
yesterday that you would breakfast with him and Mr. Humphrey--about
eleven, he said. And Mr. Humphrey thought you'd like a little fresh
fish and a prawn curry, perhaps."

"I shall breakfast with Mr. Joseph," said Phillis.

She went to her room in a little temper. It was too bad to be treated
like a child wanting nice things for breakfast. A little more
experience taught her that any culinary forethought on the part of the
Twins was quite sure to be so directed as to secure their own
favourite dishes.

She did breakfast with Joseph: made tea for him, told him all about
her morning adventures, received his admonitions in good part, and
sent him to his office half an hour later than usual. One of his
letters bore an American stamp. This he opened, putting the rest in a
leather pocket-book.

"This letter concerns you, Miss Fleming," he apologised, in an
old-fashioned way; "that is why I opened it before you. It comes from
your remaining guardian, Mr. Lawrence Colquhoun. Listen to what he
says. He writes from New York; 'I am sorry to hear that my old friend
Abraham Dyson is gone. I shall be ready to assume my new
responsibilities in a fortnight after you receive this letter, as I
hope to land in that time at Liverpool. Meantime give my kindest
regards to my ward.' So--Lawrence Colquhoun home again!"

"Tell me about him: is he grave and old, like Mr. Dyson? Will he want
me to go back to the old life and talk 'subjects'? Mr. Jagenal, much
as I loved my dear old guardian, I _could_ not consent to be shut
up any more."

"You will not be asked, my dear young lady. Mr. Colquhoun is a man
under forty. He is neither old nor grave. He was in the army with your
father. He sold out seven or eight years ago, spent a year or two
about London, and then disappeared. I am his lawyer, and from time to
time he used to send me his address and draw on me for money. That is
all I can tell you of his travels. Lawrence Colquhoun, Miss Fleming,
was a popular man. Everybody liked him; especially the--the fair sex."

"Was he very clever?"

"N-no; I should say _not_ very clever. Not stupid. And, now one
thinks of it, it is remarkable that he never was known to excel in
anything, though he hunted, rode, shot, and did, I suppose, all the
other things that young men in the army are fond of. He was fond of
reading too, and had a considerable fund of information; but he never
excelled in anything."

Phillis shook her head.

"Mr. Dyson used to say that the people we like best are the people who
are in our own line and have acknowledged their own inferiority to
ourselves. Perhaps the reason why Mr. Colquhoun was liked was that he
did not compete with the men who wished to excel, but contentedly took
a second place."

This was one of the bits of Dysonian philosophy with which Phillis
occasionally graced her conversation, quoting it as reverently as if
it had been a line from Shakespeare, sometimes with startling effect.

"I shall try to like him. I am past nineteen, and at twenty-one I
shall be my own mistress. If I do not like him, I shall not live with
him any longer after that."

"I think you will not, in any case, live at Mr. Colquhoun's
residence," said Joseph; "but I am sure you will like him."

"A fortnight to wait."

"You must not be shy of him," Joseph went on; "you have nothing to be
afraid of. Think highly of yourself, to begin with."

"I do," said Phillis; "Mr. Dyson always tried to make me think highly
of myself. He told me my education was better than that of any girl he
knew. Of course that was partly his kind way of encouraging me. Mr.
Dyson said that shyness was a kind of cowardice, or else a kind of
vanity. People who are afraid of other people, he said, either
mistrust themselves or think they are not rated at their true value.
But I think I am not at all afraid of strangers. Do I look like being
afraid?" She drew herself up to her full height and smiled a conscious
superiority. "Perhaps you will think that I rate myself too highly."

"That," said Joseph, with a compliment really creditable for a
beginner,--"that would be difficult, Miss. Fleming."

When the Twins prepared to take their morning walk at twelve an
unexpected event happened. Cæsar, for the first time on record, and
for no reason apparent or assigned, refused to accompany them. They
went out without him, feeling lonely, unhappy, and a little
unprotected. They passed the Carnarvon Arms without a word. At the
next halting-place they entered the bar in silence, glancing guiltily
at each other. Could it be that the passion for drink, divested of its
usual trappings of pretence, presented itself suddenly to the brethren
in its horrid ugliness? They came out with shame-faced looks, and
returned home earlier than usual. They were perfectly sober, and
separated without the usual cheery allusions to Work. Perhaps the
conscience was touched, for when Jane took up their tea she found the
Poet in his Workshop sitting at the table, and the Artist in his
Studio standing at his easel. Before the one was a blank sheet of
paper; before the other was a blank canvas. Both were fractious, and
both found fault with the tea. After dinner they took a bottle of
port, which Humphrey said, they really felt to want.




CHAPTER VI.

                        "I do not know
    One of my sex; no woman's face remember
    Save, from my glass, mine own."


In the afternoon Phillis, who was "writing up" her diary after the
manner of the ancient Aztec, received a visitor. For the first time in
her life the girl found herself face to face with--a lady. Men she
knew--chiefly men of advanced age; they came to dine with Abraham
Dyson. Women-servants she knew, for she had a French maid--imported
too young to be mischievous; and there had been a cook at Highgate,
with two or three maids. Not one of these virgins possessed the art of
reading, or they would never have been engaged by Mr. Dyson. Nor was
she encouraged by her guardian to talk with them. Also she knew that
in the fulness of time she was to be somehow transferred from the
exclusive society of men to that in which the leading part would be
taken by ladies--women brought up delicately like herself, but not
all, unhappily, on the same sound fundamental principle of oral
teaching.

Among the loose odds and ends which remained in Mr. Dyson's
portfolios, and where lay all that Joseph Jagenal could ever find to
help in completing his great system of education, was the following
scrap:--

"Women brought up with women are hindered in their perfect
development. Let the girls be separated from the society of their sex,
and be educated mostly among men. In this way the receptivity of the
feminine mind may be turned to best account in the acquirement of
robust masculine ideas. Every girl may become a mother; let her
therefore sit among men and listen."

Perhaps this deprivation of the society of her own sex was a greater
loss to Phillis than her ignorance of reading. Consider what it
entailed. She grew up without the most rudimentary notions of the
great art of flirtation; she had never even heard of looking out for
an establishment; she had no idea of considering every young man as a
possible husband; she had, indeed, no glimmerings, not the faintest
streak of dawning twilight in the matter of love; while as for
angling, hooking a big fish and landing him, she was no better than a
heathen Hottentot. This was the most important loss, but there were
others; she knew how to dress, partly by instinct, partly by looking
at pictures; but she knew nothing about Making-up. Nature, which gave
her the figure of Hebe, made this loss insignificant to her, though it
is perhaps the opinion of Mr. Worth that there is no figure so good
but Art can improve it. But not to _know_ about Making-up is, for
a woman, to lose a large part of useful sympathy for other women.

Again, she knew nothing of the way in which girls pour little
confidences, all about trifles, into each other's ears; she had not
cultivated that intelligence which girls can only learn from each
other, and which enables them to communicate volumes with a
half-lifted eyelid; she had a man's way of saying out what she
thought, and even, so far as her dogmatic training permitted, of
thinking for herself. She did not understand the mystery with which
women enwrap themselves, partly working on the imagination of youth,
and partly through their love of secluded talk--a remnant of barbaric
times, and a proof of the subjection of the sex, the _frou-frou_
of life was lost to her. And being without mystery, with the art of
flirtation, with nothing to hide and no object to gain, Phillis was
entirely free from the great vice into which women of the weaker
nature are apt to fall--she was perfectly and wholly truthful.

And now she was about to make acquaintance for the first time with a
lady--one of her own sex and of her own station.

I suppose Phillis must have preserved the characteristic instincts of
her womanhood, despite her extraordinary training, because the first
thing she observed was that her visitor was dressed in a style quite
beyond her power of conception and imperfect taste. So she generalised
from an individual case, and jumped at the notion that here was a very
superior woman indeed.

The superiority was in the "young person" at Melton and Mowbray's, who
designed the dress; but that Phillis did not know.

A more remarkable point with Mrs. Cassilis, Phillis's visitor, than
her dress was her face. It was so regular as to be faultless. It might
have been modelled, and so have served for a statue. It was also as
cold as a face of marble. Men have prayed--men who have fallen into
feminine traps--to be delivered from every species of woman except the
cold woman; even King Solomon, who had great opportunities, including
long life, of studying the sex, mentions her not; and yet I think that
she is the worst of all. Lord, give us tender-hearted wives! When we
carve our ideal woman in marble, we do not generally choose the wise
Minerva nor the chaste Diana, but Venus, soft-eyed, lissom,
tender--and generally true.

Mrs. Cassilis called. As she entered the room she saw a tall and
beautiful girl, with eyes of a deep brown, who rose to greet her with
a little timidity. She was taken by surprise. She expected to find a
rough and rather vulgar young woman, of no style and unformed manners.
She saw before her a girl whose attitude spoke unmistakably of
delicacy and culture. Whatever else Miss Fleming might be, she was
clearly a lady. That was immediately apparent, and Mrs. Cassilis was
not likely to make a mistake on a point of such vital importance. A
young lady of graceful figure, most attractive face, and, which was
all the more astonishing, considering her education, perfectly
dressed. Phillis, in fact, was attired in the same simple morning
costume in which she had taken her early morning walk. On the table
before her were her sketch-book and her pencils.

Mrs. Cassilis was dressed, for her part, in robes which it had taken
the highest talent of Regent Street to produce. Her age was about
thirty. Her cold face shone for a moment with the wintery light of a
forced smile, but her eyes did not soften, as she took Phillis's hand.

Phillis's pulse beat a little faster, in spite of her courage.

Art face to face with Nature. The girl just as she left her nunnery,
ignorant of mankind, before the perfect woman of the world. They
looked curiously in each other's eyes. Now the first lesson taught by
the world is the way to dissemble. Mrs. Cassilis said to herself,
"Here is a splendid girl. She is not what I expected to see. This is a
girl to cultivate and bring out--a girl to do one credit." But she
said aloud--

"Miss Fleming? I am sure it is. You are _exactly_ the sort of a girl I
expected."

Then she sat down and looked at her comfortably.

"I am the wife of your late guardian's nephew--Mr. Gabriel Cassilis.
You have never met him yet; but I hope you will very soon make his
acquaintance."

"Thank you," said Phillis simply.

"We used to think, until Mr. Dyson died and his preposterous will was
read, that his eccentric behaviour was partly your fault. But when we
found that he had left you nothing, of course we felt that we had done
you an involuntary wrong. And the will was made when you were a mere
child, and could have no voice or wish in the matter."

"I had plenty of money," said Phillis; "why should poor Mr. Dyson want
to leave me any more?"

Quite untaught. As if any one could have too much money!

"Forty thousand pounds a year! and all going to Female education. Not
respectable Female education. If it had been left to Girton College,
or even to finding bread-and-butter, with the Catechism and
Contentment, for charity girls in poke bonnets, it would have been
less dreadful. But to bring up young ladies as you were brought up, my
poor Miss Fleming----"

"Am I not respectable?" asked Phillis, as humbly as a West Indian
nigger before emancipation asking if he was not a man and a brother.

"My dear child, I hear you cannot even read and write."

"That is quite true."

"But everybody learns to read and write. All the Sunday school
children even know how to read and write."

"Perhaps that is a misfortune for the Sunday school children," Phillis
calmly observed; "it would very likely be better for the Sunday school
children were they taught more useful things." Here Phillis was
plagiarising--using Mr. Dyson's own words.

"At least every one in society knows them. Miss Fleming, I am ten
years older than you, and, if you will only trust me, I will give you
such advice and assistance as I can."

"You are very kind," said Phillis, with a little distrust, of which
she was ashamed. "I know that I must be very ignorant, because I have
already seen so much, that I never suspected before. If you will only
tell me of my deficiencies I will try to repair them. And I can learn
reading and writing any time, you know, if it is at all necessary."

"Then let us consider. My poor girl, I fear you have to learn the very
rudiments of society. Of course you are quite ignorant of things that
people talk about. Books are out of the question. Music and concerts;
art and pictures; china--perhaps Mr. Dyson collected?"

"No."

"A pity. China would be a great help; the opera and theatres; balls
and dancing; the rink----"

"What is the rink?" asked Phillis.

"The latest addition to the arts of flirtation and killing time.
Perhaps you can fall back upon Church matters. Are you a Ritualist?"

"What is that?"

"My dear girl"--Mrs. Cassilis looked unutterable horror as a thought
struck her--"did you actually never go to church?"

"No. Mr. Dyson used to read prayers every day. Why should people go to
church when they pray?"

"Why? why? Because people in society all go; because you must set an
example to the lower orders. Dear me! It is very shocking! and girls
are all expected to take such an interest in religion. But the first
thing is to learn reading."

She had been carrying a little box in her hands all this time, which
she now placed on the table and opened. It contained small wooden
squares, with gaudy pictures pasted on them.

"This is a Pictorial Alphabet: an introduction to all education. Let
me show you how to use it. What is this?"

She held up one square.

"It is a very bad picture, abominably coloured, of a hatchet or a
kitchen chopper."

"An axe, my dear--A, x, e. The initial letter A is below in its two
forms. And this?"

"That is worse. I suppose it is meant for a cow. What a cow!"

"Bull, my dear--B, u, l, l, bull. The initial B is below."

"And is this," asked Phillis, with great contempt, "the way to learn
reading? A kitchen chopper stands for A, and a cow with her legs out
of drawing stands for B. Unless I can draw my cows for myself, Mrs.
Cassilis, I shall not try to learn reading."

"You can draw, then?"

"I draw a little," said Phillis. "Not so well, of course, as girls
brought up respectably."

"Pardon me, my dear Miss Fleming, if I say that sarcasm is not
considered good style. It fails to attract."

Good style, thought Phillis, means talking so as to attract.

"Do let me draw you," said Phillis. Her temper was not faultless, and
it was rising by degrees, so that she wanted the relief of silence.
"Do let me draw you as you sit there."

She did not wait for permission, but sketched in a few moments a
profile portrait of her visitor, in which somehow the face, perfectly
rendered in its coldness and strength, was without the look which its
owner always thought was there--the look which invites sympathy. The
real unsympathetic nature, caught in a moment by some subtle artist's
touch, was there instead. Mrs. Cassilis looked at it, and an angry
flush crossed her face, which Phillis, wondering why, noted.

"You caricature extremely well. I congratulate you on that power, but
it is a dangerous accomplishment--even more dangerous than the
practice of sarcasm. The girl who indulges in the latter at most fails
to attract; but the caricaturist repels."

"Oh!" said Phillis, innocent of any attempt to caricature, but trying
to assimilate this strange dogmatic teaching.

"We must always remember that the most useful weapons in a girl's
hands are those of submission, faith and reverence. Men hate--they
hate and detest--women who think for themselves. They positively
loathe the woman who dares turn them into ridicule."

She looked as if she could be one of the few who possess that daring.

"Fortunately," she went on, "such women are rare. Even among the
strong-minded crew, the shrieking sisterhood, most of them are obliged
to worship some man or other of their own school."

"I don't understand. Pardon me, Mrs. Cassilis, that I am so stupid. I
say what I think, and you tell me I am sarcastic."

"Girls in society never say what they think. They assent, or at best
ask a question timidly."

"And I make a little pencil sketch of you, and you tell me I am a
caricaturist."

"Girls who can draw must draw in the conventional manner recognised by
society. They do not draw likenesses; they copy flowers, and sometimes
draw angels and crosses. To please men they draw soldiers and horses."

"But why cannot girls draw what they please? And why must they try to
attract?"

Mrs. Cassilis looked at this most innocent of girls with misgiving.
_Could_ she be so ignorant as she seemed, or was she pretending.

"Why? Phillis Fleming, only ask me that question again in six months'
time if you dare."

Phillis shook her head; she was clearly out of her depth.

"Have you any other accomplishments?"

"I am afraid not. I can play a little. Mr. Dyson liked my playing; but
it is all from memory and from ear."

"Will you, if you do not mind, play something to me?"

Victoria Cassilis cared no more for music than the deaf adder which
hath no understanding. By dint of much teaching, however, she had
learned to execute creditably. The playing of Phillis, sweet,
spontaneous, and full of feeling, had no power to touch her heart.

"Ye-yes," she said, "that is the sort of playing which some young men
like: not those young men from Oxford who 'follow' Art, and pretend to
understand good music. You may see them asleep at afternoon recitals.
You must play at small parties only, Phillis. Can you sing?"

"I sing as I play," said Phillis, rising and shutting the piano. "That
is only, I suppose, for small parties." The colour came into her
cheeks, and her brown eyes brightened. She was accustomed to think
that her playing gave pleasure. Then she reproached herself for
ingratitude, and she asked pardon. "I am cross with myself for being
so deficient. Pray forgive me, Mrs. Cassilis. It is very kind of you
to take all this trouble."

"My dear, you are a hundred times better than I expected."

Phillis remembered what she had said ten minutes before, but was
silent.

"A hundred times better. Can you dance, my dear?"

"No. Antoinette tells me how she used to dance with the villagers when
she was a little girl at Yport."

"That can be easily learned. Do you ride?"

At any other time Phillis would have replied in the affirmative. Now
she only asserted a certain power of sticking on, acquired on
pony-back and in a paddock. Mrs. Cassilis sighed.

"After all, a few lessons will give you a becoming seat. Nothing so
useful as clever horsemanship. But how shall we disguise the fact that
you cannot read or write?"

"I shall not try to disguise it," Phillis cried, jealous of Mr.
Dyson's good name.

"Well, my dear, we come now to the most important question of all.
Where do you get your dresses?"

"O Mrs. Cassilis! do not say that my dresses are calculated to repel!"
cried poor Phillis, her spirit quite broken by this time. "Antoinette
and I made this one between us. Sometimes I ordered them at Highgate,
but I like my own best."

Mrs. Cassilis put up a pair of double eye-glasses, because they were
now arrived at a really critical stage of the catechism. There was
something in the simple dress which forced her admiration. It was
quite plain, and, compared with her own, as a daisy is to a dahlia.

"It is a very nice dress," she said critically. "Whether it is your
figure, or your own taste, or material, I do not know; but you are
dressed _perfectly_, Miss Fleming. No young lady could dress better."

Women meet on the common ground of dress. Phillis blushed with
pleasure. At all events, she and her critic had something on which
they could agree.

"I will come to-morrow morning, and we will examine your wardrobe
together, if you will allow me; and then we will go to Melton &
Mowbray's. And I will write to Mr. Jagenal, asking him to bring you to
dinner in the evening, if you will come."

"I should like it very much," said Phillis. "But you have made me a
little afraid."

"You need not be afraid at all. And it will be a very small party. Two
or three friends of my husband's, and two men who have just come home
and published a book, which is said to be clever. One is a brother of
Lord Isleworth, Mr. Ronald Dunquerque, and the other is a Captain
Ladds. You have only to listen and look interested."

"Then I will come. And it is very kind of you, Mrs. Cassilis,
especially since you do not like me."

That was quite true, but not a customary thing to be said. Phillis
perceived dislike in the tones of her visitor's voice, in her eyes, in
her manner. Did Mrs. Cassilis dislike her for her fresh and
unsophisticated nature, or for her beauty, or for the attractiveness
which breathed from every untaught look and gesture of the girl?
Swedenborg taught that the lower nature cannot love the nobler; that
the highest heavens are open to all who like to go there, but the
atmosphere is found congenial to very few.

"Not like you!" Mrs. Cassilis, hardly conscious of any dislike,
answered after her kind. "My dear, I hope we shall like each other
very much. Do not let fancies get into your pretty head. I shall try
to be your friend, if you will let me."

Again the wintry smile upon the lips, and the lifting of the cold
eyes, which smiled not.

But Phillis was deceived by the warmth of the words. She took her
visitor's hand and kissed it. The act was a homage to the woman of
superior knowledge.

"Oh yes," she murmured, "if you only will."

"I shall call you Phillis. My name is Victoria."

"And you will tell me more about girls in society."

"I will show you girls in society, which is a great deal better for
you," said Mrs. Cassilis.

"I looked at the girls I saw yesterday as we drove through the
streets. Some of them were walking like this." She had been standing
during most of this conversation, and now she began walking across the
room in that ungraceful pose of the body which was more affected last
year than at present. Ladies do occasionally have intervals of lunacy
in the matter of taste, but if you give them time they come round
again. Even crinolines went out at last, after the beauty of a whole
generation had been spoiled by them. "Then there were others, who
walked like this." She laid her head on one side, and affected a
languid air, which I have myself remarked as being prevalent in the
High Street of Islington. Now the way from Highgate to Carnarvon
Square lies through that thoroughfare. "Then there were the boys. I
never dreamed of such a lot of boys. And they were all whistling. This
was the tune."

She threw her head back, and began to whistle the popular song of last
spring. You know what it was. It came between the favourite air from
the _Fille de Madame Angot_ and that other sweet melody, "Tommy, make
room for your Uncle," and was called "Hold the Fort." It refreshed the
souls of Revivalists in Her Majesty's Theatre, and of all the
street-boys in this great Babylon.

Mrs. Cassilis positively shrieked:

"My dear, _dear_ DEAR girl," she cried, "you MUST not whistle!"

"Is it wrong to whistle?"

"Not morally wrong, I suppose. Girls never do anything morally wrong.
But it is far worse, Phillis, far worse; it is unspeakably vulgar."

"Oh," said Phillis, "I am so sorry!"

"And, my dear, one thing more. Do not cultivate the power of mimicry,
which you undoubtedly possess. Men are afraid of young ladies who can
imitate them. For actresses, authors, artists, and common people of
that sort, of course it does not matter. But for us it is different.
And now, Phillis, I must leave you till to-morrow. I have great hopes
of you. You have an excellent figure, a very pretty and attractive
face, winning eyes, and a taste in dress which only wants cultivation.
And that we will begin to-morrow at Melton and Mowbray's."

"Oh yes," said Phillis, clapping her hands, "that will be delightful!
I have never seen a shop yet."

"She has--never--seen--a Shop!" cried Mrs. Cassilis. "Child, it is
hard indeed to realise your Awful condition of mind. That a girl of
nineteen should be able to say that she has never seen a Shop! My
dear, your education has been absolutely unchristian. And poor Mr.
Dyson, I fear, cut off suddenly in his sins, without the chance of
repentance."




CHAPTER VII.

"Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear."


Joseph Jagenal and his charge were the last arrivals at Mrs.
Cassilis's dinner. It was not a large party. There were two ladies of
the conventional type, well dressed, well looking, and not
particularly interesting; with them their two husbands, young men of
an almost preternatural solemnity--such solemnity as sometimes results
from a too concentrated attention to the Money Market. They were there
as friends of Mr. Cassilis, whom they regarded with the reverence
justly due to success. They longed to speak to him privately on
investments, but did not dare. There were also two lions, newly
captured. Ladds, the "Dragoon" of the joint literary venture--"THE
LITTLE SPHERE, by the Dragoon and the Younger Son"--is standing
in that contemplative attitude by which hungry men, awaiting the
announcement of dinner, veil an indecent eagerness to begin. The
other, the "Younger Son," is talking to Mr. Cassilis.

Phillis remarked that the room was furnished in a manner quite beyond
anything she knew. Where would be the dingy old chairs, sofas, and
tables of Mr. Dyson's, or the solid splendour of Joseph Jagenal's
drawing-room, compared with the glories of decorative art which Mrs.
Cassilis had called to her aid? She had no time to make more than a
general survey as she went to greet her hostess.

Mrs. Cassilis, for her part, observed that Phillis was dressed
carefully, and was looking her best. She had on a simple white dress
of that soft stuff called, I think, Indian muslin, which falls in
graceful folds. A pale lavender sash relieved the monotony of the
white, and set off her shapely figure. Her hair, done up in the
simplest fashion, was adorned with a single white rose. Her cheeks
were a little flushed with excitement, but her eyes were steady.

Phillis stole a glance at the other ladies. They were dressed, she was
glad to observe, in the same style as herself, but not better. That
naturally raised her spirits.

Then Mrs. Cassilis introduced her husband.

When Phillis next day attempted to reproduce her impressions of the
evening, she had no difficulty in recording the likeness of Mr.
Gabriel Cassilis with great fidelity. He was exactly like old Time.

The long lean limbs, the pronounced features, the stooping figure, the
forelock which our enemy will _not_ allow us to take, the head, bald
save for that single ornamental curl and a fringe of gray hair over
the ears--all the attributes of Time were there except the scythe.
Perhaps he kept that at his office.

He was a very rich man. His house was in Kensington Palace Gardens, a
fact which speaks volumes; its furnishing was a miracle of modern art;
his paintings were undoubted; his portfolios of water-colours were
worth many thousands; and his horses were perfect.

He was a director of many companies--but you cannot live in Kensington
Palace Garden by directing companies and he had an office in the City
which consisted of three rooms. In the first were four or five clerks,
always writing; in the second was the secretary, always writing; in
the third was Mr. Gabriel Cassilis himself, always giving audience.

He married at sixty-three, because he wanted an establishment in his
old age. He was too old to expect love from a woman, and too young to
fall in love with a girl. He did not marry in order to make a pet of
his wife--indeed, he might as well have tried stroking a statue of
Minerva as petting Victoria Pengelley; and he made no secret of his
motive in proposing for the young lady. As delicately as possible he
urged that, though her family was good, her income was small; that it
is better to be rich and married than poor and single; and he offered,
if she consented to become his wife, to give her all that she could
wish for or ask on the material and artistic side of life.

Victoria Pengelley, on receipt of the offer, which was communicated by
a third person, her cousin, behaved very strangely. She first refused
absolutely; then she declared that she would have taken the man, but
that it was now impossible; then she retracted the last statement,
and, after a week of agitation, accepted the offer.

"And I must say, Victoria," said her cousin, "that you have made a
strange fuss about accepting an offer from one of the richest men in
London. He is elderly, it is true; but the difference between eight
and twenty and sixty lies mostly in the imagination. I will write to
Mr. Cassilis to-night."

Which she did, and they were married.

She trembled a great deal during the marriage ceremony. Mr. Cassilis
was pleased at this appearance of emotion, which he attributed to
causes quite remote from any thought in the lady's mind. "Calm to all
outward seeming," he said to himself, "Victoria is capable of the
deepest passion."

They had now been married between two and three years. They had one
child--a boy.

It is only to be added that Mr. Cassilis settled the sum of fifteen
thousand pounds upon the wedding-day on his wife, and that they lived
together in that perfect happiness which is to be expected from
well-bred people who marry without pretending to love each other.

Their dinners were beyond praise; the wine was incomparable; but their
evenings were a little frigid. A sense of cold splendour filled the
house--the child which belongs to new things and to new men.

The new man thirty years ago was loud, ostentatious, and vulgar. The
new man now--there are a great many more of them--is very often quiet,
unpretending, and well-bred. He understands art, and is a patron; he
enjoys the advantages which his wealth affords him; he knows how to
bear his riches with dignity and with reserve. The only objection to
him is that he wants to go where other men, who were new in the last
generation, go, and do what they do.

Mr. Cassilis welcomed Miss Fleming and Joseph Jagenal, and resumed his
conversation with Jack Dunquerque. That young man looked much the same
as when we saw him last on the slopes of the Sierra Nevada. His tall
figure had not filled out, but his slight moustache had just a little
increased in size. And now he looked a good deal bored.

"I have never, I confess," his host was saying, wielding a double
eye-glass instead of his scythe,--"I have never been attracted by the
manners and customs of uncivilised people. My sympathies cease, I
fear, where Banks end."

"You are only interested in the country of Lombardy?"

"Yes; very good: precisely so."

"Outside the pale of Banks men certainly carry their money about with
them----"

"Which prevents the accumulation of wealth, my dear sir. Civilisation
was born when men learned to confide in each other. Modern history
begins with the Fuggers, of whom you may have read."

"I assure you I never did," said Jack truthfully.

Then dinner was announced.

Phillis found herself on the right of Mr. Cassilis. Next to her sat
Captain Ladds. Mr. Dunquerque was at the opposite corner of the
table--he had given his arm to Mrs. Cassilis.

Mrs. Cassilis, Phillis saw, was watching her by occasional glances.
The girl felt a little anxious, but she was not awkward. After all,
she thought, the customs of society at a dinner-table cannot be very
different from those observed and taught her by Mr. Dyson. Perhaps her
manner of adjusting things was a little wanting in finish and
delicacy--too downright. Also, Mrs. Cassilis observed she made no
attempt to talk with Captain Ladds, her neighbour, but was, curiously
enough, deeply interested in the conversation of Mr. Cassilis.

Ladds was too young for Phillis, despite his five and thirty years.
Old men and greybeards she knew. Young men she did not know. She could
form no guess what line of talk would be adopted by a young man--one
who had a deep bass voice when he spoke, and attacked his dinner with
a vigour past understanding. Phillis was interested in him, and a
little afraid lest he should talk to her.

Others watched her too. Jack Dunquerque, his view a little intercepted
by the _épergne_, lifted furtive glances at the bright and pretty
girl at the other end of the table. Joseph Jagenal looked at her with
honest pride in the beauty of his ward.

They talked politics, but not in the way to which she was accustomed.
Mr. Dyson and his brother greybeards were like Cassandra, Elijah,
Jeremiah, and a good many prophets of the present day, inasmuch as the
more they discussed affairs the more they prophesied disaster. So that
Phillis had learned from them to regard the dreadful future with
terror. Every day seemed to make these sages more dismal. Phillis had
not yet learned that the older we get the wiser we grow, and the wiser
we grow the more we tremble; that those are most light-hearted who
know the least. At this table, politics were talked in a very
different manner; they laughed where the sages wagged their heads and
groaned; they even discussed, with a familiarity which seemed to drive
out anxiety, the favorite bugbear of her old politicians, the
continental supremacy of Germany.

The two young City men, who were as solemn as a pair of Home
Secretaries, listened to their host with an eager interest and
deference which the other two, who were not careful about investments,
did not imitate. Phillis observed the difference, and wondered what it
meant. Then Mr. Cassilis, as if he had communicated as many ideas
about Russia as he thought desirable, turned the conversation upon
travelling, in the interests of the Dragoon and the younger son.

"I suppose," he said, addressing Jack, "that in your travels among the
islanders you practised the primitive mode of Barter."

"We did; and they cheated us when they could. Which shows that they
have improved upon the primitive man. I suppose he was honest."

"I should think not," said the host. "The most honest classes in the
world are the richest. People who want to get things always have a
tendency to be dishonest. England is the most honest nation, because
it is the richest. France is the next. Germany, you see, which is a
poor country, yielded to the temptations of poverty and took
Sleswick-Holstein, Alsace and Lorraine. I believe that men began with
dishonesty."

"Adam, for example," said Ladds, "took what he ought not to have
taken."

"O Captain Ladds!" this was one of two ladies, she who had read up
the new book before coming to the dinner, and had so far an advantage
over the other--"that is just like one of the wicked things, the
delightfully wicked things, in the _Little Sphere_. Now we know which
of the two did the wicked things."

"It was the other man," said Ladds.

"Is it fair to ask," the lady went on, "how you wrote the book?"

She was one of those who, could she get the chance, would ask
Messieurs Erckmann and Chatrian themselves to furnish her with a list
of the paragraphs and the ideas due to each in their last novel.

Ladds looked as if the question was beyond his comprehension.

At last he answered slowly--

"Steel pen. The other man had a gold pen."

"No--no; I mean did you write one chapter and your collaborateur the
next, or how?"

"Let me think it over," replied Ladds, as if it were a conundrum.

Mrs. Cassilis came to the rescue.

"At all events," she said, "the great thing is that the book is a
success. I have not read it, but I hear there are many clever and
witty things in it. Also some wicked things. Of course, if you write
wickedness you are sure of an audience. I don't think, Mr.
Dunquerque," she added, with a smile, "that it is the business of
gentlemen to attack existing institutions."

Jack shook his head.

"It was not my writing. It was the other man. I did what I could to
tone him down."

"Have you read the immortal work?" Ladds asked his neighbour. He had
not spoken to her yet, but he had eyes in his head, and he was
gradually getting interested in the silent girl who sat beside him,
and listened with such rapt interest to the conversation.

This great and manifest interest was the only sign to show that
Phillis was not accustomed to dinners in society.

Ladds thought that she must be some shy maiden from the country--a
little "rustical" perhaps. He noticed now that her eyes were large and
bright, that her features were clear and delicate, that she was
looking at himself with a curious pity, as if, which was indeed the
case, she believed the statement about his having written the wicked
things. And then he wondered how so bright a girl had been able to
listen to the prosy dogmatics of Mr. Cassilis. Yet she had listened,
and with pleasure.

Phillis was at that stage in her worldly education when she would have
listened with pleasure to anybody--Mr. Moody, a lecture on astronomy,
a penny-reading, an amateur dramatic performance, or an essay in the
_Edinburgh_. For everything was new. She was like the blind man who
received his sight and saw men, like trees, walking. Every new face
was a new world; every fresh speaker was a new revelation. No one to
her was stupid, was a bore, was insincere, was spiteful, was envious,
or a humbug, because no one was known. To him who does not know, the
inflated india-rubber toy is as solid as a cannon-ball.

"I never read anything," said Phillis, with a half blush. Not that she
was ashamed of the fact, but she felt that it would have pleased
Captain Ladds had she read his book. "You see, I have never learned to
read."

"Oh!"

It was rather a facer to Ladds. Here was a young lady, not being a
Spaniard, or a Sicilian, or a Levantine, or a Mexican, or a
Paraguayan, or a Brazilian, or belonging to any country where such
things are possible, who boldly confessed that she could not read.
This in England; this in the year 1875; this in a country positively
rendered unpleasant by reason of its multitudinous School Boards and
the echoes of their wrangling!

Jack Dunquerque, in his place, heard the statement and looked up
involuntarily as if to see what manner of young lady this could be--a
gesture of surprise into which the incongruity of the thing startled
him. He caught her full face as she leaned a little forward, and his
glance rested for a moment on a cheek so fair that his spirits fell.
Beauty disarms the youthful squire, and arms him who has won his
spurs. I speak in an allegory.

Mrs. Cassilis heard it and was half amused, half angry.

Mr. Cassilis heard it, opened his mouth, as if to make some remark
about Mr. Dyson's method of education, but thought better of it.

The two ladies heard it and glanced at her curiously. Then they looked
at each other with the slightest uplifting of the eyebrow, which
meant, "Who on earth can she be?"

Mrs. Cassilis noted that too, and rejoiced, because she was going to
bring forward a girl who would make everybody jealous.

Ladds was the only one who spoke.

"That," he said feebly, "must be very jolly."

He began to wonder what could be the reason of this singular
educational omission. Perhaps she had a crooked back; could not sit up
to a desk, could not hold a book in her hand; but no, she was like
Petruchio's Kate:

    "Like the hazel twig.
    As straight and slender."

Perhaps her eyes were weak; but no, her eyes were sparkling with the
"right Promethean fire." Perhaps she was of weak intellect; but that
was ridiculous.

Then the lady who had read the book began to ask more questions. I do
not know anything more irritating than to be asked questions about
your own book.

"Will you tell us, Mr. Dunquerque, if the story of the bear-hunt is a
true one, or did you make it up?"

"We made up nothing. That story is perfectly true. And the man's name
was Beck."

"Curious," said Mr. Cassilis. "An American named Beck, Mr. Gilead P.
Beck, is in London now, and has been recommended to me. He is
extremely rich. I think, my dear, that you invited him to dinner
to-day?'

"Yes. He found he could not come at the last moment. He will be here
in the evening."

"Then you will see the very man," said Jack, "unless there is more
than one Gilead P. Beck, which is hardly likely."

"This man has practically an unlimited credit," said the host.

"And talks, I suppose, like, well, like the stage Americans, I
suppose," said his wife.

"You know," Jack explained, "that the stage American is all nonsense.
The educated American talks a great deal better than we do. He can
string his sentences together; we can only bark."

"Perhaps our bark is better than their bite," Ladds remarked.

"A man who has unlimited credit may talk as he pleases," said Mr.
Cassilis dogmatically.

The two solemn young men murmured assent.

"And he always did say that he was going to have luck. He carried
about a Golden Butterfly in a box."

"How deeply interesting!" replied the lady who had read the book. "And
is that other story true, that you found an English traveller living
all alone in a deserted city?"

"Quite true."

"Really. And who was it? Anybody one has met?"

"I do not know whether you have ever met him. His name is Lawrence
Colquhoun."

Mrs. Cassilis flushed suddenly, and then her pale face became paler.

"Lawrence Colquhoun, formerly of ours," said Ladds, looking at her.

Mrs. Cassilis read the look to ask what business it was of hers, and
why she changed colour at his name.

"Colquhoun!" she said softly. Then she raised her voice and addressed
her husband: "My dear, it is an old friend of mine of whom we are
speaking, Mr. Lawrence Colquhoun."

"Yes!" he had forgotten the name. "What did he do? I think I
remember----" He stopped, for he remembered to have heard his wife's
name in connection with this man. He felt a sudden pang of jealousy, a
quite new and rather curious sensation. It passed, but yet he rejoiced
that the man was out of England.

"He is my guardian," Phillis said to Ladds. "And you actually know
him? Will you tell me something about him presently?"

When the men followed, half an hour later, they found the four ladies
sitting in a large semi-circle round the fire. The centre of the space
so formed was occupied by a gentleman who held a cup of tea in one
hand and declaimed with the other. That is to say, he was speaking in
measured tones, and as if he were addressing a large room instead of
four ladies: and his right hand and arm performed a pump-handle
movement to assist and grace his delivery. He had a face so grave that
it seemed as if smiles were impossible; he was apparently about forty
years of age. Mrs. Cassilis was not listening much. She was
considering, as she looked at her visitor, how far he might be useful
to her evenings. Phillis was catching every word that fell from the
stranger's lips. Here was an experience quite new and startling. She
knew of America; Mr. Dyson, born not so very many years after the War
of Independence, and while the memory of its humiliations was fresh in
the mind of the nation, always thought and spoke of Americans as
England's hereditary and implacable enemies. Yet here was one of the
race talking amicably, and making no hostile demonstrations whatever.
So that another of her collection of early impressions evidently
needed reconsideration.

When he saw the group at the door, Mr. Gilead Beck--for it was
he--strode hastily across the room, and putting aside Mr. Cassilis,
seized Jack Dunquerque by the hand and wrung it for several moments.

"You have not forgotten me!" he said. "You remember that lucky shot?
You still think of that Grisly?"

"Of course I do," said Jack; "I shall never forget him."

"Nor shall I, sir; never." And then he went through the friendly
ceremony with Ladds.

"You are the other man, sir?"

"I always am the other man," said Ladds, for the second time that
evening. "How are you, Mr. Beck, and how is the Golden Butterfly?"

"That Inseck, captain, is a special instrument working under
Providence for my welfare. He slumbers at my hotel, the Langham, in a
fire-proof safe."

Then he seized Jack Dunquerque's arm, and led him to the circle round
the fire.

"Ladies, this young gentleman is my preserver. He saved my life. It is
owing to Mr. Dunquerque that Gilead P. Beck has the pleasure of being
in this drawing-room."

"O Mr. Dunquerque," said the lady who had read the book, "that is not
in the volume!"

"Clawed I should have been, mauled I should have been, rubbed out I
should have been, on that green and grassy spot, but for the crack of
Mr. Dunquerque's rifle. You will not believe me, ladies, but I thought
it was the crack of doom."

"It was a most charming, picturesque spot in which to be clawed," said
Jack, laughing. "You could not have selected a more delightful place
for the purpose."

"There air moments," said Mr. Beck, looking round the room solemnly,
and letting his eyes rest on Phillis, who gazed at him with an
excitement and interest she could hardly control--"there air moments
when the soul is dead to poetry. One of those moments is when you feel
the breath of a Grisly on your cheek. Even you, young lady, would, at
such a moment, lose your interest in the beauty of Nature."

Phillis started when he addressed her.

"Did he save your life?" she asked, with flashing eyes.

Jack Dunquerque blushed as this fair creature turned to him with looks
of such admiration and respect as the queen of the tournament bestowed
upon the victor of the fight. So Desdemona gazed upon the Moor when he
spake

            "Of most disastrous chances,
    Of moving accidents by flood and field."

Mrs. Cassilis affected a diversion by introducing her husband to Mr.
Beck.

"Mr. Cassilis, sir," he said, "I have a letter for you from one of our
most prominent bankers. And I called in the City this afternoon to
give it you. But I was unfortunate. Sir, I hope that we shall become
better acquainted. And I am proud, sir, I am proud of making the
acquaintance of a man who has the privilege of life partnership with
Mrs. Cassilis. That is a great privilege, sir, and I hope you value
it."

"Hum--yes; thank you, Mr. Beck," replied Mr. Cassilis, in a tone which
conveyed to the sharp-eared Phillis the idea that he thought
considerable value ought to be attached to the fact of having a life
partnership with _him_. "And how do you like our country?"

The worst of going to America, if you are an Englishman, or of
crossing to England, if you are an American is that you can never
escape that most searching and comprehensive question.

Said Mr. Gilead Beck:

"Well, sir, a dollar goes a long way in this country--especially in
cigars and drinks."

"In drinks!" Phillis listened. The other ladies shot glances at each
other.

"Phillis, my dear"--Mrs. Cassilis crossed the room and interrupted her
rapt attention--"let me introduce Mr. Ronald Dunquerque. Do you think
you could play something?"

She bowed to the young hero with sparkling eyes and rose to comply
with the invitation. He followed her to the piano. She played in that
sweet spontaneous manner which the women who have only been
_taught_ hear with despair; she touched the keys as if she loved
them and as if they understood her; she played one or two of the
"Songs without Words;" and then, starting a simple melody, she began
to sing, without being asked, a simple old ballad. Her tone was low at
first, because she did not know the room, not because she was afraid;
but it gradually rose as she felt her power, till the room filled with
the volumes of her rich contralto voice. Jack Dunquerque stood beside
her. She looked up in his face with eyes that smiled a welcome while
she went on singing.

"You told us you could not read," said the young man when she
finished.

"It is quite true, Mr. Dunquerque. I cannot."

"How, then, can you play and sing?"

"Oh, I play by ear and by memory. That is nothing wonderful."

"Won't you go on playing?"

She obeyed, talking in low, measured tones, in time with the air.

"I think you know my guardian, Mr. Lawrence Colquhoun. Will you tell
me all about him? I have never seen him yet."

This unprincipled young man saw his chance, and promptly seized the
opportunity.

"I should like to very much, but one cannot talk here before all these
people. If you will allow me to call to-morrow, I will gladly tell you
all I know about him."

"You had better come at luncheon-time," she replied, "and then I shall
be very glad to see you."

Mr. Abraham Dyson usually told his friends to come at luncheon-time,
so she could not be wrong. Also, she knew by this time that the Twins
were always asleep at two o'clock, so that she would be alone; and
it was pleasant to think of a talk, _sola cum solo_, with this
interesting specimen of newly-discovered humanity--a young man who had
actually saved another man's life.

"Is she an outrageous flirt?" thought Jack, "or is she deliciously and
wonderfully simple?"

On the way home he discussed the problem with Ladds.

"I don't care which it is," he concluded, "I must see her again.
Ladds, old man, I believe I could fall in love with that girl. 'Ask me
no more, for at a touch I yield.' Did you notice her, Tommy? Did you
see her sweet eyes--I must say she has the sweetest eyes in all the
world--looking with a pretty wonder at our quaint Yankee friend? Did
you see her trying to take an interest in the twaddle of old Cassilis?
Did you----"

"Have we eyes?" Ladds growled. "Is the heart at five and thirty a
log?"

"And her figure, tall and slender, lissom and _gracieuse_. And
her face, 'the silent war of lilies and of roses.' How I love the
brunette faces! They are never insipid."

"Do you remember the half-caste Spanish girl in Manilla?"

"Ladds, don't dare to mention that girl beside this adorable angel of
purity. I have found out her Christian name--it is Phillis--rhymes to
lilies; and am going to call at her house to-morrow--Carnarvon
Square."

"And I am going to have half an hour in the smoking-room," said Ladds,
as they arrived at the portals of the club.

"So am I," said Jack. "You know what Othello says of Desdemona:

                                  "'O thou weed,
    Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet
    That the sense aches at thee!'

"I mean Phillis Fleming, of course, not your confounded tobacco."




CHAPTER VIII.

"They say if money goes before, all ways do lie open."


"I call this kind, boys," said Mr. Gilead P. Beck, welcoming his
visitors, Captain Ladds and Jack Dunquerque; "I call this friendly. I
asked myself last night, 'Will those boys come to see me, or will they
let the ragged Yankee slide?' And here you are."

"Change," said Ladds the monosyllabic, looking round. "Gold looking
up?"

There is a certain suite of rooms in the Langham Hotel--there may be a
hundred such suites known to the travellers who have explored that
mighty hostelry--originally designed for foreign princes, ambassadors,
or those wandering kings whom our hospitality sends to an inn. The
suite occupied by Mr. Beck consisted of a large reception-room, a
smaller apartment occupied by himself, and a bedroom. The rooms were
furnished in supposed accordance with the tastes of their princely
occupants, that is to say, with solid magnificence. Mr. Beck had been
in England no more than a week, and as he had not yet begun to buy
anything, the rooms were without those splendid decorations of
pictures, plate, and objects of art generally, with which he
subsequently adorned them. They looked heavy and rather cheerless. A
fire was burning on the hearth, and Mr. Beck was standing before it
with an unlighted cigar in his lips. Apparently he had already
presented some letters of introduction, for there were a few cards of
invitation on the mantelshelf. He was dressed in a black frock-coat,
as a gentleman should be, and he wore it buttoned up, so that his tall
stature and thin figure were shown off to full advantage. He wore a
plain black ribbon by way of necktie, and was modest in the way of
studs. Jack Dunquerque noticed that he wore no jewelry of any kind,
which he thought unusual in a man of unlimited credit, a new man whose
fortune was not two years old. He was an unmistakable American. His
chin was now close shaven, and without the traditional tuft; but he
had the bright restless eye, the long spare form, the obstinately
straight hair, the thin flexible mouth with mobile lips, the
delicately shaped chin, and the long neck which seem points
characteristic with our Transatlantic brethren. His grave face lit up
with a smile of pleasure when he saw Jack Dunquerque. It was a
thoughtful face; it had lines in it, such as might have been caused by
the buffets of Fate; but his eyes were kindly. As for his speech, it
preserved the nasal drawl of his New England birthplace; he spoke
slowly, as if feeling for the right words, and his pronunciation was
that of a man sprung from the ranks. Let us say at once that we do not
attempt to reproduce by an affected spelling, save occasionally, the
Doric of the New England speech. He was a typical man of the Eastern
Estate--self-reliant, courageous, independent, somewhat prejudiced,
roughly educated, ready for any employment and ashamed of none, and
withal brave as an Elizabethan buccaneer, sensitive as a Victorian
lady, sympathetic as--as Henry Longfellow.

"There is change, sir"--he addressed himself to Ladds--"in most things
human. The high tides and the low tides keep us fresh. Else we should
be as stagnant as a Connecticut gospel-grinder in his village
location."

"This is high tide, I see," said Jack, laughing. "I hope that American
high tides last longer than ours."

"I am hopeful, Mr. Dunquerque, that they air of a more abiding
disposition. If you should be curious, gentlemen, to know my history
since I left you in San Francisco, I will tell you it from the
beginning. You remember that blessed inseck, the Golden Butterfly?"

"In the little box," said Ladds. "I asked you after his welfare last
night."

Jack began to blush.

"Before you begin," he interposed, "we ought to tell you that since we
came home we have written a book, we two, about our travels."

"Is that so?" asked Mr. Beck, with some natural reverence for the
author of a book.

"And we have put you into it, with an account of Empire City."

"Me--as I was--in rags and without even a gun?"

"Yes; not a flattering likeness, but a true one."

"And the lucky shot, is that there too?"

"Some of it is there," said Ladds. "Jack would not have the whole
story published. Looked ostentatious."

"Gentlemen, I shall buy that book. I shall take five hundred copies of
that book for my people in the Dominion. Just as I was, you say--no
boots but moccasins; not a dollar nor a cent; running for bare life
before a Grisly. Gentlemen, that book will raise me in the estimation
of my fellow-countrymen. And if you will allow me the privilege, I
shall say it was written by two friends of mine."

Jack breathed freely. He was afraid Mr. Beck might have resented the
intrusion of his ragged personality. An Englishman certainly would.
Mr. Beck seemed to think that the contrast between present broadcloth
and past rags reflected the highest credit on himself.

This part of the work, indeed, which the critics declared to be wildly
improbable, was the only portion read by Mr. Beck. And just as he
persisted in giving Jack the sole credit of his rescue--perhaps
because in his mental confusion he never even heard the second shot
which finished the bear--so he steadfastly regarded Jack as the sole
author of this stirring chapter, which was Ladd's masterpiece, and was
grateful accordingly.

"And now," he went on, "I must show you the critter himself, the
Golden Bug."

There was standing in a corner, where it would be least likely to
receive any rude shocks or collisions, a small heavy iron safe. This
he unlocked, and brought forth with great care a glass case which
exactly fitted the safe. The frame of the case was made of golden
rods; along the lower part of the front pane, in letters of gold, was
the legend:

    "If this Golden Butterfly fall and break,
    Farewell the Luck of Gilead P. Beck."

"Your poetry, Mr. Dunquerque," said Mr. Beck, pointing to the distich
with pride. "Your own composition, sir, and my motto."

Within the case was the Butterfly itself, but glorified. The bottom of
the glass box was a thick sheet of pure gold, on which was fixed a
rose, the leaves, flower, and stalk worked in dull gold. Not a fine
work of art, perhaps, but a reasonably good rose, as good as that
Papal rose they show in the Cluny Hotel. The Butterfly was poised upon
the rose by means of thin gold wire, which passed round the strip of
quartz which formed the body. The ends were firmly welded into the
leaves of the flower, and when the case was moved the insect vibrated
as if he was in reality alive.

"There! Look at it, gentlemen. That is the inseck which has made the
fortune of Gilead P. Beck."

He addressed himself to both, but his eye rested on Jack with a look
which showed that he regarded the young man with something more than
friendliness. The man who fired that shot, the young fellow who saved
him from a cruel death, was his David, the beloved of his soul.

Ladds looked at it curiously, as if expecting some manifestation of
the supernatural.

"Is it a medium?" he asked. "Does it rap, or answer questions, or tell
the card you are thinking of? Shall you exhibit the thing in the
Egyptian Hall as a freak of Nature?"

"No, sir, I shall not. But I will tell you what I did, if you will let
me replace him in his box, where he sits and works for Me. No harm
will come to him there, unless an airthquake happens. Sit down,
general, and you too, Mr. Dunquerque. Here is a box of cigars, which
ought to be good, and you will call for your own drink."

It was but twelve o'clock, and therefore early for revivers of any
sort. Finally, Mr. Beck ordered champagne.

"That drink," he said, "as you get it here, is a compound calculated
to inspirit Job in the thick of his misfortunes. But if there is any
other single thing you prefer, and it is to be had in this almighty
city, name that thing and you shall have it."

Then he began:

"I went off, after I left you, by the Pacific Railway--not the first
time I travelled up and down that line--and I landed in New York. Mr.
Colquhoun gave me a rig out, and you, sir,"--he nodded to Jack--"you,
sir, gave me the stamps to pay the ticket."

Jack, accused of this act of benevolence, naturally blushed a guilty
acknowledgment.

Mr. Gilead P. Beck made no reference to the gift either then or at any
subsequent period. Nor did he ever offer to repay it, even when he
discovered the slenderness of Jack's resources. That showed that he
was a sensitive and sympathetic man. To offer a small sum of money in
repayment of a free gift from an extraordinarily rich man to a very
poor one is not a delicate thing to do. Therefore this gentleman of
the backwoods abstained from doing it.

"New York City," he continued, "is not the village I should recommend
to a man without dollars in his pocket. London, where there is an
institootion, or a charity, or a hospital, or a workhouse, or a
hot-soup boiler in every street, is the city for that gentleman. Fiji,
p'r'aps, for one who has a yearning after bananas and black
civilisation. But not New York. No, gentlemen; if you go to New York,
let it be when you've made your pile, and not before. Then you will
find out that there air thirty theatres in the city, with lovely and
accomplished actresses in each, and you can walk into Delmonico's as
if the place belonged to you. But for men down on their luck, New York
is a cruel place.

"I left that city, and I made my way North. I wanted to see the old
folks I left behind long ago in Lexington; I found them dead, and I
was sorry. Then I went farther North. P'r'aps I was driven by the
yellow toy hanging at my back. Anyhow, it was only six weeks after I
left you that I found myself in the city of Limerick on Lake Ontario.

"You do not know the city of Limerick, I dare say. It was not famous,
nor was it pretty. In fact, gentlemen, it was the durndest misbegotten
location built around a swamp that ever called itself a city. There
were a few delooded farmers trying to persuade themselves that things
would look up; there were a few down-hearted settlers wondering why
they ever came there, and how they would get out again; and there were
a few log-houses in a row which called themselves a street.

"I got there, and I stayed there. Their carpenter was dead, and I am a
handy man; so I took his place. Then I made a few dollars doing chores
around."

"What are chores?"

"All sorts. The clocks were out of repair; the handles were coming off
the pails; the chairs were without legs; the pump-handle crank; the
very bell-rope in the meetin' house was broken. You never saw such a
helpless lot. I did not stay among them because I loved them, but
because I saw things."

"Ghosts?" asked Ladds, with an eye to the supernatural.

"No, sir. That was what they thought I saw when I went prowling around
by myself of an evening. They thought too that I was mad when I began
to buy the land. You could buy it for nothing; a dollar an acre; half
a dollar an acre; anything an acre. I've mended a cart-wheel for a
five-acre lot of swamp. They laughed at me. The children used to cry
out when I passed along, 'There goes mad Beck.' But I bought all I
could, and my only regret was that I couldn't buy up the hull
township--clear off men, women, and children, and start fresh. Some
more champagne, Mr. Dunquerque."

"What was the Golden Butterfly doing all this time?" asked Ladds.

"That faithful inseck, sir, was hanging around my neck, as when you
were first introduced to him. He was whisperin' and eggin' me on,
because he was bound to fulfil the old squaw's prophecy. Without my
knowing it, sir, that prodigy of the world, who is as alive as you are
at this moment, will go on whisperin' till such time as the rope's
played out and the smash comes. Then he'll be silent again."

He spoke with a solemn earnestness which impressed his hearers. They
looked at the fire-proof safe with a feeling that at any moment the
metallic insect might open the door, fly forth, and, after hovering
round the room, light at Mr. Beck's ear, and begin to whisper words of
counsel. Did not Mohammed have a pigeon? and did not Louis Napoleon at
Boulogne have an eagle? Why should not Mr. Beck have a butterfly.

"The citizens of Limerick, gentlemen, in that dismal part of Canada
where they bewail their miserable lives, air not a people who have
eyes to see, ears to hear, or brains to understand. I saw that they
were walking--no, sleeping--over fields of incalculable wealth, and
they never suspected. They smoked their pipes and ate their pork. But
they never saw and they never suspected. Between whiles they praised
the Lord for sending them a fool like me, something to talk about, and
somebody to laugh at. They wanted to know what was in the little box;
they sent children to peep in at my window of an evening and report
what I was doing. They reported that I was always doing the same
thing; always with a map of Limerick City and its picturesque and
interestin' suburbs, staking out the ground and reckoning up my acres.
That's what I did at night. And in the morning I looked about me, and
wondered where I should begin."

"What did you see when you looked about?"

"I saw, sir, a barren bog. If it had been a land as fertile as the
land of Canaan, that would not have made my heart to bound as it did
bound when I looked across that swamp; for I never was a tiller or a
lover of the soil. A barren bog it was. The barrenest, boggiest part
of it all was my claim; when the natives spoke of it they called it
Beck's Farm, and then the poor critturs squirmed in their chairs and
laughed. Yes, they laughed. Beck's Farm, they said. It was the only
thing they had to laugh about. Wal, up and down the face of that
almighty bog there ran creeks, and after rainy weather the water stood
about on the morasses. Plenty of water, but a curious thing, none of
it fit to drink. No living thing except man would set his lips to that
brackish, bad-smelling water. And that wasn't all; sometimes a thick
black slime rose to the surface of the marsh and lay there an inch
thick; sometimes you came upon patches of 'gum-beds,' as they called
them, where the ground was like tar, and smelt strong. That is what I
saw when I looked around, sir. And to think that those poor mean pork
raisers saw it all the same as I did and never suspected! Only cursed
the gifts of the Lord when they weren't laughing at Beck's Farm."

"And you found--what? Gold?"

"No. I found what I expected. And that was better than gold. Mind, I
say nothing against gold. Gold has made many a pretty little
fortune----"

"Little!"

"Little, sir. There's no big fortunes made out of gold. Though many a
pretty villa-location, with a tidy flower-garden up and down the
States, is built out of the gold-mines. Diamonds again. One or two men
likes the name of diamonds; but not many. There's the disadvantage
about gold and diamonds that you have to dig for them, and to dig
durned hard, and to dig by yourself mostly. Americans do not love
digging. Like the young gentleman in the parable, they cannot dig, and
to beg they air ashamed. It is the only occupation that they air
ashamed of. Then there's iron, and there's coals; but you've got to
dig for them. Lord! Lord! This great airth holds a hundred things
covered up for them who know how to look and do not mind digging. But,
gentlemen, the greatest gift the airth has to bestow she gave to
me--abundant, spontaneous, etarnal, without bottom, and free."

"And that is----"

"It is ILE."

Mr. Beck paused a moment. His face was lit with a real and genuine
enthusiasm, a pious appreciation of the choicer blessings of life;
those, namely, which enable a man to sit down and enjoy the proceeds
of other men's labour. No provision has been made in the prayer-book
of any Church for the expression of this kind of thankfulness. Yet
surely there ought to be somewhere a clause for the rich. No more
blissful repose can fall upon the soul than, after long years of
labour and failure, to sit down and enjoy the fruits of other men's
labour. A Form of Thanksgiving for publishers, managers of theatres,
owners of coal-mines, and such gentlemen as Mr. Gilead P. Beck, might
surely be introduced into our Ritual with advantage. It would
naturally be accompanied by incense.

"It is Ile, sir."

He opened another bottle of champagne and took a glass.

"Ile. Gold you have to dig, to pick, to wash. Gold means rheumatism
and a bent back. Ile flows, and you become suddenly rich. You make all
the loafers around fill your pails for you. And then your bankers tell
you how many millions of dollars you are worth."

"Millions!" repeated Jack. "The word sounds very rich and luxurious."

"It is so, sir. There's nothing like it in the Old Country. England is
a beautiful place, and London is a beautiful city. You've got many
blessin's in this beautiful city. If you haven't got Joe Tweed, you've
got----"

"Hush!" said Jack; "it's libellous to give names."

"And if you haven't got Erie stock and your whiskey-rings, you've got
your foreign bonds to take your surplus cash. No, gentlemen; London is
not, in some respects, much behind New York. But one thing this
country has not got, and that is--Ile.

"It is nearly a year since I made up my mind to begin my well. I
_knew_ it was there, because I'd been in Pennsylvania and learned
the signs; it was only the question whether I should strike it, and
where. The neighbours thought I was digging for water, and figured
around with their superior intellecks, because they were certain the
water would be brackish. Then they got tired of watching, and I worked
on. Boring a well is not quite the sort of work a man would select for
a pleasant and variegated occupation. I reckon it's monotonous; but I
worked on. I knew what was coming; I thought o' that Indian squaw, and
I always had my Golden Butterfly tied in a box at my back. I bored and
I bored. Day after day I bored. In that lonely miasmatic bog I bored
all day and best part of the night. For nothing came, and sometimes
qualms crossed my mind that perhaps there would never be anything. But
always there was the gummy mud, smelling of what I knew was below, to
lead me on.

"It was the ninth day, and noon. I had a shanty called the farmhouse,
about a hundred yards from my well. And there I was taking my dinner.
To you two young English aristocrats----"

"Ladds' Cocoa, the only perfect fragrance."

"Shut up, Ladds," growled Jack; "don't interrupt."

"I say, to you two young aristocrats a farmer's dinner in that
township would not sound luxurious. Mine consisted, on that day and
all days, of cold boiled pork and bread."

"Ah, yah!" said Jack Dunquerque, who had a proud stomach.

"Yes, sir, my own remark every day when I sat down to that simple
banquet. But when you are hungry you must eat, murmur though you will
for Egyptian flesh-pots. Cold pork was my dinner, with bread. And the
watter to wash it down with was brackish. In those days, gentlemen, I
said no grace. It didn't seem to me that the most straight-walking
Christian was expected to be more than tolerably thankful for cold
pork. My gratitude was so moderate that it wasn't worth offering."

"And while you were eating the pork," said Ladds, "the Golden
Butterfly flew down the shaft by himself, and struck oil of his own
accord."

"No, sir; for once you are wrong. That most beautiful creation of
Nature in her sweetest mood--she must have got up with the sun on a
fine summer morning--was reposing in his box round my neck as usual.
He did not go down the shaft at all. Nobody went down. But something
came up--up like a fountain, up like the bubbling over of the airth's
eternal teapot; a black muddy jet of stuff. Great sun! I think I see
it now."

He paused and sighed.

"It was nearly all Ile, pure and unadulterated, from the world's
workshop. Would you believe it, gentlemen? There were not enough
bar'ls, not by hundreds, in the neighbourhood all round Limerick City,
to catch that Ile. It flowed in a stream three feet down the creek; it
was carried away into the lake and lost; it ran free and uninterrupted
for three days and three nights. We saved what we could. The
neighbours brought their pails, their buckets, their basins, their
kettles; there was not a utensil of any kind that was not filled with
Ile, from the pig's trough to the child's pap-bowl. Not one. It ran
and it ran. When the first flow subsided we calculated that seven
million bar'ls had been wasted and lost. Seven millions! I am a
Christian man, and grateful to the Butterfly, but I sometimes repine
when I think of that wasted Ile. Every bar'l worth nine dollars at
least, and most likely ten. Sixty-three millions of dollars. Twelve
millions of pounds sterling lost in three days for want of a few
coopers. Did you ever think, Mr. Dunquerque, what you could do with
twelve millions sterling?"

"I never did," said Jack. "My imagination never got beyond thousands."

"With twelve millions I might have bought up the daily press of
England, and made you all republicans in a month. I might have made
the Panama Canal; I might have bought Palesteen and sent the Jews
back; I might have given America fifty ironclads; I might have put Don
Carlos on the throne of Spain. But it warn't to be. Providence wants
no rivals, meddling and messing. That was why the Ile ran away and was
lost while I ate the cold boiled pork. Perhaps it's an interestin'
fact that I never liked cold boiled pork before, and I have hated it
ever since.

"The great spurt subsided, and we went to work in earnest. That well
has continued to yield five hundred bar'ls daily. That is four
thousand five hundred dollars in my pocket every four and twenty
hours."

"Do you mean that your income is nine hundred pounds a day?" asked
Jack.

"I do, sir. You go your pile on that. It is more, but I do not know
how much more. Perhaps it's twice as much. There are wells of mine
sunk all over the place; the swamp is covered with Gilead P. Beck's
derricks. The township of Limerick has become the city of
Rockoleaville--my name, that was--and a virtuous and industrious
population are all engaged morning, noon, and night in fillin' my
pails. There's twenty-five bars, I believe, at this moment. There are
three meetin'-houses and two daily papers, and there air fifteen
lawyers."

"It seems better than Cocoa Nibs," said Ladds.

"But the oil may run dry."

"It _has_ run dry in Pennsylvania. That is so, and I do not deny
it. But Ile will not run dry in Rockoleaville. I have been thinking
over the geological problem, and I have solved it, all by myself."

"What is this world, gentlemen?"

"A round ball," said Jack, with the promptitude of a Board schoolboy
and the profundity of a Woolwich cadet.

"Sir, it is like a great orange. It has its outer rind, what they call
the crust. Get through that crust and what do you find?"

"More crust," replied Ladds, who was not a competition-wallah.

"Did you ever eat pumpkin-pie, sir?" Mr. Beck replied, _more
Socratico_, by asking another question. "And if you did, was your
pie all crust? Inside that pie, sir, was pumpkin, apple, and juice. So
inside the rind of the earth there may be all sorts of things: gold
and iron, lava, diamonds, coals; but the juice, the pie-juice, is Ile.
You tap the rind and you get the Ile. This Ile will run, I calculate,
for five thousand and fifty-two years, if they don't sinfully waste
it, at an annual consumption of eighteen million bar'ls. Now that's a
low estimate when you consider the progress of civilisation. When it
is all gone, perhaps before, this poor old airth will crack up like an
empty egg."

This was an entirely new view of geology, and it required time for Mr.
Beck's hearers to grasp the truth thus presented to their minds. They
were silent.

"At Rockoleaville," he went on, "I've got the pipe straight into the
middle of the pie, and right through the crust. There's no mistake
about that main shaft. Other mines may give out, but my Ile will run
for ever."

"Then we may congratulate you," said Jack, "on the possession of a
boundless fortune."

"You may, sir."

"And what do you intend to do?"

"For the present I shall stay in London. I like your great city. Here
I get invited to dinner and dancin', because I am an American and
rich. There they won't have a man who is not thoroughbred. Your friend
Mrs. Cassilis asks me to her house--a first-rater. A New York lady
turns up her pretty nose at a man who's struck Ile. 'Shoddy,' she
says, and then she takes no more notice. Shoddy it may be. Rough my
manners may be. But I don't pretend to anything, and the stamps air
real."

"We always thought ourselves exclusive," said Jack.

"Did you, sir? Wall----" He stopped, as if he had intended to say
something unpleasantly true. "I shall live in London for the present.
I've got a big income, and I don't rightly know what to do with it.
But I shall find out some time.

"That was a lovely young thing with Mrs. Cassilis the other night," he
went on meditatively. "A young thing that a man can worship for her
beauty while she is young, and her goodness all her life. Not like an
American gal. Ours are prettier, but they look as if they would blow
away. And their voices are not so full. Miss Fleming is flesh and
blood. Don't blush, Mr. Dunquerque, because it does you credit."

Jack did blush, and they took their departure.

"Mr. Dunquerque," whispered Gilead P. Beck when Ladds was through the
door, "think of what I told you; what is mine is yours. Remember that.
If I can do anything for you, let me know. And come to see me. It does
me good to look at your face. Come here as often as you can."

Jack laughed and escaped.




CHAPTER IX.

          "By my modesty,
The jewel in my dower, I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you."


Jack Dunquerque was no more remarkable for shrinking modesty than any
other British youth of his era; but he felt some little qualms as he
walked towards Bloomsbury the day after Mrs. Cassilis's dinner to
avail himself of Phillis's invitation.

Was it coquetry, or was it simplicity?

She said she would be glad to see him at luncheon. Who else would be
there?

Probably a Mrs. Jagenal--doubtless the wife of the heavy man who
brought Miss Fleming to the party; herself a solid person in black
silk and a big gold chain; motherly with the illiterate Dryad.

"Houses mighty respectable," he thought, penetrating into Carnarvon
Square. "Large incomes; comfortable quarters; admirable port, most
likely, in most of them; claret certainly good, too--none of your
Gladstone tap; sherry probably rather coarse. Must ask for Mrs.
Jagenal, I suppose."

He did ask for Mrs. Jagenal, and was informed by Jane that there was
no such person, and that, as she presently explained with warmth, no
such person was desired by the household. Jack Dunquerque thereupon
asked for Mr. Jagenal. The maid asked which Mr. Jagenal. Jack replied
in the most irritating manner possible--the Socratic--by asking
another question. The fact that Socrates went about perpetually asking
questions is quite enough to account for the joy with which an
exasperated mob witnessed his judicial murder. The Athenians bore for
a good many years with his maddening questions--as to whether this way
or that way or how--and finally lost patience. Hence the little bowl
of drink.

Quoth Jack, "How many are there of them?"

Jane looked at the caller with suspicion. He seemed a gentleman, but
appearances are deceptive. Suppose he came for what he could pick up?
The twins' umbrellas were in the hall, and their great-coats. He
laughed, and showed an honest front; but who can trust a London
stranger? Jane remembered the silver spoons now on the luncheon-table,
and began to think of shutting the door in his face.

"You can't be a friend of the family," she said, "else you'd know the
three Mr. Jagenals by name, and not come here showing your ignorance
by asking for Mrs. Jagenal. Mrs. Jagenal indeed! Perhaps you'd better
call in the evening and see Mr. Joseph."

"I am not a friend of the family," he replied meekly. "I wish I was.
But Miss Fleming expects me at this hour. Will you take in my card?"

He stepped into the hall, and felt as if the fortress was won. Phillis
was waiting for him in the dining-room, where, he observed, luncheon
was laid for two. Was he, then, about to be entertained by the young
lady alone?

If she looked dainty in her white evening dress, she was far daintier
in her half-mourning grey frock, which fitted so tightly to her
slender figure, and was set off by the narrow black ribbon round her
neck which was her only ornament; for she carried neither watch nor
chain, and wore neither ear-rings nor finger-rings. This heiress was
as innocent of jewelry as any little milliner girl of Bond Street, and
far more happy, because she did not wish to wear any.

"I thought you would come about this time," she said, with the
kindliest welcome in her eyes; "and I waited for you here. Let us sit
down and take luncheon."

Mr. Abraham Dyson never had any visitors except for dinner or
luncheon; so that Phillis naturally associated an early call with
eating.

"I always have luncheon by myself," explained the young hostess; "so
that it is delightful to have some one who can talk."

She sat at the head of the table, Jack taking his seat at the side.
She looked fresh, bright, and animated. The sight of her beauty even
affected Jack's appetite, although it was an excellent luncheon.

"This curried fowl," she went on. "It was made for Mr. Jagenal's
brothers; but they came down late, and were rather cross. We could not
persuade them to eat anything this morning."

"Are they home for the holidays?"

Phillis burst out laughing--such a fresh, bright, spontaneous laugh.
Jack laughed too, and then wondered why he did it.

"Home for the holidays! They are always home, and it is always a
holiday with them."

"Do you not allow them to lunch with you?"

She laughed again.

"They do not breakfast till ten or eleven."

Jack felt a little fogged, and waited for further information.

"Will you take beer or claret? No, thank you; no curry for me. Jane,
Mr. Dunquerque will take a glass of beer. How beautiful!" she went on,
looking steadily in the young man's face, to his confusion--"how
beautiful it must be to meet a man whose life you have saved! I should
like--once--just once--to do a single great action, and dream of it
ever after."

"But mine was not a great action. I shot a bear which was following
Mr. Beck and meant mischief; that is all."

"But you might have missed," said Phillis, with justice. "And then Mr.
Beck would have been killed."

Might have missed! How many V.C.'s we should have but for that simple
possibility! Might have missed! And then Gilead Beck would have been
clawed, and the Golden Butterfly destroyed, and this history never
have reached beyond its first chapter. Above all, Phillis might never
have known Jack Dunquerque.

"And you are always alone in this great house?" he asked, to change
the subject.

"Only in the day-time. Mr. Joseph and I breakfast at eight. Then I
walk with him as far as his office in Lincoln's Inn-Fields, now that I
know the way. At first he used to send one of his clerks back with me,
for fear of my being lost. But I felt sorry for the poor young man
having to walk all the way with a girl like me, and so I told him,
after the second day, that I was sure he longed to be at his writing,
and I would go home by myself."

"No doubt," said Jack, "he was rejoiced to go back to his pleasant and
exciting work. All lawyers' clerks are so well paid, and so happy in
their occupation, that they prefer it even to walking with a--a--a
Dryad."

Phillis was dimly conscious that there was more in these words than a
literal statement. She was as yet unacquainted with the figures of
speech which consist of saying one thing and meaning another, and she
made a mental note of the fact that lawyers' clerks are a happy and
contented race. It adds something to one's happiness to know that
others are also happy.

"And the boys--Mr. Jagenal's brothers?"

"They are always asleep from two to six. Then they come down to
dinner, and talk of the work they have done. Don't you know them? Oh,
they are not boys at all! One is Cornelius. He is a great poet. He is
writing a long epic poem called the _Upheaving of Ælfred_. Humphrey,
his brother, says it will be the greatest work of this century. But I
do not think very much is done. Humphrey is a great artist, you know.
He is engaged on a splendid picture--at least it will be splendid when
it is finished. At present nothing is on the canvas. He says he is
studying the groups. Cornelius says it will be the finest artistic
achievement of the age. Will you have some more beer? Jane, give Mr.
Dunquerque a glass of sherry. And now let us go into the drawing-room,
and you shall tell me all about my guardian, Lawrence Colquhoun."

In the hall a thought struck the girl.

"Come with me," she said; "I will introduce you to the Poet and the
Painter. You shall see them at work."

Her eyes danced with delight as she ran up the stairs, turning to see
if her guest followed. She stopped at a door, the handle of which she
turned with great care. Jack mounted the stairs after her.

It was a large and well-furnished room. Rows of books stood in order
on the shelves. A bright fire burned on the hearth. A portfolio was on
the table, with a clean inkstand and an unsullied blotting-pad. By the
fire sat, in a deep and very comfortable easy-chair, the poet, sound
asleep.

"There!" she whispered. "In the portfolio is the great poem. Look at
it."

"We ought not to look at manuscripts, ought we?"

"Not if there is anything written. But there isn't. Of course, I may
always turn over any pages, because I cannot read."

She turned them over. Nothing but blank sheets, white in virgin
purity.

Cornelius sat with his head a little forward, breathing rather
noisily.

"Isn't it hard work?" laughed the girl. "Poor fellow, isn't it
exhaustive work? Let me introduce you. Mr. Cornelius Jagenal, Mr.
Ronald Dunquerque." Jack bowed to the sleeping bard. "Now you know
each other. That is what Mr. Dyson used always to say. Hush! we might
wake him up and interrupt--the Work. Come away, and I will show you
the Artist."

Another room equally well furnished, but in a different manner. There
were "properties": drinking-glasses of a deep ruby red, luminous and
splendid, standing on the shelves; flasks of a dull rich green; a
model in armour; a lay figure, with a shawl thrown over the head and
looped up under the arm; a few swords hanging upon the walls; curtains
that caught the light and spread it over the room in softened
colouring; and by the fire a couch, on which lay, sleeping, Humphrey
with the wealth of silky beard.

There was an easel, and on it a canvas. This was as blank as
Cornelius's sheets of paper.

"Permit me again," said the girl. "Mr. Humphrey Jagenal, Mr. Ronald
Dunquerque. Now you know each other."

Jack bowed low to the genius.

Phillis, her eyes afloat with fun, beckoned the young man to the
table. Pencil and paper lay there. She sat down and drew the sleeping
painter in a dozen swift strokes. Then she looked up, laughing:

"Is that like him?"

Jack could hardly repress a cry of admiration.

"I am glad you think it good. Please write underneath, 'The Artist at
work.' Thank you. Is that it? We will now pin it on the canvas. Think
what he will say when he wakes up and sees it."

They stole out again as softly as a pair of burglars.

"Now you have seen the Twins. They are really very nice, but they
drink too much wine, and sit up late. In the morning they are
sometimes troublesome, when they won't take their breakfast; but in
the evening, after dinner, they are quite tractable. And you see how
they spend their day."

"Do they never do any work at all?"

"I will tell you what I think," she replied gravely. "Mr. Dyson used
to tell me of men who are so vain that they are ashamed to give the
world anything but what they know to be the best. And the best only
comes by successive effort. So they wait and wait, till the time goes
by, and they cannot even produce second-rate work. I think the Twins
belong to that class of people."

By this time they were in the drawing-room.

"And now," said Phillis, "you are going to tell me all about my
guardian."

"Tell me something more about yourself first," said Jack, not caring
to bring Mr. Lawrence Colquhoun into the conversation just yet. "You
said last night that you would show me your drawings."

"They are only pencil and pen-and-ink sketches." Phillis put a small
portfolio on the table and opened it. "This morning Mr. Joseph took me
to see an exhibition of paintings. Most of the artists in that
exhibition cannot draw, but some can--and then--Oh!"

"They cannot draw better than you, Miss Fleming, I am quite sure."

She shook her head as Jack spoke, turning over the sketches.

"It seems so strange to be called Miss Fleming. Everybody used to call
me Phillis."

"Was--was everybody young?" Jack asked, with an impertinence beyond
his years.

"No; everybody was old. I suppose young people always call each other
by their christian names. Yours seems to be rather stiff. Ronald,
Ronald--I am afraid I do not like it very much."

"My brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, cousins and kinsfolk--the
people who pay my debts and therefore love me most--call me Ronald.
But everybody else calls me Jack."

"Jack!" she murmured. "What a pretty name Jack is! May I call you
Jack?"

"If you only would!" he cried, with a quick flushing of his cheek. "If
you only would! Not when other people are present, but all to
ourselves, when we are together like this. That is, if you do not
mind."

Could the Serpent, when he cajoled Eve, have begun in a more subtle
and artful manner? One is ashamed for Jack Dunquerque.

"I shall always call you Jack, then, unless when people like Mrs.
Cassilis are present."

"And what am I to call you?"

"My name is Phillis, you know." But she knew, because her French maid
had told her, that some girls have names of endearment, and she
hesitated a little, in hope that Jack would find one for her.

He did. She looked him so frankly and freely in the face that he took
courage, and said with a bold heart:

"Phillis is a very sweet name. You know the song, 'Phillis is my only
joy?' I ought to call you Miranda, the Princess of the Enchanted
Island. But it would be prettier to call you Phil."

"Phil!" Her lips parted in a smile of themselves as she shaped the
name. It is a name which admits of expression. You may lengthen it out
if you like; you may shorten it you like. "Phil! That is very pretty.
No one ever called me Phil before."

"And we will be great friends, shall we not?"

"Yes, great friends. I have never had a friend at all."

"Let us shake hands over our promise. Phil, say, 'Jack Dunquerque, I
will try to like you, and I will be your friend.'"

"Jack Dunquerque," she placed her hands, both of them, in his and
began to repeat, looking in his face quite earnestly and solemnly, "I
will try--that is nonsense, because I _do_ like you very much
already; and I will always be your friend, if you will be mine and
will let me."

Then he, with a voice that shook a little, because he knew that this
was very irregular and even wrong, but that the girl was altogether
lovable, and a maiden to be desired, and a queen among girls, and too
beautiful to be resisted, said his say:

"Phil, I think you are the most charming girl I have ever seen in all
my life. Let me be your friend always, Phil. Let me"--here he stopped,
with a guilty tremor in his voice--"I hope--I hope--that you will
always go on liking me more and more."

He held both her pretty shapely hands in his own. She was standing a
little back, with her face turned up to his, and a bright fearless
smile upon her lips and in her eyes. Oh, the eyes that smile before
the lips!

"Some people seal a bargain," he went on, hesitating and stammering,
"after the manner of the--the--early Christians--with a kiss. Shall
we, Phil?"

Before she caught the meaning of his words he stooped and drew her
gently towards him. Then he suddenly released her. For all in a moment
the woman within her, unknown till that instant, was roused into life,
and she shrank back--without the kiss.

Jack hung his head in silence. Phil, in silence, too, stood opposite
him, her eyes upon the ground.

She looked up stealthily and trembled.

Jack Dunquerque was troubled as he met her look.

"Forgive me, Phil," he said humbly. "It was wrong--I ought not. Only
forgive me, and tell me we shall be friends all the same."

"Yes," she replied, not quite knowing what she said; "I forgive you.
But, Jack, please don't do it again."

Then he returned to the drawings, sitting at the table, while she
stood over him and told him what they were.

There was no diffidence or mock-modesty at all about her. The drawings
were her life, and represented her inmost thoughts. She had never
shown them all together to a single person, and now she was laying
them all open before the young man whom yesterday she had met for the
first time.

It seemed to him as if she were baring her very soul for him to read.

"I like to do them," she said, "because then I can recall everything
that I have done or seen. Look! Here is the dear old house at
Highgate, where I stayed for thirteen years without once going beyond
its walls. Ah, how long ago it seems, and yet it is only a week since
I came away! And everything is so different to me now."

"You were happy there, Phil?"

"Yes; but not so happy as I am now. I did not know you then, Jack."

He beat down the temptation to take her in his arms and kiss her a
thousand times. He tried to sit calmly critical over the drawings. But
his hand shook.

"Tell me about it all," he said softly.

"These are the sketches of my Highgate life. Stay; this one does not
belong to this set. It is a likeness of you, which I drew last night
when I came home."

"Did you really draw one of me? Let me have it. Do let me have it."

"It was meant for your face. But I could do a better one now. See,
this is Mr. Beck, the American gentleman; and this is Captain Ladds.
This is Mr. Cassilis."

They were the roughest unfinished things, but she had seized the
likeness in every one.

Jack kept his own portrait in his hand.

"Let me keep it."

"Please, no; I want that one for myself."

Once more, and for the last time in his life, a little distrust
crossed Jack Dunquerque's mind. Could this girl, after all, be only
the most accomplished of all coquettes? He looked up at her face as
she stood beside him, and then abused himself for treachery to love.

"It is like me," he said, looking at the pencil portrait; "but you
have made me too handsome."

She shook her head.

"You _are_ very handsome, I think," she said gravely.

He was not, strictly speaking, handsome at all. He was rather an ugly
youth, having no regularity of features. And it was a difficult face
to draw, because he wore no beard--nothing but a light moustache to
help it out.

"Phil, if you begin to flatter me you will spoil me; and I shall not
be half so good a friend when I am spoiled. Won't you give this to
me?"

"No; I keep my portfolio all to myself. But I will draw a better one,
if you like, of you, and finish it up properly, like this."

She showed him a pencil-drawing of a face which Rembrandt himself
would have loved to paint. It was the face of an old man, wrinkled and
crows-footed.

"That is my guardian, Mr. Dyson. I will draw you in the same style.
Poor dear guardian! I think he was very fond of me."

Another thought struck the young man.

"Phil, will you instead make me a drawing--of your own face?"

"But can you not do it for yourself?"

"I? Phil, I could not even draw a haystack."

"What a misfortune! It seems worse than not being able to read."

"Draw me a picture of yourself, Phil."

She considered.

"Nobody ever asked me to do that yet. And I never drew my own face. It
would be nice, too, to think that you had a likeness of me,
particularly as you cannot draw yourself. Jack, would you mind if it
were not much like me?"

"I should prefer it like you. Please try. Give me yourself as you are
now. Do not be afraid of making it too pretty."

"I will try to make it like. Here is Mrs. Cassilis. She did not think
it was very good."

"Phil, you are a genius. Do you know that? I hold you to your promise.
You will draw a portrait of yourself, and I will frame it and hang it
up--no, I won't do that; I will keep it myself, and look at it when no
one is with me."

"That seems very pleasant," said Phil, reflecting. "I should like to
think that you are looking at me sometimes. Jack, I only met you
yesterday, and we are old friends already."

"Yes; quite old familiar friends, are we not? Now tell all about
yourself."

She obeyed. It was remarkable how readily she obeyed the orders of
this new friend, and told him all about her life with Mr. Dyson--the
garden and paddock, out of which she never went, even to church; the
pony, the quiet house, and the quiet life with the old man who taught
her by talking; her drawing and her music; and her simple wonder what
life was like outside the gates.

"Did you never go to church, Phil?"

"No; we had prayers at home; and on Sunday evenings I sang hymns."

Clearly her religions education had been grossly neglected. "Never
heard of a Ritualist," thought Jack, with a feeling of gladness.
"Doesn't know anything about vestments; isn't learned in school
feasts; and never attended a tea-meeting. This girl is a Phoenix."
Why--why was he a Younger Son?

"And is Mr. Cassilis a relation of yours?"

"No; Mr. Cassilis is Mr. Dyson's nephew. All Mr. Dyson's fortune is
left to found an institution for educating girls as I was
educated----"

"Without reading or writing?"

"I suppose so. Only, you see, it is most unfortunate that my own
education is incomplete, and they cannot carry out the testator's
wishes, Mr. Jagenal tells me, because they have not been able to find
the concluding chapters of his book. Mr. Dyson wrote a book on it, and
the last chapter was called the 'Coping-stone.' I do not know what
they will do about it. Mr. Cassilis wants to have the money divided
among the relations, I know. Isn't it odd? And he has so much
already."

"And I have got none."

"O Jack! take some of mine--do! I know I have such a lot somewhere;
and I never spend anything."

"You are very good, Phil; but that will hardly be right. But do you
know it is five o'clock? We have been talking for three hours. I must
go--alas, I must go!"

"And you have told me nothing at all yet about Mr. Colquhoun."

"When I see you next I will tell you what I know of him. Good-bye,
Phil."

"Jack, come and see me again soon."

"When may I come? Not to-morrow--that would be too soon. The day
after. Phil, make me the likeness, and send it to me by post. I forgot
you cannot write."

He wrote his address on a sheet of foolscap.

"Fold it in that, with this address outside, and post it to me. Come
again, Phil? I should like to come every day, and stay all day." He
pressed her hand and was gone.

Phillis remained standing where he left her. What had happened to her?
Why did she feel so oppressed? Why did the tears crowd her eyes? Five
o'clock. It wanted an hour of dinner, when she would have to talk to
the Twin brethren. She gathered up her drawings and retreated to her
own room. As she passed Humphrey's door, she heard him saying to Jane:

"The tea, Jane? Have I really been asleep? A most extraordinary thing
for me."

"Now he will see the drawing of the 'Artist at Work,'" thought
Phillis. But she did not laugh at the idea, as she had done when she
perpetrated the joke. She had suddenly grown graver.

She began her own likeness at once. But she could not satisfy herself.
She tore up half a dozen beginnings. Then she changed her mind. She
drew a little group of two. One was a young man, tall, shapely,
gallant, with a queer attractive face, who held the hands of a girl in
his, and was bending over her. Somehow a look of love, a strange and
new expression, which she had never seen before in human eyes, lay in
his. She blushed while she drew her own face looking up in that other,
and yet she drew it faithfully, and was only half conscious how sweet
a face she drew and how like it was to her own. Nor could she
understand why she felt ashamed.

"Come again soon, Jack."

The words rang in the young man's ears, but they rang like bells of
accusation and reproach. This girl, so sweet, so fresh, so
unconventional, what would she think when she learned, as she must
learn some day, how great was his sin against her? And what would
Lawrence Colquhoun say! And what would the lawyer say? And what would
the world say?

The worst was that his repentance would not take the proper course. He
did not repent of taking her hands--he trembled and thrilled when he
thought of it--he only repented of the swiftness with which the thing
was done, and was afraid of the consequences.

"And I am only a Younger Son, Tommy"--he made his plaint to Ladds, who
received a full confession of the whole--"only a Younger Son, with
four hundred a year. And she's got fifty thousand. They will say I
wanted her money. I wish she had nothing but the sweet grey dress----"

"Jack, don't blaspheme. Goodness sometimes palls; beauty always fades;
grey dresses certainly wear out; figures alter for the worse; the
funds remain. I am always thankful for the thought which inspired
Ladds' Perfect Cocoa. The only true Fragrance. Aroma and Nutrition."

Humphrey did not discover the little sketch before dinner, so that his
conversation was as animated and as artistic as usual. At two o'clock
in the morning he discovered it. And at three o'clock the Twins, after
discussing the picture with its scoffing legend in all its bearings,
went to bed sorrowful.




CHAPTER X.

    "I have in these rough words shaped out a man
    Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug
        With amplest entertainment."


Mr. Gabriel Cassilis, who, like Julius Cæsar and other illustrious
men, was always spoken of by both his names, stepped from his carriage
at the door of the Langham Hotel and slowly walked up the stairs to
Mr. Beck's room. He looked older, longer, and thinner in the morning
than in the evening. He carried his hands behind him and bore a look
of pre-occupation and care. The man of unlimited credit was waiting
for him, and, with his first cigar, pacing the room with his hands in
his pockets.

"I got your letter," said Mr. Cassilis, "and telegraphed to you
because I was anxious not to miss you. My time is valuable--not so
valuable as yours, but still worth something."

He spread his hands palm downwards, and at right angles to the
perpendicular line of his body, had that been erect. But it was
curved, like the figure of the man with the forelock.

"Still worth something," he repeated. "But I am here, Mr. Beck, and
ready to be of any service that I can."

"My time is worth nothing," said the American, "because my work is
done for me. When I was paid by the hour, it was worth the hour's
pay."

"But now," Mr. Cassilis interposed, "it is worth at the rate
of your yearly income. And I observe that you have unlimited
credit--un-lim-it-ed credit. That is what we should hardly give
to a Rothschild."

He wanted to know what unlimited credit really meant. It was a thing
hitherto beyond his experience.

"It is my Luck," said Mr. Beck. "Ile, as everybody knows, is not to be
approached. You may grub for money like a Chinee, and you may scheme
for it like a Boss in a whisky-ring. But for a steady certain flow
there is nothing like Ile. And I, sir, have struck Ile as it never was
struck before, because my well goes down to the almighty reservoir of
this great world."

"I congratulate you, Mr. Beck."

"And I have ventured, sir, on the strength of that introductory
letter, to ask you for advice. 'Mr. Cassilis,' I was told, 'has the
biggest head in all London for knowledge of money.' And, as I am going
to be the biggest man in all the States for income, I come to you."

"I am not a professional adviser, Mr. Beck. What I could do for you
would not be a matter of business. It is true that, as a friend only,
I might advise you as to investments. I could show you where to place
money and how to use it."

"Sir, you double the obligation. In America we do nothing without an
equivalent. Here men seem to work as hard without being paid as those
who get wages. Why, sir, I hear that young barristers do the work of
others and get nothing for it; doctors work for nothing in hospitals;
and authors write for publishers and get nothing from them. This is a
wonderful country."

Mr. Cassilis, at any rate, had never worked for nothing. Nor did he
propose to begin now. But he did not say so.

He sat nursing his leg, looking up at the tall American who stood over
him. They were two remarkable faces, that thus looked into each other.
The American's was grave and even stern. But his eyes were soft. The
Englishman's was grave also. But his eyes were hard. They were not
stealthy, as of one contemplating a fraud, but they were curious and
watchful, as of one who is about to strike and is looking for the
fittest place--that is, the weakest.

"Will you take a drink, Mr. Cassilis?"

"A--a--a drink?" The invitation took him aback altogether, and
disturbed the current of his thoughts. "Thank you, thank you.
Nothing."

"In the silver-mines I've seen a man threatened with a bowie for
refusing a drink. And I've known temperate men anxious for peace take
drinks, when they were offered, till their back teeth were under
whisky. But I know your English custom, Mr. Cassilis. When you don't
feel thirsty you say so. Now let us go on, sir."

"Our New York friend tells me, Mr. Beck, that you would find it
difficult to spend your income."

Mr. Beck brightened. He sat down and assumed a confidential manner.

"That's the hitch. That's what I am here for. In America you may chuck
a handsome pile on yourself. But when you get out of yourself, unless
you were to buy a park for the people in the centre of New York City,
I guess you would find it difficult to get rid of your money."

"It depends mainly on the amount of that money."

"We'll come to figures, sir, and you shall judge as my friendly
adviser. My bar'ls bring me in, out of my first well, 2,500 dollars,
and that's £500 a day, without counting Sundays. And there's a dozen
wells of mine around, not so good, that are worth between them another
£800 a day."

Mr. Cassilis gasped.

"Do you mean, Mr. Beck, do you actually mean that you are drawing a
profit, a clear profit, of more than £1,300 a day from your rock-oil
shafts?"

"That is it, sir--that is the lowest figure. Say £1,500 a day."

"And how long has this been going on?"

"Close upon ten months."

Mr. Cassilis produced a pencil and made a little calculation.

"Then you are worth at this moment, allowing for Sundays, at least a
quarter of a million sterling."

"Wall, I think it is near that figure. We can telegraph to New York,
if you like, to find out. I don't quite know within a hundred
thousand."

"And a yearly income of £500,000, Mr. Beck!" said Mr. Cassilis, rising
solemnly. "Let me--allow me to shake hands with you again. I had no
idea, not the slightest idea, in asking you to my house the other day,
that I was entertaining a man of so much weight and such enormous
power."

He shook hands with a mixture of deference and friendship. Then he
looked again, with a watchful glance, at the tall and wiry American
with the stern face, the grave eyes, the mobile lips, and the muscular
frame, and sat down and began to soliloquise.

"We are accustomed to think that nothing can compare with the great
landholders of this country and Austria. There are two or three
incomes perhaps in Europe, not counting crowned heads, which approach
your own, Mr. Beck, but they are saddled. Their owners have great
houses to keep up; armies of servants to maintain; estates to nurse;
dilapidations to make good; farmers to satisfy; younger sons to
provide for; poor people to help by hundreds; and local charities to
assist. Why, I do not believe, when all has been provided for, that a
great man, say the Duke of Berkshire, with coal-mines and quarries,
Scotch, Irish, Welsh, and English estates, has more to put by at the
end of the year than many a London merchant."

"That is quite right," said Mr. Beck; "a merchant must save, because
he may crack up; but the land don't run away. When you want stability,
you must go to the Airth. Outside there's the fields, the rivers, the
hills. Inside there's the mines, and there's Ile for those who can
strike it."

"What an income!" Mr. Cassilis went on. "Nothing to squander it on. No
duties and no responsibilities. No tenants; no philanthropy; no
frittering away of capital. You _can't_ spend a tenth part of it
on yourself. And the rest accumulates and grows--grows--spreads and
grows." He spread out his hands, and a flush of envy came into his
cheeks. "Mr. Beck, I congratulate you again."

"Thank you, sir."

"I see, Mr. Beck--you are yet an unmarried man, I believe, and without
children--I foresee boundless possibilities. You may marry and found a
great family; you may lay yourself out for making a fortune so great
that it may prove a sensible influence on the course of events. You
may bequeath to your race the tradition of good fortune and the habit
of making money."

"My sons may take care of themselves," said Mr. Beck; "I want to spend
money, not to save it."

It was remarkable that during all this generous outburst of vicarious
enthusiasm Mr. Beck's face showed no interest whatever. He had his
purpose, but it was not the purpose of Mr. Cassilis. To found a
family, to become a Rothschild, to contract loans--what were these
things to a man who felt strongly that he had but one life, that he
wished to make the most of it, and that the world after him might get
on as it could without his posthumous interference?

"Listen Mr. Beck, for one moment. Your income is £500,000 a year. You
may spend on your own simple wants £5,000. Bah! a trifle--not a
quarter of the interest. You save the whole; in ten years you have
three millions. You are still under fifty?"

"Forty-five, sir."

"I wish I was forty-five. You may live and work for another quarter of
a century. In that time you ought to be worth twelve millions at
least. Twelve millions!"

"Nearly as much as ran away and was lost when the Ile was struck,"
said Mr. Beck. "Hardly worth while to work for five-and-twenty years
in order to save what Nature spent in three days, is it?"

What, says the proverb, is easily got is lightly regarded. This man
made money so easily that he despised the slow, gradual building up of
an immense fortune.

"There is nothing beyond the reach of a man with twelve millions," Mr.
Cassilis went on. "He may rule the world, so long as there are poor
states with vast armies who want to borrow. Why, at the present moment
a man with twelve millions at his command could undertake a loan with
Russia, Austria, Turkey, Italy, or Egypt. He could absolutely govern
the share market; he could rule the bank rate----"

Mr. Beck interrupted, quite unmoved by these visions of greatness:

"Wal, sir, I am not ambitious, and I leave Providence to manage the
nations her own way. I might meddle and muss till I busted up the
whole concern; play, after all, into the hands of the devil, and have
the people praying to get back to their old original Providence."

"Or suppose," Mr. Cassilis went on, his imagination fired with the
contemplation of possibilities so far beyond his own reach--"suppose
you were to buy up land--to buy all that comes into the market.
Suppose you were to hand down to your sons a traditional policy of
buying land with the established principle of primogeniture. In twenty
years you might have great estates in twenty counties----"

"I could have half a state," said Mr. Beck, "if I went out West."

"In your own lifetime you could control an election, make yourself
President, carry your own principles, force your opinions on the
country, and become the greatest man in it."

"The greatest country in the world is the United States of
America--that is a fact," said Mr. Beck, laughing; "so the greatest
man in it must be the greatest man in the world. I calculate that's a
bitter reflection for Prince Bismarck when he goes to bed at night;
also for the Emperor of all the Russias. And perhaps your Mr.
Gladstone would like to feel himself on the same level with General
Ulysses Grant."

"Mr. Beck," cried Mr. Cassilis, rising to his feet in an irrepressible
burst of genuine enthusiasm, and working his right hand round exactly
as if he was really Father Time, whom he so much resembled--"Mr. Beck,
I consider you the most fortunate man in the world. We slowly amass
money--for our sons to dissipate. Save when a title or an ancient name
entails a conservative tradition which keeps the property together,
the process in this country and in yours is always the same. The
strong men climb, and the weak men fall. And even to great houses like
the Grosvenors, which have been carried upwards by a steady tide of
fortune, there will surely one day come a fool, and then the tide will
turn. But for you and yours, Mr. Beck, Nature pours out her
inexhaustible treasures----"

"She does, sir--in Ile."

"You may spend, but your income will always go on increasing."

"To a certain limit, sir--to five thousand and fifty-three years. I
have had it reckoned by one of our most distinguished mathematicians,
Professor Hercules Willemott, of Cyprus University, Wisconsin. He made
the calculations for me."

"Limit or not, Mr. Beck, you are now a most fortunate man. And I shall
be entirely at your service. I believe," he added modestly, "that I
have some little reputation in financial circles."

"That is so, sir. And now let me put my case." Mr. Beck became once
more animated and interested. "Suppose, sir, I was to say to you, 'I
have more than enough money. I will take the Luck of the Golden
Butterfly and make it the Luck of other people.'"

"I do not understand," said Mr. Cassilis.

"Sir, what do you do with your own money? You do not spend it all on
yourself?"

"I use it to make more."

"And when you have enough?"

"We look at things from a different point of view, Mr. Beck. _You_
have enough; but I, whatever be my success, can never approach the
fourth part of your income. However, let me understand what you want
to do, and I will give such advice as I can offer."

"That's kind, sir, and what I expected of you. It is a foolish fancy,
and perhaps you'll laugh; but I have heard day and night, ever since
the Ile began to run, a voice which says to me always the same
thing--I think it is the voice of my Golden Butterfly: 'What you can't
spend, give.' 'What you can't spend, give.' That's my duty, Mr.
Cassilis; that's the path marked out before me, plain and shinin' as
the way to heaven. What I can't spend, I must give. I've given nothing
as yet. And I am here in this country of giving to find out how to do
it."

"We--I mean the--the----" Mr. Cassilis was on the point of saying "the
Idiots," but refrained in time. "The people who give money send it to
charities and institutions."

"I know that way, sir. It is like paying a priest to say your prayers
for you."

"When the secretaries get the money they pay themselves their own
salaries first; then they pay for the rent, the clerks, and the
advertising. What remains goes to the charity."

"That is so, sir; and I do not like that method. I want to go right
ahead; find out what to do, and then do it. But I must feel like
giving, whatever I do."

"Your countryman, Mr. Peabody, gave his money in trust for the London
poor. Would you like to do the same?"

"No, sir; I should not like to imitate that example. Mr. Peabody was a
great man, and he meant well; but I want to work for myself. Let a man
do all the good and evil he has to do in his lifetime, not leave his
work dragging on after he is dead. 'They that go down into the pit
cannot hope for the truth.' Do you remember that text, Mr. Cassilis?
It means that you must not wait till you are dead to do what you have
to do."

Mr. Cassilis altered his expression, which was before of a puzzled
cheerfulness, as if he failed to see his way, into one of unnatural
solemnity. It is the custom of certain Englishmen if the Bible is
quoted. He knew no more than Adam what part of the Bible it came from.
But he bowed, and pulled out his handkerchief as if he was at a
funeral. In fact, this unexpected hurling of a text at his head
floored him for the moment.

Mr. Beck was quite grave and in much earnestness.

"There is another thing. If I leave this money in trust, how do I know
that my purpose will be carried out? In a hundred years things will
get mixed. My bequests may be worth millions, or they may be worth
nothing. The lawyers may fight over the letter of the will, and the
spirit may be neglected."

"It is the Dead Hand that you dread."

"That may be so, sir. You air in the inside track, and you ought to
know what to call it. But no Hand, dead or alive, shall ever get hold
of my stamps."

"Your stamps?"

"My stamps, sir; my greenbacks, my dollars. For I've got them, and I
mean to spend them. 'Spend what you can, and give what you cannot
spend,' says the Voice to Gilead P. Beck."

"But, my dear sir, if you mean to give away a quarter of a million a
year, you will have every improvident and extravagant rogue in the
country about you. You will have to answer hundreds of letters a day.
You will be deluged with prospectuses, forms, and appeals. You will be
called names unless you give to this institution or to that----"

"I shall give nothing to any society."

"And what about the widows of clergymen, the daughters of officers,
the nieces of Church dignitaries, the governess who is starving, the
tradesman who wants a hundred pounds for a fortnight, and will repay
you with blessings and 25 per cent. after depositing in your hand as
security all his pawn-tickets."

"Every boat wants steering, but I was not born last Sunday, and the
ways of big cities, though they may be crooked, air pretty well known
to me. There are not many lines of life in which Gilead P. Beck has
not tried to walk."

"My dear sir, do you propose to act the part of Universal
Philanthropist and Distributor at large?"

"No, sir, I do not. And that puzzles me too. I should like to be quiet
over it. There was a man down to Lexington, when I was a boy, who said
he liked his religion unostentatious. So he took a pipe on a Sunday
morning and sat in the churchyard listening to the bummin' and the
singin' within. Perhaps, sir, that man knew his own business. Perhaps
thoughts came over his soul when they gave out the Psalm that he
wouldn't have had if he'd gone inside, to sit with his back upright
against a plank, his legs curled up below the seat, and his eyes
wandering around among the gells. Maybe that is my case, too, Mr.
Cassilis. I should like my giving to be unostentatious."

"Give what you cannot spend," said Mr. Cassilis. "There are at any
rate plenty of ways of spending. Let us attend to them first."

"And there's another thing, sir," Mr. Beck went on, shifting his feet
and looking uneasy and distressed. "It's on my mind since I met the
young gentleman at your house. I want to do something big, something
almighty big, for Mr. Ronald Dunquerque."

"Because he killed the bear?"

"Yes, sir, because he saved my life. Without that shot the Luck of
Gilead P. Beck would have been locked up for ever in that little box
where the Golden Butterfly used to live. What can I do for him? Is the
young gentleman rich?"

"On the contrary, I do not suppose--his brother is one of the poorest
peers in the house--that the Honorable Mr. Ronald Dunquerque is worth
£500 a year. Really, I should say that £300 would be nearer the mark."

"Then he is a gentleman, and I am--well, sir, I hope I am learning
what a gentleman should do and think in such a position as the Golden
Butterfly has brought me into. But the short of it is that I can't say
to him: 'Mr. Dunquerque, I owe you a life, and here is a cheque for so
many thousand dollars.' I can't do it, sir."

"I suppose not. But there are ways of helping a young man forward
without giving him money. You can only give money to poets and
clergymen."

"That is so, sir."

"Wait a little till your position is known and assured. You will then
be able to assist Mr. Ronald Dunquerque, as much as you please." He
rose and took up his gloves. "And now, Mr. Beck, I think I understand
you. You wish to do something great with your money. Very good. Do not
be in a hurry. I will think things over. Meantime, you are going to
let it lie idle in the bank?"

"Wal, yes; I was thinking of that."

"It would be much better for me to place it for you in good shares,
such as I could recommend to you. You would then be able to--to--give
away"--he pronounced the words with manifest reluctance--"the interest
as well as the principal. Why should the bankers have the use of it?"

"That seems reasonable," said Mr. Beck.

Mr. Cassilis straightened himself and looked him full in the face. He
was about to strike his blow.

"You will place your money," he said quietly, as if there could be no
doubt of Mr. Beck's immediate assent, "in my hands for investment. I
shall recommend you safe things. For instance, as regards the shares
of the George Washington Silver Mine----"

He opened his pocket-book.

"No, sir," said Mr. Beck with great decision.

"I was about to observe that I should not recommend such an
investment. I think, however, I could place immediately £20,000 in the
Isle of Man Internal Navigation Company."

"An English company?" said Mr. Beck.

"Certainly. I propose, Mr. Beck, to devote this morning to a
consideration of investments for you. I shall advise you from day to
day. I have no philanthropic aims, and financing is my profession. But
your affairs shall be treated together with mine, and I shall bring to
bear upon them the same--may I say insight?--that has carried my own
ventures to success. For this morning I shall only secure you the Isle
of Man shares."

They presently parted, with many expressions of gratitude from Mr.
Gilead Beck.

A country where men work for nothing? Perhaps, when men are young. Not
a country where elderly men in the City work for nothing. Mr. Cassilis
had no intention whatever of devoting his time and experience to the
furtherance of Mr. Beck's affairs. Not at all: if the thoughts in his
mind had been written down, they would have shown a joy almost boyish
in the success of his morning's visit.

"The Isle of Man Company," we should have read, "is floated. That
£20,000 was a lucky _coup_. I nearly missed my chances with the
silver mine; I ought to have known that he was not likely to jump at
such a bait. A quarter of a million of money to dispose of, and five
hundred thousand pounds a year. And mine the handling of the whole.
Never before was such a chance known in the City."

A thought struck him. He turned, and went back hastily to Gilead
Beck's rooms.

"One word more. Mr. Beck, I need hardly say that I do not wish to be
known as your adviser at all. Perhaps it would be well to keep our
engagements a secret between ourselves."

That of course was readily promised.

"Half a million a year!" The words jangled in his brain like the
chimes of St. Clement's. "Half a million a year! And mine the
handling."

He spent the day locked up in his inner office. He saw no one, except
the secretary, and he covered an acre or so of paper with
calculations. His clerks went away at five; his secretary left him at
six; at ten he was still at work, feverishly at work, making
combinations and calculating results.

"What a chance!" he murmured prayerfully, putting down his pen at
length. "What a blessed chance!"

Mr. Gilead Beck would have congratulated himself on the disinterested
assistance of his unprofessional adviser had he known that the whole
day was devoted to himself. He might have congratulated himself less
had he known the thoughts that filled the financier's brains.

Disinterested? How could Mr. Cassilis regard any one with money in his
hand but as a subject for his skill. And here was a man coming to him,
not with his little fortune of a few thousand pounds, not with the
paltry savings of a lifetime, not for an investment for widows and
orphans, but with a purse immeasurable and bottomless, a purse which
he was going to place unreservedly in his hands.

"Mine the handling," he murmured as he got into bed. It was his
evening hymn of praise and joy.




CHAPTER XI.

    "Higher she climbed, and far below her stretch'd
    Hill beyond hill, with lightening slopes and glades,
    And a world widening still."


Phillis's world widened daily, like a landscape, which stretches ever
farther the higher you mount. Every morning brought her fresh
delights, something more wonderful than she had seen the day before.
Her portfolio of drawings swelled daily; but with riches came
discontent, because the range of subjects grew too vast for her pencil
to draw, and her groups became every day more difficult and more
complicated. Life was a joy beyond all that she had ever hoped for or
expected. How should it be otherwise to her? She had no anxieties for
the future; she had no past sins to repent; she had no knowledge of
evil; she was young and in perfect health; the weight of her mortality
was as yet unfelt.

During these early days of emancipation she was mostly silent, looking
about and making observations. She sat alone and thought; she forgot
to sing; if she played, it was as if she was communing confidentially
with a friend, and seeking counsel. She had so much to think of:
herself, and the new current of thoughts into which her mind had been
suddenly diverted; the connection between the world of Mr. Dyson's
teachings and the world of reality--this was a very hard thing; Mrs.
Cassilis, with her hard, cold manner, her kind words, and her eternal
teaching that the spring of feminine action is the desire to attract;
finally, Jack Dunquerque. And of him she thought a good deal.

All the people she met were interesting. She tried to give each one
his own individuality, rounded and complete. But she could not. Her
experience was too small, and each figure in her mind was blurred.
Now, if you listen to the conversation of people, as I do
perpetually--in trains especially--you will find that they are always
talking about other people. The reason of that I take to be the
natural desire to have in your brain a clear idea of every man, what
he is, and how he is likely to be acted upon. Those people are called
interesting who are the most difficult to describe or imagine, and
who, perpetually breaking out in new places, disturb the image which
their friends have formed.

None of Phillis's new friends would photograph clear and distinct in
her brain. She thought she missed the focus. It was not so, however;
it was the fault of the lens. But it troubled her, because if she
tried to draw them there was always a sense of something wanting. Even
Jack Dunquerque--and here her eyes brightened--had points about him
which she could not understand. She was quiet, therefore, and watched.

It was pleasant only to watch and observe. She had made out clearly by
this time that the Twins were as vain and self-conscious as the old
peacock she used to feed at Highgate. She found herself bringing out
their little vanities by leading questions. She knew that Joseph
Jagenal, whom in their souls the Twins despised, was worth them both
ten times over; and she found that Joseph rated himself far beneath
his brothers. Then she gradually learned that their æsthetic talk was
soon exhausted, but that they loved to enunciate the same old maxims
over and over again, as children repeat a story. And it became one of
her chief pleasures to listen to them at dinner, to mark their
shallowness, and to amuse herself with their foibles. The Twins
thought the young lady was fascinated by their personal excellences.

"Genius, brother Cornelius," said Humphrey, "always makes its way. I
see Phillis Fleming every night waiting upon your words."

"I think the fascinations of Art are as great, brother Humphrey. At
dinner Phillis Fleming watches your every gesture."

This was in the evening. In the morning every walk was a new delight
in itself; every fresh street was different. Brought up for thirteen
years within the same four walls, the keenest joy which the girl could
imagine was variety. She loved to see something new, even a new
disposition of London houses, even a minute difference in the aspect
of a London square. But of all the pleasures which she had yet
experienced--even a greater pleasure than the single picture-gallery
which she had visited--was the one afternoon of shopping she had had
with Mrs. Cassilis at Melton and Mowbray's in Regent Street.

Mrs. Cassilis took her there first on the morning of her dinner-party.
It was her second drive through the streets of London, but an
incomparable superior journey to the first. The thoroughfares were
more crowded; the shops were grander; if there were fewer boys running
and whistling, there were picturesque beggars, Punch-and-Judy shows,
Italian noblemen with organs, and the other humours and diversions of
the great main arteries of London. Phillis looked at all with the
keenest delight, calling the attention of her companion to the common
things which escape our notice because we see them every day--the
ragged broken down old man without a hat, who has long grey locks, who
sells oranges from a basket, and betrays by his bibulous trembling
lips the secret history of his downfall; the omnibus full inside and
out; the tall Guardsman swaggering down the street; the ladies looking
in at the windows; the endless rows of that great and wonderful
exhibition which benevolent tradesmen show gratuitously to all; the
shopman rubbing his hands at the door; the foreigners and pilgrims in
a strange land--he with a cigarette in his mouth, lately from the Army
of Don Carlos; he with a bad cigar, a blue-black shaven chin and
cheek, and a seedy coat, who once adorned the ranks of Delescluze,
Ferrè, Flourens & Company; he with the pale face and hard cynical
smile, who hails from free and happy Prussia; the man, our brother,
from Sierra Leone, coal-black of hue, with snowy linen and a
conviction not to be shaken that all the world takes him for an
Englishman; the booted Belgian, cross between the Dutchman and the
Gaul; the young gentleman sent from Japan to study our country and its
laws--he has a cigar in his mouth, and a young lady with yellow hair
upon his arm; the Syrian, with a red cap and almond eyes; the Parsee,
with lofty superstructure, a reminiscence of the Tower of Babel, which
his ancestors were partly instrumental in building; Cretes, Arabians,
men of Cappadocia and Pontus, with all the other mingled nationalities
which make up the strollers along a London street,--Phillis marked
them every one, and only longed for a brief ten minutes with each in
order to transfer his likeness to her portfolio.

"Phillis," said her companion, touching her hand, "can you practise
looking at people without turning your head or seeming to notice?"

Phillis laughed, and tried to sit in the attitude of unobservant
carelessness which was the custom in other carriages. Like all first
attempts it was a failure. Then the great and crowded street reminded
her of her dream. Should she presently--for it all seemed unreal
together--begin to run, while the young men, among whom were the
Twins, ran after her? And should she at the finish of the race see the
form of dead old Abraham Dyson, clapping his hands and wagging his
head, and crying, "Well run! well won! Phillis, it is the
Coping-stone?"

"This is Melton & Mowbray's," said Mrs. Cassilis, as the carriage drew
up in front of a shop which contained greater treasures then were ever
collected for the harem of an Assyrian king.

She followed Mrs. Cassilis to some show rooms, in which lay about
carelessly things more beautiful than she had ever conceived; hues
more brilliant, textures more delicate then she ever knew.

Phillis's first shopping was an event to be remembered in all her
after life. What she chose, what Mrs. Cassilis chose for her, what
Joseph Jagenal thought when the bill came in, it boots not here to
tell. Imagine only the delight of a girl of deep and artistic feeling,
which has hitherto chiefly found vent in the study of form--such form
as she could get from engravings and her own limited powers of
observation--in being let loose suddenly in a wilderness of beautiful
things. Every lady knows Messrs. Melton & Mowbray's great shop. Does
anybody ever think what it would seem were they to enter it for the
first time at the mature age of nineteen?

In one thing only did Phillis disgrace herself. There was a young
person in attendance for the purpose of showing off all sorts of
draperies upon her own back and shoulders. Phillis watched her for
some time. She had a singularly graceful figure and a patient face,
which struck Phillis with pity. Mrs. Cassilis sat studying the effect
through her double eye-glasses. The saleswoman put on and took off the
things as if the girl were really a lay-figure, which she was,
excepting that she turned herself about, a thing not yet achieved by
any lay-figure. A patient face, but it looked pale and tired. The
"Duchess"--living lay-figures receive that title, in addition to a
whole pound a week which Messrs. Melton & Mowbray generously give
them--stood about the rooms all day, and went to bed late at night.
Some of the other girls envied her. This shows that there is no
position in life which has not something beneath it.

Presently Phillis rose suddenly, and taking the opera-cloak which the
Duchess was about to put on, said:

"You are tired. I will try it on myself. Pray sit down and rest."

And she actually placed a chair for the shop-girl.

Mrs. Cassilis gave a little jump of surprise. It had never occurred to
her that a shopwoman could be entitled to any consideration at all.
She belonged to the establishment; the shop and all that it contained
were at the service of those who bought; the _personnel_ was a matter
for Messrs. Melton & Mowbray to manage.

But she recovered her presence of mind in a moment.

"Perhaps it will be as well," she said, "to see how it suits you by
trying it on yourself."

When their purchases were completed and they were coming away, Phillis
turned to the poor Duchess, and asked her if she was not very tired of
trying on dresses, and whether she would not like to take a rest, and
if she was happy, with one or two other questions; at which the
saleswoman looked a little indignant and the Duchess a little inclined
to cry.

And then they came away.

"It is not usual, Phillis," said Mrs. Cassilis, directly they were in
the carriage, "for ladies to speak to shop-people."

"Is it not? The poor girl looked pale and tired."

"Very likely she was. She is paid to work, and work is fatiguing. But
it was no concern of ours. You see, my dear, we cannot alter things;
and if you once commence to pitying people and talking to them, there
is an end of all distinctions of class."

"Mr. Dyson used to say that the difficulty of abolishing class
distinctions was one of the most lamentable facts in human history. I
did not understand then what he meant. But I think I do now. It is a
dreadful thing, he meant, that one cannot speak or relieve a poor girl
who is ready to drop with fatigue, because she is a shop-girl. How sad
you must feel, Mrs. Cassilis, you, who have seen so much of
shop-assistants, if they are all like that poor girl!"

Mrs. Cassilis had not felt sad, but Phillis's remark made her feel for
the moment uncomfortable. Her complacency was disturbed. But how could
she help herself? She was what her surroundings had made her. As
riches increase, particularly the riches which are unaccompanied by
territorial obligations, men and women separate themselves more and
more; the lines of demarcation become deeper and broader; English
castes are divided by ditches constantly widening; the circles into
which outsiders may enter as guests, but not as members, become more
numerous; poor people herd more together; rich people live more apart;
the latter become more like gods in their seclusion, and they grow to
hate more and more the sight and rumor of suffering. And the first
step back to the unpitying cruelty of the old civilizations is the
habit of looking on the unwashed as creatures of another world. If the
gods of Olympus had known sympathy they might have lived till now.

This expedition occurred on the day of Phillis's first dinner-party,
and on their way home a singular thing happened.

Mrs. Cassilis asked Phillis how long she was to stay with Mr. Jagenal.

"Until," said Phillis, "my guardian comes home; and that will be in a
fortnight."

"Your guardian, child? But he is dead."

"I had two, you know. The other is Mr. Lawrence Colquhoun---- What is
the matter, Mrs. Cassilis?"

For she became suddenly pallid, and stared blankly before her, with no
expression in her eyes, unless perhaps, a look of terror. It was the
second time that Phillis had noted a change in this cold and
passionless face. Before, the face had grown suddenly soft and tender
at a recollection; now, it was white and rigid.

"Lawrence Colquhoun!" she turned to Phillis, and hardly seemed to know
what she was saying. "Lawrence Colquhoun! He is coming home--and he
promised me--no--he would not promise--and what will he say to me."

Then she recovered herself with an effort. The name, or the
intelligence of Lawrence Colquhoun's return, gave her a great shock.

"Mr. Colquhoun your guardian! I did not know. And is he coming home?"

"You will come and see me when I am staying--if I am to stay--at his
house?"

"I shall certainly," said Mrs. Cassilis, setting her lips together--"I
shall certainly make a point of seeing Mr. Colquhoun on his return,
whether you are staying with him or not. Here is Carnarvon Square. No,
thank you, I will not get down, even to have a cup of tea with you.
Good-bye, Phillis, till this evening. My dear, I think the white dress
that you showed me will do admirably. Home at once."

A woman of steel? Rubbish! There is no man or woman of steel, save he
who has brooded too long over his own perfections. A metallic statue,
the enemies of Mrs. Cassilis called her. They knew nothing. A woman
who had always perfect control over herself, said her husband. He knew
nothing. A woman who turned pale at the mention of a name, and longed,
yet feared, to meet a man, thought Phillis. And she knew something,
because she knew the weak point in this woman's armour. Being neither
curious, nor malignant, nor a disciple in the school for scandal,
Phillis drew her little conclusion, kept it to herself, and thought no
more about it.

As for the reasons which prompted Mrs. Cassilis to "take up" Phillis
Fleming, they were multiplex, like all the springs of action which
move us to act. She wanted to find out for her husband of what sort
was this system of education which Joseph Jagenal could not discover
anywhere. She was interested in, although not attracted by, the
character of the girl, unlike any she had ever seen. And she wanted to
use Phillis--an heiress, young, beautiful, piquante, strange--as an
attraction to her house. For Mrs. Cassilis was ambitious. She wished
to attract men to her evenings. She pictured herself--it is the dream
of so many cultured women--as another Madame Récamier, Madame du
Deffand, or Madame de Rambouillet. All the intellect in London was to
be gathered in her _salon_. She caught lions; she got hold of young
authors; she made beginnings with third-rate people who had written
books. They were not amusing; they were not witty; they were devoured
by envy and hatred. She let them drop, and now she wanted to begin
again. An idle and a futile game. She had not the quick sympathies,
the capacity for hero-worship, the lovableness of the Récamier. She
had no tears for others. She did not know that the woman who aspires
to lead men must first be able to be led.

There was another fatal objection, not fully understood by ladies who
have "evenings" and sigh over their empty rooms. In these days of
clubs, what man is going to get up after dinner and find his
melancholy way from Pall Mall to Kensington Palace Gardens, in order
to stand about a drawing-room for two hours and listen to "general"
talk? It wants a Phillis, and a personal, if hopeless, devotion to a
Phillis, to tear the freshest lion from his club, after dinner, even
if it be to an altar of adulation. The evening begins properly with
dinner: and where men dine they love to stay.

"Jack Dunquerque came to see me to-day," Phillis told Joseph. "You
remember Mr. Dunquerque. He was at Mrs. Cassilis's last night. He came
at two, to have luncheon and to tell me about Mr. Colquhoun; but he
did not tell me anything about him. We talked about ourselves."

"Is Mr. Dunquerque a friend of yours?"

"Yes; Jack and I are friends," Phillis replied readily. There was not
the least intention to deceive; but Joseph was deceived. He thought
they had been old friends. Somehow, perhaps, Phillis did not like to
talk very much about her friendship for Jack.

"I want you to ask him to dinner, if you will."

"Certainly, whenever you please. I shall be glad to make Mr.
Dunquerque's acquaintance. He is the brother of Lord Isleworth," said
Joseph, with a little satisfaction at seeing a live member of the
aristocracy at his own table.

Jack came to dinner. He behaved extremely well; made no allusion to
that previous occasion when he had been introduced to the Twins;
listened to their conversation as if it interested him above all
things; and not once called Phillis by her Christian name. This
omission made her reflect; they were therefore, it was apparent, only
Jack and Phil when they were alone. It was her first secret, and the
possession of it became a joy.

She had not a single word with him all the evening. Only before he
went he asked her if he might call the next day at luncheon-time. She
said to him yes.

"After all these Bloomsbury people," said Cornelius, lighting his
first pipe, "it does one good, brother Humphrey, to come across a
gentleman. Mr. Ronald Dunquerque took the keenest interest in your Art
criticisms at dinner."

"They were general principles only, Cornelius," said Humphrey. "He is
really a superior young man. A little modest in your presence,
brother. To be sure, it is not every day that he finds himself dining
with a Poet."

"And an Artist, Humphrey."

"Thank you, Cornelius. Miss Fleming had no charms for him, I think."

"Phillis Fleming, brother, is a girl who is drawn more towards, and
more attracts, men of a maturer age--men no longer perhaps within the
_premiére jeunesse_, but still capable of love."

"Men of our age, Cornelius. Shall we split this potash, or will you
take some Apollinaris water?"


Jack called, and they took luncheon together as before. Phillis,
brighter and happier, told him what things she had seen and what
remarks she had made since last they met, a week ago. Then she told
him of the things she most wished to see.

"Jack," she said, "I want to see the Tower of London and Westminster
Abbey most."

"And then, Phil?"

"Then I should like to see a play."

"Would Mr. Jagenal allow me to take you to the Tower of London? Now,
Phil--this afternoon?"

Phillis's worldly education was as yet so incomplete that she clapped
her hands with delight.

"Shall we go now, Jack? How delightful! Of course Mr. Jagenal will
allow me. I will be five minutes putting on my hat."

"Now, that's wrong too," said Jack to himself. "It is as wrong as
calling her Phil. It's worse than wanting to kiss her, because the
kiss never came off. I can't help it--it's pleasant. What will
Colquhoun say when he comes home? Phil is sure to tell him everything.
Jack Dunquerque, my boy, there will be a day of reckoning for you.
Already, Phil? By Jove! how nice you look!"

"Do I, Jack? Do you like my hat? I bought it with Mrs. Cassilis the
other day."

"Look at yourself in the glass, Phil. What do you see?"

She looked and laughed. It was not for her to say what she saw.

"There was a little maid of Arcadia once, Phil, and she grew up so
beautiful that all the birds fell in love with her. There were no
other creatures except birds to fall in love with her, because her
sheep were too busy fattening themselves for the Corinthian
cattle-market to pay any attention to her. They were conscientious
sheep, you see, and wished to do credit to the Arcadian pastures."
Jack Dunquerque began to feel great freedom in the allegorical method.

"Well, Jack?"

"Well Phil, the birds flew about in the woods, singing to each other
how lovely she was, how prettily she played, and how sweetly she sang.
Nobody understood what they said, but it pleased this little maid.
Presently she grew a tall maid, like yourself, Phil. And then she came
out into the world. She was just like you, Phil; she had the same
bright eyes, and the same laugh, and the same identical sunlit face;
and O Phil, she had your very same charming ways!"

"Jack, do you really mean it? Do you like my face, and are my ways
really and truly not rough and awkward?"

Jack shook his head.

"Your face is entrancing, Phil; and your ways are more charming than I
can tell you. Well, she came into the world and looked about her. It
was a pleasant world, she thought. And then--I think I will tell you
the rest of the story another time, Phil.

"Jack, did other people besides birds love your maid of Arcadia?"

"I'm afraid they did," he groaned. "A good many other people--confound
them!"

Phil looked puzzled. Why did he groan? Why should not all the world
love the Arcadian maid if they pleased?

Then they went out, Jack being rather silent.

"This is a great deal better than driving with Mrs. Cassilis, Jack,"
said the girl, as she made her first acquaintance with a hansom cab.
"It is like sitting in a chair, while all the people move past. Look
at the faces, Jack; how they stare straight before them! Is work so
dear to them that they cannot find time to look at each other."

"Work is not dear to them at all, I think," said Jack. "If I were a
clergyman I should talk nonsense and say that it is the race for gold.
As a matter of fact, I believe it is a race for bread. Those hard
faces have got wives and children at home, and life is difficult, that
is all."

Phillis was silent again.

They drove through the crowded City, where the roll of the vehicles
thundered on the girl's astonished ears, and the hard-faced crowd sped
swiftly past her. Life was too multitudinous, too complex, for her
brain to take it in. The shops did not interest her now, nor the press
of business; it was the never-ending rush of the anxious crowd. She
tried to realise, if ever so faintly, that every one of their faces
meant a distinct and important personality. It was too much for her,
and, as it did to the Persian monarch, the multitudes brought tears
into her eyes.

"Where are all the women?" she asked Jack at length.

"At home. These men are working for them. They are spending the money
which their husbands and fathers fight for."

She was silent again.

The crowd diminished, but not much; the street grew narrower.
Presently they came to an open space, and beyond--oh, joy of
joys!--the Tower of London, which she knew from the pictures.

Only country people go to the Tower of London. It would almost seem a
kindness to London readers were I to describe this national
gaudy-show. But it is better, perhaps, that its splendours should
remain unknown, like those of the National Gallery and the British
Museum. The solitudes of London are not too many, and its convenient
trysting places are few. The beef-eater who conducted the flock
attached himself specially to Phillis, thereby showing that good taste
has found a home among beef-eaters. Phillis asked him a thousand
questions. She was eager to see everything. She begged him to take
them slowly down the long line of armoured warriors; she did not care
for the arms, except for such as she had heard about, as bows and
arrows, pikes, battle-axes, and spears. She lingered in the room where
Sir Walter Raleigh was confined; she studied the construction of the
headsman's axe and the block; she glowed with delight at finding
herself in the old chapel of the White Tower. Jack did not understand
her enthusiasm. It was his own first visit also to the Tower, but he
was unaffected by its historical associations. Nor did he greatly care
for the arms and armour.

Think of Phillis. Her guardian's favourite lessons to her had been in
history. He would read her passages at which her pulse would quicken
and her eyes light up. Somehow these seemed all connected with the
Tower. She constructed an imaginary Tower in her own mind, and peopled
it with the ghosts of martyred lords and suffering ladies. But the
palace of her soul was as nothing compared with the grim grey fortress
that she saw. The knights of her imagination were poor creatures
compared with these solid heroes of steel and iron on their wooden
charges; the dungeon in which Raleigh pined was far more gloomy than
any she had pictured; the ghosts of slain rebels and murdered princes
gained in her imagination a place and surroundings worthy of their
haunts. The first sight of London which an American visits is the
Tower; the first place which the boy associates with the past, and
longs to see, is that old pile beside the Thames.

Phillis came away at length, with a sigh of infinite satisfaction. On
the way home she said nothing; but Jack saw, by her absorbed look,
that the girl was happy. She was adjusting, bit by bit, her memories
and her fancies with the reality. She was trying to fit the stories
her guardian had read her so often with the chambers and the courts
she had just seen.

Jack watched her stealthily. A great wave of passion roiled over the
heart of this young man whenever he looked at this girl. He loved her:
there was no longer any possible doubt of that: and she only liked
him. What a difference! And to think that the French have only one
word for both emotions! She liked to be with him, to talk to him,
because he was young and she could talk to him. But love? Cold Dian
was not more free from love.

"I can make most of it out," the girl said, turning to Jack. "All
except Lady Jane Grey. I cannot understand at all about her. You must
take me again. We will get that dear old beef-eater all by himself,
and we will spend the whole day there, you and I together, shall we
not?"

Then, after her wont, she put the Tower out of her mind and began to
talk about what she saw. They passed a printseller's. She wanted to
look at a picture in the window, and Jack stopped the cab and took her
into the shop.

He observed, not without dismay, that she had not the most rudimentary
ideas on the subject of purchase. She had only once been in a shop,
and then, if I remember rightly, the bill was sent to Mr. Joseph
Jagenal. Phillis turned over the engravings and photographs, and
selected half a dozen.

Jack paid the bill next day. It was not much over fifteen pounds--a
mere trifle to a Younger Son with four hundred a year. And then he had
the pleasure of seeing the warm glow of pleasure in her eyes as she
took the "Light of the World" from the portfolio. Pictures were her
books, and she took them home to read.

At last, and all too soon, they came back to Carnarvon Square.

"Good-bye, Phil," said Jack, before he knocked at the door. "You have
had a pleasant day?"

"Very pleasant, Jack; and all through you," she replied. "Oh, what a
good thing for me that we became friends!"

He thought it might in the end be a bad thing for himself, but he did
not say so. For every hour plunged the unhappy young man deeper in the
ocean of love, and he grew more than ever conscious that the part he
at present played would not be regarded with favour by her guardian.

"Jack," she said, while her hand rested in his, and her frank eyes
looked straight in his face with an expression in which there was no
love at all--he saw that clearly--but only free and childlike
affection,--"Jack--why do you look at me so sadly?--Jack, if I were
like--if I were meant for that maiden of Arcadia you told me of----"

"Yes, Phil?"

"If other people in the world loved me, you would love me a little,
wouldn't you?"




CHAPTER XII.

    "Hearken what the Inner spirit sings,
      'There is no joy but calm.'
    Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?"


Lawrence Colquhoun was coming home. Phillis, counting the days,
remembered, with a little prick of conscience, that Jack Dunquerque
had never told her a single word concerning her second guardian. He
was about forty years of age, as old as Joseph Jagenal. She pictured a
grave heavy man, with massive forehead, thick black hair, and a
responsible manner. She knew too that there was to be a change in her
life, but of what kind she could not tell. The present mode of living
was happiness enough for her: a drive with Mrs. Cassilis--odd that
Phillis could never remove from herself the impression that Mrs.
Cassilis disliked her; a walk with Joseph to his office and back in
the morning; a day of occasional delight with her best friend, Jack
the unscrupulous; her drawing for amusement and occupation; and a
widely increased area, so to speak, of dress discussion with her maid.

Antoinette, once her fellow-prisoner, now emancipated like herself,
informed her young mistress that should the new guardian insist on a
return to captivity, she, Antoinette, would immediately resign. Her
devotion to Phillis, she explained, was unalterable; but, contrary to
the experience of the bard, stone walls, in her own case, did make a
prison. Was Mademoiselle going to resign all these pleasures?--she
pointed to the evening-dresses, the walking-dresses, the riding
habits--was Mademoiselle about to give up taking walks when and where
she pleased? was Mademoiselle ready to let the young gentleman,
Monsieur Dunquerque, waste his life in regrets--and he so brave, so
good? Antoinette, it may be observed, had, in the agreeable society of
Jane the housemaid, Clarissa the cook, and Victoria Pamela, assistant
in either department, already received enlightenment in the usages of
London courtship. She herself, a little flirt with the Norman blue
eyes and light-brown hair, was already the object of a devouring
passion on the part of a young gentleman who cut other gentlemen's
hair in a neighboring street. Further, did Mademoiselle reflect on the
wickedness of burying herself and her beautiful eyes out of
everybody's sight?

A change was inevitable. Phillis would willingly have stayed on at
Carnarvon Square, where the Twins amused her, and the lawyer Joseph
was kind to her. But Mrs. Cassilis explained that this was impossible;
that steps would have to be taken with regard to her future; and that
the wishes of her guardian must be consulted till she was of age.

"You are now nineteen, my dear. You have two years to wait. Then you
will come into possession of your fortune, and you will be your own
mistress, at liberty to live where and how you please."

Phillis listened, but made no reply. It was a new thought to her that
in two years she would be personally responsible for the conduct and
management of her own life, obliged to think and decide for herself,
and undertaking all the responsibilities and consequences of her own
actions. Then she remembered Abraham Dyson's warning and maxims. They
once fell unheeded on her brain, which was under strict ward and
tutelage, just like exhortations to avoid the sins of the world on the
ears of convent girls. Now she remembered them.

"Life is made up of meeting bills drawn on the future by the
improvidence of youth."

This was a very mysterious maxim, and one which had often puzzled her.
Now she began to understand what was meant.

"The consequences of our own actions are what men call fate. They
accompany us like our shadows."

Hitherto, she thought, she had had no chance of performing any action
of her own at all. She forgot how she asked Jack Dunquerque to
luncheon and went to the Tower with him.

"Every moment of a working life may be a decisive victory."

That would begin in two years' time.

"Brave men act; philosophers discuss; cowards run away. The brave are
often killed: the talkers are always left behind; the cowards are
caught and cashiered."

Better to act and be killed than to run away and be disgraced, thought
Phillis. That was a thing to be remembered in two years' time.

"Women see things through the haze of a foolish education. They manage
their affairs badly because they are unable to reason. You, Phillis,
who have never learned to read, are the mistress of your own mind.
Keep it clear. Get information and remember it. Learn by hearing and
watching."

She was still learning--learning something new every day.

"It is not in my power to complete your education, Phillis. That must
be done by somebody else. When it is finished you will understand the
whole. But do not be in a hurry."

When would the finisher of her education come? Was it Lawrence
Colquhoun? And how would it be finished? Surely some time in the next
two years would complete the edifice, and she would step out into the
world at twenty-one, her own mistress, responsible for her actions,
equipped at all points to meet the chances and dangers of her life.

So she waited, argued with herself, and counted the days.

Meantime her conduct towards the Twins inspired these young men with
mingled feelings of uncertainty and pleasure. She made their
breakfast, was considerate in the morning, and did not ask them to
talk. When the little dialogue mentioned in an early chapter was
finished, she would herself pick out a flower--there were always
flowers on the table, in deference to their artistic tastes--or their
buttonholes, and despatch them with a smile.

That was very satisfactory.

At dinner, too, she would turn from one to the other while they
discoursed sublimely on Art in its higher aspects. They took it for
admiration. It was in reality curiosity to know what they meant.

After dinner she would too often confine her conversation to Joseph.
On these occasions the brethren would moodily disappear, and retire to
their own den, where they lit pipes and smoked in silence.

In point of fact they were as vain as a brace of peacocks, and as
jealous as a domestic pet, if attention were shown by the young lady
to any but themselves.

Cæsar, it may be observed, quickly learned to distinguish between the
habits of Phillis and those of his masters. He never now offered to
take the former into a public-house, while he ostentatiously, so to
speak, paraded his knowledge of the adjacent bars when conveying the
Twins.

One afternoon Phillis took it into her head to carry up tea to the
Twins herself.

Cornelius was, as usual, sound asleep in an easy-chair, his head half
resting upon one hand, and his pale cheek lit up with a sweet and
childlike smile--he was dreaming of vintage wines. He looked sweetly
poetical, and it was a thousand pities that his nose was so red. On
the table lay his blotting-pad, and on it, clean and spotless, was the
book destined to receive his epic poem.

Phillis touched the Divine Bard lightly on the shoulder.

He thought it was Jane; stretched, yawned, relapsed, and then awoke,
fretful, like a child of five months.

"Give me the tea," he grumbled. "Too sweet again, I dare say, like
yesterday."

"No sugar at all in it, Mr. Cornelius."

He sprang into consciousness at the voice.

"My dear Miss Fleming! Is it really you? You have condescended to
visit the Workshop, and you find the Laborer asleep. I feel like a
sentinel found slumbering at his post. Pray do not think--it is an
accident quite novel to me--the exhaustion of continuous effort, I
suppose."

She looked about the room.

"I see books; I see a table; I see a blotting-pad: and----" She
actually, to the Poet's horror, turned over the leaves of the stitched
book, with Humphrey's ornamental title-page. "Not a word written.
Where is your work, Mr. Cornelius?"

"I work at Poesy. That book, Miss Fleming, is for the reception of my
great epic when it is completed. _Non omnis moriar._ There will be
found in that blank book the structure of a lifetime. I shall live by
a single work, like Homer."

"What is it all about?" asked Phillis. She set the tea on the table
and sat down, looking up at the Poet, who rose from his easy chair and
made answer, walking up and down the room:

"It is called the _Upheaving of Ælfred_. In the darkest moments of
Ælfred's life, while he is hiding amid the Somersetshire morasses,
comes the Spirit of his Career, and guides him in a vision, step by
step, to his crowning triumphs. Episodes are introduced. That of the
swineherd and the milkmaid is a delicate pastoral, which I hope will
stand side by side with the Daphnis and Chloe. When it is finished,
would you like me to read you a few cantos?"

"No thank you very much," said Phillis. "I think I know all that I
want to know about Alfred. Disguised as a neatherd, he took refuge in
Athelney, where one day, being set to bake some cakes by the woman of
the cottage, he became so absorbed in his own meditations that---- I
never thought it a very interesting story."

"The loves of the swineherd and the milkmaid----" the Poet began.

"Yes," Phillis interrupted, unfeelingly. "But I hardly think I care
much for swineherds. And if I had been Alfred I should have liked the
stupid story about the cakes forgotten. Can't you write me some words
for music, Mr. Cornelius? Do, and I will sing them to something or
other. Or write some verses on subjects that people care to hear
about, as Wordsworth did. My guardian used to read Wordsworth to me."

"Wordsworth could not write a real epic," said Cornelius.

"Could he not? Perhaps he preferred writing other things. Now I must
carry Mr. Humphrey his tea. Good-by, Mr. Cornelius; and do not go to
sleep again."

Humphrey, too, was asleep on his sofa. Raffaelle himself could not
have seemed a more ideal painter. The very lights of the afternoon
harmonised with the purple hue of his velvet coat, the soft brown
silkiness of his beard, and his high pale forehead. Like his brother,
Humphrey spoiled the artistic effect by that unlucky redness of the
nose.

The same awakening was performed.

"I have just found your brother," said Phillis, "at work on Poetry."

"Noble fellow, Cornelius!" murmured the Artist. "Always at it. Always
with nose to the grindstone. He will overdo it some day."

"I hope not," said Phillis, with a gleam in her eye. "I sincerely hope
not. Perhaps he is stronger than he looks. And what are you doing, Mr.
Humphrey?"

"You found me asleep. The bow stretched too long must snap or be
unbent."

"Yes," said Phillis; "you were exhausted with work."

"My great picture--no, it is not on the canvas," for Phillis was
looking at the bare easel.

"Where is it, then? Do show it to me."

"When the groups are complete I will let you criticise them. It may be
that I shall learn something from an artless and unconventional nature
like your own."

"Thank you," said Phillis. "That is a compliment, I am sure. What is
the subject of the picture?"

"It is the 'Birth of the Renaissance.' An allegorical picture. There
will be two hundred and twenty-three figures in the composition."

"The 'Birth of the Renaissance,'" Phillis mused. "I think I know all
about that. 'On the taking of Constantinople in the year 1433, the
dispersed Greeks made their way to the kingdoms of the West, carrying
with them Byzantine learning and culture. Italy became the chosen home
of these exiles. The almost simultaneous invention of printing,
coupled with an outburst of genius in painting and poetry, and a
new-born thirst for classical knowledge, made up what is known by the
name of the Renaissance.' That is what my guardian told me one night.
I think that I do not want to see any picture on that subject. Sit
down now and draw me a girl's face."

He shook his head.

"Art cannot be forced," he replied.

"Mr. Humphrey,"--her eyes began to twinkle,--"when you have time--I
should not like to force your Art, but when you have time--paint me a
little group: yourself, Mr. Cornelius, and Cæsar, in the morning walk.
You may choose for the moment of illustration either your going into
or coming out of the Carnarvon Arms; when you intend to have or when
you have had your little whack."

She laughed and ran away.

Humphrey sat upright, and gazed at the door through which she fled.
Then he looked round helplessly for his brother, who was not there.

"Little whack!" he murmured. "Where did she learn the phrase? And how
does she know that--Cæsar could not have told her."

He was very sad all the evening, and opened his heart to his brother
when they sought the Studio at nine, an hour earlier than usual.

"I wish she had not come," he said; "she makes unpleasant remarks."

"She does; she laughed at my epic to-day." The Poet, who sat in a
dressing-gown, drew the cord tighter round his waist, and tossed up
his head with a gesture of indignation.

"And she laughed at my picture."

"She is dangerous, Humphrey."

"She watches people when they go for a morning walk, Cornelius, and
makes allusion to the Carnarvon Arms and to afternoon naps."

"If, Humphrey, we have once or twice been obliged to go to the
Carnarvon Arms----"

"Or have been surprised into an afternoon nap, Cornelius----"

"That is no reason why we should be ashamed to have the subjects
mentioned. I should hope that this young lady would not speak of
Us--of You, brother Humphrey, and of Myself--save with reverence."

"She has no reverence, brother Cornelius."

"Jane certainly tells me," said the Poet, "that a short time ago she
brought Mr. Ronald Dunquerque, then a complete stranger, to my room,
when I happened by the rarest accident to be asleep, and showed me to
him."

"If one could hope that she was actuated only by respect! But no, I
hardly dare to think that. Then, I suppose, she brought her visitor to
the Studio."

"Brother Humphrey, we always do the same thing at the same time."

"_Mutatis mutandis_, my dear Cornelius. I design, you write; I group,
you clothe your conceptions in undying words. Perhaps we both shall
live. It was on the same day that she drew the sketch of me asleep."
Humphrey's mind was still running on the want of respect. "Here it
is."

"_Forsitan hoc nomen nostrum miscebitur illis_," resumed the Poet,
looking at the sketch. "The child has a wonderful gift at catching a
likeness. If it were not for the annoyance one might feel pleased. The
girl is young and pretty. If our years are double what they should be,
our hearts are half our years."

"They are. We cannot be angry with her."

"Impossible."

"Dear little Phillis!"--she was a good inch taller than either of the
Twins, who, indeed, were exactly the same height, and it was five feet
four--"she is charming in spite, perhaps on account, of her faults.
Her property is in the Funds, you said Cornelius?"

"Three-per-cents. Fifty thousand pounds--fifteen hundred a year; which
is about half what Joseph pays income tax upon. A pleasant income,
brother Humphrey."

"Yes, I dare say." Humphrey tossed the question of money aside. "You
and I, Cornelius, are among the few who care nothing about
three-per-cents. What is money to us? what have we to do with incomes?
Art, glorious Art, brother, is our mistress. She pays us, not in
sordid gold, but in smiles, in gleams of a haven not to be reached by
the common herd, in skies of a radiance visible only to the votary's
eye."

Cornelius sighed response. It was thus that the brothers kept up the
sacred flame of artistic enthusiasm. Pity that they were compelled to
spend their working hours in subjection to sleep, instead of Art. Our
actions and our principles are so often at variance that their case is
not uncommon.

Then they had their first split soda; then they lit their pipes; for
it was ten o'clock. Phillis was gone to bed; Joseph was in his own
room; the fire was bright and the hearth clean. The Twins sat at
opposite sides, with the "materials" on a chess-table between them,
and prepared to make the usual night of it.

"Cornelius," said Humphrey, "Joseph is greatly changed since she
came."

The Poet sat up and leaned forward, with a nod signifying concurrence.

"He is, Humphrey; now you mention it, he is. And you think----"

"I am afraid, Cornelius, that Joseph, a most thoughtful man in
general, and quite awake to the responsibilities of his position----"

"It is not every younger son, brother Humphrey, who has thought of
changing his condition in life."

Cornelius turned pale.

"He has her to breakfast with him; she walks to the office with him;
she makes him talk at dinner; Joseph never used to talk with us. He
sits in the drawing-room after dinner. He used to go straight to his
own room."

"This is grave," said the Poet. "You must not, my dear Humphrey, have
the gorgeous colouring and noble execution of your groups spoiled by
the sordid cares of life. If Joseph marries, you and I would be thrown
upon the streets, so to speak. What is two hundred a year?"

"Nor must you, my dear brother, have the delicate fancies of your
brain shaken up and clouded by mean and petty anxieties."

"Humphrey," said the Poet, "come to me in half an hour in the
Workshop. This is a time for action."

It was only half-past ten, and the night was but just begun. He
buttoned his dressing-gown across his chest, tightened the cord, and
strode solemnly out of the room. The Painter heard his foot descend
the stairs.

"Excellent Cornelius," he murmured, lighting his second pipe; "he
lives but for others."

Joseph was sitting as usual before a pile of papers. It was quite true
that Phillis was brightening up the life of this hard-working lawyer.
His early breakfast was a time of pleasure; his walk to the office was
not a solitary one; he looked forward to dinner; and he found the
evenings tolerable. Somehow, Joseph Jagenal had never known any of the
little _agrèmens_ of life. From bed to desk, from desk to bed, save
when a dinner-party became a necessity, had been his life from the day
his articles were signed.

"You, Cornelius!" He looked up from his work, and laid down his pen.
"This is unexpected."

"I am glad to find you, as usual, at work, Joseph. We are a
hard-working family. You with law-books; poor Humphrey, and I with----
But never mind."

He sighed and sat down.

"Why poor Humphrey?"

"Joseph, we were happy before this young lady came."

"What has Phillis done? Why, we were then old fogies, with our
bachelor ways; and she has roused us up a little. And again, why poor
Humphrey?"

"We were settled down in a quiet stream of labour, thinking that there
would be no change. I see a great change coming over us now."

"What change?"

"Joseph, if it were not for Humphrey I should rejoice. I should say,
'Take her; be happy in your own way.' For me, I only sing of love. I
might perhaps sing as well in a garret and on a crust of bread,
therefore it matters nothing. It is for Humphrey that I feel. How can
that delicately-organised creature, to whom warmth, comfort and ease
are as necessary as sunshine to the flower, face the outer world? For
his sake, I ask you, Joseph, to reconsider your project, and pause
before you commit yourself."

Joseph was accustomed to this kind of estimate which one Twin
invariably made of the other, but the reason for making it staggered
him. He actually blushed. Being forty years of age, a bachelor, and a
lawyer--on all these grounds presumably acquainted with the world and
with the sex--he blushed on being accused of nothing more than a mere
tendency in the direction of marriage.

"This is the strangest whim!" he said. "Why, Cornelius, I am as likely
to marry Phillis Fleming as I am to send Humphrey into the cold.
Dismiss the thought at once, and let the matter be mentioned no more.
Good-night, Cornelius."

He turned to his papers again with the look of one who wishes to be
alone. These Twins were a great pride to him, but he could not help
sometimes feeling the slightest possible annoyance that they were not
as other men. Still they were his charge, and in their future glory
his own name would play an honourable part.

"Good-night, Cornelius. It is good of you to think of Humphrey first.
I shall not marry--either the child Phillis Fleming or any other
woman."

"Good-night, my dear Joseph. You have relieved my mind of a great
anxiety. Good-night."

Five minutes afterwards the door opened again.

Joseph looked around impatiently.

This time it was Humphrey. The light shone picturesquely on his great
brown beard, so carefully trimmed and brushed; on the velvet jacket,
in the pockets of which were his hands; and on his soft, large, limpid
eyes, so full of unutterable artistic perception, such lustrous
passion for colour and for form.

"Well, Humphrey!" Joseph exclaimed, with more sharpness than he was
wont to display to his brothers. "Are you come here on the same wise
errand as Cornelius?"

"Has Cornelius been with you?" asked the Painter artlessly. "What did
Cornelius come to you for? Poor fellow! he is not ill, I trust, I
thought he took very little dinner to-day."

"Tut, tut! Don't you know why he came here?"

"Certainly not, brother Joseph." This was of course strictly true,
because Cornelius had not told him. Guesses are not evidence. "And it
hardly matters, does it?" he asked, with a sweet smile. "For myself, I
come because I have a thing to say."

"Well? Come, Humphrey, don't beat about the bush."

"It is about Miss--Fleming."

"Ah!"

"You guess already what I have to say, my dear Joseph. It is this: I
have watched the birth and growth of your passion for this young lady.
In some respects I am not surprised. She is certainly piquante as well
as pretty. But, my dear brother Joseph, there is Cornelius."

Joseph beat the tattoo on his chair.

"Humphrey," he groaned, "I know all Cornelius's virtues."

"But not the fragile nature of his beautifully subtle brain. That,
Joseph, I alone know. I tremble to think what would become of
that--that _deliciæ musurum_, were he to be deprived of the little
luxuries which are to him necessities. A poet's brain, Joseph, is not
a thing to be lightly dealt with."

Joseph was touched at this appeal.

"You are really, Humphrey, the most tender-hearted pair of creatures I
ever saw. Would that all the world were like you! Take my assurance,
if that will comfort you, that I have no thought whatever of marrying
Phillis Fleming."

"Joseph,"--Humphrey grasped his hand,--"this is, indeed, a sacrifice."

"Not at all," returned Joseph sharply. "Sacrifice? Nonsense. And
please remember, Humphrey, that I am acting as the young lady's
guardian; that she is an heiress; that she is intrusted to me; and
that it would be an unworthy breach of trust if I were even to think
of such a thing. Besides which, I have a letter from Mr. Lawrence
Colquhoun, who is coming home immediately. It is not at all likely
that the young lady will remain longer under my charge. Good-night,
Humphrey."

"I had a thing to say to Joseph," said Humphrey, going up to the
Workshop, "and I said it."

"I too had a thing to say," said the Poet, "and I said it."

"Cornelius, you are the most unselfish creature in the world."

"Humphrey, you are--I have always maintained it--too thoughtful, much
too thoughtful, for others. Joseph will not marry."

"I know it; and my mind is relieved. Brother, shall we split another
soda? It is only eleven."


Joseph took up his paper. He neither smoked nor drank brandy-and-soda,
finding in his work occupation which left him no time for either.
To-night, however, he could not bring his mind to bear upon the words
before him.

He to marry? And to marry Phillis? The thought was new and startling.
He put it from him; but it came back. And why not? he asked himself.
Why should not he, as well as the rest of mankind, have his share of
love and beauty? To be sure, it would be a breach of confidence as he
told Humphrey. But Colquhoun was coming; he was a young man--his own
age--only forty; he would not care to have a girl to look after; he
would--again he thought behind him.

But all night long Joseph Jagenal dreamed a strange dream, in which
soft voices whispered things in his ears, and he thrilled in his sleep
at the rustle of a woman's dress. He could not see her face,--dreams
are always so absurdly imperfect--but he recognised her figure, and it
was that of Phillis Fleming.




CHAPTER XIII.

"She never yet was foolish that was fair."


The days sped on; but each day, as it vanished, made Phillis's heart
sadder, because it brought her guardian nearer, and the second great
change in her life, she thought, was inevitable. Think of a girl,
brought up a cloistered nun, finding her liberty for a few short
weeks, and then ordered back to her whitewashed cell. Phillis's
feelings as regards Lawrence Colquhoun's return were coloured by this
fear. It seemed as if, argument and probability notwithstanding, she
might be suddenly and peremptorily carried back to prison, without the
consolations of a maid, because Antoinette, as we know, would refuse
to accompany her, or the kindly society of the poor old Abraham Dyson,
now lying in a synonymous bosom.

A short three weeks since her departure from Highgate; a short six
weeks since Mr. Dyson's death; and the world was all so different. She
looked back on herself, with her old ideas, contemptuously. "Poor
Phillis!" she thought, "she knew so little." And as happens to every
one of us, in every successive stage of life, she seemed to herself
now to know everything. Life without the sublime conceit of being
uplifted, by reason of superior inward light and greater outward
experience, above other men, would be but a poor thing. Phillis
thought she had the Key to Universal Knowledge, and that she was on
the high-road to make that part of her life which should begin in two
years' time easy, happy, and clear of pitfalls. From the Archbishop of
Canterbury to Joe the crossing-sweeper, we all think in exactly the
same way. And when the ages bring experience, and experience does not
blot out memory, we recall our old selves with a kind of shame--wonder
that we did not drop into the snare, and perish miserably; and
presently fall to thanking God that we are rid of a Fool.

A fortnight. Phillis counted the days, and drew a historical record of
every one. Jack came three times: once after Mrs. Cassilis's dinner;
once when he took her to the Tower of London; and once--I have been
obliged to omit this third visit--when he sat for his portrait, and
Phillis drew him full length, leaning against the mantelshelf, with
his hands in his pockets--not a graceful attitude, but an easy one,
and new to Phillis, who thought it characteristic. She caught Jack's
cheerful spirit too, and fixed it by a touch in the gleam of his eye.
Mrs. Cassilis came four times, and on each occasion took the girl for
a drive, bought something for her, and sent the bill to Joseph
Jagenal. On each occasion, also, she asked particularly for Lawrence
Colquhoun. There were the little events with the Twins which we have
recorded; and there were walks with Cæsar about the square. Once
Joseph Jagenal took her to a picture-gallery, where she wanted to stay
and copy everything; it was her first introduction to the higher Art,
and she was half delighted, half confused. If Art critics were not
such humbugs, and did not pretend to feel what they do not, they might
help the world to a better understanding of the glories of painters.
As it is, they are the only people, except preachers, to whom unreal
gush is allowed by gods and men. After all, as no Art critic of the
modern unintelligible gush-and-conceit school can paint or draw,
perhaps if they were not to gush and pile up Alpine heaps of words
they would be found out for shallow-bags. The ideal critic in Art is
the great Master who sits above the fear of rivalry or the imputation
of envy; in Literature it is the great writer from whom praise is
honoured and dispraise the admonition of a teacher; in the Drama, a
man who himself has moved the House with his words, and can afford to
look on a new rising playwright with kindliness.

Phillis in the Art Gallery was the next best critic to the calm and
impartial Master. She was herself artist enough to understand the
difficulties of art; she had that intense and real feeling for form
and colour which Humphrey Jagenal affected; and her taste in Art was
good enough to overmaster her sympathy with the subject. Some people
are ready to weep at a tragical subject, however coarse the daub, just
as they weep at the fustian of an Adelphi melodrama; Phillis was ready
to weep when the treatment and the subject together were worthy of her
tears. It seems as if she must have had her nature chilled; but it is
not so.

Time, which ought to be represented as a locomotive engine, moved on,
and brought Lawrence Colquhoun at length to London. He went first to
Joseph Jagenal's office, and heard that his ward was in safe-keeping
with that very safe solicitor.

"It was difficult," Joseph explained, "to know what to do. After the
funeral of Mr. Dyson she was left alone in the place, with no more
responsible person than a house-keeper. So, as soon as the arrangement
could be made, I brought her to my own house. Three old bachelors
might safely, I thought, be trusted with the protection of a young
lady."

"I am much obliged to you," said Colquhoun. "You have removed a great
weight off my mind. What sort of a girl is she?"

Joseph began to describe her. As he proceeded he warmed with his
subject, and delineated a young lady of such passing charms of person
and mind that Colquhoun was terrified.

"My dear Jagenal, if you were not such a steady old file I should
think you were in love with her."

"My love days are over," said the man of conveyances. "That is, I
never had any. But you will find Phillis Fleming everything that you
can desire. Except, of course," he added, "in respect to her
education. It certainly _is_ awkward that she does not know how
to read."

"Not know how to read?"


"And so, you see," said the lawyer, completing the story we know
already, "Mr. Dyson's property will go into Chancery, because Phillis
Fleming has never learnt to read, and because we cannot find that
chapter on the Coping-stone."

"Hang the Coping-stone!" ejaculated Colquhoun. "I think I will go and
see her at once. Will you let me dine with you to-night? And will you
add to my obligations by letting her stay on with you till I can
arrange something for her?"

"What do you think of doing!"

"I hardly know. I thought on the voyage, that I would do something in
the very-superior-lady-companion way for her. To tell the truth, I
thought it was a considerable bore--the whole thing. But she seems
very different from what I expected, and perhaps I could ask my
cousin, Mrs. L'Estrange, to take her into her own house for a time.
Poor old Dyson! It is twelve years ago since I saw him last, soon
after he took over the child. I remember her then, a solemn little
thing, with big eyes, who behaved prettily. She held up her mouth to
be kissed when she went to bed, but I suppose she won't do that now."

"You can hardly expect it, I think," said Joseph.

"Abraham Dyson talked all the evening about his grand principles of
Female education. I was not interested, except that I felt sorry for
the poor child who was to be an experiment. Perhaps I ought to have
interfered as one of her trustees. I left the whole thing to him, you
see, and did not even inquire after her welfare."

"You two were, by some curious error of judgment, as I take it, left
discretionary trustees. As he is dead, you have now the care of Miss
Fleming's fifty thousand pounds. Mr. Dyson left it in the funds, where
he found it. As your legal adviser, Mr. Colquhoun, I strongly
recommend you to do the same. She will be entitled to the control and
management of it on coming of age, but it is to be settled on herself
when she marries. There is no stipulation as to trustees' consent. So
that you only have the responsibility of the young lady and her
fortune for two years."

It was twelve o'clock in the day. Colquhoun left the office, and made
his way in the direction of Carnarvon Square.

As he ascended the steps of Number Fifteen, the door opened and two
young men appeared. One was dressed in a short frock, with a flower in
his buttonhole: the other had on a velvet coat, and also had a flower;
one was shaven; the other wore a long and silky beard. Both had pale
faces and red noses. As they looked at the stranger and passed him
down the steps, Colquhoun saw that they were not so young and
beautiful as they seemed to be: there were crowsfeet round the eyes,
and their step had lost a little of its youthful buoyancy. He wondered
who they were, and sent in his card to Miss Fleming.

He was come, then, this new guardian. Phillis could not read the card,
but Jane, the maid, told her his name.

He was come; and the second revolution was about to begin.

Instinctively Phillis's first thought was that there would be no more
walks with Jack Dunquerque. Why she felt so it would be hard to
explain, but she did.

She stood up to welcome him.

She saw a handsome young-looking man, with blue eyes, clear red and
white complexion, regular features, a brown beard, and a curious look
of laziness in his eyes. They were eyes which showed a repressed power
of animation. They lit up at sight of his ward, but not much.

He saw a girl of nineteen, tall, slight, shapely; a girl of fine
physique; a girl whose eyes, like her hair, were brown; the former
were large and full, but not with the fulness of short-sight; the
latter was abundant, and was tossed up in the simplest fashion, which
is also the most graceful. Lawrence the lazy felt his pulse quicken a
little as this fair creature advanced, with perfect grace and
self-possession, to greet him. He noticed that her dress was perfect,
that her hands were small and delicate, and that her head was shaped,
save for the forehead, which was low and broad, like that of some
Greek statue. The Greeks knew the perfect shape of the head, but they
made the forehead too narrow. If you think of it, you will find that
the Venus of Milo would have been more divine still had her brows been
but a little broader.

"My ward?" he said. "Let us make acquaintance, and try to like each
other. I am your new guardian."

Phillis looked at him frankly and curiously, letting her hand rest in
his.

"When I saw you last--it was twelve years ago--you were a little maid
of seven. Do you remember?"

"I think I do; but I am not quite sure. Are you really my guardian?"

"I am indeed. Do I not look like one? To be sure, it is my first
appearance in the character."

She shook her head.

"Mr. Dyson was so old," she said, "that I suppose I grew to think all
guardians old men."

"I am only getting old," he sighed. "It is not nice to feel yourself
going to get old. Wait twenty years, and you will begin to feel the
same perhaps. But though I am thirty years younger than Mr. Dyson, I
will try to treat you exactly as he did."

Phillis's face fell, and she drew away her hand sharply.

"Oh!" she cried. "But I am afraid that will not do any more."

"Why, Phillis--I may call you Phillis since I am your guardian, may I
not?--did he treat you badly? Why did you not write to me?"

"I did not write, Mr. Colquhoun--if you call me Phillis, I ought to
call you Lawrence, ought I not, because you are not old?--I did not
write, because dear old Mr. Dyson treated me very kindly, and because
you were away and never came to see me, and because I--I never learned
to write."

By this time Phillis had learned to feel a little shame at not being
able to write.

"Besides," she went on, "he was a dear old man, and I loved him. But
you see, Lawrence, he had his views--Jagenal calls them crotchets--and
he never let me go outside the house. Now I am free I do not like to
think of being a prisoner again. If you try to lock me up, I am afraid
I shall break the bars and run away."

"You shall not be a prisoner, Phillis. That is quite certain. We shall
find something better than that for you. But it cannot be very lively,
in this big house, all by yourself."

"Not very lively; but I am quite happy here."

"Most young ladies read novels to pass away the time."

"I know, poor things." Phillis looked with unutterable sympathy. "Mr.
Dyson used to say that the sympathies which could not be quickened by
history were so dull that fiction was thrown away upon them."

"Did you never--I mean, did he never read you novels?"

She shook her head.

"He said that my imagination was quite powerful enough to be a good
servant, and he did not wish it to become my master. And then there
was something else, about wanting the experience of life necessary to
appreciate fiction."

"Abraham Dyson was a wise man, Phillis. But what do you do all day?"

"I draw; I talk to my maid, Antoinette; I give the Twins their
breakfast----"

"Those were the Twins--Mr. Jagenal's elder brothers--whom I met on the
steps, I suppose? I have heard of them. _Après_, Phillis?"

"I play and sing to myself; I go out for a walk in the garden of the
square; I go to Mr. Jagenal's office, and walk home with him; and I
look after my wardrobe. Then I sit and think of what I have seen and
heard--put it all away in my memory, or I repeat to my self over again
some of the poetry which I learned at Highgate."

"And you know no young ladies?"

"No; I wish I did. I am curious to talk to young ladies--quite young
ladies, you know, of my own age. I want to compare myself with them,
and find out my faults. You will tell me my faults, Lawrence, will
you?"

"I don't quite think I can promise that, Phillis. You see, you might
retaliate; and if you once begin telling me my faults, there would be
no end."

"Oh, I am sorry!" Phillis looked curiously at her guardian for some
outward sign or token of the old Adam. But she saw none. "Perhaps I
shall find them out some time, and then I will tell you."

"Heaven forbid!" he said, laughing. "Now, Phillis, I have been asked
to dine here, and I am going to be at your service all day. It is only
one o'clock. What shall we do, and where shall we go?"

"Anywhere," she replied, "anywhere. Take me into the crowded streets,
and let me look at the people and the shops. I like that best of
anything. But stay and have luncheon here first."

They had luncheon. Colquhoun confessed to himself that this was a
young lady calculated to do him the greatest credit. She acted hostess
with a certain dignity which sat curiously on so young a girl, and
which she had learned from presiding at many a luncheon in Mr. Dyson's
old age among his old friends, when her guardian had become too infirm
to take the head of his own table. There was, it is true, something
wanting. Colquhoun's practised eye detected that at once. Phillis was
easy, graceful, and natural. But she had not--the man of the world
noticed what Jack Dunquerque failed to observe--she had not the
unmistakable stamp of social tone which can only come by practice and
time. The elements, however, were there before him; his ward was a
diamond which wanted but a little polish to make her a gem of the
first water.

After luncheon they talked again; this time with a little more
freedom. Colquhoun told her all he knew of the father who was but a
dim and distant memory to her. "You have his eyes," he said, "and you
have his mouth. I should know you for his daughter." He told her how
fond this straight rider, this Nimrod of the hunting-field, had been
of his little Phillis! how one evening after mess he told Colquhoun
that he had made a will, and appointed him, Lawrence, with Abraham
Dyson, the trustees of his little girl.

"I have been a poor trustee, Phillis," Lawrence concluded. "But I was
certain you were in good hands, and I let things alone. Now that I
have to act in earnest, you must regard me as your friend and
adviser."

They had such a long talk that it was past four when they went out for
their walk. Phillis was thoughtful and serious, thinking of the
father, whom she lost so early. Somehow she had forgotten, at
Highgate, that she once had a father. And the word mother had no
meaning for her.

Outside the house Lawrence looked at his companion critically.

"Am I poorly dressed?" she asked, with a smile, because she knew that
she was perfectly dressed.

At all events, Lawrence thought he would have no occasion to be
ashamed of his companion.

"Let me look again, Phillis. I should like to give you a little better
brooch than the one you have put on."

"My poor old brooch! I cannot give up my old friend, Lawrence."

She dropped quite easily into his Christian name, and hesitated no
more over it than she did with Jack Dunquerque.

He took her into a jeweler's shop and bought her a few trinkets.

"There, Phillis, you can add those to your jewel-box."

"I have no jewels."

"No jewels! Where are your mother's?"

"I believe they are all in the Bank, locked up. Perhaps they are with
my money."

Phillis's idea of her fifty thousand pounds was that the money was all
in sovereigns, packed away in a box and put into a bank.

"Well, I think you ought to have your jewels out, at any rate. Did Mr.
Dyson give you any money to spend?"

"No; and if he had I could not spend it, because I never went outside
the house. Lawrence, give me some money, and let me buy something all
by myself."

He bought her a purse, and filled it with two or three sovereigns and
a handful of silver.

"Now you are rich, Phillis. What will you buy?"

"Pictures, I think."

In all this great exhibition of glorious and beautiful objects there
was only one thing which Phillis wished to buy--pictures.

"Well, let us buy some photographs."

They were walking down Oxford Street, and presently they came to a
photograph shop. Proud of her newly-acquired wealth, Phillis selected
about twenty of the largest and most expensive. Colquhoun observed
that her taste was good, and that she chose the best subjects. When
she had all that she liked, together with one or two which she bought
for Jack, with a secret joy surpassing that of buying for herself, she
opened her purse and began to wonder how she was to pay.

"Do you think your slender purse will buy all these views?" Colquhoun
asked. "Put it up, Phillis, and keep it for another time. Let me give
you these photographs."

"But you said I should buy something." Her words and action were so
childish that Lawrence felt a sort of pity for her. Not to know how to
spend money seemed to lazy Lawrence, who had done nothing else all his
life, a state of mind really deplorable. It would mean in his own case
absolute deprivation of the power of procuring pleasure, either for
himself or for any one else.

"Poor little nun! Not to know even the value of money."

"But I do. A sovereign is twenty shillings, and a shilling is twelve
pence."

"That is certainly true. Now you shall know the value of money. There
is a beggar. He is going to tell us that he is hungry; he will
probably add that he has a wife and twelve children, all under the age
of three, in his humble home, and that none of them have tasted food
for a week. What will you give him?"

Phillis paused. How should she relieve so much distress? By this time
they were close to the beggar. He was a picturesque rogue in rags and
tatters and bare feet. Though it was a warm day he shivered. In his
hand he held a single box of lights. But the fellow was young, well
fed, and lusty. Lawrence Colquhoun halted on the pavement, and looked
at him attentively.

"This man," he explained to Phillis, "can get for a penny a small
loaf; twopence will buy him a glass of ale; sixpence a dinner; for ten
shillings he could get a suit of working clothes--which he does not
want because he has no intention of doing any work at all; a sovereign
would lodge and feed him for a fortnight, if he did not drink."

"I should give him a sovereign," said Phillis. "Then he would be happy
for a week."

"Bless your ladyship," murmured the beggar. "I would get work, Gawd
knows, if I could."

"I remember this fellow," said Colquhoun, "for six years. He is a
sturdy rogue. Best give nothing to him at all. Come on Phillis. We
must look for a more promising subject."

"Poor fellow!" said Phillis, closing her purse.

They passed on, and the beggar-man cursed audibly. I believe it is Mr.
Tupper, in his _Proverbial Philosophy_, who explains that what a
beggar most wants, to make him feel happier, is sympathy. Now that was
just what Phillis gave, and the beggar-man only swore.

Colquhoun laughed.

"You may keep your pity, Phillis, for some one who deserves it better.
Now let us take a cab and go to the Park. It is four years since I saw
the Park."

It was five o'clock. The Park was fuller than when he saw it last. It
grows more crowded year after year, as the upward pressure of an
enriched multitude makes itself felt more and more. There was the
usual throng about the gates, of those who come to look for great
people, and like to tell whom they recognised, and who were pointed
out to them. There were the pedestrians on either side the road;
civilians after office hours; bankers and brokers from the City; men
up from Aldershot; busy men hastening home; loungers leaning on the
rails; curious colonials gazing at the carriages; Frenchmen trying to
think that Hyde Park cannot compare with the Bois de Boulogne; Germans
mindful of their mighty army, their great sprawling Berlin, the gap of
a century between English prosperity and Teutonic militarism, and as
envious as philosophy permits; Americans owning that New York, though
its women are lovelier, has nothing to show beside the Park at five on
a spring afternoon,--all the bright familiar scene which Colquhoun
remembered so well.

"Four years since I saw it last," he repeated to the girl. "I suppose
there will be none of the faces that I used to know."

He was wrong. The first man who greeted him was his old Colonel. Then
he came across a man he had known in India. Then one whom he had last
seen, a war correspondent, inside Metz. He shook hands with one,
nodded to another, and made appointments with all at his club. And as
each passed, he told something about him to his ward.

"That is my old Colonel--your father's brother officer. The most
gallant fellow who ever commanded a regiment. As soon as you are
settled, I should like to bring him to see you. That is Macnamara of
the _London Herald_--a man you can't get except in England. That
is Lord Blandish; we were together up-country in India. He wrote a
book about his adventures in Cashmere. I did not."

It was a new world to Phillis. All these carriages? these people: this
crowd--who were they?

"They are not like the faces I see in the streets," she said.

"No. Those are faces of men who work for bread. These are mostly of
men who work not at all, or they work for honour. There are two or
three classes of mankind, you know, Phillis."

"Servants and masters?"

"Not quite. You belong to the class of those who need not work--this
class. Your father knew all these people. It is a happy world in its
way--in its way," he repeated, thinking of certain shipwrecks he had
known. "Perhaps it is better to _have_ to work. I do not know.
Phillis, who----" He was going to ask her who was bowing to her, when
he turned pale, and stopped suddenly. In the carriage which was
passing within a foot of where they stood was a lady whom he
knew--Mrs. Cassilis. He took off his hat, and Mrs. Cassilis stopped
the carriage and held out her hand.

"How do you do, Phillis dear? Mr. Colquhoun, I am glad to see you back
again. Come as soon as you can and see me. If you can spare an
afternoon as soon as you are settled, give it to me--for auld lang
syne."

The last words were whispered. Her lips trembled, and her hand shook
as she spoke. And Lawrence's face was hard. He took off his hat and
drew back, Phillis did not hear what he said. But Mrs. Cassilis drove
on, and left the Park immediately.

"Mrs. Cassilis trembled when she spoke to you, Lawrence." It was
exactly what a girl of six would have said.

"Did she, Phillis? She was cold perhaps. Or perhaps she was pleased to
see old friends again. So you know her?"

"Yes. I have dined at her house; and I have been shopping with her.
She does not like me, I know; but she is kind. She has spoken to me
about you."

"So you know Mrs. Cassilis?" he repeated. "She does not look as if she
had any trouble on her mind, does she? The smooth brow of a clear
conscience--Phillis, if you have had enough of the Park, I think it is
almost time to drive you home."

Lawrence Colquhoun dined at Carnarvon Square. The Twins dined at their
club; so that they had the evening to themselves and could talk.

"I have made up my mind," Lawrence said, "to ask my cousin to take
charge of you, Phillis. Agatha L'Estrange is the kindest creature in
the world. Will you try to like her if she consents!"

"Yes, I will try. But suppose she does not like me?"

"Everybody likes you, Miss Fleming," said Joseph.

"She is sure to like you," said Lawrence. "And I will come over often
and see you; we will ride together, if you like. And if you would like
to have any masters or lessons in anything----"

"I think I should like to learn reading," Phillis remarked
meditatively. "Mr. Abraham Dyson used to say"--she held up her finger,
and imitated the manner and fidgety dogmatism of an old man--"'Reading
breeds a restless curiosity, and engenders an irreverent spirit of
carping criticism. Any jackanapes who can read thinks himself
qualified to judge the affairs of the nation. Reading, indeed!' But I
think I _should_ like, after all, to do what everybody else can do."




CHAPTER XIV.

    "You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings
    Follow such creatures."


Half a mile or so above Teddington Lock--where you are quite above the
low tides, which leave the mud-banks in long stretches and spoil the
beauty of the splendid river; where the stream flows on evenly between
its banks, only sometimes swifter and stronger, sometimes slower and
more sluggish; where you may lie and listen a whole summer's day to
the murmurous wash of the current among the lilies and the
reeds,--there stands a house, noticeable among other houses by reason
of its warm red brick, its many gables, and its wealth of creepers.
Its gardens and lawns slope gently down to the river's edge; the
willows hang over it, letting their long leaves, like maidens'
fingers, lie lightly on the cool surface of the water; there is a
boat-house, where a boat used to lie, but it is empty now--ivy covers
it over, dark ivy that contrasts with the lighter greens of the sweet
May foliage; the lilacs and laburnums are exulting in the transient
glory of foliage and flower; the wisteria hangs its purple clusters
like grapes upon the wall; there are greenhouses and vineries; there
are flower-beds bright with the glories of modern gardening; and there
are old-fashioned round plots of ground innocent of bedding-out, where
flourish the good old-fashioned flowers, stocks, pansies, boy's-love,
sweet-william, and the rest, which used to be cultivated for their
perfume and colour long before bedding-out was thought of; an old
brick wall runs down to the river's edge as a boundary on either side,
thick and warm, with peaches, plums, and apricots trained in formal
lines, and crowned with wall-flowers and long grasses, like the walls
of some old castle. Behind are rooms which open upon the lawn; round
the windows clamber the roses waiting for the suns of June; and if you
step into the house from the garden, you will enter a dainty
drawing-room, light and sunny, adorned with all manner of feminine
things, and you will find, besides, boudoirs, studies, all sorts of
pretty rooms into which the occupants of the house may retire, the
time they feel disposed to taste the joys of solitude.

The house of a lady. Does any one ever consider what thousands of
these dainty homes exist in England? All about the country they
stand--houses where women live away their innocent and restful lives,
lapped from birth to death in an atmosphere of peace and warmth. Such
luxury as they desire is theirs, for they are wealthy enough to
purchase all they wish. Chiefly they love the luxury of Art, and fill
their portfolios with water-colours. But their passions even for Art
are apt to be languid, and they mostly desire to continue in the warm
air, perfumed like the wind that cometh from the sweet south, which
they have created round themselves. The echoes of the outer world fall
upon their ears like the breaking of the rough sea upon a shore so far
off that the wild dragging of the shingle, with its long-drawn cry,
sounds like a distant song. These ladies know nothing of the fiercer
joys of life, and nothing of its pains. The miseries of the world they
understand not, save that they have been made picturesque in novels.
They have no ambition, and take no part in any battles. They have not
spent their strength in action, and therefore feel no weariness.
Society is understood to mean a few dinners, with an occasional visit
to the wilder dissipations of town; and their most loved
entertainments are those gatherings known as garden parties. Duty
means following up in a steady but purposeless way some line of study
which will never be mastered. Good works mean subscription to
societies. Many a kind lady thinks in her heart of hearts that the
annual guinea to a missionary society will be of far more avail to her
future welfare than a life of purity and innocence. The Christian
virtues naturally find their home in such a house. They grow of their
own accord, like the daisies, the buttercups, and the field
convolvulus: Love, Joy, Peace, Gentleness, Goodness, Faith, Meekness,
Temperance, all the things against which there is no law--which of
them is not to be seen abundantly blossoming and luxuriant in the
cottages and homes of these English ladies?

In this house by the river lived Mrs. L'Estrange. Her name was Agatha,
and everybody who knew her called her Agatha L'Estrange. When a woman
is always called by her Christian name, it is a sign that she is loved
and lovable. If a man, on the other hand, gets to be known, without
any reason for the distinction, by _his_ Christian name, it is
generally a sure sign that he is sympathetic, but blind to his own
interests. She was a widow, and childless. She had been a widow so
long, her husband had been so much older than herself, her married
life had been so short, and the current of her life so little
disturbed by it, that she had almost forgotten that she was once a
wife. She had an ample income; she lived in the way that she loved;
she gathered her friends about her; she sometimes, but at rare
intervals, revisited society; mostly she preferred her quiet life in
the country. Girls came from London to stay with her, and wondered how
Agatha managed to exist. When the season was over, leaving its regrets
and its fatigues, with the usual share of hollowness and Dead-Sea
fruit they came again, and envied her tranquil home.

She was first cousin to Lawrence Colquhoun, whom she still, from force
of habit, regarded as a boy. He was very nearly the same age as
herself, and they had been brought up together. There was nothing
about his life that she did not know, except one thing--the reason of
his abrupt disappearance four years before. She was his confidante: as
a boy he told her all his dreams of greatness; as a young man all his
dreams of love and pleasure. She knew the soft and generous nature,
out of which great men cannot be formed, which was his. She saw the
lofty dreams die away; and she hoped for him that he would keep
something of the young ideal. He did. Lawrence Colquhoun was a man
about town; but he retained his good-nature. It is not usual among the
young gentlemen who pursue pleasure as a profession; it is not
expected of them, after a few years of idleness, gambling, and the
rest, to have any good-nature surviving, or any thought left at all,
except for themselves; therefore Lawrence Colquhoun's case was
unusual, and popularity proportional. He tired of garrison life; he
sold out; he remained about town; the years ran on, and he neither
married nor talked of marrying. But he used to go down to his cousin
once a week, and talk to her about his idle life. There came a day
when he left off coming, or if he came at all, his manner to his
cousin was altered. He became gloomy; and one day she heard, in a
brief and unsatisfactory letter, that he was going to travel for a
lengthened period. The letter came from Scotland, and was as brief as
a dinner invitation.

He went; he was away for four years; during that time he never once
wrote to her; she heard nothing of him or from him.

One day, without any notice, he appeared again.

He was very much the same as when he left England--men alter little
between thirty and fifty--only a little graver; his beard a little
touched with the grey hairs which belong to the eighth lustrum; his
eyes a little crows-footed; his form a little filled out. The gloom
was gone, however; he was again the kindly Lawrence, the genial
Lawrence, Lawrence the sympathetic, Lawrence the lazy.

He walked in as if he had been away a week. Agatha heard a step upon
the gravel-walk, and knew it. Her heart beat a little--although a
woman may be past forty she may have a heart still--and her eyes
sparkled. She was sitting at work--some little useless prettiness. On
the work-table lay a novel, which she read in the intervals of
stitching; the morning was bright and sunny, with only a suspicion of
east wind, and her windows were open; flowers stood upon her table;
flowers in pots and vases stood in her windows; such flowers as bloom
in May were bright in her garden, and the glass doors of her
conservatory showed a wealth of flowers within. A house full of
flowers, and herself a flower too--call her a rose fully blown, or
call her a glory of early autumn--a handsome woman still, sweet and to
be loved, with the softness of her tranquil life in every line of her
face, and her warmth of heart in every passing expression.

She started when she heard his step, because she recognised it. Then
she sat up and smiled to herself. She knew how her cousin would come
back.

In fact he walked in at her open window, and held out his hand without
saying a word. Then he sat down, and took a single glance at his
cousin first and the room afterwards.

"I have not seen you lately, Lawrence," said Agatha, as if he had been
away for a month or so.

"No; I have been in America."

"Really! You like America?" She waited for him to tell her what he
would.

"Yes. I came back yesterday. You are looking well, Agatha."

"I am very well."

"And you have got a new picture on the wall. Where did you buy this?"

"At Agnew's, three years ago. It was in the Exhibition. Now I think of
it, you have been away for four years, Lawrence."

"I like it. Have you anything to tell me, Agatha?"

"Nothing that will interest you. The house is the same. We have had
several dreadful winters, and I have been in constant fear that my
shrubs would be killed. Some of them were. My dog Pheenie is dead, and
I never intend to have another. The cat that you used to tease is
well. My aviary has increased; my horses are the same you knew four
years ago; my servants are the same; and my habits, I am thankful to
say, have not deteriorated to my knowledge, although I am four years
older."

"And your young ladies--the traps you used to set for me when I was
four years younger, Agatha--where are they?"

"Married, Lawrence, all of them. What a pity that you could not fix
yourself! But it is never too late to mend. At one time I feared you
would be attracted by Victoria Pengelley."

Lawrence Colquhoun visibly changed colour, but Agatha was not looking
at him.

"That would have been a mistake. I thought so then, and I know it now.
She is a cold and bloodless woman, Lawrence. Besides, she is married,
thank goodness. We must find you some one else."

"My love days are over," he said, with a harsh and grating voice. "I
buried them before I went abroad."

"You will tell me all about that some day, when you feel
communicative. Meantime, stay to dinner, and enliven me with all your
adventures. You may have some tea if you like, but I do not invite
you, because you will want to go away again directly afterwards.
Lawrence, what do you intend to do, now you are home again? Are you
going to take up the old aimless life, or shall you be serious?"

"I think the aimless life suits me best. And it certainly is the
slowest. Don't you think, Agatha, that as we have got to get old and
presently to die, we may as well go in for making the time go slow?
That is the reason why I have never done anything."

"I never do anything myself, except listen to what other people tell
me. But I find the days slip away all too quickly."

"Agatha, I am in a difficulty. That is one of the reasons why I have
come to see you to day."

"Poor Lawrence! You always are in a difficulty."

"This time it is not my fault; but it is serious. Agatha, I have
got--a----"

I do not know why he hesitated, but his cousin caught him up with a
little cry.

"Not a wife, Lawrence; not a wife without telling me!"

"No, Agatha," he flushed crimson, "not a wife. That would have been a
great deal worse. What I have got is a ward."

"A ward?"

"Do you remember Dick Fleming, who was killed in the hunting-field
about fifteen years ago?"

"Yes, perfectly. He was one of my swains ever so long ago, before I
married my poor dear husband."

Agatha had used the formula of her "poor dear husband" for more than
twenty years; so long, in fact, that it was become a mere collocation
of words, and had no longer any meaning, certainly no sadness.

"He left a daughter, then a child of four or five. And he made me one
of that child's guardians. The other was a Mr. Dyson, who took her and
brought her up. He is dead, and the young lady, now nineteen years of
age, comes to me."

"But, Lawrence, what on earth are you going to do with a girl of
nineteen?"

"I don't know, Agatha. I cannot have her with me in the Albany, can
I?"

"Not very well, I think."

"I cannot take a small house in Chester Square, and give
evening-parties for my ward and myself, can I?"

"Not very well, Lawrence."

"She is staying with my lawyer, Jagenal; a capital fellow, but his
house is hardly the right place for a young lady."

"Lawrence, what will you do? This is a very serious responsibility."

"Very."

"What sort of a girl is she?"

"Phillis Fleming is what you would call, I think, a beautiful girl.
She is tall, and has a good figure. Her eyes are brown, and her hair
is brown, with lots of it. Her features are small, and not too
regular. She has got a very sweet smile, and I should say a good
temper, so long as she has her own way."

"No, doubt," said Agatha. "Pray, go on; you seem to have studied her
appearance with a really fatherly care."

"She has a very agreeable voice; a _naivete_ in manner that you
should like; she is clever and well informed."

"Is she strong-minded, Lawrence?"

"NO," said Lawrence, with emphasis, "she is not. She has excellent
ideas on the subject of her sex."

"Always in extremes, of course, though I am not certain what."

"She wants, so far as I can see, nothing but the society of some
amiable accomplished gentlewoman----"

"Lawrence, you are exactly the same as you always were. You begin by
flattery. Now I know what you came here for."

"An amiable accomplished gentlewoman, who would exercise a gradual and
steady influence upon her."

"You want her to stay with me, Lawrence. And you are keeping something
back. Tell me instantly. You say she is beautiful. It must be
something else. Are her manners in any way unusual? Does she drop
_h's_, and eat with her knife?"

"No, her manners are, I should say, perfect.'

"Temper good, you say; manner perfect; appearance graceful. What can
be the reserved objection? My dear cousin, you pique my curiosity. She
is sometimes, probably insane?"

"No, Agatha, not that I know of. It is only that her guardian brought
her up in entire seclusion from the world, and would not have her
taught to read and write."

"How very remarkable!"

"On the other hand, she can draw. She draws everything and everybody.
She has got a book full of drawings which she calls her diary. They
are the record of her life. She will show them to you, and tell you
all her story. You will take her for a little while, Agatha, will
you?"

Of course she said "Yes." She had never refused Lawrence Colquhoun
anything in her life. Had he been a needy man he would have been
dangerous. But Lawrence Colquhoun wanted nothing for himself.

"My dear Agatha, it is very good of you. You will find the most
splendid material to work upon, better than you ever had. The girl is
different from any other girl you have ever known. She talks and
thinks like a boy. She is as strong and active as a young athlete. I
believe she would outrun Atalanta; and yet I think she is a thorough
woman at heart."

"I should not at all wonder at her being a thorough woman at heart.
Most of us are. But, Lawrence, you must not fall in love with your own
ward."

He laughed a little uneasily.

"I am too old for a girl of nineteen," he replied.

"At any rate, you have excited my curiosity. Let her come, Lawrence,
as soon as you please. I want to see this paragon of girls, who is
more ignorant than a charity school girl."

"On the contrary, Agatha, she is better informed than most girls of
her age. If she is not well read she is well told."

"But really, Lawrence, think. She cannot read, even."

"Not if you gave her a basketful of tracts. But that is rather a
distinction now. At least she will never want to go in for what they
call the Higher Education, will she?"

"She must learn to read; but will she ever master Spelling?"

"Very few people do; they only pretend. I am weak myself in spelling.
Phillis does not want to be a certificated Mistress, Agatha."

"And Arithmetic, too."

"Well, my cousin, of course the Rule of Three is as necessary to life
as the Use of the Globes, over which the schoolmistresses used to keep
such a coil. And it has been about as accessible to poor Phillis as an
easy seat to a tombstone cherub. But she can count and multiply and
add, and tell you how much things ought to come to; and really when
you think of it, a woman does not want much more, does she?"

"It is the mental training, Lawrence. Think of the loss of mental
training."

"I feel that, too," he said, with a smile of sympathy. "Think of
growing up without the discipline of Vulgar Fractions or Genteel
Decimals. One is appalled at imagining what our young ladies would be
without it. But you shall teach her what you like, Agatha."

"I am half afraid of her, Lawrence."

"Nonsense, my cousin; she is sweetness itself. Let me bring her
to-morrow."

"Yes; she can have the room next to mine." Agatha sighed a little.
"Suppose we don't get on together after all. It would be such a
disappointment, and such a pain to part."

"Get on, Agatha?--and with you? Well, all the world gets on with you.
Was there ever a girl in the world that you did not get on with?"

"Yes, there was. I never got on with Victoria Pengelley--Mrs.
Cassilis. Shall you call upon her, Lawrence?"

"No--yes--I don't know, Agatha," he replied, hurriedly; and went away
with scant leave-taking. He neither took any tea nor stayed to dinner.

Then Agatha remembered.

"Of course," she said. "How stupid of me! They used to talk about
Lawrence and Victoria. Can he think of her still? Why, the woman is as
cold as ice and as hard as steel, besides being married. A man who
would fall in love with Victoria Pengelley would be capable of falling
in love with a marble statue."

"My cousin, Lawrence Colquhoun," she told her friends in her
letters--Agatha spent as much time letter-writing as Madame du
Deffand--"has come back from his travels. He is not at all changed,
except that he has a few grey hairs in his beard. He laughs in the
same pleasant way; has the same soft voice; thinks as little seriously
about life; and is as perfectly charming as he has always been. He has
a ward, a young lady, daughter of an old friend of mine. She is named
Phillis Fleming. I am going to have her with me for a while, and I
hope you will come and make her acquaintance, but not just yet, not
until we are used to each other. I hear nothing but good of her."

Thus did this artful woman gloss over the drawbacks of poor Phillis's
education. Her friends were to keep away till such time as Phillis had
been drilled, inspected, reviewed, manoeuvred, and taught the social
tone. No word, you see, of the little deficiencies which time alone
could be expected to fill up. Agatha L'Estrange, in her way, was a
woman of the world. She expected, in spite of her cousin's favourable
report, to find an awkward, rather pretty, wholly unpresentable
hoyden. And she half repented that she had so easily acceded to
Lawrence Colquhoun's request.


It was nearly six next day when Phillis arrived. Her guardian drove
her out in a dog-cart, her maid following behind with the luggage.
This mode of conveyance being rapid, open, and especially adapted for
purposes of observation, pleased Phillis mightily; she even preferred
it to a hansom cab. She said little on the road, being too busy in the
contemplation of men and manners. Also she was yet hardly at home with
her new guardian. He was pleasant; he was thoughtful of her; but she
had not yet found out how to talk with him. Now, with Jack
Dunquerque--and then she began to think how Jack would look driving a
dog-cart, and how she should look beside him.

Lawrence Colquhoun looked at his charge with eyes of admiration. Many
a prettier girl, he thought, might be seen in a London ballroom or in
the Park, but not one brighter or fresher. Where did it come from,
this piquant way?

Phillis asked no more questions about Mrs. L'Estrange. Having once
made up her mind that she should rebel and return to Mr. Jagenal in
case she did not approve of Mr. Colquhoun's cousin, she rested
tranquil. To be sure she was perfectly prepared to like her, being
still in the stage of credulous curiosity in which every fresh
acquaintance seemed to possess all possible virtues. Up to the present
she had made one exception; I am sorry to say it was that of the only
woman she knew--Mrs. Cassilis. Phillis could not help feeling as if
life with Mrs. Cassilis would after a time become tedious. Rather, she
thought, life with the Twins.

They arrived at the house by the river. Agatha was in the garden. She
looked at her visitor with a little curiosity, and welcomed her with
both hands and a kiss. Mrs. Cassilis did not kiss Phillis. In fact,
nobody ever had kissed her at all since the day when she entered
Abraham Dyson's house. Jack, she remembered, had proposed to commence
their friendship with an imitation of the early Christians, but the
proposal, somehow, came to nothing. So when Agatha drew her gently
towards herself and kissed her softly on the forehead, poor Phillis
changed colour and was confused. Agatha thought it was shyness, but
Phillis was never shy.

"You are in good time, Lawrence. We shall have time for talk before
dinner. You may lie about in the garden, if you please, till we come
to look for you. Come, my dear, and I will show you your room."

At Highgate Phillis's room was furnished with a massive four post
bedstead and adorned with dusky hangings. Solidity, comfort, and that
touch of gloom which our grandfathers always lent to their bedrooms,
marked the Highgate apartment. At Carnarvon Square she had the "spare
room," and it was furnished in much the same manner, only that it was
larger, and the curtains were of lighter colour.

She saw now a small room, still with the afternoon sun upon it, with a
little iron bedstead in green and gold, and white curtains. There was
a sofa, an easy-chair, a table at one of the windows, and one in the
centre of the room; there were bookshelves; and there were pictures.

Phillis turned her bright face with a grateful cry of surprise.

"Oh, what a beautiful room!"

"I am glad you like it, my dear. I hope you will be comfortable in
it."

Phillis began to look at the pictures on the wall.

She was critical about pictures, and these did not seem very good.

"Do you like the pictures?"

"This one is out of drawing," she said, standing before a
water-colour. "I like this better," moving on to the next; "but the
painting is not clear."

Agatha remembered what she had paid for these pictures, and hoped the
fair critic was wrong. But she was not; she was right.

And then, in her journey round the room, Phillis came to the open
window, and cried aloud with surprise and astonishment.

"O Mrs. L'Estrange! is it--it----" she asked, in an awestruck voice,
turning grave eyes upon her hostess, as if imploring that no mistake
should be made on a matter of such importance. "Is it--really--the
Thames?"

"Why, my dear, of course it is."

"I have never seen a river. I have so longed to see a river, and
especially the Thames. Do you know--

    "'Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song!'

"And again--Oh, there are swans!

    "'With that I saw two swans of goodly hue
    Come softly swimming down along the lee;
    Two fairer birds I never yet did see.'"

"I am glad you read poetry, my dear."

"But I do not. I cannot read; I only remember. Mrs. L'Estrange, can we
get close to it, quite close to the water? I want to see it flowing."

They went back into the garden, where Lawrence was lying in the shade,
doing nothing. Phillis looked not at the flowers or the spring
blossoms; she hurried Agatha across the lawn, and stood at the edge,
gazing at the water.

"I should like," she murmured presently, after a silence--"I should
like to be in a boat and drift slowly down between the banks, seeing
everything as we passed, until we came to the place where all the
ships come up. Jack said he would take me to see the great ships
sailing home laden with their precious things. Perhaps he will. But, O
Mrs. L'Estrange, how sweet it is! There is the reflection of the tree;
see how the swans sail up and down; there are the water-lilies; and
look, there are the light and shade chasing each other up the river
before the wind."

Agatha let her stay a little longer, and then led her away to show her
the flowers and hothouses. Phillis knew all about these and discoursed
learnedly. But her thoughts were with the river.

Lawrence went away soon after dinner. It was a full moon, and the
night was warm. Agatha and Phillis went into the garden again when
Lawrence left them. It was still and silent, and as they stood upon
the walk, the girl heard the low murmurous wash of the current singing
an invitation among the grasses and reeds of the bank.

"Let us go and look at the river again," she said.

If it was beautiful in the day, with the evening sun upon it, it was
ten times as beautiful by night, when the shadows made great
blacknesses, and the bright moon silvered all the outlines and threw a
long way of light upon the rippling water.

Presently they came in and went to bed.

Agatha, half an hour later, heard Phillis's window open. The girl was
looking at the river again in the moonlight. She saw the water glimmer
in the moonlight; she heard the whisper of the waves. Her
thoughts--they were the long thoughts of a child--went up the stream,
and wondered through what meadows and by what hills the stream had
flowed; then she followed the current down, and had to picture it
among the ships before it was lost in the mighty ocean.

As she looked there passed a boat full of people. They were probably
rough and common people, but among them was a woman, and she was
singing. Phillis wondered who they were. The woman had a sweet voice.
As they rowed by the house one of the men lit a lantern, and the light
fell upon their faces, making them clear and distinct for a moment,
and then was reflected in the black water below. Two of them were
rowing, and the boat sped swiftly on its way down the stream. Phillis
longed to be with them on the river.

When they were gone there was silence for a space, and then the night
became suddenly musical.

"Jug, jug, jug!" It was the nightingale; but Phillis's brain was
excited, and to her it was a song with words. "Come, come, come!" sang
the bird. "Stay with us here and rest--and rest. This is better than
the town. Here are sweetness and peace; this is the home of love and
gentleness; here you shall find the Coping-stone."




CHAPTER XV.

    "But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,
      The inward beauty of her lively spright
    Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree,
      Much more, then, would you wonder at the sight."


"I like her, my dear Lawrence," Agatha wrote, a fortnight after
Phillis's arrival. "I like her not only a great deal better than I
expected, but more than any girl I have ever learned to know. She is
innocent, but then innocence is very easily lost; she is fresh, but
freshness is very often a kind of electro-plating, which rubs off and
shows the base metal beneath. Still Phillis's nature is pure gold; of
that I am quite certain; and with sincere people one always feels at
ease.

"We were a little awkward at first, though perhaps the awkwardness was
chiefly mine, because I hardly knew what to talk about. It seemed as
if, between myself and a girl who cannot read or write, there must be
such a great gulf that there would be nothing in common. How conceited
we are over our education! Lawrence, she is quite the best-informed
girl that I know; she has a perfectly wonderful memory; repeats pages
of verse which her guardian taught her by reading it to her; talks
French very well, because she has always had a French maid; plays and
sings by ear; and draws like a Royal Academician. The curious thing,
however, is the effect which her knowledge has had upon her mind. She
knows what she has been told, and nothing more. Consequently her mind
is all light and shade, like a moonlight landscape. She wants
_atmosphere_; there is no haze about her. I did not at all understand,
until I knew Phillis, what a very important part haze plays in our
everyday life. I thought we were all governed by clear and definite
views of duty, religion, and politics. My poor Lawrence, we are all in
a fog. It is only Phillis who lives in the cloudless realms of pure
conviction. In politics she is a Tory, with distinct ideas on the
necessity of hanging all Radicals. As for her religion---- But that
does not concern you, my cousin. Or, perhaps, like most of your class,
you never think about religion at all, in which case you would not be
interested in Phillis's doctrines.

"I took her to church on Sunday. Before the service I read her the
hymns which we were to sing, and after she had criticised the words in
a manner peculiarly her own, I read them again, and she knew those
hymns. I also told her to do exactly as I did in the matter of
uprising and downsitting.

"One or two things I forgot, and in other one or two she made little
mistakes. It is usual, Lawrence, as you may remember, for worshippers
to pray in silence before sitting down. Phillis was looking about the
church, and therefore did not notice my performance of this duty. Also
I had forgotten to tell her that loud speech is forbidden by custom
within the walls of a church. Therefore it came upon me with a shock
when Phillis, after looking round in her quick eager way, turned to me
and said quite aloud, 'This is a curious place! Some of it is pretty,
but some is hideous.'

"It was very true, because the church has a half-a-dozen styles, but
the speech caused a little consternation in the place. I think the
beadle would have turned us out had he recovered his presence of mind
in time. This he did not, fortunately, and the service began.

"No one could have behaved better during prayers than Phillis. She
knelt, listening to every word. I could have wished that her intensity
of attitude had not betrayed a perfect absence of familiarity with
church customs. During the psalms she began by listening with a little
pleasure in her face. Then she looked a little bored; and presently
she whispered to me, 'Dear Agatha, I really must go out if this tune
is not changed.' Fortunately the psalms were not long.

"She liked the hymns, and made no remark upon them, except that one of
the choir-boys was singing false, and that she should like to take him
out of the choir herself, there and then. It was quite true, and I
really feared that her sense of duty might actually impel her to take
the child by the ear and lead him solemnly out of the church.

"During the sermon, I regret to say that she burst out laughing. You
know Phillis's laugh--a pretty rippling laugh, without any malice in
it. Oh, how rare a sweet laugh is! The curate, who was in the
pulpit--a very nice young man, and a gentleman, but not, I must own,
intellectual; and I hear he was plucked repeatedly for his
degree--stopped, puzzled and indignant, and then went on with his
discourse. I looked, I suppose, so horrified that Phillis saw she had
done wrong, and blushed. There were no more _contretemps_ in the
church.

"'My dear Agatha,' she explained, when we came out, 'I suppose I ought
not to have laughed. But I really could not help it. Did you notice
the young gentleman in the box? He was trying to act, but he spoke the
words so badly, just as if he did not understand them. And I laughed
without thinking. I am afraid it was very rude of me.'

"I tried to explain things to her, but it is difficult, because
sometimes you do not quite know her point of view.

"Next day the curate called. To my vexation Phillis apologised.
Without any blushes she went straight to the point.

"'Forgive me,' she said. 'I laughed at you yesterday in church; I am
very sorry for it.'

"He was covered with confusion, and stammered something about the
sacred building.

"'But I never was in a church before,' she went on.

"'That is very dreadful!' he replied. 'Mrs. L'Estrange, do you not
think it is a very dreadful state for a young lady?'

"Then she laughed again, but without apologising.

"'Mr. Dyson used to say,' she explained to me, 'that everybody's
church is in his own heart. He never went to church, and he did not
consider himself in a dreadful state at all, poor dear old man.'

"If she can fall back on an axiom of Mr. Abraham Dyson's, there is no
further argument possible.

"The curate went away. He has been here several times since, and I am
sure that I am not the attraction. We have had one or two little
afternoons on the lawn, and it is pretty to see Phillis trying to take
an interest in this young man. She listens to his remarks, but they
fail to strike her; she answers his questions, but they seem to bore
her. In fact, he is much too feeble for her; she has no respect for
the cloth at all; and I very much fear that what is sport to her is
going to be death to him. Of course, Lawrence, you may be quite sure
that I shall not allow Phillis to be compromised by the attentions of
any young man--yet. Later on we shall ask your views.

"Her guardian must have been a man of great culture. He has taught her
very well, and everything. She astonished the curate yesterday by
giving him a little historical essay on his favourite Laud. He
understood very little of it, but he went away sorrowful. I could read
in his face a determination to get up the whole subject, come back,
and have it out with Phillis. But she shall not be dragged into an
argument, if I can prevent it, with any young man. Nothing more easily
leads to entanglements, and we must be ambitious for our Phillis.

"'It is a beautiful thing!' she said the other day, after I had been
talking about the theory of public worship--'a beautiful thing for the
people to come together every week and pray. And the hymns are sweet,
though I cannot understand why they keep on singing the same tune, and
that such a simple thing of a few notes.'

"The next Sunday I had a headache, and Phillis refused to go to church
without me. She spent the day drawing on the bank of the river.

"Mrs. Cassilis has been to call upon us. Victoria was never a great
friend of mine when she was young, and I really like her less now. She
was kind to Phillis, and proposed all sorts of hospitalities, which we
escaped for the present. I quite think that Phillis should be kept out
of the social whirl for a few months longer.

"Victoria looked pale and anxious. She asked after you in her iciest
manner; wished to know where you were; said that you were once one of
her friends; and hoped to see you before long. She is cold by nature,
but her coldness was assumed here, because she suddenly lost it. I am
quite sure, Lawrence, that Victoria Pengelley was once touched, and by
you. There must have been something in the rumours about you two, four
years ago. Lazy Lawrence! It is a good thing for you that there was
nothing more than rumour.

"We were talking of other things--important things, such as Phillis's
wardrobe, which wants a great many additions--when Victoria _a
propos_ of nothing, asked me if you were changed at all. I said no,
except that you were more confirmed in laziness. Then Phillis opened
her portfolio, where she keeps her diary after her own fashion, and
showed the pencil sketch she has made of your countenance. It is a
good deal better than any photograph, because it has caught your
disgraceful indolence, and you stand confessed for what you are. How
the girl contrives to put the _real_ person into her portraits, I
cannot tell. Victoria took it, and her face suddenly softened. I have
seen the look on many a woman's face. I look for it when I suspect
that one of my young friends has dropped head over ears in love; it
comes into her eyes when young Orlando enters the room, and then I
know and act accordingly. Poor Victoria! I ought not to have told you,
Lawrence, but you will forget what I said. She glanced at the portrait
and changed colour. Then she asked Phillis to give it to her. 'You can
easily make another,' she said, 'and I will keep this, as a specimen
of your skill and a likeness of an old friend.'

"She kept it, and carried it away with her.

"I have heard all about the Coping-stone. What a curious story it is!
Phillis talks quite gravely of the irreparable injury to the science
of Female Education involved in the loss of that precious chapter. Mr.
Jagenal is of opinion that without it the Will cannot be carried out,
in which case Mr. Cassilis will get the money. I sincerely hope he
will. I am one of those who dislike, above all things, notoriety for
women, and I should not like our Phillis's education and its results
made the subject of lawyers' wit and rhetoric in the Court of
Chancery. Do you know Mr. Gabriel Cassilis? He is said to be the
cleverest man in London, and has made an immense fortune. I hope
Victoria is happy with him. She has a child, but does not talk much
about it.

"I have been trying to teach Phillis to read. It is a slow process,
but the poor girl is very patient. How we ever managed to 'worry
through,' as the Americans say, with such a troublesome acquirement, I
cannot understand. We spend two hours a day over the task, and are
still in words of one syllable. Needless to tell you that the
lesson-book--'First Steps in Reading'--is regarded with the most
profound contempt, and is already covered with innumerable drawings in
pencil.

"Notes in music are easier. Phillis can already read a little, but the
difficulty here is, that if she learns the air from the notes, she
knows it once for all, and further reading is superfluous. Now, little
girls have as much difficulty in playing notes as in spelling them
out, so that they have to be perpetually practising the art of
reading. I now understand why people who teach are so immeasurably
conceited. I am already so proud of my superiority to Phillis in being
able to read, that I feel my moral nature deteriorating. At least, I
can sympathise with all school-masters, from the young man who holds
his certificated nose high in the air, to Dr. Butler of Harrow, who
sews up the pockets of his young gentlemen's trousers.

"Are you tired of my long letter? Only a few words more.

"I have got a music and a singing master for Phillis. They are both
delighted with her taste and musical powers. Her voice is very sweet,
though not strong. She will never be tempted to rival professional
people, and will always be sure to please when she sings.

"I have also got an artist to give her a few lessons in the management
of her colours. He is an elderly artist, with a wife and bairns of his
own, not one of the young gentlemen who wear velvet coats and want to
smoke all day.

"You must yourself get a horse for her, and then you can come over and
ride with her. At present she is happy in the contemplation of the
river, which exercises an extraordinary power over her imagination.
She is now, while I write, sitting in the shade, singing to herself in
solitude. Beside her is the sketch-book, but she is full of thought
and happy to be alone. Lawrence, she is a great responsibility, and it
is sad to think that the Lesson she most requires to learn is the
Lesson of distrust. She trusts everybody, and when anything is done or
said which would arouse distrust in ourselves, she only gets puzzled
and thinks of her own ignorance. Why cannot we leave her in the
Paradise of the Innocent, and never let her learn that every stranger
is a possible villain? Alas, that I must teach her this lesson; and
yet one would not leave her to find it out by painful experience! My
dear Lawrence, I once read that it was the custom in savage times to
salute the stranger with clubs and stones, because he was sure to be
an enemy. How far have we advanced in all these years? You sent
Phillis to me for teaching, but it is I who learned from her. I am a
worldly woman, cousin Lawrence, and my life is full of hollow shams.
Sometimes I think that the world would be more tolerable were all the
women as illiterate as dear Phillis.

"Do not come to see her for a few days yet, and you will find her
changed in those few things which wanted change."


Sitting in solitude? Gazing on the river? Singing to herself? Phillis
was quite otherwise occupied, and much more pleasantly.

She had been doing all these things, with much contentment of soul,
while Agatha was writing her letters. She sat under the trees upon the
grass, a little straw hat upon her head, letting the beauty of the
season fill her soul with happiness. The sunlit river rippled at her
feet; on its broad surface the white swans lazily floated! the soft
air of early summer fanned her cheek: the birds darted across the
water as if in ecstasy of joy at the return of the sun--as a matter of
fact they had their mouths wide open and were catching flies; a lark
was singing in the sky; there were a blackbird and a thrush somewhere
in the wood across the river: away up the stream there was a fat old
gentleman sitting in a punt; he held an umbrella over his head,
because the sun was hot, and he supported a fishing-rod in his other
hand. Presently he had a nibble, and in his anxiety he stood up the
better to manoeuvre his float; it was only a nibble, and he sat down
again. Unfortunately he miscalculated the position of the chair, and
sat upon space, so that he fell backwards all along the punt. Phillis
heard the bump against the bottom of the boat, and saw a pair of fat
little legs sticking up in the most comical manner; she laughed, and
resolved upon drawing the fat old gentleman's accident as soon as she
could find time.

The afternoon was very still; the blackbird carolled in the trees, and
the "wise thrush" repeated his cheerful philosophy; the river ran with
soft whispers along the bank; and Phillis began to look before her
with eyes that saw not, and from eyelids that, in a little, would
close in sleep.

Then something else happened.

A boat came suddenly up the river, close to her own bank. She saw the
bows first, naturally; and then she saw the back of the man in it.
Then the boat revealed itself in full, and Phillis saw that the crew
consisted of Jack Dunquerque. Her heart gave a great leap, and she
started from the Sleepy Hollow of her thoughts into life.

Jack Dunquerque was not an ideal oar, such as one dreams of and reads
about. He did not "grasp his sculls with the precision of a machine,
and row with a grand long sweep which made the boat spring under his
arms like a thing of life"--I quote from an author whose name I have
forgotten. Quite the contrary; Jack was rather unskilful than
otherwise; the ship in which he was embarked was one of those crank
craft consisting of a cedar lath with crossbars of iron; it was a boat
without outriggers, and he had hired it at Richmond. He was not so
straight in the back as an Oxford stroke! and he bucketed about a good
deal, but he got along.

Just as he was nearing Phillis he fell into difficulties, in
consequence of one oar catching tight in the weeds. The effect of this
was, as may be imagined, to bring her bows on straight into the bank.
In fact, Jack ran the ship ashore, and sat with the bows high on the
grass just a few inches off Phillis's feet. Then he drew himself
upright, tried to disentangle the oar, and began to think what he
should do next.

"I wish I hadn't come," he said aloud.

Phillis laughed silently.

Then she noticed the painter in the bows though she did not know it by
that name. Painters in London boats are sometimes longish ropes, for
convenience of mooring. Phillis noiselessly lifted the cord and tied
it fast round the trunk of a small elder-tree beside her. Then she sat
down again and waited. This was much better fun than watching an
elderly gentleman tumbling backwards in a punt.

Jack, having extricated the scull and rested a little, looked at his
palms, which were blistering under the rough exercise of rowing, and
muttered something inaudible. Then he seized the oars again and began
to back out vigorously.

The boat's bows descended a few inches, and then, the painter being
taut, moved no more.

Phillis leaned forward, watching Jack with a look of rapturous
delight.

"Damn the ship!" said Jack softly, after three or four minutes'
strenuous backing.

"Don't swear at the boat, Jack," Phillis broke in, with her low laugh
and musical voice.

Jack looked round. There was his goddess standing on the bank,
clapping her hands with delight. He gave a vigorous pull, which drove
the boat half-way up to shore and sprang out.

"Jack, you must not use words that sound bad. Oh, how glad I am to see
you! I think you look best in flannels, Jack."

"You here, Phil? I thought it was a mile higher up."

"Did you know where I was gone to?"

"Yes, I found out. I asked Colquhoun, and he told me. But he did not
offer to introduce me to Mrs. L'Estrange; and so I thought I would--I
thought that perhaps if I rowed up the river, you know, I might
perhaps see you."

"O Jack," she replied, touched by this act of friendship, "did you
really row up in the hope of seeing me? I am so glad. Will you come in
and be introduced to Agatha,--that is, Mrs. L'Estrange? I have not yet
told her about you, because we had so many things to say."

"Let us sit down and talk a little first. Phil, you look even better
than when you were at Carnarvon Square. Tell me what you are doing."

"I am learning to read for one thing; and, Jack, a much more important
thing, I am taking lessons in water-colour drawing. I have learned a
great deal already, quite enough to show me how ignorant I have been.
But, Jack, Mr. Stencil cannot draw so well as I can, and I am glad to
think so."

"When shall we be able to go out again for another visit somewhere,
Phil?"

"Ah, I do not know. We shall stay here all the summer, I am sure; and
Agatha talks of going to the seaside in the autumn. I do not think I
shall like the sea so much as I like the river, but I want to see it.
Jack, how is Mr. Gilead Beck? have you seen him lately?"

"Yes, I very often see him. We are great friends. But never mind him,
Phil; go on telling me about yourself. It is a whole fortnight since I
saw you."

"Is it really? O Jack! and we two promised to be friends. There is
pretty friendship for you! I am very happy, Jack. Agatha L'Estrange is
so kind that I cannot tell you how I love her. Lawrence Colquhoun is
her first cousin. I like my guardian, too, very much; but I have not
yet found out how to talk to him. I am to have a horse as soon as he
can find me one; and then we shall be able to ride together, Jack, if
it is not too far for you to come out here."

"Too far, Phil?"

"Agatha is writing letters. Certainly it must be pleasant to talk to
your friends when they are away from you. I shall learn to write as
fast as I can, and then we will send letters to each other. I wonder
if she would mind being disturbed. Perhaps I had better not take you
in just yet."

"Will you come for a row with me, Phil?"

"In the boat, Jack? on the river? Oh, if you will only take me!"

Jack untied the painter, pulled the ship's head round, and laid her
alongside the bank.

"You will promise to sit perfectly still, and not move?"

"Yes, I will not move. Are you afraid for me Jack?"

"A little, Phil. You see, if we were to upset, perhaps you would not
trust yourself entirely to me."

"Yes, I would, Jack. I am sure you would bring me safe to the bank."

"But we must not upset. Now, Phil."

He rowed her upstream. She sat in the stern, and enjoyed the
situation. As in every fresh experience, she was silent, drinking in
the details. She watched the transparent water beneath her, and saw
the yellow-green weeds sloping gently downwards with the current; she
noticed the swans, which looked so tranquil from the bank, and which
now followed the boat, gobbling angrily. They passed the old gentleman
in the punt. He had recovered his chair by this time, and was sitting
in it, still fishing. But Phillis could not see that he had caught
many fish. He looked from under his umbrella and saw them. "Youth and
beauty!" he sighed.

"I like to _feel_ the river," said Phillis, softly. "It is pleasant on
the bank, but it is so much sweeter here. Can there be anything in the
world," she murmured half to herself, "more pleasant than to be rowed
along the river on such a day as this?"

There was no one on the river except themselves and the old angler.
Jack rowed up stream for half a mile or so, and then turned her head
and let her drift gently down with the current, occasionally dipping
the oars to keep way on. But he left the girl to her own thoughts.

"It is all like a dream to me, this river," said Phillis, in a low
voice. "It comes from some unknown place, and goes to some unknown
place."

"It is like life, Phil."

"Yes; we come like the river, trailing long glories behind us--you
know what Wordsworth says--but we do not go to be swallowed up in the
ocean, and we are not alone. We have those that love us to be with us,
and prevent us from getting sad with thought. I have you, Jack."

"Yes, Phil." He could not meet her face, which was so full of
unselfish and passionless affection, because his own eyes were
brimming over with passion.

"Take me in, Jack," she said, when they reached Agatha's lawn. "It is
enough for one day."

She led him to the morning-room, cool and sheltered, where Agatha was
writing the letter we have already read. And she introduced him as
Jack Dunquerque, her friend.

Jack explained that he was rowing up the river, that he saw Miss
Fleming by accident, that he had taken her for a row up the stream,
and so on--all in due form.

"Jack and I are old friends," said Phillis.

Agatha did not ask how old, which was fortunate. But she put aside her
letters and sent for tea into the garden. Jack became more amiable and
more sympathetic than any young man Mrs. L'Estrange had ever known. So
much did he win upon her that, having ascertained that he was a friend
of Lawrence Colquhoun, she asked him to dinner.

Jack's voyage homeward was a joyful one. Many is the journey begun in
joy that ends in sorrow; few are those which begin, as Jack's
bucketing up the river, in uncertainty, and end in unexpected
happiness.




CHAPTER XVI.

    "Souvent femme varie,
    Bien foi qui s'y fie."


Lawrence Colquhoun was not, in point of fact, devoting much time to
his ward at this time. She was pretty; she was fresh; she was
unconventional; but then he was forty. For twenty years he had been
moving through a panorama of pretty girls. It was hardly to be
expected that a girl whom he had seen but once or twice should move a
tough old heart of forty. Phillis pleased him, but lazy Lawrence
wanted girls, if that could be managed, to come to him, and she
necessarily stayed at Twickenham. Anyhow, she was in good and safe
hands. It was enough to know that Agatha had her in safe charge and
custody, and when he could find time he would go down and see her
again. As he had been thirteen years trying to find time to visit
Phillis at Highgate, it was possible that he might be in the same way
prevented by adverse circumstances from going to Twickenham.

He was troubled also by other and graver matters.

Victoria Cassilis asked him in the Park to call upon her--for auld
lang syne. What he replied is not on record, because, if anybody
heard, it could only have been the lady. But he did not call upon her.
After a day or two there came a letter from her. Of this he took no
notice. It is not usual for a man to ignore the receipt from a lady,
but Lawrence Colquhoun did do so. Then there came another. This also
he tore in small pieces. And then another. "Hang the woman," said
Lawrence; "I believe she wants to have a row. I begin to be sorry I
came home at all."

His chambers were on the second floor in the Albany, and any one
who knows Lawrence Colquhoun will understand that they were furnished
in considerable comfort, and even luxury. He did not pretend to a
knowledge of Art, but his pictures were good; nor was he a dilettante
about furniture, but his was in good style. China he abhorred,
like many other persons of sound and healthy taste. Let us leave a
loophole of escape; there may be some occult reason, unknown to the
uninitiated, for finding beauty, loveliness, and desirability in
hideous china monsters and porcelain. After all we are but a flock,
and follow the leader. Why should we not go mad for china? It is
as sensible as going mad over rinking. Why should we not buy
water-colours at fabulous prices? At least these can be sold again
for something, whereas books--an extinct form of madness--cannot;
and besides, present their backs in a mute appeal to be read.

The rooms of a man with whom comfort is the first thing aimed at. The
chairs are low, deep, and comfortable; there are brackets, tiny
tables, and all sorts of appliances for saving trouble and exertion;
the curtains are of the right shade for softening the light; the
pictures are of subjects which soothe the mind; the books, if you look
at them, are books of travel and novels. The place is exactly such a
home as lazy Lawrence would choose.

And yet when we saw his laziness in the Prologue, he was living alone
in a deserted city, among the bare wooden walls of a half-ruined
hotel. But Lawrence was not then at home. He took what comfort he
could get, even there; and while he indulged his whim for solitude,
impressed into his own service for his own comfort the two Chinamen
who constituted with him the population of Empire City.

But at Empire City he was all day shooting. That makes a difference to
the laziest of men. And he would not have stayed there so long had he
not been too lazy to go away. If a man does not mind lonely evenings,
the air on the lower slope of the Sierra Nevada is pleasant and the
game is abundant. Now, however, he was back in London, where the
laziest men live beside the busiest. The sun streamed in at his
windows, which were bright with flowers; and he sat in the shade doing
nothing. Restless men take cigars; men who find their own thoughts
insufficient for the passing hour take books; men who cannot sit still
walk about, Lawrence Colquhoun simply lay back in an easy-chair,
watching the sunlight upon the flowers with lazy eyes. He had the gift
of passive and happy idleness.

To him there came a visitor--a woman whom he did not know.

She was a woman about thirty years of age, a hard-featured,
sallow-faced woman. She looked in Lawrence's face with a grim
curiosity as she walked across the room and handed him a letter.

"From Mrs. Cassilis, sir."

"Oh!" said Lawrence. "And you are----"

"I am her maid, sir."

"Where is Janet, then?"

"Janet is dead. She died three years ago, before Mrs. Cassilis
married."

"Oh, Janet is dead, is she? Ah, that accounts--I mean, where did Janet
die?"

"In lodgings at Ventnor, sir. Mrs. Cassilis--Miss Pengelley she was
then, as you know, sir,"--Lawrence looked up sharply, but there was no
change in the woman's impassive face as she spoke,--"Miss Pengelley
sent me with her, and Janet died in my arms, sir, of consumption."

"Ah, I am sorry! And so Mrs. Cassilis has sent you to me with this
letter, has she?" He did not open it. "Will you tell Mrs. Cassilis
that I will send an answer by post, if there is any answer required?"

"I beg your pardon, sir; but Mrs. Cassilis told me expressly that if
you were in town I was to wait for an answer, if I had to wait all
day."

"In that case I suppose I had better read the letter."

He opened it, and it seemed as if the contents were not pleasant,
because he rose from his chair and began to walk about. The
sallow-faced woman watched him all the time, as one who has fired a
shot, and wishes to know whether it has struck, and where.

He held the letter in his left hand, and with his right moved and
altered the position of things on the mantel-shelf, a sign of mental
agitation. Then he turned round brusquely and said:

"Tell your mistress that I will call upon her in the afternoon."

"Will you write that, sir?"

"No, I will not," he replied fiercely. "Take your answer and begone."

She went without a word.

"There will be trouble," she said to herself. "Janet said it would all
come up again some day. He's a handsome chap, and missus is a fool.
She's worse than a fool; she's a hard-hearted creature, with no more
blood than a stone statue. If there's to be trouble, it won't fall on
_his_ head, but on hern. And if I was him, I'd go away again quiet,
and then maybe no one wouldn't find it out. As for her, she'll blow on
it herself."

Lawrence's thoughts assumed a form something like the following:

"Three notes from her in rapid succession, each one more vehement than
the first. She must see me; she insists on my calling on her; she will
see me; she has something important to tell me. It's a marvellous
thing, and great proof of the absence of the inventive faculty in all
of them, that when they want to see you they invariably pretend that
they have something important to tell you. From the duchess to the
nursemaid, by Jove, they are all alike! And now she is coming here
unless I call upon her to-day.

"It won't do to let her come here. I might go down to the seaside, go
into the country, go anywhere, back to America; but what would be the
good of that? Besides, I have not done anything to be afraid of or
ashamed of, unless a knowledge of a thing is guilt. I have nothing to
fear for myself. Remains the question, Ought I not to screen her?

"But screen her from whom? No one knows except Janet, and Janet is
dead. Perhaps that woman with a face like a horse knows; that would be
awkward for Victoria if she were to offend her, for a more damned
unforgiving countenance I never set eyes upon. But Janet was faithful;
I am sure Janet would not split even when she was dying. And then
there was very little to split about when she died. Victoria hadn't
married Mr. Cassilis.

"What the deuce does she want to rake up old things for? Why can't she
let things be? It's the way of women. They can't forget; and hang me
if I don't think she can't forgive me because she has done me a wrong!
Why did I come back from Empire City! There, at all events, one could
be safe from annoyance.

"On a day like this, too, the first really fine day of the season; and
it's spoiled. I might have dined with cousin Agatha and talked to
Phillis--the pretty little Phillis! I might have mooned away the
afternoon in the Park and dined at the Club. I might have gone to
half-a-dozen places in the evening. I might have gone to Greenwich and
renewed my youth at the Ship. I might have gone to Richmond with old
Evergreen and his party. But Phillis for choice. But now I must have
it out with Victoria Cassilis. There's a fate in it: We can't be
allowed to rest and be happy. Like the schoolboy's scrag-end of the
rolly-polly pudding, it is helped, and must be eaten."

Philosophy brings resignation, but it does not bring ease of mind.
Those unfortunate gentlemen who used to be laid upon the wheel and
have their limbs broken might have contemplated the approach of
inevitable suffering with resignation, but never with happiness. In
Colquhoun's mind, Victoria Cassilis was associated with a disagreeable
and painful chapter in his life. He saw her marriage in the fragment
of Ladds's paper, and thought the chapter closed. He came home and
found her waiting for him ready to open it again.

"I _did_ think," he said, turning over her letter in his fingers,
"that for her own sake, she would have let things be forgotten. It's
ruin for her if the truth comes out, and not pleasant for me, A pretty
fool I should look explaining matters in a witness-box. But I must see
her, if only to bring her to reason. Reason? When was a woman
reasonable?"

"I am here," he said, standing before Mrs. Cassilis at her own house a
few hours later. "I am here."

Athos, Parthos, Arimis, and D'Artagnan would have said exactly the
same thing.

"_Me voici!_"

And they would have folded their arms and thrown back their heads with
a preliminary tap at the sword-hilt, to make sure that the trusty
blade was loose in the scabbard and easy to draw, in case M. le
Mari--whom the old French allegorists called _Danger_--should suddenly
appear.

But Lawrence Colquhoun said it quite meekly, to a woman who neither
held out her hand nor rose to meet him, nor looked him in the face,
but sat in her chair with bowed head and weeping eyes.

A woman of steel? There are no women of steel.

It was in Mrs. Cassilis's morning-room, an apartment sacred to
herself; she used it for letter-writing, for interviews with
dressmakers, for tea with ladies, for all sorts of things. And now she
received her old friend in it. But why was she crying, and why did she
not look up?

"I _did_ want to see you, Lawrence," she murmured. "Can you not
understand why?"

"My name is Colquhoun, Mrs. Cassilis. And I cannot understand why----"

"My name, Lawrence, is Victoria. Have you forgotten that?"

"I have forgotten everything, Mrs. Cassilis. It is best to forget
everything."

"But if you cannot! O Lawrence!" she looked up in his face--"O
Lawrence, if you cannot!"

Her weeping eyes, her tear-clouded face, her piteous gesture, moved
the man not one whit. The power which she might once have had over him
was gone.

"This is mere foolishness, Mrs. Cassilis. As a stranger, a perfect
stranger, may I ask why you call me by my Christian name, and why
these tears?"

"Strangers! it is ridiculous!" she cried, starting up and standing
before him. "It is ridiculous, when all the world knows that we were
once friends, and half the world thought that we were going to be
something--nearer."

"Nearer--and dearer, Mrs. Cassilis? What a foolish world it was!
Suppose we had become nearer, and therefore very much less dear."

"Be kind to me, Lawrence."

"I will be whatever you like, Mrs. Cassilis--except what I
was--provided you do not call me Lawrence any more. Come, let us be
reasonable. The past is gone; in deference to your wishes I removed
myself from the scene; I went abroad; I transported myself for four
years; then I saw the announcement of your marriage in the paper by
accident. And I came home again, because of your own free will and
accord you had given me my release. Is this true?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Then, in the name of Heaven, why seek to revive the past? Believe me,
I have forgotten the few days of madness and repentance. They are
gone. Some ghosts of the past come to me, but they do not take the
shape of Victoria Pengelley."

"Suppose we cannot forget?"

"Then we _must_ forget. Victoria--Mrs. Cassilis, rouse yourself. Think
of what you are--what you have made yourself."

"I do think. I think every day."

"You have a husband and a child; you have your position in the world.
Mrs. Cassilis, you have your honour."

"My honour!" she echoed. "What honour? And if all were known!
Lawrence, don't you even pity me?"

"What is the good of pity?" he asked rudely. "Pity cannot alter
things. Pity cannot make things which are as if they are not. You seem
to me to have done what you have done knowing well what you were
doing, and knowing what you were going to get by it. You have got one
of the very best houses in London; you have got a rich husband; you
have got an excellent position; and you have got--Mrs. Cassilis, you
have got a child, whose future happiness depends upon your reticence."

"I will tell you what I have besides," she burst in, with passion. "I
have the most intolerable husband, the most maddening and exasperating
man in all the world!"

"Is he cruel to you?"

"No; he is kind to me. If he were cruel I should know how to treat
him. But he is kind."

"Heroics, Mrs. Cassilis. Most women could very well endure a kind
husband. Are you not overdoing it? You almost make me remember a
scene--call it a dream--which took place in a certain Glasgow hotel
about four years and a half ago."

"In the City he is the greatest financier living, I am told. In the
house he is the King of Littleness."

"I think there was--or is--a bishop," said Lawrence meditatively, "who
gave his gigantic intellect to a Treatise on the Sinfulness of Little
Sins. Perhaps you had better buy that work and study it. Or present it
to your husband."

"Very well, Lawrence. I suppose you think you have a right to laugh at
me?"

"Right! Good God, Mrs. Cassilis," he cried, in the greatest alarm, "do
you think I claim any right--the smallest--over you? If I ever had a
right it is gone now--gone, by your own act, and my silence."

"Yes, Lawrence," she repeated, with a hard smile on her lips, "your
silence."

He understood what she meant. He turned from her and leaned against
the window, looking into the shrubs and laurels. She had dealt him a
blow which took effect.

"My silence!" he murmured; "my silence! What have I to do with your
life since that day--that day which even you would find it difficult
to forget? Do what you like, marry if you like, be as happy as you
like, or as miserable--what does it matter to me? My silence! Am I,
then, going to proclaim to the world my folly and your shame?"

"Let us not quarrel," she went on, pleased with the effect of her
words. There are women who would rather stab a man in the heart, and
so make some impression on him, than to see him cold and callous to
what they say or think. "It is foolish to quarrel after four years and
more of absence."

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," said Lawrence. "Yes, Mrs.
Cassilis, it is foolish to quarrel. Still I suppose it is old habit.
And besides----"

"When a man has nothing else to say, he sneers."

"When a woman has nothing else to say, she makes a general statement."

"At all events, Lawrence, you are unchanged since I left you at that
hotel to which you refer so often. Are its memories pleasing to you?"

"No; they are not. Are they to you? Come, Mrs. Cassilis, this is
foolish. You told me you had something to say to me. What is it?"

"I wanted to say this. When we parted----"

"Oh, hang it!" cried the man, "why go back to that?"

"When we two parted"--she set her thin lips together as if she was
determined to let him off no single word--"you used bitter words. You
told me that I was heartless, cold, and bad-tempered. Those were the
words you used."

"By Gad, I believe they were!" said Lawrence. "We had a blazing row;
and Janet stood by with her calm Scotch face, and, 'Eh, sir! Eh,
madam!' I remember."

"I might retaliate on you."

"You did then, Mrs. Cassilis. You let me have it in a very superior
style. No need to retaliate any more."

"I might tell you now that you are heartless and cold. I might tell
you----"

"It seems that you are telling me all this without any use of the
potential mood."

"That if you have any lingering kindness for me, even if you have any
resentment for my conduct, you would pity the lonely and companionless
life I lead."

"Your son is nearly a year old, I believe?"

"What is a baby?"

Lawrence thought the remark wanting in maternal feeling; but he said
nothing.

"Come, Mrs. Cassilis, it is all no use. I cannot help you. I would not
if I could. Hang it! it would be too ridiculous for me to interfere.
Think of the situation. Here we are, we three; I first, you in the
middle, and Mr. Cassilis third. You and I know, and he does not
suspect. On the stage, the man who does not suspect always looks a
fool. No French novel comes anywhere near this position of things.
Make yourself miserable if you like, and make me uncomfortable; but
for Heaven's sake, don't make us all ridiculous! As things are, so you
made them. Tell me--what did you do it for?"

"Speak to me kindly, Lawrence, and I will tell you all. After that
dreadful day I went back to the old life. Janet and I made up
something--never mind what. Janet was as secret as the grave. The old
life--Oh, how stupid and dull it was! Two years passed away. You were
gone, never to return, as you said. Janet died. And Mr. Cassilis
came."

"Well?"

"Well, I was poor. With my little income I had to live with friends,
and be polite to people I detested. I saw a chance for freedom; Mr.
Cassilis offered me that, at least. And I accepted him. Say you
forgive me, Lawrence."

"Forgive! What a thing to ask or to say!"

"It was a grievous mistake. I wanted a man who could feel with me and
appreciate me."

"Yes," he said. "I know. Appreciation--appreciation. Perhaps you got
it, and at a truer estimate than you thought. I have sometimes found,
Mrs. Cassilis, in the course of my travels, people who make themselves
miserable because others do not understand their own ideals. If these
people could only label themselves with a few simple descriptive
sentences,--such as 'I am good; I am great; I am full of lofty
thoughts; I am noble; I am wise; I am too holy for this world;' and so
on,--a good deal of unhappiness might be saved. Perhaps you might even
now try on this method with Mr. Cassilis."

"Cold and sneering," she said to herself, folding her hands, and
laying her arms straight out before her in her lap. If you think of
it, this is a most effective attitude, provided that the head be held
well back and a little to the side.

"What astonishes me," he said, taking no notice of her remark, "is
that you do not at all seem to realise the Thing you have done. Do
you?"

"It is no use realising what cannot be found out. Janet is in her
grave. Lawrence Colquhoun, the most selfish and heartless of men, is
quite certain to hold his tongue."

He laughed good-naturedly.

"Very well, Mrs. Cassilis, very well. If you are satisfied, of course
no one has the right to say a word. After all, no one has any cause to
fear except yourself. For me, I certainly hold my tongue. It would be
all so beautifully explained by Serjeant Smoothtongue: 'Six years ago,
gentlemen of the jury, a man no longer in the bloom of early youth was
angled for and hooked by a lady who employed a kind of tackle
comparatively rare in English society. She was a _femme incomprise_.
She despised the little ways of women; she was full of infinite
possibilities; she was going to lead the world if only she could get
the chance. And then, gentlemen of the jury'----"

Here the door opened, and Mr. Gabriel Cassilis appeared. His wife was
sitting in the window, cold, calm, and impassive. Some four or five
feet from her stood Lawrence Colquhoun; he was performing his
imaginary speech with great rhetorical power, but stopped short at
sight of M. le Mari, whom he knew instinctively. This would have been
a little awkward, had not Mrs. Cassilis proved herself equal to the
occasion.

"My dear!" She rose and greeted her husband with the tips of her
fingers. "You are early to-day. Let me introduce Mr. Colquhoun, a very
old friend of mine."

"I am very glad, Mr. Colquhoun, to know you. I have heard of you."

"Pray sit down, Mr. Colquhoun, unless you will go on with your
description. Mr. Colquhoun, who has just arrived from America, my
dear, was giving me a vivid account of some American trial-scene which
he witnessed."

Her manner was perfectly cold, clear, and calm. She was an admirable
actress, and there was not a trace left of the weeping, shamefaced
woman who received Lawrence Colquhoun.

Gabriel Cassilis looked at his visitor with a little pang of jealousy.
This, then, was the man with whom his wife's name had been coupled. To
be sure, it was a censorious world; but then he was a handsome fellow,
and a quarter of a century younger than himself. However, he put away
the thought, and tapped his knuckles with his double glasses while he
talked.

To-day, whether from fatigue or from care, he was not quite himself;
not the self-possessed man of clear business mind that he wished to
appear. Perhaps something had gone wrong.

Lawrence and Mrs. Cassilis, or rather the latter, began talking about
days of very long ago, so that her husband found himself out of the
conversation. This made him uneasy, and less useful when the talk came
within his reach. But his wife was considerate--made allowances, so to
speak, for age and fatigue; and Lawrence noted that he was fond and
proud of her.

He came away in a melancholy mood.

"I can't help it," he said. "I wish I couldn't feel anything about it,
one way or the other. Victoria has gone off, and I wonder how in the
world---- And now she has made a fool of herself. It is not my fault.
Some day it will all come out. And I am an accessory after the fact.
If it were not for that Phillis girl--I must see after her--and she is
pretty enough to keep any man in town--I would go back to America
again, if it were to Empire City."




CHAPTER XVII.

          "Now you set your foot on shore
    In Novo Orbe; here's the rich Peru;
    And there, within, sir, are the golden mines,
    Great Solomon's Ophir."


Unlimited credit! Wealth without bound! Power to gratify any
desire--all desires! That was the luck of the Golden Butterfly. No
wish within the reach of man that Gilead Beck could not gratify. No
project or plan within limits far, far beyond what are generally
supposed reasonable, that he could not carry out. Take your own case,
brother of mine, struggling to realise the modest ambitions common to
cultured humanity, and to force them within the bounds of a slender
income. Think of the thousand and one things you want; think of the
conditions of your life you would wished changed; think of the
generous aspirations you would gratify: think of the revenges,
malices, envies, hatreds, which you would be able to satiate--_had
you the wealth which gives the power_. Then suppose yourself suddenly
possessed of that wealth, and think what you would do with it.

Your brain is feeble; it falters at a few thousands; a hundred
thousand a year is too much for it--it was as much, if I remember
rightly, as even the imagination of the elder Dumas attained to.
Beyond a paltry twenty thousand or so, one feels oppressed in
imagination with a weight of income. Let us suppose you stick at
twenty thousand. What would you do with it? What could you not do with
it? Your ideal Society--the one thing wanting, only rich men cannot be
brought to see it, to regenerate the world--that could instantly be
put on a sound footing. Your works--those works which you keep locked
up in a desk at home--you could publish, and at once step into your
right position as a leader of thought, an [Greek: hanax andrôn]. Your
projects, educational, moral, theatrical, literary, musical, could all
together, for they are modest, be launched upon the ocean of public
opinion. You could gratify your taste for travel. Like Charles
Kingsley, you could stand in the shadow of a tropical forest (it would
not be one quarter so beautiful as a hundred glades ten miles from
Southampton) and exclaim, "At last!" You are an archæologist, and have
as yet seen little. You could make that long-desired trip to Naples
and see Pompeii; you could visit the cities of the Midi, and explore
the Roman remains you have as yet only read of; you could take that
journey to Asia Minor, your dream of twenty years, and sketch the
temples still standing, roofed and perfect, unvisited since the last
stragglers of the last crusading army died of famine on the steps,
scoffing with their latest breath at the desecrated altar. Their bones
lay mouldering in front of the marble columns--silent monuments of a
wasted enthusiasm--while the fleshless fingers pointed as if in scorn
in the direction of Jerusalem. They have been dust this many a year.
Dust blown about the fields; manure for the crops which the peasant
raises in luxuriance by scratching the soil. But the temples stand
still, sacred yet to the memory of Mother Earth, the many-breasted
goddess of the Ephesians. Why, if you had that £20,000 a year, you
would go there, sketch, photograph, and dig.

What could not one do if one had money? And then one takes to thinking
what is done by those who actually have it. Well, they subscribe--they
give to hospitals and institutions--and they save the rest. Happy for
this country that Honduras, Turkey, and a few other places exist to
plunder the British capitalists, or we should indeed perish of
wealth-plethora. Thousands of things all round us wait to be done;
things which must be done by rich men, and cannot be done by trading
men, because they would not pay.

_Exempli gratia_; here are a few out of the many.

1. They are always talking of endowment of research; all the men who
think they ought to be endowed are clamouring for it. But think of the
luxury of giving a man a thousand a year, and telling him to work for
the rest of his days with no necessity for doing pot-boilers. Yet no
rich man does it. There was a man in Scotland, the other day, gave
half a million to the Kirk. For all the luxury to be got out of that
impersonal gift, one might just as well drop a threepenny-bit into the
crimson bag.

2. This is a country in which the dramatic instinct is so strong as to
be second only to that of France. We want a National Theatre, where
such a thing as a 300 nights' run would be possible, and which should
be a school for dramatists as well as actors. A paltry £10,000 a year
would pay the annual deficit in such a theatre. Perhaps, taking year
with year, less than half that sum would do. No rich man has yet
proposed to found, endow, or subsidise such a theatre.

3. In this City of London thousands of boys run about the streets
ragged and hungry. Presently they become habitual criminals. Then they
cost the country huge sums in goals, policemen, and the like.
Philanthropic people catch a few of these boys and send them to places
where they are made excellent sailors. Yet the number does not
diminish. A small £15 a year pays for a single boy. A rich man might
support a thousand of them. Yet no rich man does.

4. In this country millions of women have to work for their living.
Everybody who employs those women under-pays them and cheats them.
Women cannot form trade-unions--they are without the organ of
government; therefore they are downtrodden in the race. They do men's
work at a quarter of men's wages. No trade so flourishing as that
which is worked by women--witness the prosperity of dress-making
masters. The workwomen have longer hours, as well as lower pay, than
the men. At the best, they get enough to keep body and soul together;
not enough for self-respect; not enough, if they are young and
good-looking, to keep them out of mischief. To give them a central
office and a central protecting power might cost a thousand pounds a
year No rich man, so far as I know, has yet come forward with any such
scheme for the improvement of women's labour.

5. This is a country where people read a great deal. More books are
printed in England than in any other country in the world. Reading
forms the amusement of half our hours, the delight of our leisure
time. For the whole of its reading Society agrees to pay Mundie &
Smith from three to ten guineas a house. Here is a sum in arithmetic:
house-bills, £1,500 a year; wine-bill, £300; horses, £500; rent, £400;
travelling, £400; dress--Lord knows what; reading--say £5; also, spent
at Smith's stalls in two-shilling novels, say thirty shillings. That
is the patronage of Literature. Successful authors make a few hundreds
a year--successful grocers make a few thousands--and people say, "How
well is Literature rewarded!"

Mr. Gilead Beck once told me of a party gathered together in Virginia
City to mourn the decease of a dear friend cut off prematurely. The
gentleman intrusted with the conduct of the evening's entertainment
had one-and-forty dollars put into his hands to be laid out to the
best advantage. He expended it as follows:--

    Whisky      Forty dollars,     (40$)
    Bread       One dollar,        ( 1$)
                ------------------------
    Total       Forty-one dollars. (41$)

"What, in thunder," asked the chairman, "made you waste all that money
in bread?"

Note.--He had never read _Henry IV_.

The modern patronage of Literature is exactly like the proportion of
bread observed by the gentleman of Virginia City.

Five pounds a year for the mental food of all the household.

Enough; social reform is a troublesome and an expensive thing. Let it
be done by the societies; there are plenty of people anxious to be
seen on platforms, and plenty of men who are rejoiced to take the
salary of secretary.

Think again of Mr. Gilead Beck's Luck and what it meant. The wildest
flights of your fancy never reach to a fourth part of his income. The
yearly revenues of a Grosvenor fall far short of this amazing good
fortune, Out of the bowels of the earth was flowing for him a
continuous stream of wealth that seemed inexhaustible. Not one well,
but fifty, were his, and all yielding. When he told Jack Dunquerque
that his income was a thousand pounds a day, he was far within the
limit. In these weeks he was clearing fifteen hundred pounds in every
twenty-four hours. That makes forty-five thousand pounds a month; five
hundred and forty thousand pounds a year. Can a Grosvenor or a Dudley
reach to that?

The first well was still the best, and it showed no signs of giving
out; and as Mr. Beck attributed its finding to the direct personal
instigation of the Golden Butterfly, he firmly believed that it never
would give out. Other shafts had been sunk round it, but with varying
success; the ground covered with derricks and machinery erected for
boring fresh wells and working the old, an army of men were engaged in
these operations; a new town had sprung up in the place of Limerick
City; and Gilead P. Beck, its King, was in London, trying to learn how
his money might best be spent.

It weighed heavily upon his mind; the fact that he was by no effort of
his own, through no merit of his own, earning a small fortune every
week made him thoughtful. In his rough way he took the wealth as so
much trust-money. He was entitled, he thought, to live upon it
according to his inclination; he was to have what his soul craved for
he was to use it first for his own purposes; but he was to devote what
he could not spend--that is, the great bulk of it--somehow to the
general good. Such was the will of the Golden Butterfly.

I do not know how the idea came into Gilead Beck's head that he was to
regard himself a trustee. The man's antecedents would seem against
such a conception of Fortune and her responsibilities. Born in a New
England village, educated till the age of twelve in a village school,
he had been turned upon the world to make his livelihood in it as best
he could. He was everything by turns; there was hardly a trade that he
did not attempt, not a calling which he did not for a while follow.
Ill luck attended him for thirty years; yet his courage did not flag.
Every fresh attempt to escape from poverty only seemed to throw him
back deeper in the slough. Yet he never despaired. His time would
surely come. He preserved his independence of soul, and he preserved
his hope.

But all the time he longed for wealth. The desire for riches is an
instinct with the Englishman, a despairing dream with the German, a
stimulus for hoarding with the Frenchman, but it is a consuming fire
with the American. Gilead P. Beck breathed an atmosphere charged with
the contagion of restless ambition. How many great men--presidents,
vice-presidents, judges, orators, merchants--have sprung from the
obscure villages of the older States? Gilead Beck started on his
career with a vague idea that he was going to be something great. As
the years went on he retained the belief, but it ceased to take a
concrete form. He did not see himself in the chair of Ulysses Grant;
he did not dream of becoming a statesman or an orator But he was going
to be a man of mark. Somehow he was bound to be great.

And then came the Golden Butterfly.

See Mr. Beck now. It is ten in the morning. He has left the pile of
letters, most of them begging letters, unopened opened at his elbow.
He has got the case of glass and gold containing the Butterfly on the
table. The sunlight pouring in at the opened window strikes upon the
yellow metal, and lights up the delicately chased wings of this freak
of Nature. Poised on the wire, the Golden Butterfly seems to hover of
its own accord upon the petals of the rose. It is alive. As its owner
sits before it, the creature seems endowed with life and motion. This
is nonsense, but Mr. Beck thinks so at the moment.

On the table is a map of his Canadian oil-fields.

He sits like this nearly every morning, the gilded box before him. It
is his way of consulting the oracle. After his interview with the
Butterfly he rises refreshed and clear of vision. This morning, if his
thoughts could be written down, they might take this form:

"I am rich beyond the dreams of avarice. I have more than I can spend
upon the indulgence of every whim that ever entered the head of sane
man. When I have bought all the luxuries that the world has to sell,
there still remains to be saved more than any other living man has to
spend.

"What am I to do with it?

"Shall I lay it up in the Bank? The Bank might break. That is
possible. Or the well might stop. No; that is impossible. Other wells
have stopped, but no well has run like mine, or will again; for I have
struck through the crust of the earth into the almighty reservoir.

"How to work out this trust? Who will help me to spend the money
aright? How is such a mighty pile to be spent?

"Even if the Butterfly were to fall and break, who can deprive me of
my wealth?"

His servant threw open the door: "Mr. Cassilis, sir."




CHAPTER XVIII.

                  "Doubtfully it stood,
    As two spent swimmers that do cling together
    And choke their art."


One of Gilead Beck's difficulties--perhaps his greatest--was his want
of an adviser. People in England who have large incomes pay private
secretaries to advise them. The post is onerous, but carries with it
considerable influence. To be a Great Man's whisperer is a position
coveted by many. At present the only confidential adviser of the
American Croesus was Jack Dunquerque, and he was unsalaried and
therefore careless. Ladds and Colquhoun were less ready to listen, and
Gabriel Cassilis showed a want of sympathy with Mr. Beck's Trusteeship
which was disheartening. As for Jack, he treated the sacred Voice,
which was to Gilead Beck what his demon was to Socrates, with profound
contempt. But he enjoyed the prospect of boundless spending in which
he was likely to have a disinterested share. Next to unlimited
"chucking" of his own money, the youthful Englishman would like--what
he never gets--the unlimited chucking of other people's. So Jack
brought ideas, and communicated them as they occurred.

"Here is one," he said. "It will get rid of thousands; it will be a
Blessing and a Boon for you; it will make a real hole in the Pile; and
it's Philanthropy itself. Start a new daily."

Mr. Beck was looking straight before him with his hands in his
pockets. His face was clouded with the anxiety of his wealth. Who
would wish to be a rich man?

"I have been already thinking of it, Mr. Dunquerque," he said. "Let us
talk it over."

He sat down in his largest easy-chair, and chewed the end of an
unlighted cigar.

"I have thought of it," he went on. "I want a paper that shall have no
advertisements and no leading articles. If a man can't say what he
wants to say in half a column, that man may go to some other paper. I
shall get only live men to write for me. I will have no long reports
of speeches, and the bunkum of life shall be cut out of the paper."

"Then it will be a very little paper."

"No, sir. There is a great deal to say, once you get the right man to
say it. I've been an editor myself, and I know."

"You will not expect the paper to pay you?"

"No, sir; I shall pay for that paper. And there shall be no cutting up
of bad books to show smart writing. I shall teach some of your reviews
good manners."

"But we pride ourselves on the tone of our reviews."

"Perhaps you do, sir. I have remarked, that Englishmen pride
themselves on a good many things. I will back a first-class British
subject for bubbling around against all humanity. See, Mr. Dunquerque,
last week I read one of your high-toned reviews. There was an article
in it on a novel. The novel was a young lady's novel. When I was
editing the _Clearville Roarer_ I couldn't have laid it on in finer
style for the rough back of a Ward Politician. And a young lady!"

"People like it, I suppose," said Jack.

"I dare say they do, sir. They used to like to see a woman flogged at
the cart-tail. I am not much of a company man, Mr. Dunquerque, but I
believe that when a young lady sings out of tune it is not considered
good manners to get up and say so. And it isn't thought polite to
snigger and grin. And in my country, if a man was to invite the
company to make game of that young lady he would perhaps be requested
to take a header through the window. Let things alone, and presently
that young lady discovers that she is not likely to get cracked up as
a vocaller. I shall conduct my paper on the same polite principles. If
a man thinks he can sing and can't sing, let him be for a bit. Perhaps
he will find out his mistake. If he doesn't, tell him gently. And if
that won't do, get your liveliest writer to lay it on once for all.
But to go sneakin' and pryin' around, pickin' out the poor trash, and
cutting it up to make the people grin--it's mean, Mr. Dunquerque, it's
mean. The cart-tail and the cat-o'-nine was no worse than this
exhibition. I'm told it's done regularly, and paid for handsomely."

"Shall you be your own editor?"

"I don't know, sir. Perhaps if I stay long enough in this city to get
to the core of things, I shall scatter my own observations around. But
that's uncertain."

He rose slowly--it took him a long time to rise--and extended his long
arms, bringing them together in a comprehensive way, as if he was
embracing the universe.

"I shall have central offices in New York and London. But I shall
drive the English team first. I shall have correspondents all over the
world, and I shall have information of every dodge goin,' from an
emperor's ambition to a tin-pot company bubble."

He brought his fingers together with a clasp. Jack noticed how strong
and bony those fingers were, with hands whose muscles seemed of steel.

The countenance of the man was earnest and solemn. Suddenly it changed
expression, and that curious smile of his, unlike the smile of any
other man, crossed his face.

"Did I ever tell you my press experiences?" he asked. "Let us have
some champagne, and you shall hear them."

The champagne having been brought he told his story, walking slowly up
and down with his hands in his pockets, and jerking out the sentences
as if he was feeling for the most telling way of putting them.

Mr. Gilead Beck had two distinct styles of conversation. Generally,
but for his American tone, the length of his sentences, and a certain
florid wealth of illustration, you might take him for an Englishman of
eccentric habits of thought. When he went back to his old experiences
he employed the vernacular--rich, metaphoric, and full--which belongs
to the Western States in the rougher period of their development. And
this he used now.

"I was in Chicago. Fifteen years ago. I wanted employment. Nobody
wanted me. I spent most of the dollars, and thought I had better dig
out for a new location, when I met one day an old schoolfellow named
Rayner. He told me he was part proprietor of a morning paper. I asked
him to take me on. He said he was only publisher, but he would take me
to see the Editor, Mr. John B. Van Cott, and perhaps he would set me
grinding at the locals. We found the Editor. He was a short active man
of fifty, and he looked as cute as he was. Because, you see, Mr.
Dunquerque, unless you are pretty sharp on a Western paper, you won't
earn your mush. He was keeled back, I remember, in a strong chair,
with his feet on the front of the table, and a clip full of paper on
his knee. And in this position he used to write his leading articles.
Squelchers, some of them; made gentlemen of opposite politics cry, and
drove rival editors to polishing shooting-irons. The floor was covered
with exchanges. And there was nothing else in the place but a cracked
stove, half a dozen chairs standing around loose, and a spittoon.

"I mention these facts, Mr. Dunquerque, to show that there was good
standing-room for a free fight of not more than two.

"Mr. Van Cott shook hands, and passed me the tobacco pouch, while
Rayner chanted my praises. When he wound up and went away, the Editor
began.

"'Wal, sir,' he said, 'you look as if you knew enough to go indoors
when it rains, and Rayner seems powerful anxious to get you on the
paper. A good fellow is Rayner; as white a man as I ever knew; and he
has as many old friends as would make a good-sized city. He brings
them all here, Mr. Beck, and wants to put every one on the paper. To
hear him hold forth would make a camp-meeting exhorter feel small. But
he's disinterested, is Rayner. It's all pure goodness.'

"I tried to feel as if I wasn't down-hearted. But I was.

"'Any way,' I said, 'if I can't get on here, I must dig out for a
place nearer sundown. Once let me get a fair chance on a paper, and I
can keep my end of the stick.'

"The Editor went on to tell me what I knew already, that they wanted
live men on the paper, fellows that would do a murder right up to the
handle. Then he came to business; offered me a triple execution just
to show my style; and got up to introduce me to the other boys.

"Just then there was a knock at the door.

"'That's Poulter, our local Editor,' he said. 'Come in, Poulter. He
will take you down for me.'

"The door opened, but it wasn't Poulter. I knew that by instinct. It
was a rough-looking customer, with a black-dyed moustache, a diamond
pin in his shirt front, and a great gold chain across his vest; and he
carried a heavy stick in his hand.

"'Which is the one of you two that runs this machine?' he asked,
looking from one to the other.

"'I am the Editor,' said Mr. Van Cott, 'if you mean that.'

"'Then you air the Rooster I'm after,' he went on. 'I am John Halkett
of Tenth Ward. I want to know what in thunder you mean by printing
infernal lies about me and my party in your miserable one-hoss paper.'

"He drew a copy of the paper from his pocket, and held it before the
Editor's eyes.

"'You know your remedy, sir,' said Mr. Van Cott, quietly edging in the
direction of the table, where there was a drawer.

"'That's what I do know. That's what I'm here for. There's two
remedies. One is that you retract all the lies you have printed, the
other'----

"'You need not tell me what the other is, Mr. Halkett.' As he spoke he
drew open the drawer; but he hadn't time to take the pistol from it
when the ward politician sprang upon him, and in a flash of lightning
they were rolling over each other among the exchanges on the floor.

"If they had been evenly matched, I should have stood around to see
fair. But it wasn't equal. Van Cott, you could see at first snap, was
grit all through, and as full of fight as a game-rooster. But it was
bulldog and terrier. So I hitched on to the stranger, and pulled him
off by main force.

"'You will allow me, Mr. Van Cott,' I said, 'to take this contract off
your hands. Choose a back seat sir, and see fair.'

"'Sail in,' cried Mr. Halkett, as cheerful as a coot, 'and send for
the coroner, because he'll be wanted. I don't care which it is.'

"That was the toughest job I ever had. The strength of ward
politicians' opinions lies in their powers of bruising, and John
Halkett, as I learned afterwards, could light his weight in wild cats.
Fortunately I was no slouch in those days.

"He met my advances halfway. In ten minutes you couldn't tell Halkett
from me, nor me from Halkett. The furniture moved around cheerfully,
and there was a lovely racket. The sub-editors, printers, and
reporters came running in. It was a new scene for them, poor fellows,
and they enjoyed it accordingly. The Editor they had often watched in
a fight before, but here were two strangers worrying each other on the
floor, with Mr. Van Cott out of it himself, dodging around cheering us
on. That gave novelty.

"The sharpest of the reporters had his flimsy up in a minute, and took
notes of the proceedings.

"We fought that worry through. It lasted fifteen minutes. We fought
out of the office; we fought down the stairs; and we fought on the
pavement.

"When it was over, I found myself arrayed in the tattered remnants of
my grey coat, and nothing else. John Halkett hadn't so much as that.
He was bruised and bleeding, and he was deeply moved. Tears stood in
his eyes as he grasped me by the hand.

"'Stranger,' he said, 'will you tell me where you hail from?'

"'Air you satisfied, Mr. Halkett,' I replied, 'with the editorial
management of this newspaper?'

"'I am,' he answered. 'You bet. This is the very best edited paper
that ever ran. Good morning, sir. You have took the starch out of John
Halkett in a way that no starch ever was took out of that man before.
And if ever you get into a tight place, you come to me.'

"They put him in a cab, and sent him home for repairs. I went back to
the Editor's room. He was going on again with his usual occupation of
manufacturing squelchers. The fragments of the chairs lay around him,
but he wrote on unmoved.

"'Consider yourself permanently engaged,' he said. 'The firm will pay
for a new suit of clothes. Why couldn't you say at once that you were
fond of fighting? I never saw a visitor tackled in a more lovable
style. Why, you must have been brought up to it. And just to think
that one might never have discovered your points if it hadn't been for
the fortunate accident of John Halkett's call!'

"I said I was too modest to mention my tastes.

"'Most fortunate it is. Blevins, who used to do our fighting--a whole
team he was at it--was killed three months ago on this very floor;
there's the mark of his fluid still on the wall. We gave Blevins a
first-class funeral, and ordered a two-hundred-dollar monument to
commemorate his virtues. We were not ungrateful to Blevins.

"'Birkett came next,' he went on, making corrections with a pencil
stump. 'But he was licked like a cur three times in a fortnight.
People used to step in on purpose to wallop Birkett, it was such an
easy amusement. The paper was falling into disgrace, so we shunted
him. He drives a cab now, which suits him better, because he was
always gentlemanly in his ways.

"'Carter, who followed, was very good in some respects, but he wanted
judgment. He's in hospital with a bullet in the shoulder, which comes
of his own carelessness. We can't take him on again any more, even if
he was our style, which he never was.'

"'And who does the work now?' I ventured to ask.

"'We have had no regular man since Carter was carried off on a
shutter. Each one does a little, just as it happens to turn up. But I
don't like the irregular system. It's quite unprofessional.'

"I asked if there was much of that sort of thing.

"'Depends on the time of year. It is the dull season just now, but we
are lively enough when the fall elections come on. We sometimes have a
couple a day then. You won't find yourself rusting. And if you want
work, we can stir up a few editors by judicious writing. I'm powerful
glad we made your acquaintance, Mr. Beck.'

"That, Mr. Dunquerque, is how I became connected with the press."

"And did you like the position?"

"It had its good points. It was a situation of great responsibility.
People were continually turning up who disliked our method of
depicting character, and so the credit of the paper mainly rested on
my shoulders. No, sir; I got to like it, except when I had to go into
hospital for repairs. And even that had its charms, for I went there
so often that it became a sort of home, and the surgeons and nurses
were like brothers and sisters."

"But you gave up the post?" said Jack.

"Well, sir, I did. The occupation, after all, wasn't healthy, and was
a little too lively. The staff took a pride in me too, and delighted
to promote freedom of discussion. If things grew dull for a week or
two, they would scarify some ward ruffian just to bring on a fight.
They would hang around there to see that ward ruffian approach the
office, and they would struggle who should be the man to point me out
as the gentleman he wished to interview. They were fond of me to such
an extent that they could not bear to see a week pass without a fight.
And I will say this of them, that they were as level a lot of boys as
ever destroyed a man's character.

"Most of the business was easy. They came to see Mr. Van Cott, and
they were shown up to me. What there is of me, takes up a good deal of
the room. And when they'd put their case I used to open the door and
point. 'Git,' I would say. 'You bet,' was the general reply; and they
would go away quite satisfied with the Editorial reception. But one a
week or so there would be a put-up thing, and I knew by the look of my
men which would take their persuasion fighting.

"It gradually became clear to me that if I remained much longer there
would be a first class funeral, with me taking a prominent part in the
procesh; and I began to think of digging out while I still had my hair
on.

"One morning I read an advertisement of a paper to be sold. It was in
the city of Clearville, Illinois, and it seemed to suit. I resolved to
go and look at it, and apprised Mr. Van Cott of my intention.

"'I'm powerful sorry,' he said; 'but of course we can't keep you if
you will go. You've hoed your row like a square man ever since you
came, and I had hoped to have your valuable services till the end.'

"I attempted to thank him, but he held up his hand, and went on
thoughtfully.

"'There's room in our plat at Rose Hill Cemetery for one or two more;
and I had made up my mind to let you have one side of the monument all
to yourself. The sunny side, too--quite the nicest nest in the plat.
And we'd have given you eight lines of poetry--Blevins only got four,
and none of the other fellows any. I assure you, Beck, though you may
not think it, I have often turned this over in my mind when you have
been in hospital, and I got to look on it as a settled thing. And now
this is how it ends. Life is made up of disappointments.'

"I said it was very good of him to take such an interest in my
funeral, but that I had no yearning at present for Rose Hill Cemetery,
and I thought it would be a pity to disturb Blevins. As I had never
known him and the other boys, they mightn't be pleased if a total
stranger were sent to join their little circle.

"Mr. Van Cott was good enough to say that they wouldn't mind it for
the sake of the paper: but I had my prejudices, and I resigned.

"I don't know whether you visited Illinois when you were in America,
Mr. Dunquerque; but if you did, perhaps you went to Clearville. It is
in that part of the State which goes by the name of Egypt, and is so
named on account of the benighted condition of the natives. It wasn't
a lively place to go to, but still----

"The _Clearville Roarer_ was the property of a Mrs. Scrimmager,
widow of the lately defunct editor. She was a fresh buxom widow of
thirty-five, with a flow of language that would down a town council or
a vestry. I inferred from this that the late Mr. Scrimmager was not
probably very sorry when the time came for him to pass in his checks.

"She occupied the upper flats of a large square building, in the lower
part of which were the offices of the paper. I inspected the premises,
and having found that the books and plant were pretty well what the
advertisement pretended, I closed the bargain at once, and entered
into possession.

"The first evening I took tea with Mrs. Scrimmager.

"'It must be more than a mite lonely for you,' she said, as we sat
over her dough-nuts and flipflaps, 'up at the tavern. But you'll soon
get to know all the leading people. They're a two-cent lot, the best
of them. Scrimmy (we always called him Scrimmy for short) never
cottoned to them. He used to say they were too low and common, mean
enough to shoot a man without giving him a chance--a thing which
Scrimmy, who was honourable from his boots up, would have scorned to
do.'

"I asked if it was long since her husband had taken his departure.

"'He started,' she said, 'for kingdom come two months ago, if that's
what you mean.'

"'Long ill?'

"'Ill?' she replied, as if surprised at the question. 'Scrimmy never
was ill in his life. He was quite the wrong man for that. Scrimmy was
killed.'

"'Was he,' I asked. 'Railway accident, I suppose?'

"Mrs. Scrimmager looked at me resentfully, as if she thought I really
ought to have known better. Then she curved her upper lip in disdain.

"'Railway accident! Not much. Scrimmy was shot.'

"'Terrible!' I ejaculated, with a nervous sensation, because I guessed
what was coming.

"'Well, it was rough on him,' she said. 'Scrimmy and Huggins of the
_Scalper_--do you know Huggins? Well, you'll meet him soon enough
for your health. They hadn't been friends for a long while, and each
man was waiting to draw a bead on the other. How they did go for one
another! As an ink-slinger, Huggins wasn't a patch on my husband; but
Huggins was a trifle handier with his irons. In fact, Huggins has shot
enough men to make a small graveyard of his own; and his special
weakness is editors of your paper.'

"'I began to think that Clearville was not altogether the place for
peace and rest. But it was too late now.

"The lady went on:

"'Finally, Scrimmy wrote something that riled Huggins awful. So he
sent him a civil note, saying that he'd bore a hole in him first
chance. I've got the note in my desk there. That was gentlemanlike, so
far; but he spoiled it all by the mean sneaking way he carried it
through. Scrimmy, who was wonderful careless and never would take my
advice, was writing in his office when Huggins crept in quiet, and
dropped a bullet through his neck before he had time to turn. Scrimmy
knew it was all up; but he was game to the last, and finished his
article, giving the _Scalper_ thunder. When he'd done it he came
upstairs and died.'

"'And Mr. Huggins?'

"'They tried him; but, Lord, the jury were all his friends, and they
brought it in justifiable homicide. After the funeral Huggins behaved
handsome; he put the _Scalper_ into deep mourning, and wrote a
beautiful send-off notice, saying what a loss the community had
suffered in Scrimmy's untimely end. I've got the article in my desk,
and I'll show it to you; but somehow I never could bring myself to be
friends with Huggins after it.'

"'Mr. Scrimmager was perhaps not the only editor who has fallen a
victim in Clearville.'

"'The only one? Not by a long chalk,' she replied. 'The _Roarer_
has had six editors in five years; they've all been shot except one,
and he died of consumption. His was a very sad case. A deputation of
leading citizens called to interview him one evening; he took refuge
on the roof of the office, and they kept him there all night in a
storm. He died in two months after it. But he was a poor nervous
critter, quite unfit for his position.'

"'And this,' I thought, 'this is the place I have chosen for a quiet
life.'

"I debated that night with myself whether it would be better to blow
the roof off my head at once, instead of waiting for Huggins or some
other citizen to do it for me. But I resolved on waiting a little.

"Next day I examined the files of the _Roarer_, and found that it
had been edited with great vigor and force; there was gunpowder in
every article, fire and brimstone in every paragraph. No wonder, I
thought, that the men who wrote those things were chopped up into
sausage-meat. I read more, and it seemed as if they might as well have
set themselves up as targets at once. I determined on changing the
tone of the paper; I would no longer call people midnight assassins
and highway robbers, nor would I hint that political opponents were
all related to suspended criminals. I would make the _Roarer_
something pure, noble, and good; I would take Washington Irving for my
model; it should be my mission to elevate the people.

"Wal, sir, I begun. I wrote for my first number articles as elevating
as Kentucky whisky. Every sentence was richly turned; every paragraph
was as gentle as if from the pen of Goldsmith. There was a mutiny
among the compositors; they were unaccustomed to such language, and it
made them feel small. One man, after swearing till the atmosphere was
blue, laid down his stick in despair and went and got drunk. And the
two apprentices fought over the meaning of a sentence in the backyard.
One of those boys is now a cripple for life.

"It would have been better for me, a thousand times better, if I had
stuck to the old lines of writing. The people were accustomed to that.
They looked for it, and they didn't want any elevating. If you think
of it, Mr. Dunquerque, people never do. The Clearville roughs liked to
be abused, too, because it gave them prominence and importance. But my
pure style didn't suit them, and as it turned out, didn't suit me
either.

"The City Marshal was the earliest visitor after the issue of my first
number. He came to say that, as the chief executive officer of the
town, he would not be responsible for the public peace if I persevered
in that inflammatory style. I told him I wouldn't change it for him or
anybody else. Then he said it would cause a riot, and he washed his
hands of it, and he'd done his duty.

"Next came the Mayor with two town-councillors.

"'What in thunder, do you think you mean, young man,' his honour
began, pointing to my last editorial, 'by bringing everlasting
disgrace on our town with such mush as that?'

"He called it mush.

"I asked him what was wrong in it.

"'Wrong? It is all wrong. Of all the mean and miserable twaddle'----

"He called it miserable twaddle.

"'Hold on, Mr. Mayor,' I said; 'we must discuss this article in a
different way. Which member of your august body does the heavy
business?'

"'We all take a hand when it's serious,' he replied; 'but in ordinary
cases it's generally understood that I do the municipal fighting
myself.'

"'We'll consider this an ordinary case, Mr. Mayor,' I said; and I went
for that chief magistrate. He presently passed through the window--the
fight had no details of interest--and then the town-councillors shook
hands with me, congratulated me on my editorial, and walked out quiet
through the door.

"Nearly a dozen Egyptians dropped in during the afternoon to
remonstrate. I disposed of them in as gentlemanlike a manner as
possible. Towards evening I was growing a little tired, and thinking
of shutting up for the day, when my foreman, whom the day's
proceedings had made young again--such is the effect of joy--informed
me that Mr. Huggins of the _Scalper_ was coming down the street.
A moment later Mr. Huggins entered. He was a medium-sized man, with
sharp, piercing eyes and a well-bronzed face, active as a terrier and
tough as a hickory knot. I was sitting in the wreck of the
office-desk, but I rose as he came in.

"'Don't stir,' he said pleasantly. 'My name is Huggins; but I am not
going to kill you to-day.'

"I said I was much obliged to him.

"'I see you've been receiving visitors,' he went on, looking at the
fragments of the chairs. 'Ours, Mr. Beck, is an active and a
responsible profession.'

"I said I thought it was.

"'These people have been pressing their arguments home with unseemly
haste,' he said. 'It is unkind to treat a stranger thus. Now as for
me, I wouldn't draw on you for your first article, not to be made
Governor of Illinois. It would be most unprofessional. Give a man a
fair show, I say.'

"'Very good, Mr. Huggins.'

"'At the same time, Mr. Beck, I _do_ think you've laid yourself open.
You are reckless, not to say insulting. Take my case. You never saw me
before, and you've had the weakness to speak of me as the gentlemanly
editor of the _Scalper_.'

"'I'm sure, Mr. Huggins, if the term is offensive'----

"'Offensive? Of course it is offensive. But as this is our first
interview, I must not let my dander rise.'

"'Let it rise by all means, and stay as high as it likes. We may find
a way of bringing it down again.'

"'No, no,' he answered, smiling; 'it would be unprofessional. Still, I
must say that your sneaking, snivelling city way of speaking will not
go down, and I have looked in to tell you that it must not be
repeated.'

"'It shall not be repeated, Mr. Huggins. I shall never again make the
mistake of calling you a gentleman.'

"He started up like a flash, and moved his hand to his breast-pocket.

"'What do mean by that?'

"I was just in time, as I sprang upon and seized him by both arms
before he could draw his pistol.

"'I mean this,' I said; 'you've waked up the wrong passenger this
time, Mr. Huggins. You needn't wriggle. I've been chucking people
through the window all day, and you shall end the lot. But first I
want that shooting-iron; it might go off by accident and hurt some one
badly.'

"It was a long and mighty heavy contract, for he was as supple as an
eel and as wicked as a cat. But I got the best holt at last, relieved
him of his pistol, and tossed him through the window.

"'Jim,' I said to the foreman, as I stretched myself in a corner,
panting and bleeding, 'You can shut up. We shan't do any more business
to-day.'

"I issued two more numbers of the _Roarer_ on the same refined and
gentlemanly principle, and I fought half the county. But all to no
purpose. Neither fighting nor writing could reform those Egyptians.

"Huggins shot me through the arm one evening as I was going home from
the office. I shall carry his mark to the grave. Three nights later I
was waited on by about thirty leading citizens, headed by the Mayor.
They said they thought Clearville wasn't agreeing with me, and they
were come to remove me. I was removed on a plank, escorted by a
torch-light procesh of the local fire brigade. On the platform of the
railway station the Mayor delivered a short address. He said, with
tears, that the interests of party were above those of individuals,
and that a change of residence was necessary for me. Then he put into
my hands a purse of two hundred dollars, and we parted with every
expression of mutual esteem.

"That is how I came out of the land of Egypt, Mr. Dunquerque; and that
is the whole history of my connection with the press."




CHAPTER XIX.

                    "We do not know
    How she may soften at the sight o' the child."


If life was pleasant at Carnarvon Square, it was far more pleasant by
the banks of the river. Phillis expanded like a rose in June under the
sweet and gracious influences with which Agatha L'Estrange surrounded
her. Her straightforward way of speaking remained--the way that
reminded one of a very superior schoolboy who had _not_ been made
a prig at Rugby--but it was rounded off by something more of what we
call maidenly reserve. It should not be called reserve at all; it is
an atmosphere with which women have learned to surround themselves, so
that they show to the outward world like unto the haloed moon. Its
presence was manifested in a hundred little ways--she did not answer
quite so readily; she did not look into the face of a stranger quite
so frankly; she seemed to be putting herself more upon her
guard--strange that the chief charm of women should be a relic of
barbarous times, when the stronger sex were to be feared for their
strength and the way in which they often used it. Only with Jack
Dunquerque there was no change. With him she was still the frank,
free-hearted girl, the friend who opened all her heart, the maiden
who, alone of womankind, knew not the meaning of love.

Phillis was perfectly at home with Agatha L'Estrange. She carolled
about the house like a bird; she played and sang at her sweet will;
she made sketches by thousands; and she worked hard at the elements of
all knowledge. Heavens, by what arid and thirsty slopes do we climb
the hills of Learning! Other young ladies had made the house by the
river their temporary home, but none so clever, none so bright, none
so entirely lovable as this emancipated cloister-child. She was not
subdued, as most young women somehow contrive to become; she dared to
have an opinion and to assert it; she did not tremble and hesitate
about acting before it had been ascertained that action was correct;
she had not the least fear of compromising herself; she hardly knew
the meaning of proper and improper; and she who had been a close
prisoner all her life was suddenly transformed into a girl as free as
any of Diana's nymphs. Her freedom was the result of her ignorance;
her courage was the result of her special training, which had not
taught her the subjection of the sex; her liberty was not license,
because she did not, and could not, use it for those purposes which
schoolgirls learn in religious boarding-houses. She could walk with a
curate, and often did, without flirting with the holy young man; she
could make Jack Dunquerque take her for a row upon the river, and
think of nothing but the beauty of the scene, her own exceeding
pleasure, and the amiable qualities of her companion.

Of course, Agatha's friends called upon her. Among them were several
specimens of the British young lady. Phillis watched them with much
curiosity, but she could not get on with them. They seemed mostly to
be suffering from feeble circulation of the pulse; they spoke as if
they enjoyed nothing; those who were very young kindled into
enthusiasm in talking over things which Phillis knew nothing about,
such as dancing--Phillis was learning to dance, but did not yet
comprehend its fiercer joys--and sports in which the other sex took an
equal part. Their interest was small in painting; they cared for
nothing very strongly; their minds seemed for the most part as languid
as their bodies. This life at low ebb seemed to the girl whose blood
coursed freely, and tingled in her veins as it ran, a poor thing; and
she mentally rejoiced that her own education was not such as theirs.
On the other hand, there were points in which these ladies were
clearly in advance of herself. Phillis felt the cold ease of their
manner; that was beyond her efforts; a formal and mannered calm was
all she could assume to veil the intensity of her interest in things
and persons.

"But what do they like, Agatha?" she asked one day, after the
departure of two young ladies of the highest type.

"Well, dear, I hardly know. I should say that they have no strong
likings in any direction. After all, Phillis dear, those who have the
fewest desires enjoy the greatest happiness."

"No, Agatha, I cannot think that. Those who want most things can enjoy
the most. Oh, that level line! What can shake them off it?"

"They are happier as they are, dear. You have been brought up so
differently that you cannot understand. Some day they will marry. Then
the equable temperament in which they have been educated will stand
them in good stead with their husbands and their sons."

Phillis was silent, but she was not defeated.

Of course the young ladies did not like her at all.

They were unequal to the exertion of talking to a girl who thought
differently from all other girls. Phil to them, as to all people who
are weak in the imaginative faculty, was _impossible_.

But bit by bit the social education was being filled in, and Phillis
was rapidly becoming ready for the _début_ to which Agatha looked
forward with so much interest and pride.

There remained another kind of education.

Brought up alone, with only her maid of her own age, and only an old
man on whom to pour out her wealth of affection, this girl would, but
for her generous nature, have grown up cold and unsympathetic. She did
not. The first touch of womanly love which met her in her escape from
prison was the kiss which Agatha L'Estrange dropped unthinkingly upon
her cheek. It was the first of many kisses, not formal and unmeaning,
which were interchanged between these two. It is difficult to explain
the great and rapid change the simple caresses of another woman worked
in Phillis's mind. She became softer, more careful of what she said,
more thoughtful of others. She tried harder to understand people; she
wanted to be to them all what Agatha L'Estrange was to her.

One day, Agatha, returning from early church, whither Phillis would
not accompany her, heard her voice in the kitchen. She was singing and
laughing. Agatha opened the door and looked in.

Phillis was standing in the middle of a group. Her eyes were bright
with a sort of rapture; her lips were parted; her long hair was
tossing behind her; she was singing, talking, and laughing, all in a
breath.

In her arms she held the most wonderful thing to a woman which can be
seen on this earth.

A BABY.

The child of the butter-woman. The mother stood before Phillis, her
pleased red face beaming with an honest pride. Phillis's maid,
Antoinette, and Agatha's three servants, surrounded these two, the
principal figures. In the corner, grinning, stood the coachman. And
the baby crowed and laughed.

"Oh, the pretty thing! Oh, the pretty thing!" cried Phillis, tossing
the little one-year-old, who kicked and laughed and pulled at her
hair. "Was there ever such a lovely child? Agatha, come and see, come
and see! He talks, he laughs, he dances!"

"Ah, madame!" said Antoinette, wiping away a sympathetic tear. "Dire
que ma'amsell n'en a jamais vu? Mais non, mais non--pas memes des
poupees!"




CHAPTER XX.

    "Go seek your fortune farther than at home."


Lawrence Colquhoun returned home to find himself famous. Do you
remember a certain book of travels written four or five years ago by
Lord Milton and Dr. Cheadle, in which frequent mention was made of
_un nomme_ Harris, an inquiring and doubting Christian, who wore
a pair of one-eyed spectacles and carried a volume of Paley? If that
Harris, thus made illustrious, had suddenly presented himself in a
London drawing-room while the book was enjoying his first run, he
would have met with much the same success which awaited Lawrence
Colquhoun. Harris let his opportunity go, and never showed up; perhaps
he is still wandering in the Rocky Mountains and pondering over Paley.
But Colquhoun appeared while the work of the Dragoon and the Younger
Son was still in the mouths of men and women. The liveliest thing in
that book is the account of Empire City and its Solitary. Everybody
whose memory can carry him back to last year's reading will remember
so much. And everybody who knew Colquhoun knew also that he was the
Solitary.

The Hermit; the man with the Golden Butterfly, now a millionaire; the
Golden Butterfly, now in a golden cage--all these actually present, so
to speak, in the flesh, and ready to witness if the authors lied. Why,
each was an advertisement of the book, and if the two Chinamen had
been added, probably people might be reading the work still. But they,
poor fellows, were defunct.

It annoyed Lawrence at first to find himself, like Cambuscan, with his
tale half told; and it was monotonous to be always asked whether it
was really true, and if he was the original Hermit. But everything
wears off; people in a week or two began to talk of something else,
and when Colquhoun met a man for the first time after his return he
would startle and confuse that man by anticipating his question. He
knew the outward signs of its approach. He would watch for the smile,
the look of curiosity, and the parting of the lips before they framed
the usual words:

"By the way, Colquhoun, is it actually true that you are the Hermit in
Jack Dunquerque's book?"

And while the questioner was forming the sentence, thinking it a
perfectly original one, never asked before, Lawrence would answer it
for him.

"It is perfectly true that I was the Hermit. Now talk of something
else."

For the rest he dropped into his old place. Time, matrimony, good and
evil hap, had made havoc among his set; but there was still some left.
Club-men come and club-men go; but the club goes on for ever.

Colquhoun had the character of being at once the laziest and the most
good-natured of men. A dangerous reputation, because gratitude is a
heavy burden to bear. If you do a man a good turn he generally finds
it too irksome to be grateful, and so becomes your enemy. But
Colquhoun cared little about his reputation.

When he disappeared, his friends for a day or two wondered where he
was. Then they ceased to talk of him. Now he was come back they were
glad to have him among them again. He was a pleasant addition. He was
not altered in the least--his eyes as clear from crows-feet, his beard
as silky, and his face as cheerful as ever. Some men's faces have got
no sun in them; they only light up with secret joy at a friend's
misfortunes; but this is an artificial fire, so to speak; it burns
with a baleful and lurid light. There are others whose faces are like
the weather in May, being uncertain and generally disagreeable. But
Lawrence Colquhoun's face always had a cheerful brightness. It came
from an easy temper, a good digestion, a comfortable income, and a
kindly heart.

Of course he made haste to find Gilead P. Beck. Jack Dunquerque, who
forgot at the time to make any mention of Phillis Fleming, informed
him of the Golden Butterfly's wonderful Luck. And they all dined
together--the Hermit, the Miner, the Dragoon, and the Younger Son.

They ran the Bear Hunt over again; they talked of Empire City, and
speculated on the two Chinamen; had they known the fate of the two,
their speculations might have taken a wider range.

"It was rough on me that time," said Gilead. "It had never been so
rough before, since I began bumming around."

They waited for more, and presently he began to tell them more. It was
the way of the man. He never intruded his personal experiences, being
for the most part a humble and even a retiring man; but when he was
among men he knew, he delighted in his recollections.

"Thirty-three years ago since I began. Twelve years old; the youngest
of the lot. And I wonder where the rest are. Hiram, I know, sat down
beside a rattle one morning. He remembered he had an appointment
somewhere else, and got up in a hurry. But too late, and his
constitution broke up suddenly. But for the rest I never did know what
became of them. When I go back with that almighty Pile of mine, they
will find me out, I dare say. Then they will bring along all their
friends and the rest of the poor relations. The poorer the relations
in our country, the more affectionate and self-denying they are."

"What did you do first?" asked Ladds.

"Ran messages; swept out stores; picked up trades; went handy boy to a
railway engineer; read what I could and when I could. When I was
twenty I kept a village school at a dollar a day. That was in Ohio.
I've been many things in my pilgrimage and tried to like them all, but
that was most too much for me. Boys _was_ gells, Captain Ladds. Boys
themselves are bad; but boys and gells mixed, they air--wal, it's a
curious and interestin' thing that, ever since that time, when I see
the gells snoopin' around with their eyes as soft as velvet, and their
sweet cheeks the colour of peach, I say to myself, 'Shoddy. It is
shoddy. I've seen you at school, and I know you better than you
think.' As the poet says, 'Let gells delight to bark and bite, for
'tis their nature to.' You believe, Mr. Dunquerque, because you are
young and inexperienced, that gells air soft. Air they? Soft as the
shell of a clam. And tender? Tender as hickory-nut. Air they gentle,
unselfish, and yieldin'? As rattlesnakes. The child is mother to the
woman, as the poet says; and school-gells grow up mostly into women.
They're sweet to look at; but when you've tended school, you feel to
know them. And then you don't yearn after them so much.

"There was once a boy I liked. He was eighteen, stood six foot high in
his stocking-boots, and his name was Pete Conkling. The lessons that
boy taught me were useful in my after life. We began it every morning
at five minutes past nine. Any little thing set us off. He might heave
a desk, or a row of books, or the slates of the whole class at my
head. I might go for him first. It was uncertain how it began, but the
fight was bound to be fought. The boys expected it, and it pleased the
gells. Sometimes it took me half an hour, and sometimes the whole
morning, to wallop that boy. When it was done, Pete would take his
place among the little gells, for he never could learn anything, and
school would begin. To see him after it was over sitting alongside of
little Hepzibah and Keziah, as meek as if he'd never heard of a black
eye, and never seen the human fist, was one of my few joys. I was fond
of Pete, and he was fond of me. Ways like his, gentlemen, kinder creep
round the heart of the lonely teacher. Very fond of him I grew. But I
got restless and dug out for another place; it was when I went on the
boards and became an actor, I think; and it was close on fifteen years
afterwards that I met him. Then he was lying on the slopes of
Gettysburg--it was after the last battle--and his eyes were turned up
to the sky; one of them, I noticed, was black; so that he had kept up
his fighting to the end. For he was stark dead, with a Confed. bullet
in his heart. Poor Pete!"

"You fought for the North?" asked one of his audience.

"I _was_ a Northerner," he replied simply. How could he help taking
his part in maintaining undivided that fair realm of America, which
every one of his countrymen love as Queen Elizabeth's yeoman loved the
realm of England? We have no yeomen now, which is perhaps one of the
reasons why we could not understand the cause of the North.

"I worried through that war without a scratch. We got wary towards the
end, and let the bullets drop into trunks of trees for choice. And
when it was over, I was five-and-thirty, and had to begin the world
again. But I was used to it."

"And you enjoyed a wandering life?"

"Yes, I believe I did enjoy barking up a new tree. There's a breed of
Americans who can't keep still. I belong to that breed. We do not like
to sit by a river and watch the water flow; we get tired livin' in the
village lookin' in each other's faces while the seasons come round
like the hands of a clock. There's a mixture among us of Dutch and
German and English to sit quiet and till the ground. They get their
heels well grounded in the clay, and there they stick."

"Where do you get it from, the wandering blood?" asked Colquhoun.

Gilead P. Beck became solemn.

"There air folk among us," he whispered, "Who hold that we are
descended from the Ten Tribes. I don't say those folk are right, but I
do say that it sometimes looks powerful like as if they were.
Descended from the Ten Tribes, they say, and miraculously kept
separate from the English among whom they lived. Lost their own
language--which, if it was Hebrew, I take it was rather a good thing
to be quit of--and speakin' English, like the rest. What were the
tribes? Wanderers, mostly. Father Abraham went drivin' his cows and
his camels up and down the country. Isaac went around on the rove, and
Jacob couldn't sit still. Very well, then. Didn't their children walk
about, tryin' one location after another, for forty years, and always
feelin' after a bit as if there must be a softer plank farther on? And
when they'd be settled down for a few hundred years, didn't they get
up and disappear altogether? Mark you, they _didn't want_ to settle.
And where are the Ten Tribes now? For they never went back; you may
look Palesteen through and through, and nary a tribe."

He looked round asking the question generally, but no one ventured to
answer it.

"Our folk, who have mostly gut religion, point to themselves. They
say; 'Look at us; we air the real original Wanderers.' Look at us all
over the world. What are the hotels full of? Full of Americans. We are
everywhere. We eat up the milk and the honey, and we tramp off on
ramble again. But there's more points of gen'ral resemblance. We like
bounce and bunkum; so did those people down in Syria; we like to pile
up the dollars; so did the Jews; they liked to set up their kings and
pull them down again; we pursue the same generous and confiding policy
with our presidents; and if they were stiff-necked and backsliding, we
are as stiff-necked and backsliding as any generation among all the
lot."

"A very good case, indeed," said Colquhoun.

"I did not think so, sir, till lately. But it's been borne in upon me
with the weight and force that can't be resisted, and I believe it
now. The lost Ten Tribes, gentlemen, air now located in the United
States. I am certain of it from my own case. Do any of you think--I
put it to you seriously--that such an inseck as the Golden Butterfly
would have been thrown away upon an outsider? It is likely that such
all-fired Luck as mine would have been wasted on a man who didn't
belong to the Chosen People? No, sir; I am of the children of Israel;
and I freeze to that."




CHAPTER XXI.

    "Animum pictura pascit inani."


When Panurge was in that dreadful difficulty of his about marrying he
took counsel of all his friends. Pantagruel, as we know, advised him
alternately for and against, according to the view taken at the moment
by his versatile dependent. Gilead Beck was so far in Panurge's
position that he asked advice of all his friends. Mr. Cassilis
recommended him to wait and look about him; meantime, he took his
money for investment; and, as practice makes perfect, and twice or
thrice makes a habit, he found now no difficulty in making Mr. Beck
give him cheques without asking their amount or their object, while
the American Fortunatus easily fell into the habit of signing them
without question. He was a Fool? No doubt. The race is a common one;
especially common is that kind of Fool which is suspicious from long
experience, but which, having found, as he thinks, a fellow-creature
worthy of trust, places entire and perfect trust in him, and so, like
a ship riding at anchor with a single stout cable, laughs at danger
even while the wind is blowing, beam on, to a lee shore. Perfect faith
is so beautiful a thing that neither religionists who love to
contemplate it, nor sharpers who profit by it, would willingly let it
die out.

Lawrence Colquhoun recommended pictures.

"You may as well spend your money on Artists as on any other people.
They are on the whole a pampered folk, and get much too well paid. But
a good picture is generally a good investment. And then you will
become a patron and form a gallery of your own, the Beck collection,
to hand down to posterity."

"I can't say, Colonel--not with truth--that I know a good picture from
a bad one. I once tried sign painting. But the figures didn't come out
right, somehow. Looked easy to do, too. Seems I didn't know about
Perspective, and besides, the colours got mixed. Sign-painting is not
a walk in life that I should recommend from personal experience."

But the idea took root in his brain.

Jack Dunquerque encouraged it.

"You see, Beck," he said, "you may as well form a gallery of paintings
as anything else. Buy modern pictures; don't buy Old Masters, because
you will be cheated. The modern pictures will be old in a hundred
years, and then your collection will be famous."

"I want to do my work in my own lifetime," said the millionaire. He
was a man of many ideas but few convictions, the strongest being that
man ought to do what he has to do in his own lifetime, and not to
devise and bequeath for posthumous reputation.

"Why, and so you would. You buy the pictures while you are living;
when you go off, the pictures remain."

A patron of Art. The very name flattered his vanity, being a thing he
had read of, and his imagination leaped up to the possibilities of the
thing. Why should he not collect for his own country? He saw himself,
like Stewart, returning to New York with a shipload of precious Art
treasures bought in London; he saw his agent ransacking the studios
and shops of Florence, Naples, Rome, Dresden--wherever painters
congregate and pictures are sold; he imagined rich argosies coming to
him across the ocean--the American looks across the ocean for the
luxuries and graces of life, his wines, his Art, and his literature.
Then he saw a great building, grander than the Capitol at Washington,
erected by a grateful nation for the reception of the Gilead P. Beck
Collection of Ancient and Modern Paintings.

Now one of the earliest callers upon Mr. Beck was a certain
picture-dealer named Burls. Mr. Burls and his fraternity regard rich
Americans with peculiar favour. It is said to have been Bartholomew
Burls who invented especially for American use the now well-known
"multiplication" dodge. The method is this. You buy a work by a rising
artist, one whose pictures may be at some future time, but are not
yet, sufficiently known to make their early wanderings matter of
notoriety. One of your young men--he must be a safe hand and a
secret--make two, three, or four copies, the number depending on the
area, rather than the number, of your _clientele_. You keep the
Artist's receipt, a proof of the genuineness of the picture. The
copies, name and all, are so well done that even the painter himself
would be puzzled to know his own. You then proceed to place your
pictures at good distances from each other, representing each as
genuine. It is a simple, beautiful, and lucrative method. Not so
profitable, perhaps, as cleaning oil-paintings, which takes half an
hour apiece and is charged from ten shillings to ten pounds, according
to the dealer's belief in your power to pay. Nor is it more profitable
than the manufacture of a Correggio or a Cuyp for a guileless cotton
manufacturer, and there is certainly a glow of pride to be obtained by
the successful conversion of a new into an old picture by the aid of
mastic varnish, mixed with red and yellow lake to tone it down, and
the simple shaking of a door-mat over it. But then people have grown
wary, and it is difficult to catch a purchaser of a Correggio, for
which a large sum has to be asked. The multiplication dodge is the
simpler and the safer.

Mr. Beck, as has been already shown, was by no means deficient in a
certain kind of culture. He had read such books as fell in his way
during his wandering and adventurous life. His reading was thus
miscellaneous. He had been for a short time an actor, and thus
acquired a little information concerning dramatic literature. He had
been on a newspaper, one of the rank and file as well as an editor. He
knew a good deal about many things, arts, customs, and trades. But of
one thing he was profoundly ignorant, and that was of painting.

He looked at Burls' card, however--"Bartholomew Burls and Co., Church
Street, City, Inventors of the only safe and perfect Method of
Cleaning Oil Paintings"--and, accompanied by Jack Dunquerque, who knew
about as much of pictures as himself, hunted up the shop, and entered
it with the meekness of a pigeon about to be plucked.

They stood amid a mass of pictures, the like of which Gilead Beck had
never before conceived. They were hanging on the walls; they were
piled on the floor; they were stretched across the ceiling; they
climbed the stairs; they were hiding away in dark corners; a gaping
doorway lit with gas showed a cellar below where they were stacked in
hundreds. Pictures of all kinds. The shop was rather dark, though the
sun of May was pouring a flood of light even upon the narrow City
streets. But you could make out something. There were portraits in
hundreds. The effigies of dead men and women stared at you from every
second frame. Your ancestor--Mr. Burls was very particular in
ascertaining beyond a doubt that it was your own ancestor, and nobody
else's--frowned at you in bright steel armour with a Vandyke beard; or
he presented a shaven face with full cheeks and a Ramillies wig; or he
smirked upon you from a voluminous white scarf and a coat-collar which
rose to the top of his head. The ladies of your family--Mr. Burls was
very particular, before selling you one, in ascertaining beyond a
doubt that she belonged to your own branch of the house, and none
other--smiled upon you with half-closed lids, like the consort of
Potiphar, the Egyptian, or they frisked as shepherdesses in airy
robes, conscious of their charms; or they brandished full-blown
petticoats, compared with which crinolines were graceful, or they
blushed in robes which fell tightly about the figure, and left the
waist beneath the arms. Name any knight, or mayor, or court beauty, or
famous toast among your ancestry whose portrait is wanting to your
gallery, and Burls, the great genealogical collector, will find you
before many weeks that missing link in the family history. Besides the
portraits, there were landscapes, nymphs bathing, Venuses asleep,
Venuses with a looking-glass, Venuses of all sorts; scenes from _Don
Quixote_; Actæons surprising Dianas; battle-pieces, sea-pieces,
river-pieces; "bits" of Hampstead Heath, and boats on the Thames.

Mr. Beck looked round him, stroked his chin, and addressed the
guardian of this treasure-house:

"I am going to buy pictures," he began comprehensively. "You air the
Boss?"

"This gentleman means," Jack explained, "that he wants to look at your
pictures with a view to buying some if he approves of them."

The man in the shop was used to people who would buy one picture after
a whole mornings haggling, but he was not accustomed to people who
wanted to buy pictures generally. He looked astonished, and then, with
a circular sweep of his right hand, indicated that here were pictures,
and all Mr. Beck had to do was to go in and buy them.

"Look round you, gentlemen," he said; "pray look round you; and the
more you buy, the better we shall like it."

Then he became aware that the elder speaker was an American, and he
suddenly changed his front.

"Our chicer pictures," he explained, "are up stairs. I should like you
to look at them first. Will you step up, gentlemen?"

On the stairs, more pictures. On the landing, more pictures. On the
stairs mounting higher, more pictures. But they stopped on the first
floor. Mr. Burls and his assistants never invited any visitors to the
second and third floors, because these rooms were sacred to the
manufacture of old pictures, the multiplication of new, and the sacred
processes of cleaning, lining, and restoring. In the first-floor rooms
were fewer pictures but more light.

One large composition immediately caught Mr. Beck's eye. A noble
picture; a grand picture; a picture whose greatness of conception was
equalled by its boldness of treatment. It occupied the whole of one
side of the wall, and might have measured twenty feet in length by
fourteen in height. The subject was scriptural--the slaying of Sisera
by Jael, Heber the Kenite's wife. The defeated general lay stretched
on the couch, occupying a good ten feet of the available space. Beside
him stood the woman, a majestic figure, with a tent-peg and a mallet,
about to commit that famous breach of hospitality. The handle of the
mallet was rendered most conscientiously, and had evidently been
copied from a model. Through the open hangings of the tent were
visible portions of the army chasing the fugitives and lopping off
their heads.

"That seems a striking picture," said Mr. Beck. "I take that picture,
sir, to represent George Washington after the news of the surrender at
Saratoga, or General Jackson after the battle of New Orleans."

"Grant after Gettysburg," suggested Jack.

"No, sir. I was at Gettysburg myself; and the hero asleep on the bed,
making every allowance for his fancy dress, which I take to be
allegorical, is not at all like General Ulysses Grant, nor is he like
General Sherman. The young female, I s'pose, is Liberty, with a hammer
in one hand, and a dagger in the other. Too much limb for an American
gell, and the flesh is redder than one could wish. But on the hull a
striking picture. What may be the value of this composition, mister?"

"I beg your pardon, sir. Not Washington, sir, nor General Jackson,
though we can procure you in a very short time fine portraits of both
these 'eroes. This, gentlemen, is a biblical subject. Cicero,
overtaken, by sleep while in jail, about to be slain by 'Eber the wife
of the Kenite. That is 'Eber, with the 'eavy 'ammer in 'er 'and. The
Kenite belonged, as I have always understood--for I don't remember the
incident myself--to the opposite faction. That splendid masterpiece,
gentlemen, has been valued at five 'undred. For a town'all, or for an
altar-piece, it would be priceless. To let it go at anything under
five 'undred would be a sin and a shame, besides a-throwing away of
money. Look at the light and shade. Look at 'Eber's arm and Cicero's
leg. That leg alone has been judged by connisseers worth all the
money."

Mr. Beck was greatly disappointed in the subject and in the price;
even had it been the allegorical picture which he thought, he was not
yet sufficiently educated in the prices of pictures to offer five
hundred for it; and when Mr. Burls's assistant spoke of pounds, Mr.
Beck thought dollars. So he replied:

"Five hundred dollars? I will give you five-and-twenty."

"That," interposed Jack Dunquerque, "is a five-pound note."

"Then, by gad, sir," said the man, with alacrity, "it's yours! It's
been hangin' there for ten years, and never an offer yet. It's yours!"

This splendid painting, thus purchased at the rate of rather more than
threepence a square foot, was the acquisition made by Mr. Beck towards
his great Gallery of Ancient and Modern Masters.

He paid for it on the spot calling Jack to witness the transaction.

"We will send it up to the hotel to-morrow," said the man.

"I shall have it fixed right away along the side of my room," said Mr.
Beck. "Should it be framed?"

"I should certainly have it framed," said Jack.

"Yes, sir; we shall be happy to frame it for you."

"I dare say you would," Jack went on. "This is a job for a
house-carpenter, Mr. Beck. You will have to build the frame for this
gigantic picture. Have it sent over, and consider the frame
afterwards."

This course was approved; but, for reasons which will subsequently
appear, the picture never was framed.

The dealer proceeded to show other pictures.

"A beautiful Nicolas Pushing--'Nymphs and Satyrs in a Bacchanalian
Dance'--a genuine thing."

"I don't think much of that, Mr. Dunquerque; do you? The Nymphs
haven't finished dressing; and the gentlemen with the goats' legs may
be satires on human nature, but they are not pretty. Let us go on to
the next show in the caravan, mister."

"This is Hetty. In the master's best style. 'Graces surprised while
Bathing in the River.' Much admired by connisseers."

"No, sir; not at all," said Mr. Beck severely. "_My_ gallery is
going to elevate the morals of our gells and boys. It's a pretty
thing, too, Mr. Dunquerque, and I sometimes think it's a pity morality
was ever invented. Now, Boss."

"Quite so, sir. Hetty is, as you say--rayther--What do you think of
this, now--a lovely Grooze?"

"Grooze," said Mr. Beck, "is French, I suppose, for gell. Yes, now
that's a real pretty picture; I call that a picture you ain't ashamed
to admire; there's lips you can kiss; there's a chin you can
chuck----"

"How about the morals?" asked Jack.

"Wal, Mr. Dunquerque, we'll buy the picture first, and we'll see how
it rhymes with morals afterwards. There's eyes to look into a man's.
Any more heads of pretty Groozes, mister? I'll buy the lot."

"This is a Courage-oh!" the exhibitor went on, after expressing his
sorrow that he had no more Groozes, and bringing out a Madonna.
"Thought to be genuine by the best judges. History of the picture
unknown redooces the value."

"I can't go fooling around with copies in _my_ gallery," said Mr.
Beck. "I must have genuine pictures, or none."

"Then we will not offer you that Madonna, sir. I think I have
something here to suit you. Come this way. A Teniers, gentlemen--a
real undoubted gem of Teniers. This is a picture now for any
gentleman's collection. It came from the gallery of a nobleman lately
deceased, and was bought at the sale by Mr. Burls himself, who knows a
picture when he sees one. Mr. Bartholomew Burls, our senior partner,
gentlemen. 'The Bagpipe-player.'"

It was an excellent imitation, but of a well-known picture, and it
required consummate impudence to pretend that it was original.

"Oh," said Jack, "but I have seen this somewhere else. In the Louvre,
I believe."

"Very likely, sir," replied the unabashed vendor. "Teniers painted six
hundred pictures. There was a good many 'Bagpipe-players' among them.
One is in the Louvre. This is another."

On the advice of Jack Dunquerque Mr. Beck refrained from buying, and
contented himself with selecting, with the option of purchase. When
they left the shop, some twenty pictures were thus selected.

The seller, who had a small interest or commission on sales, as soon
as their steps were fairly out of the shop, executed a short dance
indicative of joy. Then he called up the stairs, and a man came slowly
down.

A red-nosed bibulous person, by name Critchett. He was manufacturer of
old masters in ordinary to Bartholomew Burls and Co.; cleaned and
restored pictures when other orders were slack, and was excellent at
"multiplication." He had worked for Burls for a quarter of a century,
save for a few weeks, when one Frank Melliship, a young gentleman then
down on his luck, worked in his stead. A trustworthy and faithful
creature, though given to drink; he could lie like an echo; was as
incapable of blushing as the rock on which the echo plays; and bore
cross-examination like a Claimant.

"Come down, Critchett--come down. We've sold 'Cicero and 'Eber.'"

"'Sisera and Jael.'"

"Well, it don't matter--and I said 'Cicero in Jail.' They've gone for
five pounds. The governor he always said I could take whatever was
offered, and keep it for myself. Five pounds in my pocket! Your last
Teniers--that old bagpipe-party--I tried him, but it was no go. But
I've sold the only one left of your Groozes, and you had better make a
few more, out of hand. Look here, Critchett: it isn't right to drink
in hours, and the guv'nor out and all; but this is an occasion. This
ain't a common day, because I've sold the Cicero. I won't ask you to
torse, nor yet to pay; but I says, 'Critchett, come across the way, my
boy, and put your lips to what you like best.' Lord, Lord! on'y give
me an American, and give him to me green! Never mind your hat,
Critchett. 'It's limp in the brim and it's gone in the rim,' as the
poet says; and you look more respectable without it, Critchett."

"That's a good beginning," Beck observed, after luncheon. They were in
Jack Dunquerque's club, in the smoking room. "That's a first-rate
beginning. How many pictures go to a gallery?"

"It depends on the size of it. About five hundred for a moderate sized
one."

Mr. Beck whistled.

"Never mind. The Ile pays for all. A Patron of Art. Yes, sir, that
seems the right end of the stick for a rich man to keep up. But I've
been thinking it over. It isn't enough to go to shops and buy
pictures. We must go in for sculpting too, and a Patron ought to get
hold of a struggling artist, and lend him a helping hand; he should
advance unknown talent. That's my idea."

"I think I can help you there," said Jack, his eyes twinkling. "I know
just such a man; an artist unknown, without friends, with slender
means, of great genius, who has long languished in obscurity."

"Bring him to me, Mr. Dunquerque. Bring that young man to me. Let me
be the means of pushing the young gentleman. Holy thunder! What is
money if it isn't used. Tell me his name."

"I think I ought to have spoken to him first," said Jack, in some
confusion, and a little taken aback by Mr. Beck's determination. "But,
however, you can only try. His name is Humphrey Jagenal. I will, if
you please, go and see him to-day. And I will ask him to call upon you
to-morrow morning."

"I would rather call upon _him_," said Mr. Beck. "It might look like
the pride of patronage asking him to call at the Langham. I don't want
him to start with a feeling of shame."

"Not at all; at least, of course, it will be patronage, and I believe
he will prefer it. There is no shame in taking a commission to execute
a picture."

"Mr. Dunquerque, every day you confer fresh obligations upon me. And I
can do nothing for you--nothing at all."

At this time it was Gilead Beck's worst misfortune that he was not
taken seriously by any one except Gabriel Cassilis, who literally and
liberally interpreted his permission to receive all his money for safe
investment. But as for his schemes, vague and shadowy as they were,
for using his vast income for some practically philanthropic and
benevolent objects, none of his friends sympathised with him, because
none of them understood him. Yet the man was deeply in earnest. He
meant what he said, and more, when he told Gabriel Cassilis that a
voice urged him by day and by night not to save his money, but to use
for others what he could not use himself. He had been two months in
England on purpose to learn a way, but saw no way yet. And every way
seemed barred. He would not give money to societies, because they were
societies; he wanted to strike out something new for himself. Nor
would he elaborate a scheme to be carried out after his death. Let
every man, he repeated every day, do what he has to do in his
lifetime. How was he to spend his great revenues? A Patron of Art? It
was the first tangible method that he had struck upon. He would be
that to begin with. Art has the great advantage, too, of swallowing up
any conceivable quantity of money.

And on the way from the Burls's Depot of Real and Genuine Art, he hit
upon the idea of advancing artists as well as Art. He was in thorough
earnest when he raised his grave and now solemn eyes to Jack
Dunquerque, and thanked him for his kindness. And Jack's conscience
smote him.

"I must tell you," Jack explained, "that I have never seen any of Mr.
Humphrey Jagenal's pictures. Miss Fleming, the young lady whom you met
at Mrs. Cassilis's, told me once that he was a great artist."

"Bring him to me, bring him to me, and we will talk. I hope that I may
be able to speak clearly to him without hurting his feelin's. If I
brag about my Pile, Mr. Dunquerque, you just whisper 'Shoddy,' and
I'll sing small."

"There will be no hurting of feelings. When you come to a question of
buying and selling, an artist is about the same as everybody else.
Give him a big commission; let him have time to work it out; and send
him a cheque in advance. I believe that would be the method employed
by patrons whom artists love. At least, I should love such a patron.

"Beck," he went on after a pause: both were seated in the long deep
easy-chairs of the club smoking-room, with the chairs pretty close
together, so that they could talk in low tones,--"Beck, if you talk
about artists, there's Phil--I mean Miss Fleming. By Jove! she only
wants a little training to knock the heads off half the R.A.s. Come
out with me and call upon her. She will show us her sketches."

"I remember her," said Gilead Beck slowly; "a tall young lady; a
lovely Grooze, as the man who grinds that picture-mill would say; she
had large brown eyes that looked as if they could be nothing but
tender and true, and a rosebud mouth all sweetness and smiles, and
lips that trembled when she thought. I remember her--a head like a
queen's piled up with her own brown hair and flowers, an' a figure
like--like a Mexican half-caste at fourteen."

"You talk of her as if you were in love with her," said Jack
jealously.

"No, Mr. Dunquerque; no, sir. That is, I may be. But it won't come
between you and her, what I feel. You air a most fortunate man. Go
down on your knees when you get home, and say so. For or'nary
blessin's you may use the plan of Joshua Mixer, the man who had the
biggest claim in Empire City before it busted up. He got his Petitions
and his Thanksgivin's printed out neat on a card together, and then he
hung that card over his bed. 'My sentiments,' he used to say, jerkin'
his thumb to the card when he got in at night. Never omitted his
prayers; never forgot that jerk, drunk or sober. Joshua Mixer was the
most religious man in all that camp. But for special Providences; for
Ile; for a lucky shot; for a sweet, pure, heavenly, gracious creature
like Miss Fleming,--I say, go on your knees and own to it, as a man
should. Well, Mr. Dunquerque," he continued, "I wish you success; and
if there's anything I can do to promote your success, let me know. Now
there's another thing. What I want to do is to unlock the door which
keeps me from the society of men of genius. I can get into good
houses; they all seem open to me because I've got money. London is the
most hospitable city in this wide world for those who have the stamps.
Republican? Republican ain't the word for it. Do they ask who a man
is? Not they. They ask about his dollars, and they welcome him with
smiles. It's a beautiful thing to look at, and it makes an Amer'can
sigh when he thinks of his own country, where they inquire into a
stranger's antecedents. But there's exceptions, and artists and
authors I cannot get to. And I want to meet your great men. Not to
interview them, sir. Not at all. They may talk a donkey's hind leg
off, and I wouldn't send a single line to the New York papers to tell
them what was said nor what they wore. But I should like, just for one
evening, to meet and talk with the great writers whom we respect
across the water."

Again Jack Dunquerque's eyes began to twinkle. He _could_ not enter
into the earnestness of this man. And an idea occurred to him at which
his face lit up with smiles.

"It requires thinking over. Suppose I was to be able to get
half-a-dozen or so of our greatest writers, how should we manage to
entertain them?"

"I should like, if they would only come--I should like to give them a
dinner at the Langham. A square meal; the very best dinner that the
hotel can serve. I should like to make them feel like being at the
Guildhall."

"I will think about it," said Jack, "and let you know in a day or two
what I can do for you."




CHAPTER XXII.

    "Ambition should be made of sterner stuff."


"A patron at last, Cornelius," said Humphrey Jagenal, partly
recovering from the shock of Jack Dunquerque's communication. "A
Patron. Patronage is, after all, the breath of life in Art. Let others
pander to the vitiated public taste and cater for a gaping crowd round
the walls of the Royal Academy. I would paint for a Lorenzo only, and
so work for the highest interests of Art. We will call, brother, upon
this Mr. Beck to-morrow."

"We will!" said Cornelius, with enthusiasm.

It was in the Studio. Both brothers, simultaneously fired with ardour,
started to their feet and threw back their heads with a gesture of
confidence and determination. The light of high resolve flashed from
their eyes, which were exactly alike. The half-opened lips expressed
their delight in the contemplation of immortal fame. Their chance had
arrived; their youth was come back to them.

True, that Gilead Beck at present only proposed to become a Patron to
the Artist; but while it did not enter into Humphrey's head for one
moment that he could make that visit unsupported by his brother, so
the thought lay in either's brain that a Poet wanted patronage as much
as an Artist.

They were both excited. To Humphrey it was clear that the
contemplation of his great work, in which he had basked so many years,
was to be changed for days of active labour. No longer could he
resolve to carry it into execution the "day after to-morrow," as the
Arabs say. This was difficult to realise, but as yet the thought was
like the first shock of ice-cold water, for it set his veins tingling
and braced his nerves. He felt within him once more the strength felt
by every young man at first, which is the strength of Michael Angelo.
He saw in imagination his great work, the first of many great works,
finished, a glorious canvas glowing with the realization of a
painter's dream of colour, crowded with graceful figures, warm with
the thought of genius, and rich with the fancy of an Artist-scholar--a
work for all time. And he gasped. But for his beard he might have been
a boy waiting for the morrow, when he should receive the highest prize
in the school; or an undergraduate, the favourite of his year, after
the examination, looking confidently to the Senior Wranglership.

In the morning they took no walk, but retired silently each to his own
room. In the Studio the Artist opened his portfolios, and spread out
the drawings made years ago when he was studying in Rome. They were
good drawings; there was feeling in every line; but they were copies.
There was not one scrap of original work, and his Conscience began to
whisper--only he refused at first to listen--that the skill of hand
and touch was gone. Then Conscience, which gets angry if disregarded,
took to whispering more loudly, and presently he heard. He took crayon
and paper, and began, feverishly and in haste, to copy one of his old
drawings. He worked for a quarter of an hour, and then, looking at the
thing he had once done beside the thing he was then doing, he dashed
the pencil from him, and tore up the miserable replica in disgust. His
spirit, which had flown so high, sank dull and heavy as lead; he threw
himself back in his chair and began to think, gazing hopelessly into
space.

It was the opportunity of Conscience, who presently began to sing as
loudly as any skylark, but not so cheerfully. "You are fifty," said
that voice which seldom lies, "you have wasted the last twenty years
of your life; you have become a wind-bag and a shallow humbug; you
cannot now paint or draw at all; what little power was in you has
departed. Your brother, the Poet, has been steadily working while you
have slept"--and it will be perceived that Conscience spoke from
imperfect information. "He will produce a great book, and live. You
will die. The grave will close over you, and you will be forgotten."

It was a hard saying, and the Artist groaned as he listened to it.

In the workshop, Cornelius also, startled into action, spread out upon
the table a bundle of papers which had been lying undisturbed in his
desk for a dozen years or more. They were poems he had written in his
youth, unpublished verses, thoughts in rhyme such as an imaginative
young man easily pours forth, reproducing the fashion of the time and
the thoughts of others. He began to read these over again with mingled
pleasure and pain. For the thoughts seemed strange to him. He felt
that they were good and lofty thoughts, but the conviction forced
itself upon him that the brain which had produced them was changed. No
more of such good matter was left within it. The lines of thought were
changed. The poetic faculty, a delicate plant, which droops unless it
is watered and carefully tended, was dead within him.

And the whole of the Epic to be written.

Not a line done, not a single episode on paper, though to Phillis he
claimed to have done so much.

He seized a pen, and with trembling fingers and agitated brain forced
himself to write.

In half an hour he tore the paper into shreds, and, with a groan,
threw down the pen. The result was too feeble.

Then he too began to meditate, like his brother in the Studio.
Presently his guardian angel, who very seldom got such a chance, began
to admonish him, even as the dean admonishes an erring undergraduate.

"You are fifty," said the invisible Censor. "What have you done with
yourself for twenty years and more. Your best thoughts have passed
away; the poetical eye is dim; you will write no more. Your brother,
the Artist, is busy with pencil and brain. He will produce a great
work, and live for ever. You will do nothing; you will go down into
the pit and be forgotten."

It was too much for the Poet. His lips trembled, his hand shook. He
could no more rest in his chair.

He walked backwards and forwards, the voice pursuing him.

"Wasted years; wasted energies; wasted gifts; your chance is gone. You
cannot write now."

Poets are more susceptible than artists. That is the reason why
Cornelius rushed out of the Workshop to escape this torture and sought
his brother Humphrey.

Humphrey started like a guilty person. His face was pale, his eye was
restless.

"Cornelius?"

"Do not me disturb you, my dear brother. You are happy; you are at
work; your soul is at peace."

"And you, Cornelius?"

"I am not at peace. I am restless this morning. I am nervous and
agitated."

"So am I, Cornelius. I cannot work. My pencil refuses to obey my
brain."

"My own case. My pen will not write what I wish. The link between the
brain and the nerves is for the moment severed."

"Let us go out, brother. It is now three. We will walk slowly in the
direction of the Langham Hotel."

As they put on their hats Cornelius stopped, and said reflectively--

"The nervous system is a little shaken with both of us. Can you
suggest anything, brother Humphrey?"

"The best thing for a shaken nervous system," replied Humphrey
promptly, "is a glass of champagne. I will get some champagne for you,
brother Cornelius."

He returned presently with a modest pint bottle, which they drank
together, Humphrey remarking (in italics) that in such a case it is
not a question of what a man _wants_, so much as of what he _needs_.

A pint of champagne is not much between two men, but it produced an
excellent effect upon the Twins. Before it they were downcast; they
looked around with the furtive eyes of conscious imposture; their
hands trembled. After it they raised their heads, laughed, and looked
boldly in each other's eyes, assumed a gay and confident air, and
presently marched off arm-in-arm to call upon the Patron.

Gilead Beck, unprepared to see both brethren, welcomed them with a
respect almost overwhelming. It was his first interview with Genius.

They introduced each other.

"Mr. Beck," said Cornelius, "allow me to introduce my brother,
Humphrey Jagenal. In his case the world is satisfied with the
Christian name alone, without the ceremonial prefix. He is, as you
know, the Artist."

If his brother had been Titian or Correggio he could not have said
more.

"Sir," said Mr. Beck, shaking Humphrey's hand warmly, "I am proud
indeed to make your acquaintance. I am but a rough man myself, sir,
but I respect genius."

"Then," said Humphrey, with admirable presence of mind, "allow me to
introduce my brother. Cornelius Jagenal, as you doubtless know, Mr.
Beck, is the Poet."

Mr. Beck did not know it, and said so. But he shook hands with
Cornelius none the less cordially.

"Sir, I have been knocking about the world, and have not read any
poetry since I was a boy. Then I read Alexander Pope. You know Pope,
Mr. Jagenal?"

Cornelius smiled, as if he might allow some merit to Pope, though
small in comparison with his own.

"I have never met with your poem, Mr. Cornelius Jagenal or your
pictures, Mr. Humphrey, but I hope you will now enable me to do so."

"My brother is engaged"--said Cornelius.

"My brother is engaged"--began Humphrey. "Pardon, brother."

"Sit down, gentlemen. Will you take anything? In California, up
country, we always begin with a drink. Call for what you please,
gentlemen. Sail in, as we say."

They took champagne, for the second time that day, and then their eyes
began to glisten.

Mr. Beck observed that they were both alike--small and fragile-looking
men, with bright eyes and delicate features; he made a mental note to
the effect that they would never advance their own fortunes. He also
concluded from their red noses, and from the way in which they
straightened their backs after placing themselves outside the
champagne, that they loved the goblet, and habitually handled it too
often.

"Now, gentlemen," he began, after making these observations, "may I be
allowed to talk business?"

They both bowed.

"Genius, gentlemen, is apt to be careless of the main chance. It don't
care for the almighty dollar; it lets fellows like me heap up the
stamps. What can we do but ask Genius to dig into our Pile?"

Humphrey poured out another glass of champagne for his brother, and
one for himself. Then he turned to Cornelius and nodded gravely.

"Cornelius, so far as I understand him, Mr. Beck speaks the strongest
common sense."

"We agree with you so far, Mr. Beck," said Cornelius critically,
because he was there to give moral support to his brother.

"Why should I have any delicacy in saying to a young man, or a man of
any age," he added doubtfully, for the years of the Twins seemed
uncertain, "'You, sir, are an Artist and a Genius. Take a cheque, and
carry out your ideas.'?"

"What reason indeed?" asked Cornelius. "The offer does honour to
both."

"Or to another man, 'You, sir, are a Poet. Why should the cares of the
world interfere with your thoughts? Take a cheque, and make the world
rejoice'!"

Humphrey clapped his hands.

"The world lies in travail for such a patron of poetry," he said.

"Why, then, we are agreed," said Mr. Beck. "Gentlemen, I say to you
both, collectively, let me usher into the world those works of genius
which you are bound to produce. You, sir, are painting a picture. When
can you finish me that picture?"

"In six months," said Humphrey, his brain suffused with a rosy warmth
of colour which made him see things in an impossibly favourable light.

"I buy that picture, sir, at your own price," said the patron. "I
shall exhibit it in London, and it shall then go to New York with me.
And you, Mr. Cornelius Jagenal, are engaged upon poems. When would you
wish to publish your verses?"

"My Epic, the _Upheaval of Ælfred_, will be ready for publication
about the end of November," said Cornelius.

Humphrey felt a passing pang of jealousy as he perceived that his
brother would be before the world a month in advance of himself. But
what is a month compared with immortality?

"I charge myself, sir, if you will allow me," said the American, "with
the production of that work. It shall be printed in the best style
possible, on the thickest paper made, and illustrated by the best
artist that can be found--you, perhaps, Mr. Humphrey Jagenal. It shall
be bound in Russian leather; its exterior shall be worthy of its
contents. And as for business arrangements, gentlemen, you will please
consider them at your leisure, and let me know what you think. We
shall be sure to agree, because, if you will not think it shoddy in me
to say so, I have my Pile to dig into. And I shall send you, if you
will allow me, gentlemen, a small cheque each in advance."

They murmured assent and rose to go.

"If you would favor me further, gentlemen, by dining with me--say this
day week--I should take it as a great distinction. I hope, with the
assistance of Mr. Dunquerque, to have a few prominent men of letters
to meet you. I want to have my table full of genius."

"Can we, brother Humphrey, accept Mr. Beck's invitation?"

Cornelius asked as if they were weeks deep in engagements. As it was,
nobody ever asked them anywhere, and they had no engagements at all.

Humphrey consulted a pocket-book with grave face.

"We can, Mr. Beck."

"And if you know any one else, gentlemen, any men of Literature and
Art who will come too, bring them along with you, and I shall feel it
an honour."

They knew no one connected with Literature and Art, not even a
printer's devil, but they did not say so.


At twelve o'clock, toward the close of this fatiguing day, Cornelius
asked Humphrey, with a little hesitation, if he really thought he
should have finished his great work in six months.

"Art cannot be forced, Cornelius," said the Painter airily. "If I am
not ready, I shall not hesitate to consider the pledge conditional. My
work must be perfect ere it leaves my hands."

"And mine, too," said the Poet. "I will never consent to let a poem of
mine go forth unfinished to the world. The work must be polished _ad
unguem_."

"This is a memorable day, brother. The tumblers are empty. Allow me.
And, Cornelius, I really do think that, considering the way in which
we have been treated by Phillis Fleming, and her remarks about
afternoon work, we ought to call and let her understand the reality of
our reputation."

"We will, Humphrey. But it is not enough to recover lost ground; we
must advance farther. The fortress shall be made to surrender."

"Let us drink to your success, brother, and couple with the toast the
name of Phillis--Phillis--Phillis Jagenal, brother?"

They drank that toast, smiling unutterable things.




CHAPTER XXIII.

    "Call me not fool till Heaven hath sent me fortune."


When Jack Dunquerque communicated to Lawrence Colquhoun the fact of
having made the acquaintance of Miss Fleming, and subsequently that of
Mrs. L'Estrange, Lawrence expressed no surprise and felt no
suspicions. Probably, had he felt any, they would have been at once
set aside, because Colquhoun was not a man given to calculate the
future chances, and to disquiet himself about possible events. Also at
this time he was taking little interest in Phillis. A pretty piquante
girl; he devoted a whole day to her; drove her to Twickenham, and
placed her in perfect safety under the charge of his cousin. What more
was wanted? Agatha wrote to him twice a week or so, and when he had
time he read the letters. They were all about Phillis, and most of
them contained the assurance that he had no entanglements to fear.

"Entanglements!" he murmured impatiently. "As if a man cannot dine
with a girl without falling in love with her. Women are always
thinking that men want to be married."

He was forgetting, after the fashion of men who have gone through the
battle, how hot is the fight for those who are just beginning it. Jack
Dunquerque was four-and-twenty; he was therefore, so to speak, in the
thick of it. Phillis's eyes were like two quivers filled with darts,
and when she turned them innocently upon her friend the enemy, the
darts flew straight at him, and transfixed him as if he were another
Sebastian. Colquhoun's time was past; he was clothed in the armour of
indifference which comes with the years, and he was forgetting the
past.

Still, had he known of the visit to the Tower of London, the rowing on
the river, the luncheons in Carnarvon Square, it is possible that even
he might have seen the propriety of requesting Jack Dunquerque to keep
out of danger for the future.

He had no plans for Phillis, except of the simplest kind. She was to
remain in charge of Agatha for a year, and then she would come out. He
hoped that she would marry well, because her father, had he lived,
would have wished it. And that was all he hoped about her.

He had his private worries at this time--those already
indicated--connected with Victoria Cassilis. The ice once broken, that
lady allowed him no rest. She wrote to him on some pretence nearly
every day; she sent her maid, the unlovely one, with three-cornered
notes all about nothing; she made him meet her in society, she made
him dine with her; it seemed as if she was spreading a sort of net
about him, through the meshes of which he could not escape.

With the knowledge of what had been, it was an unrighteous thing for
Colquhoun to go to the house of Gabriel Cassilis; he ought not to be
there, he felt, it was the one house in all London in which he had no
business. And yet--how to avoid it?

And Gabriel Cassilis seemed to like him; evidently liked to talk to
him; singled him out, this great financier, and talked with him as if
Colquhoun too was interested in stock; called upon him at his
chambers, and told him, in a dry but convincing way, something of his
successes and his projects.

It was after many talks of this kind that Lawrence Colquhoun,
forgetful of the past, and not remembering that of all men in the
world Gabriel Cassilis was the last who should have charge of his
money, put it all in his hands, with power-of-attorney to sell out and
reinvest for him. But that was nothing. Colquhoun was not the man to
trouble about money. He was safe in the hands of this great and
successful capitalist: he gave no thought to any risk; he
congratulated himself on his cleverness in persuading the financier to
take the money for him; and he continued to see Victoria Cassilis
nearly every day.

They quarrelled when they did meet; there was not a conversation
between them in which she did not say something bitter, and he
something savage. And yet he did not have the courage to refuse the
invitations which were almost commands. Nor could she resign the sweet
joys of making him feel her power.

A secret, you see, has a fatal fascination about it. Schoolgirls, I am
told, are given to invent little secrets which mean nothing, and to
whisper them in the ears of their dearest friends to the exclusion of
the rest. The possession of this unknown and invaluable fact brings
them together, whispering and conspiring, at every possible moment.
Freemasons again--how are they kept together; except by the possession
of secrets which are said to have been published over and over again?
And when two people have a secret which means--all that the secret
between Colquhoun and Mrs. Cassilis meant, they can no more help being
drawn together than the waters can cease to find their own level. To
be together, to feel that the only other person in the world who knows
that secret is with you, is a kind of safety. Yet what did it matter
to Colquhoun? Simply nothing. The secret was his as well as hers, but
the reasons for keeping it a secret were not his at all, but hers
entirely.

So Phillis was neglected by her guardian and left to Agatha and Jack
Dunquerque, with such results as we shall see.

So Lawrence Colquhoun fell into the power of this man of stocks, about
the mouth of whose City den the footsteps pointed all one way. He
congratulated himself; he found out Gilead Beck, and they
congratulated each other.

"I don't see," said Colquhoun, who had already enough for four
bachelors, "why one's income should not be doubled."

"With Mr. Cassilis," said Gilead Beck, "you sign cheques, and he gives
you dividends. It's like Ile, because you can go on pumping."

"He understands more than any other living man," said Lawrence.

"He is in the inner track, sir," said Mr. Beck.

"And a man," said Lawrence, "ready to take in his friends with
himself."

"A high-toned and a whole-souled man," said Gilead Beck, with
enthusiasm. "That man, sir, I do believe would take in the hull
world."




CHAPTER XXIV.

    "I had rather hear a brazen candlestick turn'd,
      Or a dry wheel grate on an axle-tree;
    And that would set my teeth nothing on edge.
        Nothing so much as mincing poetry."


Jack Dunquerque repaired to the Langham, the day after the call on the
Twins, with a face in which cheerful anticipation and anxiety were
curiously blended. He was serious with his lips, but he laughed with
his eyes. And he spoke with a little hesitation not often observed in
him.

"I think your dinner will come off next Wednesday," he said. "And I
have been getting together your party for you."

"That is so, Mr. Dunquerque?" asked Gilead Beck, with a solemnity
which hardly disguised his pride and joy. "That is so? And those great
men, your friends, are actually coming?"

"I have seen them all, personally. And I put the case before each of
them. I said, 'Here is an American gentleman most anxious to make your
acquaintance; he has no letters of introduction to you, but he is a
sincere admirer of your genius; he appreciates you better than any
other living man.'"

"Heap it up, Mr. Dunquerque," said the Man of Oil. "Heap it up. Tell
them I am Death on appreciation."

"That is in substance what I did tell them. Then I explained that you
deputed me, or gave me permission to ask them to dinner. 'The honour,'
I said, 'is mutual. On the one hand, my friend, Mr. Gilead P. Beck'--I
ventured to say, 'my friend, Mr. Gilead P. Beck'----"

"If you hadn't said that you should have been scalped and gouged. Go
on, Mr. Dunquerque; go on, sir."

"'On the one hand, my friend, Mr. Gilead P. Beck'----"

"That is so--that is so."

"'Will feel himself honoured by your company; on the other hand, it
will be a genuine source of pleasure for you to know that you are as
well known and as thoroughly appreciated on the other side of the
water as you are here.' I am not much of a speechmaker, and I assure
you that little effort cost me a good deal of thought. However, the
end of it is all you care about. Most of the writing swells will come,
either on Wednesday next or on any other day you please."

"Mr. Dunquerque, not a day passes but you load me with obligations.
Tell me, if you please, who they are."

"Well, you will say I have done pretty well, I think." Jack pulled out
a paper. "And you will know most of the names. First of all, you would
like to see the old Philosopher of Cheyne Walk, Thomas Carlyle, as
your guest?"

"Carlyle, sir, is a name to conjure with in the States. When I was
Editor of the _Clearville Roarer_ I had an odd volume of Carlyle, and
I used to quote him as long as the book lasted. It perished in a
fight. And to think that I shall meet the man who wrote that work! An
account of the dinner must be written for the _Rockoleaville Gazette_.
We'll have a special reporter, Mr. Dunquerque. We'll get a man who'll
do it up to the handle."

Jack looked at his list again.

"What do you say of Professor Huxley and Mr. Darwin?"

Mr. Beck shook his head. These two writers began to flourish--that is,
to be read--in the States after his editorial days, and he knew them
not.

"I should say they were prominent citizens, likely, if I knew what
they'd written. Is Professor Huxley a professing Christian? There was
a Professor Habukkuk Huckster once down Empire City way in the Moody
and Sankey business, with an interest in the organs and a percentage
on the hymn-books; but they're not relations, I suppose? Not probable.
And the other genius--what is his name--Darwin? Grinds novels
perhaps?"

"Historical works of fiction. Great in genealogy is Darwin."

"Never mind my ignorance, Mr. Dunquerque. And go on, sir. I'm powerful
interested."

"Ruskin is coming; and I had thought of Robert Browning, the poet, but
I am afraid he may not be able to be present. You see, Browning is so
much sought after by the younger men of the day. They used to play
polo and billiards and other frivolous things till he came into
fashion with his light and graceful verse, so simple that all may
understand it. His last poem, I believe, is now sung about the
streets. However, there are Tennyson and Swinburne--they are both
coming. Buchanan I would ask, if I knew him, but I don't. George
Eliot, of course, I could not invite to a stag party. Trollope we
might get, perhaps----"

"Give me Charles Reade, sir," said Gilead Beck. "He is the novelist
they like on our side."

"I am afraid I could not persuade him to come; though he might be
pleased to see you if you would call at his house, perhaps. However,
Beck, the great thing is"--he folded up his list and placed it in his
pocket-book--"that you shall have a dinner of authors as good as any
that sat down to the Lord Mayor's spread last year. Authors of all
sorts, and the very best. None of your unknown little hungry anonymous
beggars who write novels in instalments for weekly papers. Big men,
sir, with big names. Men you'll be proud to know. And they shall be
asked for next Wednesday."

"That gives only four days. It's terrible sudden," said Gilead Beck.
He shook his head with as much gravity as if he was going to be hanged
in four days. Then he sat down and began to write the names of his
guests.

"Professor Huxley," he said, looking up. "I suppose I can buy that
clergyman's sermons? And the Universal Genius who reels out the
historical romances, Mr. Darwin? I shall get his works, too. And
there's Mr. Ruskin, Mr. Robert Browning----"

"What are you going to do?"

"Well, Mr. Dunquerque, I am going to devote the next four days, from
morning till night, to solid preparation for that evening. I shall go
out right away, and I shall buy every darned book those great men have
written; and if I sit up every night over the job, I'm bound to read
every word."

"Oh!" said Jack. "Then I advise you to begin with Robert Browning."

"The light and graceful verse that everybody can understand? I will,"
said Gilead Beck. "They shall not find me unacquainted with their
poems. Mr. Dunquerque, for the Lord's sake don't tell them it was all
crammed up in four days."

"Not I. But--I say--you know, authors don't like to talk about their
own books."

"That's the modesty of real genius," said the American, with
admiration.

It will be perceived that Jack spoke with a certain rashness. Most
authors I have myself known do love very much to talk about their own
books.

"That is their modesty. But they will talk about each other's books.
And it is as well to be prepared. What I'm bound to make them feel,
somehow, is that they have a man before them who has gone in for the
hull lot and survived. A tough contract, Mr. Dunquerque, but you trust
me."

"Very well," said Jack, putting on his hat, "only don't ask them
questions. Authors don't like being questioned. Why, I shouldn't
wonder if next Wednesday some of them pretended not to know the names
of their own books. Don't you know that Shakespeare, when he went down
to Stratford, to live like a retired grocer at Leytonstone, used to
pretend not to know what a play meant? And when a strolling company
came round, and the manager asked permission to play _Hamlet_, he
was the first to sign a petition to the mayor not to allow immoral
exhibitions in the borough."

"Is that so, sir?"

"It may be so," said Jack, "because I never heard it contradicted."

As soon he was gone, Gilead Beck sought the nearest bookseller's shop
and gave an extensive order. He requested to be furnished with all the
works of Carlyle, Ruskin, Tennyson, Swinburne, Browning, Buchanan,
Huxley, Darwin, and a few more. Then he returned to the Langham, gave
orders that he was at home to no one except Mr. Dunquerque, took off
his coat, lit a cigar, ordered more champagne, and began the first of
the three most awful days he ever spent in all his life.

The books presently came in a great box, and he spread them on the
table with a heart that sank at the mere contemplation of their
numbers. About three hundred volumes in all. And only four days to get
through them. Seventy-five volumes a day, say, at the rate of fifteen
hours' daily work; five an hour, one every twelve minutes. He laid his
watch upon the table, took the first volume of Robert Browning that
was uppermost, sat down in his long chair with his feet up, and began.

The book was _Fifine at the Fair_. Gilead Beck read cheerfully and
with great ease the first eight or ten pages. Then he discovered with
a little annoyance that he understood nothing whatever of the author's
meaning. "That comes of too rapid reading," he said. So he turned back
to the beginning and began with more deliberation. Ten minutes clean
wasted, and not even half a volume got through. When he had got to
tenth page for the second time, he questioned himself once more, and
found that he understood less than ever. Were things right? Could it
be Browning, or some impostor? Yes, the name of Robert Browning was on
the title-page; also, it was English. And the words held together, and
were not sprinkled out of a pepper-pot. He began a third time. Same
result. He threw away his cigar and wiped his brow, on which the cold
dews of trouble were gathering thickly.

"This is the beginning of the end, Gilead P. Beck," he murmured. "The
Lord, to try you, sent His blessed Ile, and you've received it with a
proud stomach. Now you air going off your head. Plain English, and you
can't take in a single sentence."

It was in grievous distress of mind that he sprang to his feet and
began to walk about the room.

"There was no softenin' yesterday," he murmured, trying to reassure
himself. "Why should there be to-day? Softenin' comes by degrees. Let
us try again. Great Jehoshaphat!"

He stood up to his work, leaning against a window-post, and took two
pages first, which he read very slowly. And then he dropped the volume
in dismay, because he understood less than nothing.

It was the most disheartening thing he had ever attempted.

"I'd rather fight John Halkett over again," he said. "I'd rather sit
with my finger on a trigger for a week, expecting Mr. Huggins to call
upon me."

Then he began to construe it line by line, thinking every now and then
that he saw daylight.

It is considered rather a mark of distinction, a separating seal upon
the brow, by that poet's admirers, to reverence his later works. Their
creed is that because a poem is rough, harsh, ungrammatical, and dark,
it must have a meaning as deep as its black obscurity.

"It's like the texts of a copybook," said Gilead. "Pretty things, all
of them, separate. Put them together and where are they? I guess this
book would read better upsy down."

He poured cold water on his head for a quarter of an hour or so, and
then tried reading it aloud.

This was worse than any previous method, because he comprehended no
more of the poet's meaning, and the rough hard words made his front
teeth crack and fly about the room in splinters.

"Cæsar's ghost!" he exclaimed, thinking what he should do if Robert
Browning talked as he wrote. "The human jaw isn't built that could
stand it."

Two hours were gone. There ought to have been ten volumes got through,
and not ten pages finished of a single one.

He hurled _Fifine_ to the other end of the room, and took another
work by the same poet. It was _Red Cotton Nightcap Country_, and
the title looked promising. No doubt a light and pretty fairy story.
Also the beginning reeled itself off with a fatal facility which
allured the reader onwards.


When the clock struck six he was sitting among the volumes on the
table, with _Red Cotton Nightcap Country_ still in his hand. His
eyes were bloodshot, his hair was pushed in disorder about his head,
his cheeks were flushed, his hands were trembling, the nerves in his
face were twitching.

He looked about him wildly, and tried to collect his faculties. Then
he arose and cursed Robert Browning. He cursed him eating, drinking,
and sleeping. And then he took all his volumes, and disposing them
carefully in the fire-place, he set light to them.

"I wish," he said, "that I could put the Poet there, too." I think he
would have done it, this mild and gentle-hearted stranger, so strongly
was his spirit moved to wrath.

He could not stay any longer in the room. It seemed to be haunted with
ghosts of unintelligible sentences; things in familiar garb, which
floated before his eyes and presented faces of inscrutable mystery. He
seized his hat and fled.

He went straight to Jack Dunquerque's club, and found that hero in the
reading-room.

"I have a favour to ask you," he began in a hurried and nervous
manner. "If you have not yet asked Mr. Robert Browning to the little
spread next week, don't."

"Certainly not, if you wish it. Why?"

"Because, sir, I have spent eight hours over his works."

Jack laughed.

"And you think you have gone off your head? I'll tell you a secret.
Everybody does at first; and then we all fall into the dodge, and go
about pretending to understand him."

"But the meaning, Mr. Dunquerque, the meaning?"

"Hush! he _hasn't got any_. Only no one dares to say so, and it's
intellectual to admire him."

"Well, Mr. Dunquerque, I guess I don't want to see that writer at my
dinner, anyhow."

"Very well, then. He shall not be asked."

"Another day like this, and you may bury me with my boots on. Come
with me somewhere, and have dinner as far away from those volumes of
Mr. Browning as we can get in the time."

They dined at Greenwich. In the course of the next three days Gilead
Beck read diligently. He did not master the three hundred volumes, but
he got through some of the works of every writer, taking them in turn.

The result was a glorious and inextricable mess. Carlyle, Swinburne,
Huxley, Darwin, Tennyson, and all of them, were hopelessly jumbled in
his brains. He mixed up the _Sartor Resartus_ with the _Missing Link_,
confounded the history of _Frederick the Great_ with that of _Queen
Elizabeth_, and thought that _Maud_ and _Atalanta in Calydon_ were
written by the same poet. But time went on, and the Wednesday evening,
to which he looked forward with so much anxiety and pride, rapidly
drew near.




CHAPTER XXV.

    "Why, she is cold to all the world."


And while Gilead Beck was setting himself to repair in a week the
defects of his early education, Jack Dunquerque was spending his days
hovering round the light of Phillis's eyes. The infatuated youth
frequented the house as if it was his own. He liked it, Mrs.
L'Estrange liked it, and Phillis liked it. Agatha looked with matronly
suspicion for indications and proofs of love in her ward's face. She
saw none, because Phillis was not in love at all. Jack to her was the
first friend she made on coming out of her shell. Very far, indeed,
from being in love. Jack looked too for any of those signs of mental
agitation which accompany, or are supposed to accompany, the birth of
love. There were none. Her face lit up when she saw him; she treated
him with the frankness of a girl who tells her brother everything; but
she did not blush when she saw him, nor was she ever otherwise than
the sweetest and lightest-hearted of sisters. He knew it, and he
groaned to think of it. The slightest sign would have encouraged him
to speak; the smallest indication that Phillis felt something for him
of what he felt for her would have been to him a command to tell what
was in his heart. But she made no sign. It was Jack's experience,
perhaps, which taught him that he is a fool who gives his happiness to
a woman before he has learned to divine her heart. Those ever make the
most foolish marriages who are most ignorant of the sex. Hooker, the
Judicious is a case in point, and many a ghostly man could, from his
country parsonage, tell the same tale.

Jack was not like the Judicious Divine; he was wary, though
susceptible; he had his share of craft and subtlety; and yet he was in
love, in spite of all that craft, with a girl who only liked him in
return.

Had he possessed greater power of imagination he would have understood
that he was expecting what was impossible. You cannot get wine out of
an empty bottle, nor reap corn without first sowing the seed; and he
forgot that Phillis, who was unable to read novels, knew nothing,
positively nothing, of that great passion of Love which makes its
victims half divine. It was always necessary, in thinking of this
girl, to remember her thirteen years of captivity. Jack, more than any
other person, not excepting Agatha L'Estrange, knew what she would say
and think on most things. Only in this matter of love he was at fault.
Here he did not know because here he was selfish. To all the world
except Jack and Agatha she was an _impossible_ girl; she said things
that no other girl would have said; she thought as no one else
thought. To all those who live in a tight little island of their own,
fortified by triple batteries of dogma, she was impossible. But to
those who accepted and comprehended the conditions of Phillis's
education she was possible, real, charming, and full of interest.

Jack continually thought what Phillis would say and what she would
think. For her sake he noticed the little things around him, the
things among which we grow up unobservant. We see so little for the
most part. Things to eat and drink interest us; things that please the
eye; fair women and rare wine. We are like cattle grazing on the
slopes of the Alps. Around us rise the mountains, with their
ever-changing marvels of light and colour; the sunlight flashes from
their peaks; the snow-slopes stretch away and upwards to the deep
blues beyond in curves as graceful as the line of woman's beauty; at
our feet is the belt of pines perfumed and warmed by the summer air;
the mountain stream leaps, bubbles, and laughs, rushing from the
prison of its glacier cave; high overhead soars the Alpine eagle; the
shepherds yodel in the valleys; the rapid echoes roll the song up into
the immeasurable silence of the hills,--and amid all this we browse
and feed, eyes downward turned.

So this young man, awakened by the quick sympathies of the girl he
loved, lifted his head, taught by her, and tried to catch, he too,
something of the childlike wonder, the appreciative admiration, the
curious enthusiasm, with which she saw everything. Most men's thoughts
are bound by the limits of their club at night, and their chambers or
their offices by day; the suns rise and set, and the outward world is
unregarded. Jack learned from Phillis to look at these unregarded
things. Such simple pleasures as a sunset, the light upon the river,
the wild flowers on the bank, he actually tasted with delight,
provided that she was beside him. And after a day of such Arcadian
joys he would return to town, and find the club a thirsty desert.

If Phillis had known anything about love, she would have fallen in
love with Jack long before; but she did not. Yet he made headway with
her, because he became almost necessary to her life. She looked for
his coming; he brought her things he had collected in his "globe
trotting;" he told her stories of adventure; he ruined himself in
pictures; and then he looked for the love softening of her eyes, and
it came not at all.

Yet Jack was a lovable sort of young man in maidens' eyes. Everybody
liked him to begin with. He was, like David, a youth of a cheerful, if
not of a ruddy countenance. Agatha L'Estrange remarked of him that it
did her good to meet cheerful young men--they were so scarce. "I know
quantities of young men, Phillis my dear; and I assure you that most
of them are enough to break a woman's heart even to think of. There is
the athletic young man--he is dreadful indeed, only his time soon goes
by; and there is the young man who talks about getting more brain
power. To be sure, he generally looks as if he wants it. There is the
young man who ought to turn red and hot when the word Prig is used.
There is the bad young man who keeps betting-books; and the miserable
young man who grovels and flops in a Ritualist church. I know young
men who are envious and backbite their friends; and young men who
aspire to be somebody else; and young men who pose as infidels, and
would rather be held up to execration in a paper than not to be
mentioned at all. But, my dear, I don't know anybody who is so
cheerful and contented as Jack. He isn't clever and learned, but he
doesn't want to be; he isn't sharp, and will never make money, but he
is better without it; and he is true, I am sure."

Agatha unconsciously used the word in the sense which most women mean
when they speak of a man's truth. Phillis understood it to mean that
Jack Dunquerque did not habitually tell fibs, and thought the remark
superfluous, But it will be observed that Agatha was fighting Jack's
battle for him.

After all, Jack might have taken heart had he thought that all these
visits and all this interest in himself were but the laying of the
seed, which might grow into a goodly tree.

"If only she would look as if she cared for me, Tommy," he bemoaned to
Ladds.

"Hang it! can't expect a girl to begin making eyes at you."

"Eyes! Phillis make eyes! Tommy, as you grow older you grow coarser.
It's a great pity. That comes of this club life. Always smoking and
playing cards."

Tommy grinned. Virtue was as yet a flower new to Jack Dunquerque's
buttonhole, and he wore it with a pride difficult to dissemble.

"Better go and have it out with Colquhoun," Tommy advised. "He won't
care. He's taken up with his old flame, Mrs. Cassilis, again. Always
dangling at her heels, I'm told. Got no time to think of Miss Fleming.
Great fool, Colquhoun. Always was a fool, I believe. Might have gone
after flesh and blood instead of a marble statue. Wonder how Cassilis
likes it."

"There you go," cried Jack impatiently. "Men are worse than women. At
Twickenham one never hears this foolish sort of gossip."

"Suppose not. Flowers and music, muffins, tea, and spoons. Well, the
girl's worth it, Jack; the more flowers and music you get the better
it will be for you. But go on and square it with Colquhoun."




CHAPTER XXVI.

    "A right royal banquet."


At seven o'clock on the great Wednesday Gilead Beck was pacing
restlessly in his inner room, the small apartment which formed his
sanctum, waiting to receive his guests. All the preparations were
complete: a quartette of singers was in readiness, with a piano, to
discourse sweet music after the dinner; the noblest bouquet ever
ordered at the Langham was timed for a quarter to eight punctually;
the wine was in ice; the waiters were adding the last touches to the
artistic decorations of a table which, laid for thirteen only, might
have been prepared for the Prince of Wales. In fact, when the bill
came up a few days later, even Gilead Beck, man of millions, quailed
for a moment before its total. Think of the biggest bill you ever had
at Vèfour's--for francs read pounds, and then multiply by ten; think
of the famous Lord Warden bill for the Emperor Napoleon when he landed
in all his glory, and then consider that the management of the Langham
is in no way behind that of the Dover hostelry. But this was to come,
and when it did come, was received lightly.

Gilead Beck took a last look at the dinner-table. The few special
injunctions he had given were carried out; they were not many, only
that the shutters should be partly closed and the curtains drawn, so
that they might dine by artificial light; that the table and the room
should be entirely illuminated by wax-candles, save for one central
light, in which should be burning, like the sacred flame of Vesta, his
own rock-oil. He also stipulated that the flowers on the table should
be disposed in shallow vessels, so as to lie low, and not interfere
with the freedom of the eyes across the table. Thus there was no
central tower of flowers and fruit. To compensate for this he allowed
a whole bower of exotics to be erected round the room.

The long wall opposite the window was decorated with his famous piece
by an unknown master, bought of Bartholomew Burls, known as "Sisera
and Jael." As the frame had not yet been made it was wreathed about
for its whole length and breadth with flowers. The other pictures,
also wreathed with flowers, were genuine originals, bought of the same
famous collector. For the end of the room Gilead Beck had himself
designed, and partly erected with his own hands, an allegorical
trophy. From a pile of books neatly worked in cork, there sprang a jet
of water illuminated on either side by a hidden lamp burning rock-oil.
He had wished to have the fountain itself of oil, but was overruled by
Jack Dunquerque. Above, by an invisible wire, hovered a golden
butterfly in gilded paper. And on either side hung a flag--that on the
right displaying the Stars and Stripes, that on the left the equally
illustrious Union Jack.

At every man's place lay a copy of the _menu_, in green and gold,
elaborately decorated, a masterpiece of illumination. Gilead Beck,
after making quite sure that nothing was neglected, took his own, and,
retiring to the inner room, read it for the fiftieth time with a
pleasure as intense as that of the young author who reads his first
proof-sheet. It consisted of a large double card. On the top of the
left-hand side was painted in colours and gold a butterfly. And that
side read as follows (I regret that the splendours of the original
cannot be here reproduced):

    +-----------------------------------------------------+
    | _LANGHAM HOTEL_,                                    |
    | MAY 20, 1875.                                       |
    |                                                     |
    | _Dinner in Honour of Literature, Science, and Art_, |
    |                                                     |
    | GIVEN BY                                            |
    |                                                     |
    | GILEAD P. BECK,                                     |
    |                                                     |
    | AN OBSCURE AMERICAN CITIZEN RAISED AT LEXINGTON,    |
    | WHO STRUCK ILE IN A MOST SURPRISING MANNER          |
    | BY THE HELP OF                                      |
    |                                                     |
    | THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY,                               |
    |                                                     |
    | BUT WHO DESPISES SHODDY AND RESPECTS GENIUS.        |
    |                                                     |
    |                                                     |
    | _Representatives of Literature, Art, and Science._  |
    |                                                     |
    | THOMAS CARLYLE,                                     |
    | ALFRED TENNYSON,                                    |
    | JOHN RUSKIN,                                        |
    | ALGERNON SWINBURNE,                                 |
    | GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA,                               |
    | CHARLES DARWIN,                                     |
    | PROFESSOR HUXLEY,                                   |
    | FREDERICK LEIGHTON, R.A.,                           |
    | CORNELIUS JAGENAL, AND                              |
    | HUMPHREY JAGENAL,                                   |
    |                                                     |
    | WITH CAPTAIN LADDS, THE HON. RONALD DUNQUERQUE,     |
    | AND GILEAD P. BECK.                                 |
    +-----------------------------------------------------+

After this preamble, which occupied a whole side of the double card,
followed the _menu_ itself.

I unwillingly suppress this. There are weaker brethren who might on
reading it feel dissatisfied with the plain lamb and rhubarb-tart of
the sweet spring season. As a present dignitary of the Church, now a
colonial bishop, once a curate, observed to me many years ago, _à
propos_ of thirst, university reminiscences, a neighbouring
public-house, a craving for tobacco, and the fear of being observed,
"These weaker brethren are a great nuisance."

Let it suffice that at the Langham they still speak of Gilead Beck's
great dinner with tears in their eyes. I believe a copy of the green
and gold card is framed, and hung in the office so as to catch the eye
of poorer men when they are ordering dinners. It makes those of lower
nature feel envious, and even takes the conceit out of the nobler
kind.

Gilead Beck, dressed for the banquet, was nervous and restless. It
seemed as if, for the first time, his wealth was about to bring him
something worth having. His face, always grave, was as solemn as if he
were fixing it for his own funeral. From time to time he drew a paper
from his pocket and read it over. Then he replaced it, and with lips
and arms went through the action of speaking. It was his speech of the
evening, which he had carefully written and imperfectly committed to
memory. Like a famous American lawyer, the attitude he assumed was to
stand bent a little forward, the feet together, the left hand hanging
loosely at his side, while he brandished the right above his head.

In this attitude he was surprised by the Twins, who came a quarter of
an hour before the time. They were dressed with great care, having
each the sweetest little eighteenpenny bouquet, bought from the little
shop at the right hand of the Market as you go in, where the young
lady makes it up before your eyes, sticks the wire into it, and pins
it at your buttonhole with her own fair hands. Each brother in turn
winked at her during the operation. A harmless wink, but it suggested
no end of possible devilries should these two young gentlemen of fifty
find themselves loose upon the town. Those who saw it thought of
Mohocks, and praised the Lord for the new police.

They both looked very nice; they entered with a jaunty step, a
careless backward toss of the head, parted lips, and bright eyes which
faced fearlessly a critical but reverent world. Nothing but the
crow's-feet showed that the first glow of youth was over; nothing but
a few streaks of grey in Humphrey's beard and in Cornelius's hair
showed that they were nearing the Indian summer of life. Mr. Beck,
seeing them enter so fresh, so bright, and so beaming, was more than
ever puzzled at their age. He was waiting for them in a nervous and
rather excitable state of mind, as becomes one who is about to find
himself face to face with the greatest men of his time.

"You, gentlemen," he said, "will sit near me, one each side, if you
will be so kind, just to lend a helping-hand to the talk when it
flags. Phew! it will be a rasper, the talk of to-day. I've read all
their works, if I can only remember them, and I bought the _History
of English Literature_ yesterday to get a grip of the hull subject.
No use. I haven't got farther than Chaucer. Do you think they can talk
about Chaucer? He wrote the _Canterbury Tales_."

"Cornelius," said Humphrey, "you will be able to lead the conversation
to the Anglo-Saxon period."

"That period is too early, brother Humphrey," said Cornelius. "We
shall trust to you to turn the steam in the direction of the
Renaissance."

Humphrey shifted in his seat uneasily. Why this unwillingness in
either Twin to assume the lead on a topic which had engaged his
attention for twenty years?

Mr. Beck shook his head.

"I most wish now," he said, "that I hadn't asked them. But it's a
thundering great honour. Mr. Dunquerque did it all for me. That young
gentleman met these great writers, I suppose, in the baronial halls of
his brother, the Earl of Isleworth."

"Do we know Lord Isleworth?" asked Cornelius of Humphrey.

"Lord Isleworth, Cornelius? No; I rather think we have never met him,"
said Humphrey to Cornelius.

"None of your small names to-night," said Gilead Beck, with serious
and even pious joy. "The Lord Mayor may have them at Guildhall. Mine
are the big guns. I did want to get a special report for my own
_Gazette_, but Mr. Dunquerque thought it better not to have it.
P'r'aps 'twould have seemed kind o' shoddy. I ought to be satisfied
with the private honour, and not want the public glory of it. What
would they say in Boston if they knew, or even in New York?"

"You should have a dinner for poets alone," said Humphrey, anxious for
his brother.

"Or for Artists only," said Cornelius.

"Wal, gentlemen, we shall get on. As there's five minutes to spare,
would you like to give an opinion on the wine-list, and oblige me by
your advice?"

The Twins perused the latter document with sparkling eyes. It was a
noble list. Gilead Beck's plan was simple. He just ordered the best of
everything. For Sauterne, he read Château Iquem: for Burgundy, he took
Chambertin; for Claret, Château Lafite; for Champagne, Heidsieck; for
Sherry, Montilla; a Box Boutel wine for Hock; and for Port the '34.
Never before, in all its experiences of Americans, Russians, and
returned colonials, had the management of the Langham so "thorough" a
wine-bill to make out as for this dinner.

"Is that satisfactory, gentlemen?"

"Cornelius, what do you think?"

"Humphrey, I think as you do; and that is, that this princely
selection shows Mr. Beck's true appreciation of Literature and Art."

"It is kind of you, gentlemen, to say so. I talked over the dinner
with the _chef_, and I have had the menou printed, as you see it,
in gilt and colours, which I am given to understand is the correct
thing at the Guildhall. Would you like to look at that?"

They showed the greatest desire to look at it. Humphrey read it aloud
with emphasis. While he read and while his brother listened, Mr. Beck
thought they seemed a good deal older than before. Perhaps that was
before their faces were turned to the light, and the reflection
through an open window of the sinking sun showed up the crow's-feet
round their eyes.

"Humph! Plovers' eggs. Clear mulligatawny; clear, Cornelius.
Turtle-fins. Salmon--I translate the French. Turbot. Lochleven
trout----"

"Very good indeed, so far," said Cornelius, with a palpable smack of
his lips.

"Lamb-cutlets with peas--a simple but excellent dish; aspic of _foie
gras_--ah, two or three things which I cannot translate; a preparation
of pigeon; haunch of venison; yes----"

"An excellent dinner, indeed," said Cornelius. "Pray go on, Humphrey."

He began to feel like Sancho in Barataria. So good a dinner seemed
really impossible.

"Duckling; cabob curry of chicken-liver with Bombay ducks--really, Mr.
Beck, this dinner is worth a dukedom."

"It is indeed," said Cornelius feelingly.

"Canvas-back--ah!--from Baltimore--Cornelius, this is almost too much;
apricots in jelly, ice-pudding, grated Parmesan, strawberries, melons,
peaches, nectarines, (and only May, Cornelius!), pines, West India
bananas, custard apples from Jamaica, and dried litchis from China,
Cornelius."

Humphrey handed the document to his brother with a look of appeal
which said volumes. One sentence in the volumes was clearly, "Say
something appropriate."

Quoth Cornelius deeply moved--

"This new Mæcenas ransacks the corners of the earth to find a fitting
entertainment for men of genius. Humphrey, you shall paint him."

"Cornelius, you shall sing his praises."

By a simultaneous impulse the Twins turned to their patron, and
presented each a right hand. Gilead Beck had only one right hand to
give. He gave that to Cornelius, and the left to Humphrey.

While this sacrament of friendship was proceeding was heard a sound as
of many men simultaneously stifling much laughter. The door opened,
and the other guests arrived in a body. They were preceded by Jack
Dunquerque, and on entering the room dropped, as if by word of
command, into line, like soldiers on parade. Eight of them were
strangers, but Captain Ladds brought up the rear.

They were, as might be expected of such great men, a remarkable
assemblage. At the extreme right stood a tall well-set-up old man,
with tangled grey locks, long grey eye-brows, and an immense grey
beard. His vigorous bearing belied the look of age, and what part of
his face could be seen had a remarkably youthful appearance.

Next to him were other two aged men, one of whom was bent and bowed by
the weight of years. They also had large eyebrows and long grey
beards; and Mr. Beck remarked at once that so far as could be judged
from the brightness of their eyes they had wonderfully preserved their
mental strength. The others were younger men, one of them being
apparently a boy of eighteen or so.

Then followed a ceremony like a _levée_. Gilead Beck stood in the
centre of the room, the table having been pushed back into the corner.
He was supported, right and left, by the Twins, who formed a kind of
Court, and above whom he towered grandly with his height of
six-feet-two. He held himself as erect, and looked as solemn as if he
were the President of the United States. The Twins, for their part,
looked a little as if they were his sons.

Jack Dunquerque acted as Lord Chamberlain or Master of the Ceremonies.
He wore an anxious face, and looked round among the great men whom he
preceded, as soon as they had all filed in, with a glance which might
have meant admonition, had that been possible. And, indeed, a broad
smile, which was hovering like the sunlight upon their venerable
faces, disappeared at the frown of this young gentleman. It was very
curious.

It was in the Grand Manner--that peculiar to Courts--in which Jack
Dunquerque presented the first of the distinguished guests to Mr.
Beck.

"Sir," he said, with low and awe-struck voice, "before you stands
Thomas Carlyle."

A thrill ran through the American's veins as he grasped the hand which
had written so many splendid things, and looked into the eyes which
harboured such splendid thought. Then he said, in softened tones,
because his soul was moved; "This is a proud moment, sir, for Gilead
P. Beck. I never thought to have shaken by the hand the author of the
_French Revolution_ and the _Stones of Venice_."

(It really was unfortunate that his reading had been so miscellaneous
during the four days preceding the dinner.)

The venerable Philosopher opened his mouth and spake. His tones were
deep and his utterance slow.

"You are proud, Mr. Beck? The only Pride should be the pride of work.
Beautiful the meanest thing that works; even the rusty and unmusical
Meatjack. All else belongs to the outlook of him whom men call
Beelzebub. The brief Day passes with its poor paper crowns in tinsel
gilt; Night is at hand with her silences and her veracities. What hast
thou done? All the rest is phantasmal. Work only remains. Say,
brother, what is thy work?"

"I have struck Ile," replied Gilead proudly, feeling that his Work
(with a capital W) had been well and thoroughly done.

The Philosopher stepped aside.

Jack Dunquerque brought up the next.

"Mr. Beck, Alfred Tennyson, the Poet Laureate."

This time it was a man with robust frame and strongly-marked features.
He wore a long black beard, streaked with grey and rather ragged, with
a ragged mass of black hair, looking as he did at Oxford when they
made him an honorary D.C.L., and an undergraduate from the gallery
asked him politely, "_Did_ they wake and call you early?"

"Mr. Tennyson," said Mr. Beck, "I do assure you, sir, that this is the
kindest thing that has been done to me since I came to England. I hope
I see you well, sir. I read your _Fifine at the Fair_, sir--no, that
was the other man's--I mean, sir, your _Songs before Sunrise_; and I
congratulate you. We've got some poets on our side of the water, sir.
I've written poetry myself for the papers. We've got Longfellow and
Lowell, and take out you and Mr. Swinburne, with them we'll meet your
lot."

Mr. Tennyson opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again in silence,
and looking at Jack mournfully as if he had forgotten something, he
stepped aside.

Jack presented another.

"Mr. John Ruskin."

A sharp-featured, clever-looking man, with grey locks and shaven face.
He seized Mr. Beck by the hand and spoke first, not giving his host
time to utter his little set speech.

"I welcome," he said, "one of our fellow-workers from the other side of
the Atlantic. I cannot utter to you what I would. We all see too dimly
as yet what are our great world-duties, for we try and outline their
enlarging shadows. You in America do not seek peace as Menahem sought
it, when he gave the King of Assyria a thousand pieces of silver. You
fight for your peace and have it. You do not buy what you want; you
take it. That is strength; that is harmony. You do not sit at home
lisping comfortable prayers; you go out and work. For many a year to
come, sir, the sword of your nation shall be whetted to save and to
subdue."

He stopped suddenly, and closed his lips with a snap.

Mr. Beck turned rather helplessly to the Twins. He wanted a diversion
to this utterly unintelligible harangue. They stared straight before
them, and pretended to be absorbed in meditation.

"Mr. Beck, Mr. Swinburne. Deaf people think Mr. Browning is musical,
sir; but all people allow Mr. Swinburne to be the most musical of
poets."

It was the very young man. He stood before his host and laughed aloud.

"Sir," said Mr. Beck, "I have read some of your verses. I can't say
what they were about, but I took to singin' them softly as I read
them, and I seemed to be in a green field, lyin' out among the
flowers, while the bees were bummin' around, and the larks were
liftin' their hymns in the sky."

Mr. Swinburne laughed again and made way for the next comer.

"Mr. Beck, let me introduce Mr. George Augustus Sala."

"This," said the Man of Oil, "is indeed a pleasure. Mr. Sala, when I
say that I am an old and personal friend of Colonel Quagg, you will be
glad to meet me."

Contrary to reasonable expectation, the face of Mr. Sala showed no
sign of joy at the reminiscence. He only looked rather helplessly at
Jack Dunquerque, who turned red, and brought up the rest of his men
together, as if to get the introductions over quickly.

"Mr. Beck, these gentlemen are Mr. Darwin, Professor Huxley, and Mr.
Frederick Leighton. Ladds you know well enough already. Step up,
Tommy."

Gilead Beck shook hands with each, and then, drawing himself up to his
full height, laid his left hand within his waistcoat, brandished his
right above his head with a preliminary flourish, and began his
speech.

"Gentlemen all," he said, "I am more than proud to make your
acquaintance. Across the foaming waves of the mighty Atlantic there is
a land whose institootions--known to Mr. Sala--air not unlike your
own, whose literature is your own up to a hundred years ago ["Hear,
hear!" from Cornelius], whose language is the same as yours. We say
hard things of each other, gentlemen; but the hard things are said on
the low levels, not on the heights where you and your kindred spirits
dwell. No, gentlemen,"--here he raised both arms and prepared for a
rhetorical burst,--"when the American eagle, proudly bearing the stars
and stripes----"

"Dinner on the table, sir!" bawled the head waiter, throwing open the
doors with the grandest flourish and standing in the open doorway.

"Hear, hear!" cried Humphrey a little late, because he meant the cheer
for the speech, and it sounded like a joy bell ringing for the
announcement of dinner. Mr. Beck thought it rather rude, but he did
not say so, and vented his wrath upon the waiter.

"Great Jehoshaphat!" he cried, "can't you see when a gentleman is on
the stump? Who the devil asked you to shove in?"

"Never mind," said Jack irreverently. "Spout the rest after dinner."

A sigh of relief escaped the lips of all, and the party, headed, after
some demur, by the host, who was escorted, one on each side, like a
great man with his private secretary, by the Twins, passed into the
dining-room.

Oddly enough, when their host passed on before them, the guests turned
to each other, and the same extraordinary smile which Jack Dunquerque
checked on their first appearance passed from one to the other. Why
should Alfred Tennyson look in the face of Thomas Carlyle and laugh?
What secret relationship is there between John Ruskin, Swinburne, and
George Augustus Sala, that they should snigger and grin on catching
each other's eyes? And, if one is to go on asking questions, why did
Jack Dunquerque whisper in an agitated tone, "For Heaven's sake, Tom,
and you fellows, keep it up?"

There was some little difficulty in seating the guests, because they
all showed a bashful reluctance to sitting near their host, and
crowded together to the lower end. At last, however, they were settled
down. Mr. Carlyle, who, with a modesty worthy of his great name,
seized the lowest chair of all--on the left of Jack Dunquerque, who
was to occupy the end of the table--was promptly dragged out and
forcibly led to the right of the host. Facing him was Alfred Tennyson.
The Twins, one on each side, came next. Mr. Sala faced John Ruskin.
The others disposed themselves as they pleased.

A little awkwardness was caused at the outset by the host, who, firm
in the belief that Professor Huxley was in the Moody and Sankey line,
called upon him to say Grace. The invitation was warmly seconded by
all the rest, but the Professor, greatly confused, blushed, and after
a few moments of reflection was fain to own that he knew no Grace. It
was a strange confession, Gilead Beck thought, for a clergyman. The
singers, however--Miss Claribelle, Signors Altotenoro, Bassoprofondo,
and Mr. Plantagenet Simpkins--performed _Non nobis_ with great
feeling and power, and dinner began.

It was then that Gilead Beck first conceived, against his will,
suspicion of the Twins. So far from being the backbone and stay of the
whole party, so far from giving a lead to the conversation, and
leading up to the topics loved by the guests, they gave themselves
unreservedly and from the very first to "tucking in." They went at the
dinner with the go of a Rugby boy--a young gentleman of Eton very soon
teaches himself that the stomach is not to be trifled with. So did the
rest. Considering the overwhelming amount of genius at the table, and
the number of years represented by the guests collectively, it was
really wonderful to contemplate the vigour with which all, including
the octogenarian, attacked the courses, sparing none. Could it have
been believed by an outsider that the author of _Maud_ was so
passionately critical over the wine? It is sad to be disillusioned,
but pleasant, on the other hand, to think that you are no longer an
outsider. Individually the party would have disappointed their host,
but he did not allow himself to be disappointed. Mr. Beck expected a
battery of wit. He heard nothing but laudation of the wine and remarks
upon the cookery. No anecdotes, no criticism, no literary talk, no
poetical enthusiasm.

"In my country, sir," he began, glancing reproachfully at the Twins,
whose noses were over their plates, and feeling his way feebly to a
conversation with Carlyle,--"in my country, sir, I hope we know how to
appreciate what we cannot do ourselves."

Mr. Carlyle stared for a moment. Then he replied--

"Hope you do, Mr. Beck, I'm sure. Didn't know you'd got so good a
_chef_ at the Langham."

This was disheartening, and for a space no one spoke.

Presently Mr. Carlyle looked round the table as if he was about to
make an utterance.

Humphrey Jagenal, who happened at the moment to have nothing before
him, raised his hand and said solemnly, "Hush!" Cornelius bent forward
in an attitude of respectful attention.

Said the Teacher--

"Clear mulligatawny's about the best thing I know to begin a dinner
upon. Some fellows like Palestine soup. That's a mistake."

"The greatest minds," said Cornelius to the Poet Laureate, "condescend
to the meanest things----"

"'Gad!" said Tennyson, "if you call such a dinner as this mean, I
wonder what you'd call respectable."

Cornelius felt snubbed. But he presently rallied and went on again. It
was between the courses.

"Pray, Mr. Carlyle," he asked, with the sweetest smile, "what was the
favourite soup of Herr Teufelsdröckh?"

"Who?" asked the Philosopher. "Beg your pardon, Herr how much?"

"From your own work, Mr. Carlyle," Jack sang out from his end. It was
remarkable to notice how anxiously he followed the conversation.

"Oh, ah! quite so," said Mr. Carlyle. "Well, you see, the fact is
that--Jack Dunquerque knows."

This was disconcerting too, and the more because everybody began to
laugh. What did they laugh at?

The dinner went on. Gilead Beck, silent and grave, sat at the head of
the table, watching his guests. He ought, he said to himself, to be a
proud man that day. But there were one or two crumpled rose-leaves in
his bed. One thing was that he could not for the life of him remember
each man's works, so as to address him in honeyed tones of adulation.
And he also rightly judged that the higher a man's position in the
world of letters, the more you must pile up the praise. No doubt the
lamented George the Fourth, the Fourteenth Louis, and John Stuart
Mill, grew at last to believe in the worth of the praise-painting
which surrounded their names.

And then the Twins were provoking. Only one attempt on the part of
Cornelius, at which everybody laughed. And nothing at all from
Humphrey.

Carlyle and Tennyson, for their part, sat perfectly silent. Lower
down--below the Twins, that is--Sala, Huxley, and the others were
conversing freely, but in a low tone. And when Gilead Beck caught a
few words it seemed to him as if they talked of horse-racing.

Presently, to his relief, John Ruskin leaned forward and spoke to him.

"I have been studying lately, Mr. Beck, the Art growth of America."

"Is that so, sir? And perhaps you have got something to tell my
countrymen?"

"Perhaps, Mr. Beck. You doubtless know my principle, that Art should
interpret, not create. You also know that I have preached all my life
the doctrine that where Art is followed for Art's own sake, there
infallibly ensues a distinction of intellectual and moral principles,
while, devoted honestly and self-forgetfully to the clear statement
and record of the facts of the universe, Art is always helpful and
beneficial to mankind. So much you know, Mr. Beck, I'm sure."

"Well, sir, if you would not mind saying that over again--slow--I
might be able to say I know it."

"I have sometimes gone on to say," pursued Mr. Ruskin, "that a time
has always hitherto come when, having reached a singular perfection,
Art begins to contemplate that perfection and to deduce rules from it.
Now all this has nothing to do with the relations between Art and
mental development in the United States of America."

"I am glad to hear that, sir," said Gilead Beck, a little relieved.

He looked for help to the Twins, but he leaned upon a slender reed,
for they were both engaged upon the duckling, and proffered no help at
all. They did not even seem to listen. The dinner was far advanced,
their cheeks were red, and their eyes were sparkling.

"What is it all about?" Mr. Carlyle murmured across the table to
Tennyson.

"Don't know," replied the Maker. "Didn't think he had it in him."

Could these two great men be jealous of Mr. Ruskin's fame?

"Your remarks, Mr. Ruskin," said the host, "sound very pretty. But I
should like to have them before me in black and white, so I could
tackle them quietly for an hour. Then I'd tell you what I think. I was
reading, last week, all your works."

"All my works in a week!" cried Ruskin. "Sir, my works require loving
thought and lingering tender care. You must get up early in the
morning with them, you must watch the drapery of the clouds at sunrise
when you read them, you must take them into the fields at spring-time
and mark, as you meditate on the words of the printed page, the young
leaflets breathing low in the sunshine. Then, as the thoughts grow and
glow in the pure ether of your mind--hock, if you please--you will
rise above the things of the earth, your wings will expand, you will
care for nothing of the mean and practical--I will take a little more
duckling--your faculties will be woven into a cunning subordination
with the wondrous works of Nature, and all will be beautiful alike,
from a blade of grass to a South American forest."

"There are very good forests in the Sierra Nevada," said Mr. Beck, who
had just understood the last words; "we needn't go to South America
for forests, I guess."

"That, Mr. Beck, is what you will get from a study of my works. But a
week--a week, Mr. Beck!"

He shook his head with a whole library of reproach.

"My time was limited, Mr. Ruskin, and I hope to go through your books
with more study, now I have had the pleasure of meeting you. What I
was going to say was, that I am sorry not to be able to talk with you
gentlemen on the subjects you like best, because things have got
mixed, and I find I can't rightly remember who wrote what."

"Thank goodness!" murmured Mr. Tennyson, under his breath.

Presently the diners began to thaw, and something like general
conversation set in.

About the grated Parmesan period, Mr. Beck observed with satisfaction
that they were all talking together. The Twins were the loudest. With
flushed faces and bright eyes they were laying down the law to their
neighbours in Poetry and Art. Cornelius gave Mr. Tennyson some home
truths on his later style, which the Poet Laureate received without so
much as an attempt to defend himself. Humphrey, from the depth of his
Roman experiences, treated Mr. Ruskin to a brief treatise on his
imperfections as a critic, and Mr. Leighton to some remarks on his
paintings, which those great men heard with a polite stare. Gilead
Beck observed also that Jack Dunquerque was trying hard to keep the
talk in literary grooves, though with small measure of success. For as
the dinner went on the conversation resolved itself into a general
discussion on horses, events, Aldershot, Prince's, polo, the drama
from its lightest point of view, and such topics as might perhaps be
looked for at a regimental mess, but hardly at a dinner of Literature.
It was strange that the two greatest men among them all, Carlyle and
Tennyson, appeared as interested as any in this light talk.

The Twins were out of it altogether. If there was one thing about
which they were absolutely ignorant, it was the Turf. Probably they
had never seen a race in their lives. They talked fast and a little at
random, but chiefly to each other, because no one, Mr. Beck observed,
took any notice of what they said. Also, they drank continuously, and
their host remarked that to the flushed cheeks and the bright eyes was
rapidly being added thickness of speech.

Mr. Beck rose solemnly, at the right moment, and asked his guests to
allow him two or three toasts only. The first, he said, was England
and America. Ile, he said briefly, had not yet been found in the old
country, and so far she was behind America. But she did her best; she
bought what she could not dig.

By special request of the host Mademoiselle Claribelle sang "Old John
Brown lies a-mouldering in his grave."

The next toast, Mr. Beck said, was one due to the peculiar position of
himself. He would not waste their time in telling his own story, but
he would only say that until the Golden Butterfly brought him to
Limerick City and showed him Ile, he was but a poor galoot. Therefore,
he asked them to join him in a sentiment. He would give them, "More
Ile."

Signor Altotenoro, an Englishman who had adopted an Italian name, sang
"The Light of other Days."

Then Mr. Beck rose for the third time and begged the indulgence of his
friends. He spoke slowly and with a certain sadness.

"I am not," he said, "going to orate. You did not come here, I guess,
to hear me pay out chin music. Not at all. You came to do honour to an
American. Gentlemen, I am an obscure American; I am half educated; I
am a man lifted out of the ranks. In our country--and I think in yours
as well, though some of you have got handles to your names--that is
not a thing to apologise for. No, gentlemen. I only mention it because
it does me the greater honour to have received you. But I can read and
I can think. I see here to-night some of the most honoured names in
England and I can tell you all what I was goin' to say before dinner,
only the misbegotten cuss of a waiter took the words out of my mouth:
that I feel this kindness greatly, and I shall never forget it. I did
think, gentlemen, that you would have been too many for me in the
matter of tall talk, but exceptin' Mr. Ruskin, to whom I am grateful
for his beautiful language, though it didn't all get in, not one of
you has made me feel my own uneducated ignorance. That is kind of you,
and I thank you for it. It was true feeling, Mr. Carlyle, which
prompted you, sir, to give the conversation such a turn that I might
join in without bein' ashamed or makin' myself feel or'nary.
Gentlemen, what a man like me has to guard against is shoddy. If I
talk Literature, it's shoddy. If I talk Art, it's shoddy. Because I
know neither Literature nor Art. If I pretend to be what I am not,
it's shoddy. Therefore, gentlemen, I thank you for leavin' the tall
talk at home, and tellin' me about your races and your amusements. And
I'll not ask you, either, to make any speeches; but if you'll allow
me, I will drink your healths. Mr. Carlyle, sir, the English-speaking
race is proud of you. Mr. Tennyson, our gells, I'm told, love your
poems more than any others in this wide world. What an American gell
loves is generally worth lovin', because she's no fool. Mr. Ruskin, if
you'd come across the water you might learn a wrinkle yet in the
matter of plain speech. Mr. Sala, we know you already over thar, and I
shall be glad to tell the Reverend Colonel Quagg of your welfare when
I see him. Mr. Swinburne, you air young, but you air getting on.
Professor Huxley and Mr. Darwin, I shall read your sermons and your
novels, and I shall be proud to have seen you at my table. Mr.
Cornelius and Mr. Humphrey Jagenal, I would drink your healths, too,
if you were not sound asleep." This was unfortunately the case; the
Twins, having succumbed to the mixture and quantity of the drinks
almost before the wine went round once, were now leaning back in their
chairs, slumbering with the sweetest of smiles. "Captain Ladds, you
know, sir, that you are always welcome. Mr. Dunquerque, you have done
me another favour. Gentlemen all, I drink your health."

"Jack," whispered Mr. Swinburne, "I call this a burning shame. He's a
rattling good fellow, this, and you must tell him."

"I will, some time; not now," said Jack, looking remorseful. "I
haven't the heart. I thought he would have found us out long ago. I
wonder how he'll take it."

They had coffee and cigars, and presently Gilead Beck began telling
about American trotting matches, which was interesting to everybody.

It was nearly twelve when Mr. Beck's guests departed.

Mr. Carlyle, in right of his seniority, solemnly "up and spake."

"Mr. Beck," he said, "you are a trump. Come down to the Derby with me,
and we will show you a race worth twenty of your trotting. Good night,
sir, you've treated us like a prince."

He grasped his hand with a grip which had all its youthful vigour, and
strode out of the room with the step of early manhood.

"A wonderful man!" said Mr. Beck. "Who would have thought it?"

The rest shook hands in silence, except Mr. Ruskin.

"I am sorry, Mr. Beck," he said meekly, "that the nonsense I talked at
dinner annoyed you. It's always the way if a fellow tries to be
clever; he overdoes it, and makes himself an ass. Good night, sir, and
I hope we shall meet on the racecourse next Wednesday."

Mr. Beck was left alone with Jack Dunquerque, the waiter, and the
Twins still sleeping.

"What am I to do with these gentlemen, sir?" asked the waiter.

Mr. Beck looked at them with a little disdain.

"Get John, and yank them both to bed, and leave a brandy-and-soda at
their elbows in case they're thirsty in the night. Mr. Dunquerque and
Captain Ladds, don't go yet. Let us have a cigar together in the
little room."

They sat in silence for a while. Then Jack said, with a good deal of
hesitation:

"I've got something to tell you, Beck."

"Then don't tell it to-night," replied the American. "I'm thinking
over the evening, and I can't get out of my mind that I might have
made a better speech. Seems as if I wasn't nigh grateful enough. Wal,
it's done. Mr. Dunquerque, there is one thing which pleases me. Great
authors are like the rest of us. They are powerful fond of racing;
they shoot, they ride, and they hunt; they know how to tackle a
dinner; and all of 'em, from Carlyle to young Mr. Swinburne, seem to
love the gells alike. That's a healthy sign, sir. It shows that their
hearts air in the right place. The world's bound to go on well,
somehow, so long as its leaders like to talk of a pretty woman's eyes;
because it's human. And then for me to hear these great men actually
doing it! Why, Captain Ladds, it adds six inches to my stature to feel
sure that they like what I like, and that, after all said and done,
Alfred Tennyson and Gilead P. Beck are men and brothers."




CHAPTER XXVII.

    "Greater humanity."


The world, largely as it had unfolded itself to Phillis, consisted as
yet to her wholly of the easy classes. That there were poor people in
the country was a matter of hearsay. That is, she had caught a glimpse
during a certain walk with Cæsar of a class whose ways were clearly
not her ways, nor their manner of thought hers. She had now to
learn--as a step to that wider sympathy first awakened by the
butter-woman's baby--that there is a kind of folk who are more
dangerous than picturesque, to be pitied rather than to be painted, to
be schooled and disciplined rather than to be looked at.

She learned this lesson through Mrs. L'Estrange, whose laudable custom
it was to pay periodical visits to a certain row of cottages. They
were not nice cottages, but nasty. They faced an unrelenting ditch,
noisome, green, and putrid. They were slatternly and out at elbows.
The people who lived in them were unpleasant to look at or to think
of; the men belonged to the riverside--they were boat-cads and touts;
and if there is any one pursuit more demoralising than another, it is
that of launching boats into the river, handing the oars, and helping
out the crew.

In the daytime the cottages were in the hands of the wives. Towards
nightfall the men returned: those who had money enough were drunk;
those who were sober envied those who were drunk. Both drunk and sober
found scolding wives, squalid homes, and crying children. Both drunk
and sober lay down with curses, and slept till the morning, when they
awoke, and went forth again with the jocund curse of dawn.

Nothing so beautiful as the civilisation of the period. Half a mile
from Agatha L'Estrange and Phillis Fleming were these cottages. Almost
within earshot of a house where vice was unknown, or only dimly seen
like a ghost at twilight, stood the hovels where virtue was
impossible, and goodness a dream of an unknown land. What notion do
they have of the gentle life, these dwellers in misery and squalor?
What fond ideas of wealth's power to procure unlimited gratification
for the throat do they conceive, these men and women whose only
pleasure is to drink beer till they drop?

One day Phillis went there with Agatha.

It was such a bright warm morning, the river was so sparkling, the
skies were so blue, the gardens were so sunny, the song of the birds
so loud, the laburnums so golden, and the lilacs so glorious to
behold, that the girl's heart was full of all the sweet thoughts which
she had learned of others or framed for herself--thoughts of poets,
which echoed in her brain and flowed down the current of her thoughts
like the swans upon the river; happy thoughts of youth and innocence.

She walked beside her companion with light and elastic tread; she
looked about her with the fresh unconscious grace that belongs to
childhood; it was her greatest charm. But the contentment of her soul
was rudely shaken--the beauty went out of the day--when Mrs.
L'Estrange only led her away from the leafy road and took her into her
"Row." There the long arms of the green trees were changed into
protruding sticks, on which linen was hanging out to dry; the songs of
the birds became the cry of children and the scolding of women; for
flowers there was the iridescence on the puddles of soap-suds; for
greenhouse were dirty windows and open doors which looked into squalid
interiors.

"I am going to see old Mr. Medlicott," said Mrs. L'Estrange
cheerfully, picking her accustomed way among the cabbage-stalks,
wash-tubs, and other evidences of human habitation.

The women looked out of their houses and retired hastily. Presently
they came out again, and stood every one at her door with a clean
apron on, each prepared to lie like an ambassador for the good of the
family.

In a great chair by a fire there sat an old woman--a malignant old
woman. She looked up and scowled at the ladies; then she looked at the
fire and scowled; then she pointed to the corner and scowled again.

"Look at him," she growled in a hoarse crescendo. "Look at him, lying
like a pig--like a pig. Do you hear?"

"I hear."

The voice came from what Phillis took at first to be a heap of rags.
She was right, because she could not see beneath the rags the supine
form of a man.

Mrs. L'Estrange took no notice of the old woman's introduction to the
human pig. That phenomenon repeated his answer:

"I hear. I'm her beloved grandson, ladies. I'm Jack-in-the-Water."

"Get up and work. Go down to your river. Comes home and lies down, he
does--yah! ye lazy pig; says he's goin' to have the horrors, he
does--yah! ye drunken pig; prigs my money for drink--yah! ye thievin'
pig. Get up and go out of the place. Leave me and the ladies to talk.
Go, I say!"

Jack-in-the-Water arose slowly. He was a long-legged creature with
shaky limbs, and when he stood upright his head nearly touched the
rafters of the low unceiled room. And he had a face at sight of which
Phillis shuddered--an animal face with no forehead; a cruel, bad,
selfish face, all jowl and no front. His eyes were bloodshot and his
lips were thick. He twitched and trembled all over--his legs trembled;
his hands trembled; his cheeks twitched.

"'Orrors!" he said in a husky voice. "And should ha' had the 'orrors
if I hadn't a took the money. Two-and-tuppence."

He pushed past Phillis, who shrank in alarm, and disappeared.

"Well, Mrs. Medlicott, and how are we?" asked Mrs. L'Estrange in a
cheerful voice--she took no manner of notice of the man.

"Worse. What have you got for me? Money? I want money. Flannel? I want
flannel. Physic? I want physic. Brandy? I want brandy very bad; I
never wanted it so bad. What have you got? Gimme brandy and you shall
read me a tract."

"You forget," said Agatha, "that I never read to you."

"Let the young lady read, then. Come here, missy. Lord, Lord! Don'tee
be afraid of an old woman as has got no teeth. Come now. Gimme your
hand. Ay, ay, ay! Eh, eh, eh! Here's a pretty little hand."

"Now, Mrs. Medlicott, you said you would not do that any more. You
know it is all foolish wickedness.

"Foolish wickedness," echoed the Witch of Endor. "Never after to-day,
my lady. Come, my pretty lass, take off the glove and gimme the hand."

Without knowing what she did, Phillis drew off the glove from her left
hand. The old woman leaned forward in her chair and looked at the
lines. She was a fierce and eager old woman. Life was strong in her
yet, despite her fourscore years; her eyes were bright and fiery; her
toothless gums chattered without speaking; her long lean fingers shook
as they seized on the girl's dainty palm.

"Ay, ah! Eh, eh! The line of life is long. A silent childhood! a
love-knot hindered; go, on, girl--go on, wife and mother; happy life
and happy age, but far away--not here--far away; a lucky lot with him
you love; to sleep by his side for fifty years and more; to see your
children and your grandchildren; to watch the sun rise and set from
your door--a happy life, but far away."

She dropped the girl's hand as quickly as she had seized it, and fell
back in her chair mumbling and moaning.

"Gimme brandy, Mrs. L'Estrange--you are a charitable woman--gimme
brandy. And port-wine!--ah! lemme have some port-wine. Tea? Don't
forget the tea. And Jack-in-the-Water drinks awful, he does. Worse
than his father; worse than his grandfather--and they all went off at
five-and-thirty."

"I will send you up a basket, Mrs. Medlicott. Come, Phillis, I have
got to go to the next cottage."

But Phillis stayed behind a moment.

She touched the old woman on the forehead with her fingers and said
softly--

"Tell me, are you happy? Do you suffer?"

"Happy? only the rich are happy. Suffer? of course I suffer. All the
pore suffers."

"Poor thing! May I come and see you and bring you things?"

"Of course you may."

"And you will tell me about yourself?"

"Child, child!" cried the old woman impatiently. "Tell you about
myself? There, there, you're one of them the Lord loves--wife and
mother; happy life and happy death; childer and grandchilder; but far
away, far away."

Mrs. Medlicott gave Phillis her first insight into that life so near
and yet so distant from us. She should have been introduced to the
ideal cottage, where the stalwart husband supports the smiling wife,
and both do honour to the intellectual curate with the long coat and
the lofty brow. Where are they--lofty brow of priest and stalwart form
of virtuous peasant? Remark that Phillis was a child; the first effect
of the years upon a child is to sadden it. Philemon and Baucis in
their cot would have rejoiced her; that of old Mrs. Medlicott set her
thinking.

And while she drew from memory the old fortune-teller in her cottage,
certain words of Abraham Dyson's came back to her:

"Life is a joy to one and a burden to ninety-nine. Remember in your
joy as many as you can of the ninety-nine.

"Learn that you cannot be entirely happy, because of the ninety-nine
who are entirely wretched.

"When you reach this knowledge, Phillis, be sure that the Coping-stone
is not far-off."




CHAPTER XXVIII.

    "Non possidentem multa vocaveris
    Recte beatum."


The manner in which Mr. Cassilis conveyed his advice, or rather
instructions, to Gilead Beck inspired the American with a blind
confidence. He spoke slowly, grimly, and with deliberation. He spoke
as one who knew. Most men speak as those who only half know, like the
Frenchman who said, "Ce que je sais, je le sais mal; ce que j'ignore,
je l'ignore parfaitement."

Mr. Cassilis weighed each word. While he spoke his eyes sought those
of his friend, and looked straight in them, not defiantly, but
meditatively. He brought Mr. Beck bills, which he made him accept; and
he brought prospectuses, in which the American, finding they were
English schemes, invested money at his adviser's suggestion.

"You have now," said Mr. Cassilis, "a very large sum invested in
different companies; you must consider now how long to hold the
shares--when to sell out in fact."

"Can't I sell my shares at once, if I please?"

"You certainly can, and so ruin the companies. Consider my undertaking
to my friends on the allotment committees."

"Yes, sir."

"You forget, Mr. Beck, that you are a wealthy man. We do not manage
matters in a hole and corner. The bears have sold on expectation of an
allotment. Now as they have not got an allotment, and we have, they
must buy. When such men as you buy largely, the effect is to run
shares up; when you sell largely, you run them down."

Mr. Cassilis did not explain that he had himself greatly profited by
this tidal influence, and proposed to profit still more.

"Many companies, perfectly sound in principle, may be ruined by a
sudden decrease in the price of shares; a panic sets in, and in a few
hours the shareholders may lose all. And if you bring this about by
selling without concert with the other favoured allottees, you'll be
called a black sheep."

Mr. Beck hesitated. "It's a hard thing----" he began.

His adviser went on:

"You have thus two things to think of--not to lose your own profit,
and not to spread disaster over a number of other people by the very
magnitude of your transactions."

This was a new light to Gilead.

"Then why sell at all? Why not keep the shares and secure the
dividend? It's a hard hank, all this money."

And this was a new light for the financier.

Hold the shares? When they were, scores of them, at 16 premium? "You
can certainly do that, if you please," he said slowly. "That, however,
puts you in the simple position of investor."

"I thought I was that, Mr. Cassilis?"

"Not at all, Mr. Beck. The wise man distrusts all companies, but puts
his hope in a rise or fall. You are not conversant with the way
business is done. A company is formed--the A B C let us say. Before
any allotment of shares is made, influential brokers, acting in the
interest of the promoters, go on to the Stock Exchange, and make a
market."

"How is that, sir?"

"They purchase as many shares as they can get. Persons technically
called 'bears' in London or in New York sell these shares on the
chance of allotment."

"Well?"

"To their astonishment they don't get any shares allotted. Millions of
money in a year are allotted to clerks, Mr. Beck--to anybody, in
fact--a market is established, and our shares figure at a pretty
premium. Then begins the game of backing and filling--to and fro,
backward and forward--and all this time we are gradually unloading the
shares on the public, the real holders of every thing."

"I begin to see," said Mr. Beck slowly.

"By this time you will perceive," Mr. Cassilis continued, "the bears
are at the mercy of the favoured allottees. Then up go the shares; the
public have come in. I recollect an old friend of mine who made a
fortune on 'Change--small compared with yours, Mr. Beck, but a great
fortune--used to say, talking of shares in his rather homely style,
'When they rise, the people buys; when they fa's, they lets 'em goes.'
Ha, ha! it's so true. I have but a very poor opinion of the Isle of
Holyhead Inland Navigation Company; but I thought their shares would
go up, and I bought for you. You hold twenty out of fifty thousand.
Wait till 'the people buys,' and then unload cautiously."

"And leave the rest in the lurch? No, sir, I can't do that."

"Then, Mr. Beck, I can advise you no more."

"I hold twenty thousand shares; and if I sell out, that company will
bust up."

"I do not say so much. I say that if you sell out gradually you take
advantage of the premium, and the company is left exactly where it was
before you joined, to stand or fall upon its merits. But if you will
sell your shares without concert with our colleagues in these
companies you are in, we shall be very properly called black sheep."

"Then, Mr. Cassilis," said Gilead, "in God's name, let us have done
with companies."

"Very well; as you please. You have only to give me a power of
attorney, and I will dispose of all your shares in the best way
possible for your interests. Will you give me that power of attorney?"

"Sir, I am deeply obliged to you for all the trouble you are taking."

"A power of attorney conveys large powers. It will put into my hands
the management of your great revenues. This is not a thing to be done
in a moment. Think well, Mr. Beck, before you sign such a document."

"I have thought, sir," said Gilead, "and I will sign it with
gratitude."

"In that case, I will have the document--it is only a printed form,
filled up and sent on to you for signature immediately."

"Thank you, Mr. Cassilis."

"And as for the shares in the various companies which you have
acquired by my advice, I will, if you please, take them all over one
with another at the price you gave for them, without considering which
have gone up and which down."

They had all gone up, a fact which Mr. Cassilis might have remembered
had he given the thing a moment's thought. The companies on paper were
doing extremely well.

"Sir," said Mr. Beck, starting to his feet "you heap coals of fire on
my head. When a gentleman like you advises me, I ought to be thankful,
and not go worrying around like a hen in a farmyard. The English
nation are the only people who can raise a man like you, sir. Honour is
your birthright. Duty is your instinct. Truth is your nature. We,
Americans, sir, come next to you English in that respect. The rest of
the world are nowhere." He was walking backwards and forwards, with
his hands in his pockets, while Mr. Cassilis looked at him through his
gold eyeglasses as if he was a little amused at the outburst.
"Nowhere, sir. Truth lives only among us. The French lie to please
you. The Germans lie to get something for themselves. The Russians lie
because they imitate the French and have caught the bad tricks of the
Germans. Sir, no one but an Englishman would have made me the generous
offer you have just made, and I respect you for it, Mr. Cassilis, I
respect you, sir."

Gabriel Cassilis looked a little, a very little, confused at all these
compliments. Then he held out his hand.

"My dear friend, the respect is mutual," he said, with a forced smile.
"Do not, however, act always upon your belief in the honesty of
Englishmen. It may lead you into mischief."

"As for the shares," said Beck, "they will stay as they are, if you
please, or they will be sold, as you will. And no more companies, Mr.
Cassilis, for me."

"You shall have no more," said his adviser.

In his pocket was a beautiful prospectus, brand new, of a company
about to be formed for the purpose of lighting the town of La
Concepcion Immaculata on the Amazon River in Brazil with gas. A
concession of land had been obtained, engineers had been out to survey
the place, and their prospects were most bright.

Now, he felt, that project must be released. He turned the paper in
his fingers nervously round and round, and the muscles of his cheek
twitched. Then he looked up and smiled, but in a joyless way. Mr. Beck
did not smile. He was growing more serious.

"You shall have no more shares," said the adviser. "Those that you
have already shall be disposed of as soon as possible. Remains the
question, what am I to do with the money?"

"You have placed yourself," he went on, "in my hands by means of that
promised power of attorney. I advised, first of all, certain shares my
influence enabled me to get allotted to you. You have scruples about
selling shares at a profit. Let us respect your scruples, Mr. Beck.
Instead of shares, you will invest your money in Government stocks."

"That, sir," said Mr. Beck, "would meet my wishes."

"I am glad of it. There are two or three ways of investing money in
stocks. The first, your way, is to buy in and take the interest. The
next, my way, is to buy in when they are low and sell out when they go
up."

"You may buy in low and sell out lower," said the astute Beck.

"Not if you can afford to wait. This game, Mr. Beck, as played by the
few who understand it, is one which calls into play all the really
valuable qualities of the human intellect."

Mr. Cassilis rose as he spoke and drew himself up to his full height.
Then he began to walk backwards and forwards, turning occasionally to
jerk a word straight in the face of his client, who was now leaning
against the window with an unlighted cigar between his lips, listening
gravely.

"Foolish people think it a game of gambling. So it is--for them. What
is it to us? It is the forecasting of events. It is the pitting of our
experience, our sagacity, against what some outsiders call chance and
some Providence. We anticipate events; we read the future by the light
of the present."

"Then it isn't true about Malachi," said Mr. Beck. "And he wasn't the
last prophet."

Mr. Cassilis went on without regarding this observation:

"There is no game in the world so well worth playing. Politics? You
stake your reputation on the breath of the mob. War? You throw away
your life at the stockade of savages before you can learn it. Trade?
It is the lower branch of the game of speculation. In this game those
who have cool heads and iron nerve win. To lose your head for a moment
is to lose the results of a lifetime--unless," he murmured, as if to
himself--"unless you can wait."

"Well, sir," said Gilead, "I am a scholar, and I learn something new
every day. Do you wish me to learn this game? It seems to me----"

"You?" Contempt that could not be repressed flashed for a moment
across the thin features of the speculator. "You? No. Perhaps, Mr.
Beck, I do not interest you." He resumed his habitually cold manner,
and went on: "I propose, however, to give you my assistance in
investing your money, to such advantage as I can, in English and
foreign stocks, including railway companies, but not in the shares of
newly-formed trading companies."

"Sir, that is very kind."

"You trust me, then, Mr. Beck?"

Again the joyless smile, which gleamed for a moment on his lips and
disappeared.

"That is satisfactory to both of us," he said. "And I will send up the
power of attorney to-day."

Mr. Cassilis departed. By the morning's work he had acquired absolute
control over a quarter of a million of money. Before this he had
influence, but he required persuasion for each separate transaction.
Now he had this great fortune entirely in his own control. It was to
be the same as his own. And by its means he had the power which every
financier wants--that of waiting. He could wait. And Gilead Beck, this
man of unparalleled sharpness and unequalled experience, was a Fool.
We have been Christians for nearly two thousand years, and yet he who
trusts another man is a Fool. It seems odd.

Mr. Cassilis felt young again. He held his head erect as he walked
down the steps of the Langham Hotel. He lost his likeness to old
Father Time, or at least resembled that potentate in his younger days,
when he used to accommodate himself to people, moving slowly for the
happy, sometimes sitting down for a few weeks in the case of young
lovers, and galloping for the miserable. He strode across the hall
with the gait of a Field-Marshal Commanding-in-Chief, and drove off to
the City with the courage of five-and-twenty and the wisdom of sixty.

Before him stretched an endless row of successes, bigger than anything
he had ever yet tried. For him the glory of the _coup_ and the profit;
for Gilead Beck the interest on his money.

In his inner room, after glancing at the pile of letters and
telegrams, noting instructions, and reserving a few for private reply,
he rang his bell.

The private secretary of Mr. Gabriel Cassilis did not disdain
personally to answer that bell. He was a middle-aged man, with a sleek
appearance, and a face which, being fat, shiny, and graced only with a
slight fringe of whisker lying well behind, somehow conveyed the
impression of a Particular Baptist who was also in the oil-trade. That
was not the case, because Mr. Mowll was a member of the Church of
England and a sidesman. He lived at Tulse Hill, and was a
highly-respectable man. Mr. Cassilis gave him a fair salary, and a
small amount--a very small amount--of his confidence. He also, when
anything good in a humble way offered, tossed the information to his
secretary, who was thus enabled to add materially to his salary.

In the outer world Mr. Mowll was the right-hand man of Gabriel
Cassilis, his factotum, and the man, according to some, by whose
advice he walked. Gabriel Cassilis walked by no man's advice save his
own.

"For you, Mowll," said his employer briefly. "These I will attend to.
Telegraph to--wherever his address is--to the man Wylie--the writing
man"--newspaper people and writers of articles were "writing men" to
Gabriel Cassilis--"I want him at once."

Then he absorbed himself again in his papers.

When he was left alone he pulled some printed documents out of a
drawer, and compared them with letters which had the New York
post-mark upon them. He read carefully, and made notes at various
points with a stump of a blue crayon pencil. And he was still engaged
on them when, half an hour later, his secretary asked him through a
tube whether he would see Mr. Wylie.

Mr. Wylie was an elderly man--a man of sixty--and he was a man on
whose face many years of rum-and-water were beginning to tell. He was
a man of letters, as he said himself; he had some kind of name, in
virtue of certain good things he had written, in his early manhood,
before the rum-and-water period set in. Now he went up and down, doing
odd jobs of literary work, such as are always wanting some one to do
them in this great city. He was a kind of literary cab.

"You are free to-day, Mr. Wylie?"

"I am, Mr. Cassilis."

"Good. Do you remember last year writing a short political pamphlet--I
think at my suggestion--on the prospects of Patagonian bond-holders?"

"You gave me all the information, you know."

"That is, you found the papers in my outer office, to which all the
world has access, and on them you based your opinion."

"Quite so," said the pamphleteer. "I also found five-and-twenty pounds
in gold on your secretary's table the day after the pamphlet
appeared."

"Ah! Possibly--perhaps my secretary had private reasons of his own
for----"

"Let us talk business, Mr. Cassilis," said the author a little
roughly. "You want me to do something. What is it?"

"Do you know the affairs of Eldorado?"

"I have heard of Eldorado bonds. Of course, I have no bonds either of
Eldorado or any other stock."

"I have here certain papers--published papers--on the resources of the
country," said Mr. Cassilis. "I think it might pay a clever man to
read them. He would probably arrive at the conclusion that the
Republic, with its present income, cannot hope to pay its
dividends----"

"Must smash up, in short."

"Do not interrupt. But with any assurance of activity and honesty in
the application of its borrowed money, there seems, if this paper is
correct--it is published in New York--no doubt that the internal
resources would be more than sufficient to carry the State
triumphantly through any difficulty."

"Is it a quick job, or a job that may wait?"

"I dislike calling things jobs, Mr. Wylie. I give you a suggestion
which may or may not be useful. If it is useful--it is now half-past
twelve o'clock--the pamphlet should be advertised in to-morrow's
papers, in the printer's hand by four, and ready on every counter by
ten o'clock in the morning. Make your own arrangements with printers,
and call on me to-morrow with the pamphlet. On me, mind, not Mr.
Mowll."

"Yes--and--and----"

"And, perhaps, if the pamphlet is clever, and expresses a just view of
Eldorado and its obligations, there may be double the sum that you
once found on my secretary's table."

Mr. Wylie grasped the papers and departed.

The country of Eldorado is one of the many free, happy, virtuous, and
enlightened republics of Central America. It was constituted in the
year 1839, after the Confederation broke up. During the thirty years
which form its history, it has enjoyed the rule of fifteen Presidents.
Don Rufiano Grechyto, its present able administrator, a half-blood
Indian by birth, has sat upon the chair of state for nearly a year and
a half, and approaches the period of two years, beyond which no
previous President has reigned. He is accordingly ill at ease. Those
who survive of his fourteen predecessors await his deposition, and
expect him shortly in their own happy circle, where they sit like
Richard II., and talk of royal misfortunes. Eldorado is a
richly-endowed country to look at. It has mountains where a few inches
of soil separate the feet of the rare wayfarer from rich lodes of
silver; forests of mahogany cover its plains; indigo and tobacco
flourish in its valleys; everywhere roam cattle waiting to be caught
and sent to the London market. Palms and giant tree-ferns rise in its
woods; creepers of surpassing beauty hang from tree to tree; in its
silent recesses stand, covered with inscriptions which no man can
read, the ruins of a perished civilization. Among these ruins roam the
half-savage Indians who form nine-tenths of the population. And in the
hot seaboard towns loll and lie the languid whites and half-castes who
form the governing class. They never do govern at all; they never
improve; they never work; they are a worthless hopeless race; they
hoard their energies for the excitement of a pronunciamiento; their
favourite occupation is a game of monte; they consider thought a
wicked waste of energy, save for purposes of cheating. They ought all,
and without exception, to be rubbed out. And it is most unfortunate,
in the interests of humanity, that their only strong feeling is an
objection to be rubbed out. Otherwise we could plant in Eldorado a
colony of Germans; kill the pythons, alligators, jaguars, and other
impediments to free civilisation; open up the mines, and make it a
country green with sugar-canes and as sweet as Rimmel's shop by reason
of its spicy breezes. There are about five thousand of the dominant
class; they possess altogether a revenue of about £60,000 a year, a
good deal less than a first-class fortune in England. As every man of
the five thousand likes to have his share of the £60,000 there is not
much saved in the year. Consequently, when one reads that the Republic
of Eldorado owes the people of Great Britain and France, the only two
European States which have money to lend, the sum of six millions, one
feels sorry for the people of Eldorado. It must be a dreadful thing
for a high-minded republican to have so little and to owe so much.
Fancy a man with £600 a year in debt to the tune of £60,000.

It all grew by degrees. Formerly the Eldoradians owed nothing. In
those days champagne was unknown, claret never seen, and the native
drink was rum. Nothing can be better for the natives than their rum,
because it kills them quickly, and so rids the earth of a pestilent
race. In an evil moment it came into the head of an enterprising
Eldoradian President to get up a loan. He asked for a million, which
is, of course, a trifle to a nation which has nothing, does nothing,
and saves nothing. They got so much of their million as enabled them
to raise everybody's salary and the pay of the standing army, also to
make the dividend certain for a few years. After this satisfactory
transaction, somebody boldly ordered the importation of a few cases of
brandy. The descent of Avernus is easy and pleasant. Next year they
asked for two millions and a half. They got this small trifle conceded
to them on advantageous terms--10 per cent., which is nothing to a
Republic with £60,000 a year, and the stock at 60. The pay of every
official was doubled, the army had new shirts issued, and there were
fireworks at San Mercurio, the principal town. They promised to build
railways leading from nowhere into continental space, to carry
passengers who did not exist, and goods not yet invented. The same
innovator who had introduced the brandy now went farther, and sent for
claret and champagne. Then they asked for more loans, and went ahead
quite like a First-class Power.

When there was no more money to pay the dividends with, and no more
loans to be raised, Eldorado busted up.

The gallant officers who commanded the standing army are now shirtless
and bootless; the men of the standing army have disappeared; grass
grows around the house of the importer of European luxuries; but
content has not returned to San Mercurio. The empty bottles remain to
remind the populace of lost luxuries; the national taste in drink is
hopelessly perverted; San Mercurio is ill at ease; and Don Rufiano
trembles in his marble palace.

But a year ago the country was not quite played out. There seemed a
chance yet to those who had not the materials at hand for a simple sum
in Arithmetic.

The next morning saw the appearance of the pamphlet--a short but
telling pamphlet of thirty-two pages--called "Eldorado and her
Resources. Addressed to the Holders of Eldorado Stock, by Oliver St.
George Wylie."

The author took a gloomy but not a despairing view. He mentioned that
where there was no revenue there could be no dividends. Therefore, he
said, it behooved Eldorado stock-holders to be sure that something was
being done with their money. Then he gave pages of facts and figures
which proved the utter insolvency of the State unless something could
be done. And he then proceeded to point out the amazing resources of
the country, could only a little energy be introduced into the
Council. He drew a lively picture of millions of acres, the finest
ground in the world, planted with sugar-cane; forests of mahogany;
silver mines worked by contented and laborious Indians; ports crowded
with merchant fleets, each returning home with rich argosies; and a
luxurious capital of marble made beautiful by countless palaces.

At eleven Mr. Wylie called on Gabriel Cassilis again. He brought with
him his pamphlet.

"I have read it already," said Mr. Cassilis. "It is on the whole well
done, and expresses my own view, in part. But I think you have piled
it up too much towards the end."

"Why did you not give me clearer instructions, then?"

"I dare say it will have a success. Meantime," said the financier,
pushing over a little bag, "you can count that. There ought to be
fifty sovereigns. Good-morning, Mr. Wylie."

"Good-morning, Mr. Cassilis. I don't know"--he turned the bag of gold
over in his hands--"I don't know; thirty years ago I should have
looked with suspicion on such a job as this; thirty years ago----"

"Good-morning, Mr. Wylie."

"Thirty years ago I should have thought that a man who could afford
fifty pounds for a pamphlet----"

"Well?"

"Well--that he had his little game. And I should have left that man to
play it by himself. Good-morning again, Mr. Cassilis. You know my
address, I believe, in case of any other little job turning up."

That afternoon Eldorado stock went down. It was lucky for Mr. Gabriel
Cassilis, because he wished to buy--and did--largely.




CHAPTER XXIX.

    "It is my lady! Oh, it is my love--
    Would that she knew she were!"


"Jack is late," said Phillis.

She was making the prettiest picture that painter ever drew, standing
in the sunlight, with the laburnums and lilacs behind her in their
fresh spring glory. Her slender and shapely figure, clad in its black
riding habit, stood out in relief against the light and shade of the
newly-born foliage; she wore one of the pretty hats of last year's
fashion, and in her hand she carried the flowers she had just been
gathering. Her face was in repose, and in its clear straight lines
might have served for a model Diana, chaste and fair. It was
habitually rather a grave face; that came of much solitude and long
companionship with an old man. And the contrast was all the greater
when she lit up with a smile that was like a touch of tender sunshine
upon her face and gave the statue a soul. But now she stood waiting,
and her eyes were grave.

Agatha L'Estrange watched her from her shady garden seat. The girl's
mind was full of the hidden possibilities of things--for herself; the
elder lady--to whom life had given, as she thought, all it had to
give--was thinking of these possibilities too--for her charge. Only
they approached the subject from different points of view. To the
girl, an eager looking forward to new joys which were yet not the
ordinary joys of London maidenhood. Each successive day was to reveal
to her more secrets of life; she was born for happiness and sunshine;
the future was brighter in some dim and misty fashion, far brighter
than the present; it was like a picture by Claude, where the untrained
eye sees nothing but mist and vapour, rich with gorgeous colour,
blurring the outlines which lie behind. But the elder lady saw the
present and feared the future. Every man thinks he will succeed till
he finds out his own weakness; every woman thinks she is born for the
best of this world's gifts--to happiness, to be lapped in warmth and
comfort, to be clothed with the love of husband and children as with a
garment. Some women get it. Agatha had not received this great
happiness. A short two years of colourless wedded life with a man old
enough to be her father, and twenty years of widowhood. It was not the
lot she might have chosen; not the lot she wished for Phillis. And
then she thought of Jack Dunquerque. Oddly enough, the future, in
whatever shape it was present to the brain of Phillis, was never
without the figure of Jack Dunquerque.

"Jack is late," said Phillis.

"Come here, dear, out of the sun; we must take a little care of our
complexion. Sit down and let us talk."

Agatha took Phillis's hand in hers, as the girl sat upon the grass at
her feet.

"Let us talk. Tell me, dear Phillis, don't you think a little too much
about Mr. Dunquerque?"

"About Jack? How can I, Agatha? Is he not my first friend?"

She did not blush; she did not hesitate; she looked frankly in
Agatha's face. The light of love which the elder lady expected was not
there yet.

"Changed as you are, my dear, in some things, you are only a child
still," said Agatha.

"Am I only a child?" asked Phillis. "Tell me why you say so now, dear
Agatha. Is it because I am fond of Jack?"

"No, dear," Mrs. L'Estrange laughed. What was to be said to this
_jeune ingénue_? "Not quite that."

"I have learned a great deal--oh, a great deal--since I came here. How
ignorant I was! How foolish!"

"What have you learned, Phillis?"

"Well, about people. They are not all so interesting as they seemed at
first. Agatha, it seems like a loss not to think so much of people as
I did. Some are foolish, like the poor curate--are all curates
foolish, I wonder?--some seem to say one thing and mean another, like
Mr. Cassilis; some do not seem to care for anything in the world
except dancing; some talk as if china was the only thing worth living
for; but some are altogether lovely and charming, like yourself, my
dear."

"Go on, Phillis, and tell me more."

"Shall I? I am foolish, perhaps, but most of our visitors have
disappointed me. How _can_ people talk about china as if the thing
could be _felt_, like a picture? What is it they like so much in
dancing and skating-rinks, and they prefer them to music and painting,
and--and--the beautiful river?"

"Wait till you come out, dear Phillis," said Agatha.

For all the things in which young ladies do most delight were to her a
vanity and foolishness. She heard them talk and she could not
understand. She was to wait till she came out. And was her coming out
to be the putting on of the Coping-stone?

"Jack is late," said Phillis.

It was a little expedition. Mrs. L'Estrange and Gilead Beck were to
drive to Hampton Court, while Jack and Phillis rode. It was the first
of such expeditions. In late May and early June the Greater London, as
the Registrar calls it, is a marvel and a miracle of loveliness; in
all the world there are no such meadows of buttercups, with fragrant
hedges of thorn; there are no such generous and luxuriant growths
of wisteria, with purple clusters; there are no such woods of
horse-chestnuts, with massive pyramids of white blossom; there are no
such apple-orchards and snow-clad forests of white blossomed
plum-trees as are to be seen around this great city of ours. Colonials
returned from exile shed tears when they see them, and think of arid
Aden and thirsty Indian plains; the American owns that though Lake
George with its hundred islets is lovely, and the Hudson River a thing
to dream of, there is nothing in the States to place beside the
incomparable result of wealth and loving care which the outlying
suburbs of south and western London show.

If it was new to Phillis--if every new journey made her pulses bound,
and every new place seen was another revelation--it was also new to
the American, who looked so grave and smiled so kindly, and sometimes
made such funny observations.

Gilead Beck was more silent with the ladies than with Jack, which was
natural, because his only experience of the sex was that uncomfortable
episode in his life when he taught school and fought poor Pete
Conkling. And to this adventurer, this man who had been at all
trades--who had roamed about the world for thirty years; who had
habitually consorted with miners and adventurers, whom the comic
American books have taught us to regard as a compound of drunkard,
gambler, buccaneer, blasphemer, and weeping sentimentalist--his manner
of life had not been able to destroy the chivalrous respect for women
with which an American begins life. Only he had never known a lady at
all until now; never any lady in America.

In spite of his life, this man was neither coarse nor vulgar. He was
modest, knowing his defects, and he was humble. Nevertheless, he had
the self-respect which none of his countrymen are without. He was an
undeniable "ranker," a fact of which he was proud, because, if he had
a weakness, it was to regard himself as another Cromwell, singled out
and chosen. He had two languages, of one of which he made sparing use,
save when he narrated his American experiences. This, as we have seen,
was a highly ornamental tongue, a gallery of imagery, a painted
chamber of decorated metaphor--the language of wild California, an
_argot_ which, on occasions, he handled with astounding vigour. The
other was the tongue of the cultivated American. In England we bark;
in the States they speak. We fling out our conversation in jerks; the
man of the States shapes his carefully in his brain before he speaks.
Gilead Beck spoke like a gentleman of Boston, save that his defective
education did not allow him to speak so well.

His great terror was the word Shoddy. He looked at Shoddy full in the
face; he made up his mind what Shoddy was--the thing which pretends to
be what it is not, a branch of the great family which has the Prig at
one end and the Snob at the other--and he was resolute in avoiding the
slightest suspicion of Shoddy.

If he was of obscure birth, with antecedents which left him nothing to
boast of but honesty, he was also soft-hearted as a girl, quick in
sympathy, which Adam Smith teaches us is the groundwork of all morals,
and refined in thought. After many years, a man's habitual thoughts
are stamped upon his face. The face of Gilead Beck was a record of
purity and integrity. Such a man in England would, by the power of
circumstances, have been forced into taprooms, and slowly dragged
downwards into that beery morass in which, as in another Malebolge,
the British workman lies stupefied and helpless. Some wicked
cynic--was it Thackeray?--said that below a certain class no English
woman knows the meaning of virtue. He might have said, with greater
truth, that below a certain class no Englishman knows the meaning of
self-respect.

To go into that orderly house at Twickenham, where the higher uses of
wealth were practically illustrated by a refinement new to the good
ex-miner, was to this American in itself an education, and none the
less useful because it came late in life. To be with the ladies, to
see the tender graces of the elder and the sweetness of the younger,
filled his heart with emotion.

"The Luck of the Golden Butterfly, Mrs. L'Estrange," he said, "is more
than what the old squaw thought. It began in dollars, but it has
brought me--this."

They were sitting in the garden, Agatha and Gilead Beck, while Jack
Dunquerque and Phillis were watering flowers, or gathering them, or
always doing something which would keep Jack close to the girl.

"If by 'this' you mean friendship, Mr. Beck," said Agatha, "I am very
glad of it. Dollars, as you call money, may take to themselves wings
and fly away, but friends do not."

It will be observed that Agatha L'Estrange had never seen reason to
abandon the old-fashioned rules invented by those philosophers who
lived before Rochefoucauld.

"I sometimes think I should like to try," said Gilead Beck. "Poor men
have no friends; they have mates on our side of the water, and pals on
yours."

"Mates and pals?" cried Phillis, laughing. "Jack, do you know mates
and pals?"

"I ought to," said Jack, "because I'm poor enough."

"Friends come to rich folk naturally, like the fruit to the tree,
or--or--the flower to the rose," Gilead added poetically.

"Or the mud to the wheel," said Jack.

"Suppose all my dollars were suddenly to vamose--I mean, to vanish
away," Gilead Beck went on solemnly; "would the friends vanish away
too?"

"Jack would not," said Phillis promptly, "and Agatha would not. Nor
should I."

She held out her hand in the free frank manner which was her greatest
charm. Gilead Beck took the little fingers in his big rough hand the
bones of which seemed to stick out all over it, so rugged and hard it
was, and looked in her face with the solemn smile which made Phillis
trust in him, and raised her fingers to his lips.

Then she blushed with a pretty confusion which drove poor Jack to the
verge of madness. Indeed, the ardour of his passion and the necessity
for keeping silence were together making the young man thin and pale.

They were gradually exploring, this party of four, the outside
gardens, parks, castles, and views of London. Of course, they were as
new to Jack and Mrs. L'Estrange as they were to Phillis and the
American. Jack knew Greenwich, where he had dined; and Richmond, where
he had dined; and the Crystal Palace, where he had also dined,
revealed to him one summer evening an unknown stretch of fair country;
more than that he knew not.

Perhaps more exciting pleasures might have been found, but this simple
party found their own unsophisticated delight in driving and riding
through green lanes.

"Phillis will have to come out next year," said Agatha, half
apologising to herself for enjoying such things. "We must amuse her
while we can."

They went to Virginia Water, where Mr. Beck made some excellent
observations on the ruins and on the flight of time, insomuch that it
was really sad to discover that they were only, so to speak, new
ruins.

They went to Hampton Court, where they strolled through the picture
galleries and looked at the Lely beauties; walked up the long avenues,
and saw that quaint old mediæval garden which lies hidden away at the
side of the Palace, marked by few. Gilead Beck said that if he was the
Queen and had such a place he should sometimes live in it, if only for
the sake of giving a dinner in the great Hall. But Phillis liked best
the gardens, with their old-fashioned flowers, and the peace which
reigns perpetually in the quaint old courts. And Gilead Beck asked
Jack privately if he thought the Palace might be bought, and if so,
for how much.

They visited Windsor. Mr. Beck said that if he had such a location he
should always live there; he speculated on the probable cost of
erecting such a fortress on the banks of the Hudson River; and then he
cast his imagination backwards up the stream of time and plunged into
history.

Phillis allowed him to go on, while he jumbled kings, mixed up
cardinals, and tried, by the recovery of old associations, to connect
the venerable pile with the past.

"From one of those windows, I guess," he said, pointing his long arm
vaguely round the narrow lattices, "Charles came out to be beheaded,
while Oliver Cromwell spurted ink in his face. It was rough on the
poor king. Seems to me, kings very often do have a rough time. And
perhaps, too, that Cardinal Thomas à Beckett, when he told Henry IV.
that he wished he'd served his country as well as he'd loved his God,
it was on this very terrace. Perhaps----"

"O Mr. Beck! when _did_ you learn English history," cried Phillis.

Then, like a little pedant as she was, she began to unfold all that
she knew about the old fortress and its history. Its history is not so
grim as that of the Tower of London, which she had once narrated to
Jack Dunquerque; but it has a picturesque story of its own, which the
girl somehow made out from the bare facts of English history--all she
knew. But these her imagination converted into living and indisputable
truths, pictures whose only fault was that the lights were too bright
and the shadows too intense.

Alas, this is the way with posterity! The dead are to be judged as
they seem from such acts as have remained on record. The force of
circumstances, the mixture of motives, the general muddle of good and
bad together, are lost in the summing-up; and history, which after all
only does what Phillis did, but takes longer to do it, paints Nero
black and Titus white, with the clear and hard outline of an etching.

Gilead Beck, after the lecture, looked round the place with renewed
interest.

"I am more ignorant than I thought," he said humbly. "But I am trying
to read, Miss Fleming."

"Are you!" she cried, with a real delight in finding, as she thought,
one other person in the world as ignorant of that art as herself. "And
how far have you got?"

"I've got so far," he said, "that I've lost my way, and shall have to
go back again. It was all through Robert Browning. My dear young
lady,--" he said this in his most impressive tones,--"if you should
chance upon one of his books with a pretty title, such as _Red
Cotton Nightcap Country_, or _Fifine at the Fair_, don't read it,
don't try it. It isn't a fairy story, nor a love story. It's a story
without an end, it's a story told upsy-down; it's like wandering in a
forest without a path. It gets into your brain and makes it go round;
it gets into your eyes and makes you see ghosts. Don't you look at
that book.

"Reading in a general way, and if you don't take too much of it, is a
fine thing," he continued. "The difficulty is to keep the volumes
separate in your head. Anybody can write a book. I've written columns
enough in the _Clearville Roarer_ for a dozen books; but it takes
a man to read one."

"Ah, but it is different with you," said Phillis. "I am only in words
of two syllables. I've just got through the first reading-book. 'The
cat has drunk up all the milk.' I suppose I must go on with it, but I
think it is better to have some one to read for you. I am sure Jack
would read for me whenever I asked him."

"I never thought of that," said Gilead Beck. "Why not keep a clerk to
read for you, and pay out the information in small chunks? I should
like to tackle Mr. Carlyle that way."

"Agatha is reading a novel to me now," Phillis went on. "There is a
girl in it; but somehow I think my own life is more interesting than
hers. She belongs to a part of the country where the common people say
clever things!--Oh, very clever things!--and she herself says all
sorts of clever things."

"Mr. Dunquerque," interrupted Gilead Beck, who was not listening,
"would read to you all the days of his life, I think, if you would let
him."

Phillis made no reply. As she neither blushed, nor smiled, nor gave
any of the ordinary signs of apprehension with which most young ladies
would have received this speech, it is to be presumed that she did not
take in the full meaning of it.

"There is one thing about Mr. Dunquerque," Gilead Beck went on, "that
belongs, I reckon, to you English people only. He is not a young
man----"

"Jack not a young man? Why, Mr. Beck----"

"Not what we call a young man. Our young men are sixteen and
seventeen. Mr. Dunquerque is five-and-twenty. Our men of
five-and-twenty are grave and full of care. Mr. Dunquerque is
light-hearted and laughs. That is what I like him for."

"Yes; Jack laughs. I should not like to see Jack grave."

She spoke of him as if he were her own property. To be sure, he was
her first and principal friend. She could talk to him as she could
talk to no one else. And she loved him with the deep and passionless
love, as yet, of a sister.

"Yes," said Gilead Beck, looking round him, "England is a great
country. Its young men are not all mad for dollars; they can laugh and
be happy; and the land is one great garden. Miss Fleming, that is the
happiest country, I guess, whose people the longest keep their youth."

She only half understood him, but she looked in his face with her
sweet smile.

"It is like a dream. That I should be walking here with you, such as
you, in this grand place--I, Gilead P. Beck. To be with you and Mr.
Dunquerque is like getting back the youth I never had: youth that
isn't always thinkin' about the next day; youth that isn't always
plannin' for the future; youth that has time to enjoy the sunshine, to
look into a sweet gell's eyes and fall in love--like you, my pretty,
and Mr. Dunquerque--who saved my life."

He added these last words as an after-thought, and as if he was
reminded of some duty forgotten.

Phillis was silent, because his words fell upon her heart and made her
think. It was not her youth that was prolonged; it was her childhood.
And that was dropping from her now like the shell of the chrysalis.
She thought how, somewhere in the world, there were people born to be
unhappy, and she felt humiliated when she was selfishly enjoying what
they could not. Somewhere in the world--and where? Close to her, in
the cottages where Mrs. L'Estrange had taken her.

For until then the poor, who are always with us, were not unhappy, to
Phillis, nor hungry, nor deserving of pity and sympathy; they were
only picturesque.

They went to St. George's Chapel, after over-ruling Gilead Beck's
objections to attending divine service--for he said he hadn't been to
meetin' for more than thirty years; also, that he had not yet "got
religion"--and when he stood in the stall under the banner of its
rightful owner he looked on from an outsider's point of view.

The ceremonial of the ancient Church of England was to him a pageant
and a scenic display. The picture, however, was very fine; the grand
chapel with its splendor of ornamentation; the banners and heraldry;
the surpliced sweet-voiced boys; the dignified white-robed clergy-men;
the roll of the organ; the sunlight through the painted glass; even
the young subaltern who came clanking into the chapel as the service
began,--there was nothing, he said, in America which could be reckoned
a patch upon it. Church in avenue 39, New York, was painted and gilded
in imitation of the Alhambra; that was considered fine, but could not
be compared with St. George's, Windsor. And the performance of the
service, he said, was so good as to have merited a larger audience.

Jack Dunquerque, I grieve to say, did not attend to the service. He
was standing beside Phillis, and he watched her with hungry eyes. For
she was looking before her in a sort of trance. The beauty of the
place intoxicated her. She listened with soft eyes and parted lips.
All was artistic and beautiful. The chapel was peopled again with
mailed knights; the voices of the anthem sang the greatness and the
glory of England; the sunshine through the painted glass gave colour
to the picture in her brain; and when the service was over she came
out with dazed look, as one who is snatched too suddenly from a dream
of heaven.

This too, like everything else, was part of her education. She had
learned the beauty of the world and its splendours. She was to see the
things she had only dreamed of, but by dreaming had wrapped in a cloud
of coloured mist.

When was it to be completed, her education? Phillis waited for that
Coping-stone for which Joseph Jagenal was vainly searching. She
laughed when she thought of it, the mysterious completion of Abraham
Dyson's great fabric. What was it?

She had not long to wait.

"I love her, Mrs. L'Estrange," said Jack Dunquerque passionately, on
the evening of the last of their expeditions: "I love her!"

"I have seen it for some time," Agatha replied. "And I wanted to speak
to you before, but I did not like to. I am afraid I have been very
wrong in encouraging you to come here so often."

"Who could help loving her?" he cried "Tell me, Mrs. L'Estrange, you
who have known so many, was there ever a girl like Phillis--so sweet,
so fresh, so pretty, and so good?"

"Indeed, she is all that you say," Agatha acknowledged.

"And will you be my friend with Colquhoun? I am going to see him
to-morrow about it, because I cannot stand it any longer."

"He knows that you visit me; he will be prepared in a way. And--Oh,
Mr. Dunquerque, why are you in such a hurry? Phillis is so nice and
you are so young."

"I am five-and-twenty, and Phillis is nineteen."

"Then Phillis is so inexperienced."

"Yes; she is inexperienced," Jack repeated. "And if experience comes,
she may learn to love another man."

"That is what all the men say. Why, you silly boy, if Phillis were to
love you first, do you think a thousand men could make her give you
up?"

"You are right: but she does not love me; she only likes me; she does
not know what love means. That is bad enough to think of. But even
that isn't the worst."

"What more is there?"

"I am so horribly, so abominably poor. My brother Isleworth is the
poorest peer in the kingdom, and I am about the poorest younger son.
And Colquhoun will think I am coming after Phillis's money."

"As you are poor, it will be a great comfort for everybody concerned,"
said Agatha, with good sense, "to think that, should you marry
Phillis, she has some money to help you with. Go and see Lawrence
Colquhoun, Mr. Dunquerque, and--and if I can help your cause, I will.
There! Now let us have no more."

"They will make a pretty pair," said Mr. Gilead Beck presently to Mrs.
L'Estrange.

"O Mr. Beck, you are all in a plot! And perhaps after all--and Mr.
Dunquerque is so poor."

"Is that so?" Mr. Beck asked eagerly. "Will the young lady's guardian
refuse the best man in the world because he is poor? No, Mrs.
L'Estrange, there's only one way out of this muss, and perhaps you
will take that way for me."

"What is it, Mr. Beck?"

"I can't say myself to Mr. Dunquerque, 'What is mine is yours.' And I
can't say to Mr. Colquhoun--not with the delicacy that you would put
into it--that Mr. Dunquerque shall have all I've got to make him
happy. I want you to say that for me. Tell him there is no two ways
about it--that Jack Dunquerque _must_ marry Miss Fleming. Lord, Lord!
why, they are made for each other! Look at him now, Mrs. L'Estrange,
leanin' towards her, with a look half respectful and half hungry. And
look at her, with her sweet innocent eyes; she doesn't understand it,
she doesn't know what he's beatin' down with all his might: the strong
honest love of a man--the best thing he's got to give. Wait till you
give the word, and she feels his arms about her waist, and his lips
close to hers. It's a beautiful thing, love. I've never been in love
myself, but I've watched those that were; and I venture to tell you,
Mrs. L'Estrange, that from the Queen down to the kitchen-maid, there
isn't a woman among them all that isn't the better for being loved.
And they know it, too, all of them, except that pretty creature."




CHAPTER XXX.

                  "Pictoribus atque Poetis
    Quidlibet audendi semper fuit æqua potestas."


"With commissions"--Cornelius Jagenal spoke as if Gilead Beck was a
man of multitude, signifying many, and as if one commission was a
thousand--"with commissions pouring in as they should, Brother
Humphrey----"

"And the great Epic, the masterpiece of the century about to be
published in the Grand Style, brother Cornelius, the only style which
is worthy of its merits----"

"Something definite should be attempted, Humphrey----"

"You mean, brother----"

"With regard to----"

"With regard to Phillis Fleming."

They looked at each other meaningly and firmly. The little table was
between them; it was past twelve o'clock; already two or three
soda-water bottles were lying on it empty; and the world looked rosy
to the poetic pair.

Humphrey was the first to speak after the young lady's name was
mentioned. He removed the pipe from his mouth, threw back his head,
stroked his long brown beard, and addressed the ceiling.

"She is," he said, "she is indeed a charming girl. Her outlines finely
but firmly drawn; her colouring delicate, but strongly accentuated;
the grouping to which she lends herself always differentiated
artistically; her single attitudes designed naturally and with
freedom; her flesh-tints remarkably pure and sweet; her draperies
falling in artistic folds; her atmosphere softened as by the perfumed
mists of morning; her hair tied in the simple knot which is the
admiration and despair of many painters;--you agree with my rendering,
brother Cornelius"--he turned his reflective gaze from the ceiling,
and fixed his lustrous eyes, perhaps with the least little look of
triumph, upon his brother--"my rendering of this incomparable Work?"

He spoke of the young lady as if she were a picture. This was because,
immediately after receiving his commission, he bethought him of
reading a little modern criticism, and so bought the _Academy_ for a
few weeks. In that clear bubbling fount of modern English undefiled,
the Art criticisms are done with such entire freedom from cant and
affectation that they are a pleasure to read; and from its pages every
Prig is so jealously kept out, that the paper is as widely circulated
and as popular as _Punch_; thus Humphrey Jagenal acquired a new
jargon of Art criticism, which he developed and made his own.

Cornelius had been profiting by the same delightful and genial enemy
to Mutual Admiration Societies. He was a little taken aback for a
moment by the eloquence and fidelity of his brother's word-picture,
but stimulated to rivalry. He made answer, gazing into the black and
hollow depths of the empty fireplace, and speaking slowly as if he
enjoyed his words too much to let them slip out too fast--

"She is all that you say, Humphrey. From your standpoint nothing could
be better. I judge her, however, from my own platform. I look on her
as one of Nature's sweetest poems; such a poem as defies the highest
effort of the greatest creative genius; where the cadenced lines are
sunlit, and as they ripple on make music in your soul. You are rapt
with their beauty; you are saddened with the unapproachable magic of
their charm; you feel the deepest emotions of the heart awakened and
beating in responsive harmony. And when, after long and patient
watching, the Searcher after the Truth of Beauty feels each verse sink
deeper and deeper within him, till it becomes a part of his own
nature, there arises before him, clad in mystic and transparent Coan
robe, the spirit of subtle wisdom, long lying perdu in those magic
utterances. She is a lyric; she is a sonnet; she is an epigram----"

"At least," interrupted Humphrey unkindly, cutting short his brother's
freest flow, "at least she doesn't carry a sting."

"Then let us say an Idyl----"

"Cornelius, make an Idyl yourself for her," Humphrey interrupted
again, because really his brother was taking an unfair advantage of a
paltry verbal superiority. "Now that we have both described her--and I
am sure, brother," he added out of the kindness of his heart, "no
description could be more poetically true than your own--it would make
even a stranger see Phillis standing in a vision before his eyes. But
let us see what had better be done."

"We must act at once, Humphrey. We must call upon her at her
guardian's, Mrs. L'Estrange, at Twickenham. Perhaps that lady does not
know so many men of genius as to render the accession of two more to
her circle anything but a pleasure and an honour. And as for our next
steps, they must be guided by our finesse, by our knowledge of the
world, our insight into a woman's heart, our--shall I say our power of
intrigue, Humphrey?"

Then the Artist positively winked. It is not a gesture to be commended
from an artistic point of view, but he did it. Then he chuckled and
wagged his head.

Then the Poet in his turn also winked, chuckled, and wagged his head
too.

"We understand each other, Humphrey. We always do."

"We must make our own opportunity," said the Artist thoughtfully. "Not
together, but separately."

"Surely separately. Together would never do."

"We will go to bed early to-night, in order to be fresh to-morrow.
Have you--did you--can you give me any of your own experiences in this
way, Cornelius?"

The Poet shook his head.

"I may have been wooed," he said. "Men of genius are always run after.
But as I am a bachelor, you see it is clear that I never proposed."

Humphrey had much the same idea in his own mind, and felt as if the
wind was a little taken out of his sails. This often happens when two
sister craft cruise so very close alongside of each other.

"Do not let us be nervous, Humphrey," the elder brother went on
kindly. "It is the simplest thing in the world, I dare say, when you
come to do it. Love finds out a way."

"When I was in Rome----" Humphrey said, casting his thoughts backwards
thirty years.

"When I was in Heidelberg----" said Cornelius, in the same mood of
retrospective meditation.

"There was a model--a young artist's model----"

"There was a little country girl----"

"With the darkest eyes, and hair of a deep blue-black, the kind of
colour one seems only to read of or to see in a picture."

"With blue eyes as limpid as the waters of the Neckar, and light-brown
hair which caught the sunshine in a way that one seldom seems to see,
but which we poets sometimes sing of."

Then they both started and looked at each other guiltily.

"Cornelius," said Humphrey, "I think that Phillis would not like these
reminiscences. We must offer virgin hearts."

"True, brother," said Cornelius with a sigh, "We must. Yet the
recollection is not unpleasant."

They went to bed early, only concentrating into two hours the
brandy-and-soda of four. It was a wonderful thing that neither gave
the other the least hint of a separate and individual preference for
Phillis. They were running together, as usual, in double harness, and
so far as might be gathered from their conversation they were
proposing to themselves that both should marry Phillis.

They dressed with more than usual care in the morning, and, without
taking their customary walk, sat each in his own room till two
o'clock, when Humphrey sought Cornelius in the Workshop.

They surveyed each other with admiration. They were certainly a
remarkable pair, and, save for that little redness of the nose already
alluded to, they were more youthful than one could conceive possible
at the age of fifty. Their step was elastic; their eyes were bright;
Humphrey's beard was as brown and silky, Cornelius's cheek as smooth,
as twenty years before. This it is to lead a life unclouded and
devoted to contemplation of Art. This it is to have a younger brother,
successful, and never tired of working for his seniors.

"We are not nervous, brother?" asked Cornelius with a little
hesitation.

"Not at all," said Humphrey sturdily, "not at all. Still, to steady
the system, perhaps----"

"Yes," said Cornelius; "you are quite right, brother. We will."

There was no need of words. The reader knows already what was implied.

Humphrey led the way to the dining-room, where he speedily found a
pint of champagne. With this modest pick-me-up, which no one surely
will grudge the brethren, they started on their way.

"What we need, Cornelius," said Humphrey, putting himself outside the
last drop--"What we need. Not what we wish for."

Then he straightened his back, smote his chest, stamped lustily with
his right foot, and looked like a war-horse before the battle.

Unconscious of the approaching attack of these two conquering heroes,
Phillis and Agatha L'Estrange were sitting in the shade and on the
grass: the elder lady with some work, the younger doing nothing. It
was a special characteristic with her that she could sit for hours
doing nothing. So the modern Arabs, the gipsies, niggerdom in general,
and all that large section of humanity which has never learned to read
and write, are contented to fold their hands, lie down, and think away
the golden hours. What they think about, these untutored tribes, the
Lord only knows. Whether by degrees, and as they grow old, some faint
intelligence of the divine order sinks into their souls, or whether
they become slowly enwrapped in the beauty of the world, or whether
their thoughts, always turned in the bacon-and-cabbage direction, are
wholly gross and earthly, I cannot tell. Phillis's thoughts were still
as the thoughts of a child, but as those of a child passing into
womanhood: partly selfish, inasmuch as she consciously placed her own
individuality, as every child does, in the centre of the universe, and
made the sun, the moon, the planets, and all the minor stars revolve
around her; partly unselfish, because they hovered about the forms of
two or three people she loved, and took the shape of devising means of
pleasing these people; partly artistic, because the beauty of the June
afternoon cried aloud for admiration, while the sunshine lay on the
lawns and the flower-beds, threw up the light leaves and blossoms of
the passion-flower on the house-side, and made darker shadows in the
gables, while the glorious river ran swiftly at her feet. The river of
which she never tired. Other things lost their novelty, but the river
never.

"I wish Jack Dunquerque were here," she said at last.

"I wish so, too," said Agatha. "Why did we not invite him, Phillis?"

Then they were silent again.

"I wish Mr. Beck would call," remarked Phillis.

"My dear, we do nothing but wish. But here is somebody--two young
gentlemen. Who are they, I wonder?"

"O Agatha, they are the Twins!"

Phillis sprang from her seat, and ran to meet them with a most
unaffected pleasure.

"This is Mr. Cornelius Jagenal," she said, introducing them to Agatha.
"The Poet, you know." And here she laughed, because Agatha did not
know, and Cornelius perked up his head and tried to look unconscious
of his fame. "And this is Mr. Humphrey, the Artist." And then she
laughed again, because Humphrey did exactly the same as Cornelius,
only with an air of deprecation, as one who would say, "Never mind my
fame for the present."

It was embarrassing for Mrs. L'Estrange, because she could not for her
life recollect any Poet or Artist named Jagenal. The men and their
work were alike unknown to her. And why did Phillis laugh? And what
did the pair before her look so solemn about?

They were solemn partly from vanity, which is the cause of most of the
grave solemnity we so much admire in the world, and partly because,
finding themselves face to face with Phillis, they became suddenly and
painfully aware that they had come on a delicate errand. Cornelius
looked furtively at Humphrey, and the Artist glanced at the Poet, but
neither found any help from his brother. Their courage, as evanescent
as that of Mr. Robert Acres, was rapidly oozing out at their boots.

Phillis noted their embarrassment, and tried to put them at their
ease. This was difficult; they were so inordinately vain, so
self-conscious, so unused to anything beyond their daily experience,
that they were as awkward as a pair of fantoccini. People who live
alone get into the habit of thinking and talking about themselves; the
Twins were literally unable to think or speak on any other subject.

Phillis, they saw, to begin with, was altered. Somehow she looked
older. Certainly more formidable. And it was awkward to feel that she
was taking them in a manner under her own protection before a
stranger. And why did she laugh? The task which they discussed with
such an airy confidence over the brandy-and-soda assumed, in the
presence of the young lady herself, dimensions quite out of proportion
to their midnight estimate. All these considerations made them feel
and look ill at ease.

Also it was vexatious that neither of the ladies turned the
conversation upon the subject nearest to each man's heart--his own
Work. On the contrary, Phillis asked after Joseph, and sent him an
invitation to come and see her; Mrs. L'Estrange talked timidly about
the weather, and tried them on the Opera, on the Academy, and on the
last volume of Browning. It was odd in so great an Artist as Humphrey
that he had not yet seen the Academy, and in so great a Poet as
Cornelius that he had not read any recent poetry. Then they tried to
talk about flowers. The two city-bred artists knew a wall-flower from
a cabbage and a rose from a sprig of asparagus, and that was all.

Phillis would not help either the Twins or Agatha, so that the former
grew more helpless every moment. In fact, the girl was staring at
them, and wondering to feel how differently she regarded men and
manners since that first evening in Carnarvon Square, when they
produced champagne in her honour, and drank it all up themselves.

She remembered how she had looked at them with awe; how, after a day
or two, this reverence vanished; how she found them to be mere shallow
wind-bags and humbugs, and regarded them with contempt; how she made
fun of them with Jack Dunquerque; and how she drew their portraits.

And now--it was a mark of her advanced education--she looked at them
with pity. They were so dependent on each other for admiration; they
were so childishly vain; they were so full of themselves; and their
daily life of sleep, drink, and boastful pretension showed itself to
her experienced head as so mean and sordid a thing.

She came to the help of the whole party, and took the Twins for a walk
among the flowers, flattering them, asking how Work got on,
congratulating them on their good looks, and generally making things
comfortable for them.

Presently she found herself on the sloping bank of the river, where
she was wont to sit with Jack. Cornelius Jagenal alone was by her
side. She looked round, and saw Humphrey standing before Mrs.
L'Estrange, and occasionally glancing over his shoulder. And she
noticed, then, a curiously nervous motion of her companion's hand;
also that his cheek was twitching with some secret emotion. He looked
older, too, she thought; perhaps that was the bright sunlight, which
brought out the dells and valleys and the crow's-feet round his eyes.

He cleared his voice with an effort, and opened his mouth to speak,
but shut it again, silent.

"You were going to say, Mr. Cornelius?"

"Yes. Will you sit down, Miss Fleming?"

"He is going to tell me about the _Upheaving of Ælfred_" thought
Phillis. "And how does the Workshop get on?" she asked.

"Fairly well," he replied modestly. "We publish in the autumn. The
work is to be brought out, you will be glad to learn, with all the
luxury of the best illustrations, paper, print, and binding that money
can procure."

"So that all you want is the poem itself," said Phillis, with a
mischievous light in her eyes.

"Ye-es----" he winced a little. "As you say, the Epic itself alone is
wanting, and that advances with mighty strides. My brother Humphrey--a
noble creature is Humphrey, Miss Fleming----"

She bowed and smiled.

"Is he still hard at work? Always hard at work?" She laughed as she
asked the question.

"His work is crushing him, Miss Fleming--may I call you Phillis?" He
spoke very solemnly--"His work is crushing him."

"Of course you may, Mr. Cornelius. We are quite old friends. But I am
sorry to hear that your brother is being crushed."

"Yesterday, Phillis--I feel to you already like a brother," pursued
the Poet--"yesterday I discovered the secret of Humphrey's life. May I
tell it to you?"

"If you please." She began to be a little bored. Also she noticed that
Agatha wore a look of mute suffering, as if the Artist was getting
altogether too much for her. "If you please; but be quick, because I
think Mrs. L'Estrange wants me."

"I will tell you the secret in a few words. My brother Humphrey adores
you with all the simplicity and strength of a noble artistic nature."

"Does he? You mean he likes me very much. How good he his! I am glad
to hear it, Mr. Cornelius, though why it need be a secret I do not
know."

"Then my poor brother--he is all loyalty, and brings you a virgin
heart," (O Cornelius! and the model with the blue black hair!) "an
unsullied name, and the bright prospects of requited genius--my
brother may hope?"

Phillis did not understand one word.

"Certainly," she said; "I am sure I would like to see him hoping."

"I will tell him, sister Phillis," said Cornelius, nodding with a
sunny smile. "You have made two men happy, and one at least grateful."

His mission was accomplished, his task done. It will hardly be
believed that this treacherous bard, growing more and more nervous as
he reflected on the uncertainty of the wedded life, actually came to a
sudden resolution to plead his brother's cause. Humphrey was the
younger. Let him bear off the winsome bride.

"It will be a change in our lives," he said. "You will allow me to
have my share in his happiness?"

Phillis made no reply. Decidedly the Poet was gone distraught with
overmuch reading and thought.

Cornelius, smiling, crowing, and laughing almost like a child, pressed
her hand and left her, stepping with a youthful elasticity across the
lawn. Humphrey, sitting beside Mrs. L'Estrange, was bewildering that
good lady with a dissertation on colour _à propos_ of a flower which
he held in his hand. Agatha could not understand this strange pair,
who looked so youthful until you came to see them closely, and then
they seemed to be of any age you pleased to name. Nor could she
understand their talk, which was pedantic, affected, and continually
involved the theory that the speaker was, next to his brother, the
greatest of living men.

If it was awkward and stupid sitting with Humphrey on a bench while he
discoursed on Colour, it was still more awkward when the other one
appeared with a countenance wreathed with smiles, and sat on the other
side. Nor did there appear any reason why the one with the beard
should suddenly break off his oration, turn very red in the face, get
up, and walk slowly across the lawn to take his brother's place. But
that is what he did, and Cornelius took up the running.

Humphrey sat down beside Phillis without speaking. She noticed in him
the same characteristics of nervousness as in his brother. Twice he
attempted to speak, and twice his tongue clave to the roof of his
mouth.

"He is going to tell me that Cornelius adores me," she thought.

It was instinct. That was exactly what Humphrey--the treacherous
Humphrey--had determined on doing. Matrimony, contemplated at close
quarters and in the presence of the enemy, so to speak, lost all its
charms. Humphrey thought of the pleasant life in Carnarvon Square, and
determined, at the very last moment, that if either of them was to
marry it should not be himself. Cornelius was the elder. Let him be
married first.

"You are peaceful and happy here, Miss Fleming--may I call you
Phillis?"

"Certainly, Mr. Humphrey. We are old friends, you know. And I am very
happy here."

"I am glad"--he sighed heavily--"I am very glad indeed to hear that."

"Are you not happy, Mr. Humphrey? Why do you look so gloomy? And how
is the Great Picture getting on?"

"The 'Birth of the Renaissance' is advancing rapidly--rapidly," he
said. "It will occupy a canvas fourteen feet long by six high."

"If you have got the canvas, and the frame, and the purchaser, all you
want now is the Picture."

"True, as you say, the Picture. It is all that I want. And that is
striding--literally striding, _I_ am happy, dear Miss Fleming, dear
Phillis, since I may call you by your pretty Christian name. It is of
my brother that I think. It is on his account that I feel unhappy."

"What is the matter with him?"

She tried very hard not to laugh, but would not trust herself to look
in his face. So that he thought she was modestly guessing his secret.

"He is a great, a noble fellow, His life is made up of sacrifices and
devoted to hard work. No one works so conscientiously as Cornelius.
Now, at length the prospect opens up, and he will take immediately his
true position among English poets."

"Indeed, I am glad of it."

"Thank you. Yet he is not happy. There is a secret sorrow in his
life."

"Oh, dear!" Phillis cried impatiently, "do let me know it, and at
once. Was there ever such a pair of devoted brothers?"

Humphrey was disconcerted for the moment, but went on again:

"A secret which no one has guessed but myself."

"I know what it is." She laughed and clapped her hands.

"Has he told you, Phillis? The secret of his life is that my brother
Cornelius is attached to you with all the devotion of his grand poetic
soul."

"Why, that was what I thought you were going to say!"

"You knew it?" Humphrey was as solemn as an eight-day clock, while
Phillis's eyes danced with mirth. "And you feel the response of a
passionate nature? He shall be your Petrarch. You shall read his very
soul. But Cornelius brings you a virgin heart, a virgin heart,
Phillis" (O Humphrey! and after what you know about Gretchen!). "May
he hope that----"

"Certainly he may hope, and so may you. And now we have had quite
enough of devotion and secrets and great poetic souls. Come, Mr.
Humphrey."

She rose from the grass and looked him in the face, laughing. For a
moment the thought crossed the Artist's brain that he had made a mess
of it somehow.

"Now," she said, joining the other two, "let us have some tea, and be
real."

Neither of them understood her desire to be real, and the Twins
declined tea. That beverage they considered worthy only of late
breakfast, and to be taken as a morning pick-me-up. So they departed,
taking leave with a multitudinous smile and many tender
hand-pressures. As they left the garden together arm-in-arm they
straightened their backs, held up their heads, and stuck out their
legs like the Knave of Spades. And they looked so exactly like a pair
of triumphant cocks that Phillis almost expected them to crow.

"_Au revoir_," said Cornelius, taking off his hat, with a whole wreath
of smiles, for a final parting at the gate.

"_Sans dire adieu_," said Humphrey, doing the same, with a light in
his eyes which played upon his beard like sunshine.

"Phillis, my dear," said Agatha, "they really are the most wonderful
pair I ever saw."

"They _are_ so funny," said Phillis, laughing. "They sleep all day,
and when they wake up they pretend to have been working. And they sit
up all night. And, O Agatha! each one came to me just now, and told me
he had a secret to impart to me."

"What was that, my dear?"

"That the other one adored me, and might he hope?"

"But, Phillis, this is beyond a joke. And actually here, before my
very eyes!"

"I said they might both hope. Though I don't know what they are to
hope. It seems to me that if those two lazy men, who never do anything
but pretend to be exhausted with work, were only to hope for anything
at all it might wake them up a little. And they each said that the
other would bring me a virgin heart, Agatha. What did they mean?"

Agatha laughed.

"Well, my dear, it is a most uncommon thing to find in a man of fifty,
and I should say, if it were true, which I don't believe, that it
argued extreme insensibility. Such an offering is desirable at
five-and-twenty, but very, very rare, my dear at any age. And at their
time of life I should think that it was like an apple in May--kept too
long, Phillis, and tasting of the straw. But then you don't
understand."

Phillis thought that a virgin heart might be one of the things to be
understood when the Coping-stone was achieved, and asked no more.

At the Richmond railway-station the brothers, who had not spoken a
word to each other since leaving the house, turned into the
refreshment-room by common consent and without consultation. They had,
as usual, a brandy-and-soda, and on taking the glasses in their hands
they looked at each other and smiled.

"Cornelius."

"Humphrey."

"Shall we"--the Artist dropped his voice, so that the attendant damsel
might not hear--"shall we drink the health and happiness of Phillis?"

"We will, Humphrey," replied the Poet, with enthusiasm.

When they got into the train and found themselves alone in the
carriage they dug each other in the ribs once, with great meaning.

"She knows," said the Poet, with a grin worthy of Mephistopheles,
"that she has found a virgin heart."

"She does," said Humphrey. "O Cornelius, and the little Gretchen and
the milkpails? Byronic Rover!"

"Ah, Humphrey, shall I tell her of the contadina, the black-eyed
model, and the old wild days in Rome, eh? Don Giovanni!"

Then they both laughed, and then they fell asleep in the carriage,
because it was long past their regular hour for the afternoon nap, and
slept till the guard took their tickets at Vauxhall.




CHAPTER XXXI.

    "This fellow's of exceeding honesty,
    And knows all qualities."


It was the night of the Derby of 1875. The great race had been run,
and the partisans of Galopin were triumphant. Those who had set their
affections on other names had finished their weeping, because by this
time lamentation, especially among those of the baser sort was changed
for a cheerful resignation begotten of much beer. The busy road was
deserted, save for the tramps who plodded their weary way homeward;
the moon, now in its third quarter, looked with sympathetic eye upon
the sleeping forms which dotted the silent downs. These lay strewn
like unto the bodies on a battle-field--they lay in rows, they lay
singly; they were protected from the night-dews by canvas tents, or
they were exposed to the moon-light and the wind. All day long these
people had plied the weary trade of amusing a mob; the Derby, when
most hearts are open, is the harvest-day of those who play
instruments, those who dance, those who tumble, those who tell
fortunes. Among these honest artists sleeps the 'prentice who is going
to rob the till to pay his debt of honour; the seedy betting-man in a
drunken stupor; the boy who has tramped all the way from town to pick
up a sixpence somehow; the rustic who loves a race; and the
sharp-fingered lad with the restless eye and a pocketful of
handkerchiefs. The holiday is over, and few are the heads which will
awake in the morning clear and untroubled with regrets, remorse, or
hot coppers. It is two in the morning, and most of the revellers are
asleep. A few, still awake, are at the Burleigh Club; and among these
are Gilead Beck, Ladds, and Jack Dunquerque.

They have been to Epsom. On the course the two Englishmen seemed, not
unnaturally, to know a good many men. Some, whose voices were, oddly
enough, familiar to Gilead Beck, shook hands with him and laughed. One
voice--it belonged to a man in a light coat and a white hat--reminded
him of Thomas Carlyle. The owner of the voice laughed cheerfully when
Beck told him so. Another made him mindful of John Ruskin. And the
owner of that voice, too, laughed and changed the subject. They were
all cheerful, these friends of Jack Dunquerque; they partook with
affability of the luncheon and drank freely of the champagne. Also
there was a good deal of quiet betting. Jack Dunquerque, Gilead Beck
observed, was the least adventurous. Betting and gambling were
luxuries which Jack's income would not allow him. Most other things he
could share in, but betting was beyond him. Gilead Beck plunged and
won. It was a part of his Luck that he should win; but, nevertheless,
when Galopin carried his owner's colours past the winning-post, Gilead
gave a great shout of triumph, and felt for once the pleasures of the
Turf.

Now it was all over. Jack and he were together in the smoking-room,
where half a dozen lingered. Ladds was somewhere in the club, but not
with them.

"It was a fine sight," said Gilead Beck, on the subject of the race
generally; "a fine sight. In the matter of crowds you beat us: that I
allow. And the horses were good: that I allow too. But let me show you
a trotting-race, where the sweet little winner goes his measured mile
in two minutes and a half. That seems to me better sport. But the
Derby is a fine race, and I admit it. When I go back to America," he
went on, "I shall institute races of my own--with a great National
Dunquerque Cup--and we will have an American Derby, with trotting
thrown in. There's room for both sports. What do you think, Mr.
Dunquerque, of having sports from all countries?"

"Seems a bright idea. Take your bull-fights from Spain; your fencing
from France; your racing from England--what will you have from
Germany?"

"Playing at soldiers, I guess. They don't seem to care for any other
game."

"And Russia?"

"A great green table with a pack of cards and a roulette. We can get a
few Egyptian bonds for the Greeks to exhibit their favourite game
with. We may import a band of brigands for the Italian sports.
Imitation murder will represent Turkish Delights, and the performers
shall camp in Central Park. It wouldn't be bad fun to go out at night
and hunt them. Say, Mr. Dunquerque, we'll do it. A permanent
Exhibition of the Amusements of all Nations. You shall come over if
you like, and show them English fox-hunting. Where is Captain Ladds?"

"I left him hovering round the card-tables. I will bring him up."

Presently Jack returned.

"Ladds is hard at work at _écarté_ with a villainous-looking stranger.
And I should think, from the way Tommy is sticking at it, that Tommy
is dropping pretty heavily."

"It's an American he's playing with," said one of the other men in the
room. "Don't know who brought him; not a member; a Major Hamilton
Ruggles--don't know what service."

Mr. Beck looked up quietly, and reflected a moment. Then he said
softly to Jack--

"Mr. Dunquerque, I think we can have a little amusement out of this.
If you were to go now to Captain Ladds, and if you were to bring him
up to this same identical room with Major Hamilton Ruggles, I think,
sir,--I do think you would see something pleasant."

There was a sweet and winning smile on the face of Mr. Beck when he
spoke these words. Jack immediately understood that there was going to
be a row, and went at once on his errand, in order to promote it to
the best of his power.

"You know Major Ruggles?" asked the first speaker.

"No, sir, no--I can hardly say that I know Major Ruggles. But I think
he knows me."

In ten minutes Ladds and his adversary at _écarté_ came upstairs.
Ladds wore the heavy impenetrable look in which, as in a mask, he
always played; the other, who had a limp in one leg and a heavy scar
across his face, came with him. He was laughing in a high-pitched
voice. After them came Jack.

At sight of Mr. Beck, Major Ruggles stopped suddenly.

"I beg your pardon, Captain Ladds," he said. "I find I have forgotten
my handkerchief."

He turned to go. But, Jack, the awkward, was in his way.

"Handkerchief sticking out of your pocket," said Ladds.

"So it is, so it is!"

By a sort of instinct the half-dozen men in the smoking-room seemed to
draw their chairs and to close in together. There was evidently
something going to happen.

Mr. Beck rose solemnly--surely nobody ever had so grave a face as
Gilead P. Beck--and advanced to Major Ruggles.

"Major Ruggles," he said, "I gave you to understand, two days ago,
that I didn't remember you. I found out afterwards that I was wrong. I
remember you perfectly well."

"You used words, Mr. Beck, which----"

"Ay, ay--I know. You want satisfaction, Major. You shall have it. Sit
down now, sit down, sir. We are all among gentlemen here, and this is
a happy meeting for both of us. What will you drink?--I beg your
pardon, Mr. Dunquerque, but I thought we were at the Langham. Perhaps
you would yourself ask Major Ruggles what he will put himself outside
of?"

The Major, who did not seem quite at his ease, took a
seltzer-and-brandy and a cigarette. Then he looked furtively at Gilead
Beck. He understood what the man was going to say and why he was going
to say it.

"Satisfaction, Major? Wal, these gentlemen shall be witnesses.
Yesterday mornin', as I was walkin' down the steps of the Langham
Hotel, this gentleman, this high-toned, whole-souled pride of the
American army, met me and offered his hand. 'Hope you are well, Mr.
Beck,' were his affable words. 'Hope you are quite well. Met you last
at Delmonico's, in with Boss Calderon.' Now, gentlemen, you'll hardly
believe me when I tell you I answered this politeness by askin' the
Major if he had ever heard of a Banco Steerer, and if he knew the
meanin' of a Roper. He did not reply, doubtless because he was wounded
in his feelin's--being above all things a man of honour _and_ the
boast of his native country. I then left him with a Scriptural
reference, which p'r'aps he's overhauled since, and now understands
what I meant when I said that, if I was to meet him goin' around
arm-in-arm with Ananias and Sapphira, I'd say he was in good company."

Here the Major jumped in his chair, and put his right hand to his
shirt-front.

"No, sir," said Beck, unmoved. "I can tackle more'n one wild cat at
once, if you mean fightin,' which you do not. And it's no use, no
manner o' use, feelin' in that breast-pocket of yours, because the
shootin' irons in this country are always left at home. You sit still,
Major, and take it quiet. I'm goin' to be more improvin' presently."

"Perhaps, Beck," said Jack, "you would explain what a Banco Steerer
and a Roper are."

"I was comin' to that, sir. They air one and the same animal. The
Roper or the Banco Steerer, gentlemen, will find you out the morning
after you land in Chicago or Saint Louis. He will accost you--very
friendly, wonderful friendly--when you come out of your hotel, by your
name, and he will remind you--which is most surprising, considerin'
you never set eyes on his face before--how you have dined together in
Cincinnati, or it may be Orleans, or perhaps Francisco, because he
finds out where you came from last. And he will shake hands with you:
and he will propose a drink; and he will pay for that drink. And
presently he will take you somewhere else, among his pals, and he will
strip you so clean that there won't be left the price of a four cent
paper to throw around your face and hide your blushes. In London,
gentlemen, they do, I believe, the confidence trick. Perhaps Major
Ruggles will explain his own method presently."

But Major Ruggles preserved silence.

"So, gentlemen, after I'd shown my familiarity with the Ax of the
Apostles, I went down town, thinkin' how mighty clever I was--that's a
way of mine, gentlemen, which generally takes me after I've made a
durned fool of myself. All of a sudden I recollected the face of Major
Ruggles, and where I'd seen him last. Yes, Major, you _did_ know
me--you were quite right, and I ought to have kept Ananias out of the
muss--you _did_ know me, and I'd forgotten it. Those words of mine,
Major, required explanation, as you said just now."

"Satisfaction, I said," objected the Major, trying to recover himself
a little.

"Sir, you air a whole-souled gentleman; and your sense of honour is as
keen as a quarter-dollar razor. Satisfaction you shall have; and if
you are not satisfied when I have done with you, ask these gentlemen
around what an American nobleman--one of the noblemen like yourself
that we do sometimes show the world--wants more, and the more you
shall git.

"You did know me, Major; but you made a little mistake. It was not
with Boss Calderon that you met me, because I do not know Boss
Calderon; nor was it at Delmonico's. And where it was I am about to
tell this company."

He hesitated a moment.

"Gentlemen, I believe it is a rule that strangers in your clubs must
be introduced by members. I was introduced by my friend Mr.
Dunquerque, and I hope I shall not disgrace that introduction. May I
ask who introduced Major Ruggles?"

Nobody knew. In fact, he had passed in with an acquaintance picked up
somehow, and stayed there.

The Major tried again to get away. "This is fooling," he said.
"Captain Ladds, do you wish me to be insulted? If you do, sir, say so.
You will find that an American officer----"

"Silence, sir!" said Mr. Beck. "An American officer! Say that again,
and I will teach you to respect the name of an American officer. I've
been a private soldier myself in that army," he added, by way of
explanation. "Now, Major Ruggles, I am going to invite you to remain
while I tell these gentlemen a little story--a very little story--but
it concerns you. And if Captain Ladds likes when that story is
finished, I will apologise to you, and to him, and to all this
honourable company."

"Let us hear the story," said Jack. "Nothing could be fairer."

"Nothing!" echoed the little circle of listeners.

Beck addressed the room in general, occasionally pointing the finger
of emphasis at the unfortunate Major. His victim showed every sign of
bodily discomfort and mental agitation. First he fidgeted in the
chair; then he threw away his cigarette; then he folded his arms and
stared defiantly at the speaker. Then he got up again.

"What have I to do with you and your story? Let me go. Captain Ladds,
you have my address. And as for you, sir, you shall hear from me
to-morrow."

"Sit down, Major." Gilead Beck invited him to resume his chair with a
sweet smile. "Sit down. The night's young. May be Captain Ladds wants
his revenge."

"Not I," said Ladds. "Had enough. Go to bed. Not a revengeful man."

"Then," said Gilead Beck, his face darkening and his manner suddenly
changing, "I will take your revenge for you. Sit down, sir!"

It was an order he gave this time, not an invitation, and the stranger
obeyed with an uneasy smile.

"It is not gambling, Major Ruggles," Beck went on. "Captain Ladds'
revenge is going to be of another sort, I reckon."

He drew close to Major Ruggles, and sitting on the table, placed one
foot on a chair which was between the stranger and the door.

"Delmonico's, was it, where we met last? And with Joe Calderon--Boss
Calderon? Really, Major Ruggles, I was a great fool not to remember
that at once. But I always am weak over faces, even such a striking
face as yours. So we met last when you were dining with Boss Calderon,
eh?"

Then Mr. Beck began his little story.

"Six years ago, gentlemen,--long before I found my Butterfly, of which
you may have heard,--I ran up and down the Great Pacific Railway
between Chicago and Francisco for close upon six months. I did not
choose that way of spendin' the golden hours, because, if one had a
choice at all, a Pullman's sleeping-car on the Pacific Railway would
be just one of the last places you would choose to pass your life in.
I should class it, as a permanent home, with a first-class saloon in a
Cunard steamer. No, gentlemen, I was on board those cars in an
official capacity. I was conductor. It is not a proud position, not an
office which you care to magnify; it doesn't lift your chin in the air
and stick out your toes like the proud title of Major does for our
friend squirmin' in the chair before us. Squirm on, Major; but listen,
because this is interestin'. On those cars and on that railway there
is a deal of time to be got through. I am bound to say that time kind
of hangs heavy on the hands. You can't be always outside smokin'; you
can't sleep more'n a certain time, because the nigger turns you out
and folds up the beds; and you oughtn't to drink more'n your proper
whack. Also, you get tired watchin' the scenery. You may make notes if
you like, but you get tired o' that. And you get mortal tired of
settin' on end. Mostly, therefore, you stand around the conductor, and
you listen to his talk.

"But six years ago the dullness of that long journey was enlivened by
the presence of a few sportsmen like our friend the Major here. They
were so fond of the beauties of Nature, they were so wrapped up in the
pride of bein' American citizens and ownin' the biggest railway in the
world, that they would travel all the way from New York to San
Francisco, stay there a day, and then travel all the way back again.
And the most remarkable thing was, that when they got to New York
again they would take a through ticket all the way back to San Fran.
This attachment to the line pleased the company at first. It did seem
as if good deeds was going to meet their recompense at last, even in
this world, and the spirited conduct of the gentlemen, when it first
became known, filled everybody with admiration.--You remember, Major,
the very handsome remarks made by you yourself on the New York
platform.

"Lord, is it six years ago? Why, it seems to me but yesterday, Major
Ruggles, that I saw you standin' erect and bold--lookin' like a
senator in a stove pipe hat, store boots, and go-to-meetin'
coat--shakin' hands with the chairman. 'Sir,' you said, with tears in
your eyes, 'you represent the advance of civilisation. We air now,
indeed, ahead of the hull creation. You have united the Pacific and
the Atlantic. And, sir, by the iron road the West and the East may
jine hands and defy the tyranny of Europe.' Those, gentlemen, were the
noble sentiments of Major Hamilton Ruggles.--Did I say, Major, that I
would give you satisfaction? Wait till I have done, and you shall bust
with satisfaction."

The Major did not look, at all events, like being satisfied so far.

"One day an ugly rumor got about--you know how rumours spread--that
the Great Pacific Railroad was a big gamblin' shop. The enthusiastic
travellers up and down that line were one mighty confederated gang.
They were up to every dodge: they travelled together, and they
travelled separate; they had dice, and those dice were loaded; they
had cards, and those cards were marked; they played on the square, but
behind every man's hand was a confederate, and he gave signs, so that
the honest sportsman knew how to play. And by these simple
contrivances, gentlemen, they always won. So much did they win, that I
have conducted a through train in which, when we got to Chicago, there
wasn't a five-dollar piece left among the lot. And all the time
strangers to each other. The gang never, by so much as a wink, let out
that they had met before. And no one could tell them from ordinary
passengers. But I knew; and I had a long conversation with the
Directors one day, the result of which--Major Ruggles, perhaps you can
tell these gentlemen what was the result of that conversation."

The man was sallow. His sharp eyes gleamed with an angry light as
he looked from one to the other, as if in the hope of finding an
associate. There was none. Only Ladds, his adversary, moved quietly
around the room and sat near to Gilead Beck, on the table, but _nearer
the door_. The Major saw this manoeuvre with a sinking heart, because
his pockets were heavy with the proceeds of the evening game.

"Well, gentlemen, a general order came for all the conductors. It was
'No play.' We were to stop that. And another general order was--an
imperative order, Major, so that I am sure you will not bear
malice--'If they won't leave off, chuck 'em out.' That was the order,
Major, 'Chuck 'em out.'

"It was on the journey back from San Francisco that the first trouble
began. You were an upright man to look at then, Major; you hadn't got
the limp you've got now, and you hadn't received that unfort'nate scar
across your handsome face. You were a most charmin' companion for a
long railway journey, but you had that little weakness--that you
_would_ play. I warned you at the time. I said, 'Cap'en, this must
stop.' You were only a Cap'en then. But you would go on. 'Cap'en,' I
said, 'if you will not stop, you will be chucked out.' You will
acknowledge, Major, that I gave you fair warnin'. You laughed. That
was all you did. You laughed and you shuffled the cards. But the man
who was playing with you got up. He saw reason. Then you drew out a
revolver and used bad language. So I made for you.

"Gentlemen, it was not a fair fight. But orders had to be observed. In
half a minute I had his pistol from him, and in two minutes more he
was flyin' from the end of the train. We were goin' twenty miles an
hour, and we hadn't time to stop to see if he was likely to get along
somehow. And the last I saw of Captain Ruggles--I beg your pardon,
Major--was his two heels in the air as he left the end of the train. I
s'pose, Major, it was stoppin' so sudden gave you that limp and
ornamented your face with that beautiful scar. The ground was gritty,
I believe?"

Everybody's eyes were turned on the Major, whose face was livid.

"Gentlemen," Mr. Beck continued, "that ærial flight of Captain Ruggles
improved the moral tone of the Pacific Railroad to a degree that you
would hardly believe. I don't think there has been a single sportsman
chucked out since. Major Ruggles, sir, you were the blessed means,
under Providence and Gilead P. Beck conjointly, of commencing a new
and moral era for the Great Pacific Railroad.

"And now, Major, that my little story is told, may I ask if you are
satisfied? Because if there is any other satisfaction in my power you
shall have that too. Have I done enough for honour, gentlemen all?"

The men laughed.

"Now for a word with me," Ladds began.

"Cap'en," said Gilead Beck, "let me work through this contract, if you
have no objection--Major Ruggles, you will clear out all your
pockets."

The miserable man made no reply.

"Clear out every one, and turn them inside out, right away."

He neither moved nor spoke.

"Gentlemen," Mr. Beck said calmly, "you will be kind enough not to
interfere."

He pulled a penknife out of his pocket and laid it on a chair open. He
then seized Major Ruggles by the collar and arm. The man fought like a
wild cat, but Beck's grasp was like a vice. It seemed incredible to
the bystanders that a man should be so strong, so active, and so
skilled. He tossed, rather than laid, his victim on the table, and
then, holding both his hands in one grip of his own enormous fist, he
deliberately ripped open the Major's trousers, waistcoat, and coat
pockets, and took out the contents. When he was satisfied that nothing
more was left in them he dragged him to the ground.

On the table lay the things which he had taken possession of.

"Take up those dice," he said to Ladds; "Try them; if they are not
loaded, I will ask the Major's pardon."

They were loaded.

"Look at these cards," he went on. "They are the cards you have been
playing with, when you thought you had a new pack of club-cards. If
they are not marked, I will ask the Major to change places with me."

They were marked.

"And now, gentlemen, I think I may ask Captain Ladds what he has lost,
and invite him to take it out of that heap."

There was a murmur of assent.

"I lost twenty pounds in notes and gold," said Ladds. "And I gave an I
O U for sixty more."

There were other I O U's in the heap, and more gold when Ladds had
recovered his own. The paper was solemnly torn up, but the coin
restored to the Major, who now stood, abject, white, and trembling,
but with the look of a devil in his eyes.

"Such men as you, Major," said Gilead the Moralist, "are the curse of
our country. You see, gentlemen, we travel about, we make money fast;
we are sometimes a reckless lot; the miners have got pockets full;
there's everything to encourage such a crew as Major Ruggles belonged
to. And when we find them out, we lynch them.--Lynch is the word,
isn't it, Major?--do you want to know the end of this man, gentlemen?
I am not much in the prophetic line, but I think I see a crowd of men
in a minin' city, and I see a thick branch with a rope over it. And at
the end of that rope is Major Ruggles's neck, tightened in a most
unpleasant and ungentlemanly manner.--It's inhospitable, but what can
you expect, Major? We like play, but we like playin' on the square.
Now, Major, you may go. And you may thank the Lord on your knees
before you go to sleep that this providential interference has taken
place in London instead of the States. For had I told my interestin'
anecdote at a bar in any city of the Western States, run up you would
have been. You may go, Major Ruggles; and I daresay Cap'en Ladds, in
consideration of the damage done to those bright and shinin' store
clothes of yours, will forego the British kicking which I see
tremblin' at the point of his toes."

Ladds did forego that revenge, and the Major slunk away.




CHAPTER XXXII.

    "Nulla fere causa est in qua non femina litem
    Moverit."


When Mr. Wylie, the pamphleteer, left Gabriel Cassilis, the latter
resumed with undisturbed countenance his previous occupation of
reading the letters and telegrams he had laid aside. Among them was
one which he took up gingerly, as if it were a torpedo.

"Pshaw!" he cried impatiently, tossing it from him. "Another of those
anonymous letters. The third." He looked at it with disgust, and then
half involuntarily his hand reached out and took it up again. "The
third, and all in the same handwriting. 'I have written you two
letters, and you have taken no notice. This is the third. Beware! Your
wife was with Mr. Colquhoun yesterday; she will be with him again
to-day and to-morrow. Ask her, if you dare, what is her secret with
him. Ask him what hold he has over her. Watch her, and caution her
lest something evil befall you.--Your well-wisher.'

"I am a fool," he said, "to be disquieted about an anonymous slander.
What does it matter to me? As if Victoria--she did know Colquhoun
before her marriage--their names were mentioned--I remember hearing
that there had been flirtation--flirtation! As if Victoria could ever
flirt! She was no frivolous silly girl. No one who knows Victoria
could for a moment suspect--suspect! The word is intolerable. One
would say I was jealous."

He pushed forward his papers and leaned back in his chair, casting his
thoughts behind him to the days of his stiff and formal wooing. He
remembered how he said, sitting opposite to her in her cousin's
drawing-room--there was no wandering by the river-bank or in pleasant
gardens on summer evenings for those two lovers--

"You bring me fewer springs than I can offer you, Victoria;" which was
his pretty poetical way of telling her that he was nearly forty years
older than herself: "but we shall begin life with no trammels of
previous attachments on either hand."

He called it--and thought it--at sixty-five, beginning life; and it
was quite true that he had never before conceived an attachment for
any woman.

"No, Mr. Cassilis," she replied; "we are both free, quite free; and
the disparity of age is only a disadvantage on my side, which a few
years will remedy."

This cold stately woman conducting a flirtation before her marriage?
This Juno among young matrons causing a scandal after her marriage? It
was ridiculous.

He said to himself that it was ridiculous so often, that he succeeded
at last in persuading himself that it really was. And when he had
quite done that, he folded up the anonymous document, docketed it, and
placed it in one of the numerous pigeon-holes of his desk, which was
one of those which shut up completely, covering over papers,
pigeon-holes, and everything.

Then he addressed himself again to business, and, but for an
occasional twinge of uneasiness, like the first throb which presages
the coming gout, he got through an important day's work with his
accustomed ease and power.


The situation, as Lawrence Colquhoun told Victoria, was strained.
There they were, as he put it, all three--himself, for some reason of
his own, put first; the lady; and Gabriel Cassilis. The last was the
one who did not know. There was no reason, none in the world, why
things should not remain as they were, only that the lady would not
let sleeping dangers sleep, and Lawrence was too indolent to resist.
In other words, Victoria Cassilis, having once succeeded in making him
visit her, spared no pains to bring him constantly to her house, and
to make it seem as if he was that innocent sort of _cicisbeo_ whom
English society allows.

Why?

The investigation of motives is a delicate thing at the best, and apt
to lead the analyst into strange paths. It may be discovered that the
philanthropist acts for love of notoriety; that the preacher does not
believe in the truths he proclaims; that the woman of self-sacrifice
and good works is consciously posing before an admiring world. This is
disheartening, because it makes the cynic and the worldly-minded man
to chuckle and chortle with an open joy. St. Paul, who was versed in
the ways of the world, knew this perfectly when he proclaimed the
insufficiency of good works. It is at all times best to accept the
deed, and never ask the motive. And, after all, good deeds are
something practical. And as for a foolish or a bad deed, the
difficulty of ascertaining an adequate motive only becomes more
complicated with its folly or its villainy. Mrs. Cassilis had
everything to gain by keeping her old friend on the respectful level
of a former acquaintance; she had everything to lose by treating him
as a friend. And yet she forced her friendship upon him.

Kindly people who find in the affairs of other people sufficient
occupation for themselves, and whose activity of intellect obtains a
useful vent in observation and comment, watched them. The man was
always the same; indolent, careless, unmoved by any kind of passion
for any other man's wife or for any maid. That was a just conclusion.
Lawrence Colquhoun was not in love with this lady. And yet he suffered
himself to obey orders; dropped easily in the position; allowed
himself to be led by her invitations; went where she told him to go;
and all the time half laughed at himself and was half angry to think
that he was thus enthralled by a siren who charmed him not. To have
once loved a woman; to love her no longer; to go about the town
behaving as if you did: this, it was evident to him, was not a
position to be envied or desired. Few false positions are. Perhaps he
did not know that Mrs. Grundy talked; perhaps he was only amused when
he heard of remarks that had been made by Sir Benjamin Backbite; and
although the brief sunshine of passion which he only felt for this
woman was long since past and gone, nipped in its very bud by the lady
herself perhaps, he still liked her cold and cynical talk. Colquhoun
habitually chose the most pleasant paths for his lounge through life.
From eighteen to forty there had been but one disagreeable episode,
which he would fain have forgotten. Mrs. Cassilis revived it; but, in
her presence, the memory was robbed somehow of half its sting.

Sir Benjamin Backbite remarked that though the gentleman was languid,
the lady was shaken out of her habitual coldness. She was changed.
What could change her, asked the Baronet, but passion for this old
friend of her youth? Why, it was only four years since he had followed
her, after a London season, down to Scotland, and everybody said it
would be a match. She received his attentions coldly then, as she
received the attentions of every man. Now the tables were turned; it
was the man who was cold.

These social observers are always right. But they never rise out of
themselves; therefore their conclusions are generally wrong. Victoria
Cassilis was not, as they charitably thought, running after Colquhoun
through the fancy of a wayward heart. Not at all. She was simply
wondering where it had gone--that old power of hers, by which she once
twisted him round her finger--and why it was gone. A woman cannot
believe that she has lost her power over a man. It is an intolerable
thought. Her power is born of her beauty and her grace; these may
vanish, but the old attractiveness remains, she thinks, if only as a
tradition. When she is no longer beautiful she loves to believe that
her lovers are faithful still. Now Victoria Cassilis remembered this
man as a lover and a slave; his was the only pleading she had ever
heard which could make her understand the meaning of man's passion; he
was the only suitor whom a word could make wretched or a look happy.
For he had once loved her with all his power and all his might.
Between them there was the knowledge of a thing which, if any
knowledge could, should have crushed out and beaten down the memory of
this love. She had made it, by her own act and deed, a crime to
remember it. And yet, in spite of all, she could not bring herself to
remember that the old power was dead. She tried to bring him again
under influence. She failed, but she succeeded in making him come back
to her as if nothing had ever happened. And then she said to herself
that there must be another woman, and she set herself to find out who
that woman was.

Formerly many men had hovered--marriageable men, excellent
_partis_--round the cold and statuesque beauty of Victoria Pengelley.
She was an acknowledged beauty; she brought an atmosphere of perfect
taste and grace into a room with her; men looked at her and wondered;
foolish girls, who knew no better, envied her. Presently the foolish
girls, who had soft faces and eyes, which could melt in love or
sorrow, envied her no longer, because they got engaged and married.
And of all the men who came and went, there was but one who loved her
so that his pulse beat quicker when she came; who trembled when he
took her hand; whose nerves tingled and whose blood ran swifter
through his veins when he asked her, down in that quiet Scotch
village, with no one to know it but her maid, to be his wife.

The man was Lawrence Colquhoun. The passion had been his. Now love and
passion were buried in the ashes of the past. The man was impassable,
and the woman, madly kicking against the fetters which she had bound
around herself, was angry and jealous.

It is by some mistake of Nature that women who cannot love can yet be
jealous. Victoria Pengelley's pulse never once moved the faster for
all the impetuosity of her lover. She liked to watch it, this curious
yearning after her beauty, this eminently masculine weakness, because
it was a tribute to her power; it is always pleasant for a woman to
feel that she is loved as women are loved in novels--men's novels, not
the pseudo-passionate school-girls' novels, or the calmly respectable
feminine tales where the young gentlemen and the young ladies are
superior to the instincts of common humanity. Victoria played with
this giant as an engineer will play with the wheels of a mighty
engine. She could do what she liked with it. Samson was not more
pliable to Delilah; and Delilah was not more unresponsive to that
guileless strong man. She soon got tired of her toy, however. Scarcely
were the morning and the evening of the fifth day, when by pressing
some unknown spring she smashed it altogether.

Now, when it was quite too late, when the thing was utterly smashed,
when she had a husband and child, she was actually trying to
reconstruct it. Some philosopher, probing more deeply than usual the
mysteries of mankind, once discovered that it was at all times
impossible to know what a woman wants. He laid that down as a general
axiom, and presented it as an irrefragable truth for the universal use
of humanity. One may sometimes, however, guess what a woman does not
want. Victoria Cassilis, one may be sure, did not want to sacrifice
her honour, her social standing, or her future. She was not intending
to go off, for instance, with her old lover, even if he should propose
the step, which seemed unlikely. And yet she would have liked him to
propose it, because then she would have felt the recovery of her
power. Now her sex, as Chaucer and others before him pointed out, love
power beyond all other earthly things. And the history of queens, from
Semiramis to Isabella, shows what a mess they always make of it when
they do get power.

A curious problem. Given a woman, no longer in the first bloom of
youth, married well, and clinging with the instincts of her class to
her reputation and social position. She has everything to lose and
nothing to gain. She cannot hope even for the love of the man for whom
she is incurring the suspicions of the world, and exciting the
jealousy of her husband. Yet it is true, in her case, what the race of
evil-speakers, liars, and slanderers say of her. She is running after
Lawrence Colquhoun. He is too much with her. She has given the enemy
occasion to blaspheme.

As for Colquhoun, when he thought seriously over the situation, he
laughed when it was a fine day, and swore if it was raining. The
English generally take a sombre view of things because it is so
constantly raining. We proclaim our impotence, the lack of national
spirit, and our poverty, until other nations actually begin to believe
us. But Colquhoun, though he might swear, made no effort to release
himself, when a word would have done it.

"You may use harsh language to me, Lawrence," said Mrs. Cassilis--he
never had used harsh language to any woman--"you may sneer at me, and
laugh in your cold and cruelly impassive manner. But one thing I can
say for you, that you understand me."

"I have seen all your moods, Mrs. Cassilis, and I have a good memory.
If you will show your husband that the surface of the ocean may be
stormy sometimes, he will understand you a good deal better. Get up a
little breeze for him."

"I am certainly not going to have a vulgar quarrel with Mr. Cassilis."

"A vulgar quarrel? Vulgar? Ah, vulgarity changes every five years or
so. What a pity that vulgar quarrels were in fashion six years ago,
Mrs. Cassilis!"

"Some men are not worth losing your temper about."

"Thank you. I was, I suppose. It was very kind of you, indeed, to
remind me of it, as you then did, in a manner at once forcible and not
to be forgotten. Mr. Cassilis gets nothing, I suppose, but east wind,
with a cloudless sky which has the sun in it, but only the semblance
of warmth. I got a good sou'-wester. But take care, take care, Mrs.
Cassilis! You have wantonly thrown away once what most women would
have kept--kept, Mrs. Cassilis! I remember when I was kneeling at your
feet years ago, talking the usual nonsense about being unworthy of
you. Rubbish! I was more than worthy of you, because I could give
myself to you loyally, and you--you could only pretend!"

"Go on, Lawrence. It is something that you regret the past, and
something to see that you _can_ feel, after all."

She stopped and laughed carelessly.

"Prick me and I sing out. That is natural. But we will have no
heroics. What I mean is, that I am well out of it; and that you,
Victoria Cassilis, are--forgive the plain speaking--a foolish woman."

"Lawrence Colquhoun has the right to insult me as he pleases, and I
must bear it."

It was in her own room. Colquhoun was leaning on the window; she was
sitting on a chair before him. She was agitated and excited. He, save
for the brief moments when he spoke as if with emotion, was languid
and calm.

"I have no right," he replied, "and you know it. Let us finish. Mrs.
Cassilis, keep what you have, and be thankful."

"What I have! What have I?"

"One of the best houses in London. An excellent social position. A
husband said to be the ablest man in the City. An income which gives
you all that a woman can ask for. The confidence and esteem of your
husband--and a child. Do these things mean nothing?"

"My husband--Oh, my husband! He is insufferable sometimes, when I
remember, Lawrence."

"He is a man who gives his trust after a great deal of doubt and
hesitation. Then he gives it wholly. To take it back would be a
greater blow, a far greater blow, than it would ever be to a younger
man--to such a man as myself."

"Gabriel Cassilis only suffers when he loses money."

"That is not the case. You cannot afford to make another great
mistake. Success isn't on the cards after two such blunders, Mrs.
Cassilis."

"What do I want with success? Let me have happiness."

"Take it; it is at your feet," said Lawrence. "It is in this house. It
is the commonest secret. Every simple country woman knows it."

"No one will ever understand me," she sighed. "No one."

"It is simply to give up for ever thinking about yourself. Go and look
after your baby, and find happiness there."

Why superior women are always so angry if they are asked to look after
their babies, I cannot understand. There is no blinking the fact that
they have them. The maternal instinct makes women who cannot write or
talk fine language about the domestic affections, take to the tiny
creatures with a passion of devotion which is the loveliest thing to
look upon in all this earth. The _femme incomprise_ alone feels no
anguish if her baby cries, no joy if he laughs, and flies into a
divine rage if you remind her that she is a mother.

"My baby!" cried Victoria, springing to her feet. "You see me yearning
for sympathy, looking to you as my oldest--once my dearest--friend,
for a little--only a little--interest and pity, and you send me to my
baby! The world is all selfish and cold-hearted, but the most selfish
man in it is Lawrence Colquhoun!"

He laughed again. After all, he had said his say.

"I am glad you think so, because it simplifies matters. Now, Mrs.
Cassilis, we have had our little confidential talk, and I think, under
the circumstances, that it had better be the last. So, for a time, we
will not meet, if you please. I do take a certain amount of interest
in you--that is, I am always curious to see what line you will take
next. And if you are at all concerned to have my opinion and counsel,
it is this: that you've got your chance; and if you give that man who
loves you and trusts you any unhappiness through your folly, you will
be a much more heartless and wicked woman than even I have ever
thought you. And, by Gad! I ought to know."

He left her. Mrs. Cassilis heard his step in the hall and the door
close behind him. Then she ran to the window, and watched him
strolling in his leisurely, careless way down the road. It made her
mad to think that she could not make him unhappy, and made her jealous
to think that she could no longer touch his heart. Not in love with
him at all--she never had been; but jealous because her old power was
gone.

Jealous! There must be another girl. Doubtless Phillis Fleming. She
ordered her carriage and drove straight to Twickenham. Agatha was
having one of her little garden-parties. Jack Dunquerque was there
with Gilead Beck. Also Captain Ladds. But Lawrence Colquhoun was not.
She stayed an hour; she ascertained from Phillis that her guardian
seldom came to see her, and went home again in a worse temper than
before, because she felt herself on the wrong track.

Tomlinson, her maid, had a very bad time of it while she was dressing
her mistress for dinner. Nothing went right, somehow. Tomlinson, the
hard-featured, was long suffering and patient. She made no reply to
the torrent which flowed from her superior's angry lips. But when
respite came with the dinner-bell, and her mistress was safely
downstairs, the maid sat down to the table and wrote a letter very
carefully. This she read and re-read, and, being finally satisfied
with it, she took it out to the post herself. After that, as she would
not be wanted till midnight at least, she took a cab and went to the
Marylebone Theatre, where she wept over the distresses of a lady,
ruined by the secret voice of calumny.

It was at the end of May, and the season was at its height. Mrs.
Cassilis had two or three engagements, but she came home early, and
was even sharper with the unfortunate Tomlinson than before dinner.
But Tomlinson was very good, and bore all in patience. It is Christian
to endure.

Next morning Gabriel Cassilis found among his letters another in the
same handwriting as that of the three anonymous communications he had
already received.

He tore it open with a groan.

"This is the fourth letter. You will have to take notice of my
communications, and to act upon them, sooner or later. All this
morning Mr. Colquhoun was locked up with your wife in her boudoir. He
came at eleven and went away at half-past one. No one was admitted.
They talked of many things--of their Scotch secret especially, and how
to hide it from you. I shall keep you informed of what they do. At
half past two Mrs. Cassilis ordered the carriage and drove to
Twickenham. Mr. Colquhoun has got his ward there, Miss Fleming. So
that doubtless she went to meet him again. In the evening she came
home in a very bad temper, because she had failed to meet him. She had
hoped to see him three times at least this very day. Surely, surely
even your blind confidence cannot stand a continuation of this kind of
thing. All the world knows it except yourself. You may be rich and
generous to her, but she doesn't love you. And she doesn't care for
her child. She hasn't asked to see it for three days--think of that!
There is a pretty mother for you! She ill-treats her maid, who is _a
most faithful person, and devoted to your interests_. She is hated
by every servant in the house. She is a cold-hearted, cruel woman. And
even if she loves Mr. Colquhoun, it can only be through jealousy, and
because she won't let him marry anybody else, even if he wanted to.
But things are coming to a crisis. Wait!"

Mr. Mowll came in with a packet of papers, and found his master
staring straight before him into space. He spoke to him but received
no answer. Then he touched him gently on the arm. Mr. Cassilis
started, and looked round hastily. His first movement was to lay his
hand upon a letter on the desk.

"What is it, Mowll--what is it? I was thinking--I was thinking. I am
not very well to-day, Mowll."

"You have been working too hard, sir," said his secretary.

"Yes--yes. It is nothing. Now, then, let us look at what you have
brought."

For two hours Mr. Cassilis worked with his secretary. He had the
faculty of rapid and decisive work. And he had the eye of a hawk. They
were two hours of good work, and the secretary's notes were
voluminous. Suddenly the financier stopped--the work half done. It was
as if the machinery of a clock were to go wrong without warning.

"So," he said, with an effort, "I think we will stop for to-day. Put
all these matters at work, Mowll. I shall go home and rest."

A thing he had never done before in all his life.

He went back to his house. His wife was at home and alone. They had
luncheon together, and drove out in the afternoon. Her calm and
stately pride drove the jealous doubts from his troubled mind as the
sun chases away the mists of morning.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

    "An excellent play."


Such things as dinners to Literature were the relaxations of Gilead
Beck's serious life. His real business was to find an object worthy of
that enormous income of which he found himself the trustee. The most
sympathetic man of his acquaintance, although it was difficult to make
him regard any subject seriously, was Jack Dunquerque, and to him he
confided his anxieties and difficulties.

"I can't fix it," he groaned. "I can't fix it anyhow."

Jack knew what he meant, but waited for further light, like him who
readeth an acrostic.

"The more I look at that growin' pile--there's enough now to build the
White House over again--the more I misdoubt myself."

"Where have you got it all?"

"In Government Stocks--by the help of Mr. Cassilis. No more of the
unholy traffic in shares which you buy to sell again. No, sir. That
means makin' the widow weep and the minister swear; an' I don't know
which spectacle of those two is the more melancholy for a Christian
man. All in stocks--Government Stocks, safe and easy to draw out, with
the interest comin' in regular as the chant of the cuckoo-clock."

"Well, can't you let it stay there?"

"No, Mr. Dunquerque, I can't. There's the voice of that blessed Inseck
in the box there, night and day in my ears. And it says, plain as
speech can make it, 'Do something with the money.'"

"You have bought a few pictures."

"Yes, sir: I have begun the great Gilead P. Beck collection. And when
that is finished, I guess there'll be no collection on this airth to
show a candle to it. But that's personal vanity. That's not what the
Golden Butterfly wants."

"Would he like you to have a yacht? A good deal may be chucked over a
yacht. That is, a good deal for what we Englishmen call a rich man."

"When I go home again I mean to build a yacht, and sail her over here
and race you people at Cowes--all the same as the America, twenty
years ago. But not yet."

"There are a few trifles going about which run away with money. Polo,
now. If you play polo hard enough, you may knock up a pony every game.
But I suppose that would not be expensive enough for you. You couldn't
ride two ponies at once, I suppose, like a circus fellow."

"Selfish luxury, Mr. Dunquerque," said Gilead, with an almost
prayerful twang, "is not the platform of the Golden Butterfly. I
should like to ride two ponies at once, but it's not to be thought of.
And my legs are too long for any but a Kentucky pony."

"Is the Turf selfish luxury, I wonder?" asked Jack. "A good deal of
money can be got through on the Turf. Nothing, of course, compared
with your pile; but still, you might make a sensible hole in it by
judicious backing."

Gilead Beck was as free from ostentation, vanity, and the desire to
have his ears tickled as any man. But still he did like to feel that
by the act of Providence, he was separated from other men. An income
of fifteen hundred pounds a day, which does not depend upon harvests,
or on coal, or on iron, or anything to eat and drink, but only on the
demand for rock-oil, which increases, as he often said, with the march
of civilisation, does certainly separate a man from his fellows. This
feeling of division saddened him; it imparted something of the
greatness of soul which belongs even to the most unworthy emperors; he
felt himself bound to do something for the good of mankind while life
and strength were in him. And it was not unpleasant to know that
others recognised the vastness of his Luck. Therefore, when Jack
Dunquerque spoke as if the Turf were a gulf which might be filled up
with his fortune, while it swallowed, without growing sensibly more
shallow, all the smaller fortunes yearly shot into it like the rubbish
on the future site of a suburban villa, Gilead Beck smiled. Such
recognition from this young man was doubly pleasant to him on account
of his unbounded affection for him. Jack Dunquerque had saved his
life. Jack Dunquerque treated him as an equal and a friend. Jack
Dunquerque wanted nothing of him, and, poor as he was, would accept
nothing of him. Jack Dunquerque was the first, as he was also the most
favourable, specimen he had met of the class which may be poor, but
does not seem to care for more money; the class which no longer works
for increase of fortune.

"No, sir," said Gilead. "I do not understand the Turf. When I go home
I shall rear horses and improve the breed. Maybe I may run a horse in
a trotting-match at Saratoga."

In the mornings this American, in search of a Worthy Object, devoted
his time to making the round of hospitals, London societies, and
charities of all kinds. He asked what they did, and why they did it.
He made remarks which were generally unpleasant to the employés of the
societies; he went away without offering the smallest donation; and he
returned moodily to the Langham Hotel.

"The English," he said, after a fortnight of these investigations,
"air the most kind-hearted people in the hull world. We are
charitable, and I believe the Germans, when they are not officers in
their own army, are a well-disposed folk. But in America, when a man
tumbles down the ladder, he falls hard. Here there's every contrivance
for makin' him fall soft. A man don't feel handsome when he's on the
broad of his back, but it must be a comfort for him to feel that his
backbone isn't broke. Lord, Mr. Dunquerque! to look at the hospitals
and refuges, one would think the hull Bible had got nothin' but the
story of the Prodigal Son, and that every other Englishman was that
misbehaved boy. I reckon if the young man had lived in London, he'd
have gone home very slow--most as slow as ever he could travel.
There'd be the hospitals, comfortable and warm, when his constitootion
had broke down with too many drinks: there'd have been the
convalescent home for him to enjoy six months of happy meditation by
the seaside when he was pickin' up again; and when he got well, would
he take to the swine-herdin', or would he tramp it home to the old
man? Not he, sir; he would go back to the old courses and become a
Roper. Then more hospitals. P'r'aps when he'd got quite tired, and
seen the inside of a State prison, and been without his little
comforts for a spell, he'd have gone home at last--just as I did, for
I was the prodigal son without the riotous livin'--and found the old
man gone, leavin' him his blessin'. The elder one would hand him the
blessin' cheerfully, and stick to the old man's farm. Then the poor
broken down sportsman--he'd tramp it back to London, get into an
almshouse, with an allowance from a City charity, and die happy.

"There's another kind o' prodigal," Mr. Beck went on, being in a mood
for moralising. "She's of the other sex. Formerly she used to repent
when she thought of what was before her. There's a refuge before her
now, and kind women to take her by the hand and cry over her. She
isn't in any hurry for the cryin' to begin, but it's comfortable to
look forward to; and so she goes on until she's ready. Twenty years
fling, maybe, with nothing to do for her daily bread; and then to
start fair on the same level as the woman who has kept her
self-respect and worked.

"I can't see my way clear, Mr. Dunquerque; I can't. It wouldn't do any
kind of honour to the Golden Butterfly to lay out all of these dollars
in helpin' up them who are bound to fall--bound to fall. There's only
two classes of people in this world--those who are goin' up, and those
who are goin' down. It's no use tryin' to stop those who are on their
way down. Let them go; let them slide; give them a shove down, if you
like, and all the better, because they will the sooner get to the
bottom, and then go up again till they find their own level."

It was in the evening, at nine o'clock, when Gilead Beck made the
oration. He was in his smaller room, which was lit only by the
twilight of the May evening and by the gas-lamp in the street below.
He walked up and down, talking with his hands in his pockets, and
silencing Jack Dunquerque, who had never thought seriously about these
or any other things, by his earnestness. Every now and then he went to
the window and looked into the street below. The cabs rattled up and
down, and on the pavement the customary sight of a West-end street
after dark perhaps gave him inspiration.

"Their own level," he repeated it. "Yes, sir, there's a proper level
for every one of us somewhere, if only we can find it. At the lowest
depth of all, there's the airth to be ploughed, the hogs to be drove,
and the corn to be reaped. I read the other day, when I was studying
for the great dinner, that formerly, if a man took refuge in a town,
he might stay there for a year and a day. If then he could not keep
himself, they opened the gates and they ran him out on a plank; same
way as I left Clearville City. Back to the soil he went--back to the
plough. Let those who are going down hill get down as fast as they
can, and go back to the soil.

"I've sometimes thought," he went on, "that there's a kind of work
lower than agriculture. It is to wear a black coat and do copying. You
take a boy and you make him a machine; tell him to copy, that is all.
Why, sir, the rustic who feeds the pigs is a Solomon beside that poor
critter. Make your poor helpless paupers into clerks, and make the men
who've got arms and legs and no brains into farm labourers. Perhaps I
shall build a city and conduct it on those principles."

Then he stopped because he had run himself down, and they began to
talk of Phillis.

But it seemed to Jack a new and singular idea. The weak must go to the
wall; but they might be helped to find their level. He was glad for
once that he had that small four hundred a year of his own, because,
as he reflected, his own level might be somewhere on the stage where
the manufacture by hand, say, of upper leathers, represents the proper
occupation of the class. A good many other fellows, he thought, among
his own acquaintance, might find themselves accommodated with boards
for the cobbling business near himself. And he looked at Gilead Beck
with increased admiration as a man who had struck all this, as well as
Ile, out of his own head.

Jack Dunquerque suggested educational endowments. Mr. Beck made
deliberate inquiries into the endowments of Oxford and Cambridge, with
a view of founding a grand National American University on the old
lines, to be endowed in perpetuity with the proceeds of his perennial
oil-fountains. But there were things about these ancient seats of
learning which did not commend themselves to him. In his unscholastic
ignorance he asked what was the good of pitting young men against each
other, like the gladiators in the arena, to fight, like them, with
weapons of no earthly modern use. And when he was told of fellowships
given to men for life as a prize for a single battle, he laughed
aloud.

He went down to Eton. He was mean enough to say of the masters that
they made their incomes by over-charging the butchers' and the
grocers' bills, and he said that ministers, as he called them, ought
not to be grocers; and of the boys he said that he thought it
unwholesome for them that some should have unlimited pocket-money, and
all should have unlimited tick. Also some one told him that Eton boys
no longer fight, because they funk one another. So that he came home
sorrowful and scornful.

"In my country," he said, "we have got no scholarships, and if the
young men can't pay their professors they do without them and educate
themselves. And in my country the boys fight. Yes, Mr. Dunquerque, you
bet they do fight."

It was after an evening at the Lyceum that Gilead Beck hit upon the
grand idea of his life.

The idea struck him as they walked home. It fell upon him like an
inspiration, and for the moment stunned him. He was silent until he
reached the hotel. Then he called a waiter.

"Get Mr. Dunquerque a key," he said. "He will sleep here. That means,
Mr. Dunquerque, that we can talk all night if you please. I want
advice."

Jack laughed. He always did laugh.

"It is a great privilege," he said, "advising Fortunatus."

"It is a great privilege, Mr. Dunquerque," returned Fortunatus,
"having an adviser who wants nothing for himself. See that pile of
letters. Every one a begging-letter, except that blue one on the top,
which is from a clergyman. He's a powerful generous man, sir. He
offers to conduct my charities at a salary of three hundred pounds a
year."

Mr. Beck then proceeded to unfold the great idea which had sprung up,
full grown, in his brain.

"That man, sir," he said, meaning Henry Irving, "is a grand actor. And
they are using him up. He wants rest."

"I was an actor myself once, and I've loved the boards ever since. I
was not a great actor. I am bound to say that I did not act like Mr.
Henry Irving. Quite the contrary. Once I was the hind legs of an
elephant. Perhaps Mr. Irving himself, when he was a 'prentice, was the
fore legs. I was on the boards for a month, when the company busted
up. Most things did bust up that I had to do with in those days. I was
the lawyer in _Flowers of the Forest_. I was the demon with the keg to
Mr. Jefferson's Rip Van Winkle. Once I played Horatio. That was when
the Mayor of Constantinople City inaugurated his year of office by
playin' Hamlet. He'd always been fond of the stage, that Mayor, but
through bein' in the soft-goods line never could find time to go on.
So when he got the chance, bein' then a matter of four-and-fifty, of
course he took it. And he elected to play Hamlet, just to show the
citizens what a whole-souled Mayor they'd got, and the people in
general what good play-actin' meant. The corporation attended in a
body, and sat in the front row of what you would call the dress
circle. All in store clothes and go-to-meetin' gloves. It was a
majestic and an imposing spectacle. Behind them was the fire brigade
in uniform. The citizens of Constantinople and their wives and
daughters crowded out the house.

"Wal, sir, we began. Whether it was they felt jealous or whether they
felt envious, that corporation laughed. They laughed at the sentinels,
and they laughed at the moon. They laughed at the Ghost, and they
laughed at me--Horatio. And then they laughed at Hamlet.

"I watched the Mayor gettin' gradually riz. Any man's dander would.
Presently he rose to that height that he went to the footlights, and
stood there facin' his own town council like a bull behind a gate.

"They left off laughing for a minute, and then they began again. We
are a grave people, Mr. Dunquerque, I am told, and the sight of those
town councillors all laughin' together like so many free niggers
before the war was most too much for any one.

"The Mayor made a speech that wasn't in the play.

"'Hyar,' he said, lookin' solemn. 'You jest gether up your traps and
skin out of this. I've got the say about this house, and I arn't a
goin' to have the folks incited to make game of their Mayor.
So--you--kin--jist--light.'

"They hesitated.

"The Mayor pointed to the back of the theatre.

"'Git,' he said again.

"One of the town councillors rose and spoke.

"'Mr. Mayor,' he began, 'or Hamlet, Prince of Denmark'----

"'Wal, sir,' said the Mayor, 'didn't Nero play in his own theaytre?'

"'Mr. Mayor, or Hamlet, or Nero,' e went on, 'we came here on the
presumption that we were paying for our places, and bound to laugh if
we were amused at the performance. Now, sir, this performance does
amuse us considerable.'

"'You may presump,' said the Mayor, 'what you dam please. But git. Git
at once, or I'll turn on the pumps.'

"It was the Ghost who came to the front with the hose in his hands
ready to begin.

"The town council disappeared before he had time to play on them and
we went on with the tragedy.

"But it was spoiled, sir, completely spoiled. And I have never acted
since then.

"So you see Mr. Dunquerque, I know somethin' about actin. 'Tisn't as
if I was a raw youngster starting a theatrical idea all at once. I
thought of it to-night, while I saw a man actin who has the real stuff
in him, and only wants rest. I mean to try an experiment in London,
and if it succeeds I shall take it to New York, and make the American
Drama the greatest in all the world."

"What will you do?"

"I said to myself in that theatre: 'We want a place where we can have
a different piece acted every week; we want to give time for
rehearsals and for alteration; we want to bring up the level of the
second-rate actors; we want more intelligence; and we want more care.'
Now, Mr. Dunquerque, how would you tackle that problem?"

"I cannot say."

"Then I will tell you, sir. You must have three full companies. You
must give up expecting that Theatre to pay its expenses; you must find
a rich man to pay for that Theatre; and he must pay up pretty
handsome."

"Lord de Molleteste took the Royal Hemisphere last year."

"Had he three companies, sir?"

"No; he only had one; and that was a bad one. Wanted to bring out a
new actress, and no one went to see her. Cost him a hundred pounds a
week till he shut it up."

"Well, we will bring along new actresses too, but in a different
fashion. They will have to work their way up from the bottom of the
ladder. My Theatre will cost me a good deal more than a hundred pounds
a week, I expect. But I am bound to run it. The idea's in my head
strong. It's the thing to do. A year or two in London, and then for
the States. We shall have a Grand National Drama, and the Ile shall
pay for it."

He took paper and pen, and began to write.

"Three companies, all complete, for tragedy and comedy. I've been to
every theatre in London, and I'm ready with my list. Now, Mr.
Dunquerque, you listen while I write them down.

"I say first company; not that there's any better or worse, but
because one must begin with something.

"In the first I will have Mr. Irving, Mr. Henry Neville, Mr. William
Farren, Mr. Toole, Mr. Emery, Miss Bateman, and Miss Nelly Farren.

"In the second, Mr. George Rignold--I saw him in _Henry V._ last
winter in the States--Mr. Hare, Mr. Kendal, Mr. Lionel Brough, Mrs.
Kendal, and that clever little lady, Miss Angelina Claude.

"In the third I will have Mr. Phelps, Mr. Charles Matthews, Mr. W. J.
Hill, Mr. Arthur Cecil, Mr. Kelly, Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, and Mrs.
Scott-Siddons, if you could only get her.

"I should ask Mr. Alfred Wigan to be a stage-manager and general
director, and I would give him absolute power.

"Every company will play for a week and rehearse for a fortnight. The
principal parts shall not always be played by the best actors. And I
will not have any piece run for more than a week at a time."

"And how do you think your teams would run together?"

"Sir, it would be a distinction to belong to that Theatre. And they
would be well paid. They will run together just for the very same
reason as everybody runs together--for their own interest."

"I believe," said Jack, "that you have at last hit upon a plan for
getting rid even of your superfluous cash."

"It will cost a powerful lot, I believe. But Lord, Mr. Dunquerque!
what better object can there be than to improve the Stage? Think what
it would mean. The House properly managed; no loafin' around behind
the scenes; every actor doing his darn best, and taking time for study
and rehearsal; people comin' down to a quiet evening, with the best
artists to entertain them, and the best pieces to play. The Stage
would revive, sir. We should hear no more about the decay of the
Drama. The Drama decay! That's bunkum, sir. That's the invention of
the priests and the ministers, who go about down-cryin' what they
can't have their own fingers in."

"But I don't see how your scheme will encourage authors."

"I shall pay them too, sir. I should say to Mr. Byron: 'Sir, you air a
clever and a witty man. Go right away, sir. Sit down for a
twelvemonth, and do nothin' at all. Then write me a play; put your own
situations in it, not old jokes; put your own situations in it, not
old ones. Give me somethin' better.' Then I should say to Mr. Gilbert:
'Your pieces have got the real grit, young gentleman; but you write
too fast. Go away too for six months and do nothin'. Then sit down for
six months more, and write a piece that will be pretty and sweet, and
won't be thin.' And there's more dramatists behind--only give them a
chance. They shall have it at my house."

"And what will the other houses do?"

"The other houses, sir, may go on playing pieces for four hundred
nights if they like. I leave them plenty of men to stump their boards,
and my Theatre won't hold more than a certain number. I shall only
take a small house to begin with, such a house as the Lyceum, and we
shall gradually get along. But no profit can be made by such a Stage,
and I am ready to give half my Ile to keep it goin'. Of course," he
added, "when it is a success in London I shall carry it away, company
and all, to New York."

He rose in a burst of enthusiasm.

"Gilead P. Beck shall be known for his collection of pictures. He
shall be known for his Golden Butterfly, and the Luck it brought him.
But he shall be best known, Mr. Dunquerque, because he will be the
first man to take the Stage out of the mud of commercial enterprise,
and raise it to be the great educator of the people. He shall be known
as the founder of the Grand National American Drama. And his bust
shall be planted on the top of every American stage."




CHAPTER XXXIV.

    "In such a cause who would not give? What heart
    But leaps at such a name?"


People of rank and position are apt to complain of begging-letters.
Surely England must be a happy country since its rich people complain
mostly of begging-letters; for they are so easily dropped into the
waste-paper basket. A country squire--any man with a handle to his
name and place for a permanent address--is the natural prey and victim
of the beggars. The lithographed letter comes with every post, trying
in vain to look like a written letter. And though in fervid sentences
it shows the danger to your immortal soul if you refuse the pleading,
most men have the courage to resist. The fact is that the letter is
not a nuisance at all, because it is never read. On the other hand, a
new and very tangible nuisance is springing up. It is that of the
people who go round and call. Sir Roger de Coverly in his secluded
village is free from the women who give you the alternative of a day
with Moody and Sankey or an eternity of repentance; he never sees the
pair of Sisters got up like Roman Catholic nuns, who stand meekly
before you, arms crossed, mutely refusing to go without five shillings
at least for their Ritualist hot-house. But he who lives in chambers,
he who puts up at a great hotel and becomes known, he who has a house
in any address from Chester Square to Notting Hill, understands this
trouble.

In some mysterious way Gilead Beck had become known. Perhaps this was
partly in consequence of his habit of going to institutions,
charities, and the like, and wanting to find out everything. In some
vague and misty way it became known that there was at the Langham
Hotel an American named Gilead P. Beck, who was asking questions
philanthropically. Then all the people who live on philanthropists,
with all those who work for their pleasure among philanthropists,
began to tackle Gilead P. Beck. Letters came in the morning, which he
read but did not answer. Circulars were sent to him, of which he
perhaps made a note. Telegrams were even delivered to him--people
somehow _must_ read telegrams--asking him for money. Those wonderful
people who address the Affluent in the _Times_ and ask for £300 on the
security of an honest man's word; those unhappy ladies whose father
was a gentleman and an officer, on the strength of which fact they ask
the Benevolent to help them in their undeserved distress, poor things;
those disinterested advertisers who want a few hundreds, and who will
give fifteen per cent. on the security of a splendid piano, a small
gallery of undoubted pictures, and some unique china; those tradesmen
who try to stave off bankruptcy by asking the world generally for a
loan on the strength of a simple reference to the clergyman of St.
Tinpot, Hammersmith; those artful dodgers, Mr. Ally Sloper and his
friends, when they have devised a new and ingenious method of screwing
money out of the rich,--all these people got hold of our Gilead, and
pelted him with letters. Did they know, the ingenious and the needy,
how the business is overdone, they would change their tactics and go
round calling.

It requires a front of brass, entire absence of self-respect, and an
epidermis like that of the rhinoceros for toughness, to undertake this
work. Yet ladies do it. You want a temperament off which insults,
gibes, sneers, and blank refusals fall like water off a
nasturtium-leaf to go the begging-round. Yet women do it. They do it
not only for themselves, but also for their cause. From Ritualism down
to Atheism, from the fashionable enthusiasm to the nihilism which the
British workman is being taught to regard as the hidden knowledge,
there are women who will brave anything, dare anything, say anything,
and endure anything. They love to be martyred, so long especially as
it does not hurt; they are angry with the lukewarm zeal of their male
supporters, forgetting that a man sees the two sides of a question,
while a woman never sees more than one; they mistake notoriety for
fame, and contempt for jealous admiration.

And here, in the very heart of London, was a man who seemed simply
born for the Polite Beggar. A man restless because he could not part
with his money. Not seeking profitable investments, not asking for ten
and twenty per cent.; but anxious to use his money for the best
purposes; a man who was a philanthropist in the abstract, who
considered himself the trustee of a gigantic gift to the human race,
and was desirous of exercising that trust to the best advantage.

In London; and at the same time, in the same city, thousands of people
not only representing their individual distresses or their society's
wants, but also plans, schemes, and ideas for the promotion of
civilisation in the abstract. Do we not all know the projectors? I
myself know at this moment six men who want each to establish a daily
paper; at least a dozen who would like a weekly; fifty who see a way,
by the formation of a new society, to check immorality, kill
infidelity once for all, make men sober and women clean, prevent
strikes and destroy Republicanism. There is one man who would "save"
the Church of England by establishing the preaching order; one who
knows how to restore England to her place among the nations without a
single additional soldier; one who burns to abolish bishops' aprons,
and would make it penal to preach in a black gown. The land teems with
idea'd men. They yearn, pray, and sigh daily for the capitalist who
will reduce their idea to practice.

And besides the projectors, there are the inventors. I once knew a man
who claimed to have invented a means for embarking and setting down
passengers and goods on a railway without stopping the trains. Think
of the convenience. Why no railways have taken up the invention, I
cannot explain. Then there are men who have inventions which will
reform the whole system of domestic appliances; there are others who
are prepared on encouragement to reform the whole conduct of life by
new inventions. There are men by thousands brooding over experiments
which they have no money to carry out; there are men longing to carry
on experiments whose previous failure they can now account for. All
these men are looking for a capitalist as for a Messiah. Had they
known--had they but dimly suspected--that such a capitalist was in
June of last year staying at the Langham Hotel, they would have sought
that hotel with one consent, and besieged its portals. The world in
general did not know Mr. Beck's resources. But they were beginning to
find him out. The voice of rumour was spreading abroad his reputation.
And the people wrote letters, sent circulars, and called.

"Twenty-three of them came yesterday morning," Gilead Beck complained
to Jack Dunquerque. "Three-and-twenty, and all with a tale to tell.
No, sir,"--his voice rose in indignation--"I did not give one of them
so much as a quarter-dollar. The Luck of the Golden Butterfly is not
to be squandered among the well-dressed beggars of Great Britain.
Three-and-twenty, counting one little boy, who came by himself. His
mother was a widow, he said, and he sat on the chair and sniffed. And
they all wanted money. There was one man in a white choker who had
found out a new channel for doing good--and one man who wished to
recommend a list of orphans. The rest were women. And talk? There's no
name for it. With little books, and pencils, and bundles of tracts."

While he spoke there was a gentle tap at the door.

"There's another of them," he groaned. "Stand by me, Mr. Dunquerque.
See me through with it. Come in, come in! Good Lord!" he whispered, "a
brace this time. Will you tackle the young one, Mr. Dunquerque?"

A pair of ladies. One of them a lady tall and thin, stern of aspect,
sharp of feature, eager of expression. She wore spectacles: she was
apparently careless of her dress, which was of black silk a little
rusty. With her was a girl of about eighteen, perhaps her daughter,
perhaps her niece; a girl of rather sharp but pretty features, marked
by a look of determination, as if she meant to see the bottom of this
business, or know the reason why.

"You are Mr. Beck, sir?" the elder lady began.

"I am Gilead P. Beck, madam," he replied.

He was standing before the fireplace, with his long hands thrust into
his pocket, one foot on an adjacent chair, and his head thrown a
little back--defiantly.

"You have received two letters from me, Mr. Beck, written by my own
hand, and--how many circulars, child?'

"Twenty," said the girl.

"And I have had no answer. I am come for your answer, Mr. Beck. We
will sit down, if you please, while you consider your answer."

Mr. Beck took up a waste paper basket which stood at his feet, and
tossed out the whole contents upon the table.

"Those are the letters of yesterday and to-day," he said. "What was
yours, madam? Was it a letter asking for money?"

"It was."

"Yesterday there were seventy-four letters asking for money. To-day
there are only fifty-two. May I ask, madam, if you air the widow who
wants money to run a mangle?"

"Sir, I am unmarried. A mangle!"

He dug his hand into the pile, and took out one at random.

"You air, perhaps, the young lady who writes to know if I want a
housekeeper, and encloses her carte-de-visite? No; that won't do. Is
it possible you are the daughter of the Confederate general who lost
his life in the cause?"

"Really, sir!"

"Then, madam, we come to the lady who"--here he read from another
letter--"who was once a governess, and now is reduced to sell her last
remaining garments."

"Sir!"

There was a withering scorn on the lady's lips.

"I represent a Cause, Mr. Beck. I am not a beggar for myself. My cause
is the sacred one of Womanhood. You, sir, in your free and happy
Republic----"

Mr. Beck bowed.

"Have seen woman partially restored to her proper place--on a level
with man."

"A higher level," murmured the girl, who had far-off eyes and a sweet
voice. "The higher level reached by the purer heart."

"Only partially restored at present. But the good work goes on. Here
we are only beginning. Mr. Beck, the Cause wants help--your help."

He said nothing and she went on.

"We want our rights; we want suffrage; we want to be elected for the
Houses of Parliament; we insist on equality in following the
professions and in enjoying the endowments of Education. We shall
prove that we are no whit inferior to men. We want no privileges. Let
us stand by ourselves."

"Wal, madam, their air helpers who shove up, and I guess there air
helpers who shove down."

She did not understand him, and went on with increasing volubility.

"The subjection of the Sex is the most monstrous injustice of all
those which blot the fair fame of manhood. What is there in man's
physical strength that he should use it to lord over the weaker half
of humanity? Why has not our sex produced a Shakespeare?"

"It has, madam," said Mr. Beck gravely. "It has produced all our
greatest men."

She was staggered.

"Your answer, if you please, Mr. Beck."

"I have no answer, madam."

"I have written you two letters, and sent you twenty circulars, urging
upon you the claims of the Woman's Rights Association. I have the
right to ask for a reply. I expect one. You will be kind enough sir,
to give categorically your answer to the several heads. This you will
do of your courtesy to a lady. We can wait here while you write it. I
shall probably, I ought to tell you, publish it."

"We can wait," said the young lady.

They sat with folded hands in silence.

Mr. Beck shifted his foot from the chair to the carpet. Then he took
his hands out of his pockets and stroked his chin. Then he gazed at
the ladies steadily.

Jack Dunquerque sat in the background, and rendered no help whatever.

"Did you ever, ladies," asked Mr. Beck, after a few moments of
reflection, "hear of Paul Deroon of Memphis? He was the wickedest man
in that city. Which was allowed. He kept a bar where the whisky was
straight and the language was free, and where Paul would tell stories,
once you set him on, calculated to raise on end the hair of your best
sofa. When the Crusade began--I mean the Whisky Crusade--the ladies
naturally began with Paul Deroon's saloon."

"This is very tedious, my dear," said the elder lady in a loud
whisper.

"How did Paul Deroon behave? Some barkeepers came out and cursed while
the Whisky War went on; some gave in and poured away the Bourbon: some
shut up shop and took to preachin.' Paul just did nothing. You
couldn't tell from Paul's face that he even knew of the forty women
around him prayin' all together. If he stepped outside he walked
through as if they weren't there, and they made a lane for him. If
he'd been blind and deaf and dumb, Paul Deroon couldn't have taken
less notice."

"We shall not keep our appointment, I fear," the younger lady
remarked.

"They prayed, preached, and sang hymns for a whole week. On Sunday
they sang eighty strong. And on the seventh day Paul took no more
notice than on the first. Once they asked him if he heard the singin.'
He said he did: and it was very soothin' and pleasant. Said, too, that
he liked music to his drink. Then they asked him if he heard the
prayers. He said he did; said, too, that it was cool work sittin' in
the shade and listenin'; also that it kinder seemed as if it was bound
to do somebody or other good some day. Then they told him that the
ladies were waitin' to see him converted. He said it was very kind of
them, and, for his own part, he didn't mind meetin' their wishes half
way, and would wait as long as they did."

The ladies rose. Said the elder lady viciously: "You are unworthy,
sir, to represent your great country. You are a common scoffer."

"General Schenck represents my country, madam."

"You are unworthy of being associated with a great Cause. We have
wasted our time upon you."

Their departure was less dignified than their entry.

As they left the room another visitor arrived. It was a tall and
handsome man, with a full flowing beard and a genial presence.

He had a loud voice and a commanding manner.

"Mr. Beck? I thought so. I wrote to you yesterday, Mr. Beck. And I am
come in person--in person, sir--for your reply."

"You air the gentleman, sir, interested in the orphan children of a
colonial bishop?"

"No, sir, I am not. Nothing of the kind."

"Then you air perhaps the gentleman who wrote to say that unless I
sent him a ten-pound note by return of post he would blow out his
brains?"

"I am Major Borington. I wrote to you, sir, on behalf of the Grand
National Movement for erecting International Statues."

"What is that movement, sir?"

"A series of monuments to all our great men, Mr. Beck. America and
England, have ancestors in common. We have our Shakespeare, sir, our
Milton."

"Yes, sir, so I have heard. I did not know those ancestors myself,
having been born too late, and therefore I do not take that interest
in their stone figures you do."

"Positively, Mr. Beck, you must join us."

"It is your idea, Colonel, is it?"

"Mine, Mr. Beck. I am proud to say it is my own."

"I knew a man once, Colonel, in my country, who wanted to be a great
man. He had that ambition, sir. He wasn't particular how he got his
greatness. But he scorned to die and be forgotten, and he yearned to
go down to posterity. His name, sir, was Hiram Turtle. First of all,
he ambitioned military greatness. We went into Bull's Run together.
And we came out of it together. We came away from that field side by
side. We left our guns there, too. If we had had shields, we should
have left them as well. Hiram concluded, sir, after that experience,
to leave military greatness to others."

Major Borington interposed a gesture.

"One moment, Brigadier. The connection is coming. Hiram Turtle thought
the ministry opened up a field. So he became a preacher. Yes; he
preached once. But he forgot that a preacher must have something to
say, and so the elders concluded not to ask Hiram Turtle any more.
Then he became clerk in a store while he looked about him. For a year
or two he wrote poetry. But the papers in America, he found, were in a
league against genius. So he gave up that lay. Politics was his next
move; and he went for stump-orating with the Presidency in his eye.
Stumpin' offers amusement as well as gentle exercise, but it doesn't
pay unless you get more than one brace of niggers and a bubbly-jock to
listen. Wal, sir, how do you think Hiram Turtle made his greatness? He
figured around, sir, with a List, and his own name a-top, for a Grand
National Monument to the memory of the great men who fell in the Civil
War. They air still subscribing, and Hiram Turtle is the great
Patriot. Now, General, you see the connection."

"If you mean, sir," cried Major Borington, "to imply that my motives
are interested----"

"Not at all, sir," said Mr. Beck; "I have told you a little story.
Hiram Turtle's was a remarkable case. Perhaps you might ponder on it."

"Your language is insulting, sir!"

"Colonel, this is not a country where men have to take care what they
say. But if you should ever pay a visit out West, and if you should
happen to be about where tar and feathers are cheap, you would really
be astonished at the consideration you would receive. No, sir, I shall
not subscribe to your Grand National Association. But go on, Captain,
go on. This is a charitable country, and the people haven't all heard
the story of Hiram Turtle. And what'll you take, Major?"

But Major Borington, clapping on his hat, stalked out of the room.

The visits of the strong-minded female and Major Borington which were
typical, took place on the day which was the first and only occasion
on which Phillis went to the theatre. Gilead Beck took the box, and
they went--Jack Dunquerque being himself the fourth, as they say in
Greek exercise-books--to the Lyceum, and saw Henry Irving play Hamlet.

Phillis brought to the play none of the reverence with which English
people habitually approach Shakespeare, insomuch that while we make
superhuman efforts to understand him we have lost the power of
criticism. To her, George III.'s remark that there was a great deal of
rubbish in Shakspeare would have seemed a perfectly legitimate
conclusion. But she knew nothing about the great dramatist.

The house, with its decorations, lights, and crowd, pleased her. She
liked the overture, and she waited with patience for the first scene.
She was going to see a representation of life done in show. So much
she understood. Instead of telling a story the players would act the
story.

The Ghost--perhaps because the Lyceum Ghost was so palpably flesh and
blood--inspired her with no terror at all. But gradually the story
grew into her, and she watched the unfortunate Prince of Denmark torn
by his conflicting emotions, distraught with the horror of the deed
that had been done and the deed that was to do, with a beating heart
and trembling lip. When Hamlet with that wild cry threw himself upon
his uncle's throne, she gasped and caught Agatha by the hand. When the
play upon the stage showed the King how much of the truth was known,
she trembled, and looked to see him immediately confess his crime and
go out to be hanged. She was indignant with Hamlet for the slaughter
of Polonius; she was contemptuous of Ophelia, whom she did not
understand; and she was impatient when the two Gravediggers came to
the front, resolute to spare the audience none of their somewhat musty
old jokes and to abate nothing of the stage-business.

When they left the theatre Phillis moved and spoke as in a dream. War,
battle, conspiracy, murder, crime--all these things, of which her
guardian had told her, she saw presented before her on the stage. She
had too much to think of; she had to fit all these new surroundings in
her mind with the stories of the past. As for the actors, she had no
power whatever of distinguishing between them and the parts they
played. Irving was Hamlet; Miss Bateman was Ophelia; and they were all
like the figures of a dream, because she did not understand how they
could be anything but Hamlet, Ophelia, and the Court of Denmark.

And this, too, was part of her education.




CHAPTER XXXV.

    "Love in her eyes lay hiding,
    His time in patience biding."


"Square it with Colquhoun before you go any farther," said Ladds.

Square it with the guardian--speak to the young lady's father--make it
all right with the authorities; what excellent advice to give, and how
easy to follow it up! Who does not look forward with pleasure, or
backward as to an agreeable reminiscence, to that half hour spent in a
confidential talk with dear papa? How calmly critical, how severely
judicial, was his summing up! With what a determined air did he follow
up the trail, elicited in cross-examination, of former sins! With how
keen a scent did he disinter forgotten follies, call attention to
bygone extravagances, or place the finger of censure upon debts which
never ought to have been incurred, and economies which ought to have
been made!

Remember his "finally"--a word which from childhood has been
associated with sweet memories, because it brings the sermon to an
end, but which henceforth will awake in your brain the ghost of that
_mauvais quart d'heure_. In that brief peroration he tore the veil
from the last cherished morsel of self-illusion; he showed you that
the furnishing of a house was a costly business, that he was not going
to do it for you, that servants require an annual income of
considerable extent, that his daughter had been brought up a lady,
that lady's dress is a serious affair, that wedlock in due season
brings babies, and that he was not so rich as he seemed.

Well, perhaps he said "Yes" reluctantly, in spite of drawbacks. Then
you felt that you were regarded by the rest of the family as the means
of preventing dear Annabella from making a brilliant match. That
humbled you for life. Or perhaps he said "No." In that case you went
away sadly and meditated suicide. And whether you got over the fit, or
whether you didn't--though of course you did--the chances were that
Annabella never married at all, and you are still regarded by the
family as the cause of that sweet creature not making the
exceptionally splendid alliance which, but for you, the disturbing
influence, would have been her lot.

However, the thing is necessary, unless people run away, a good old
fashion by which such interviews, together with wedding-breakfasts,
wedding-garments, and wedding-presents were avoided.

Running away is out of fashion. It would have been the worst form
possible in Jack Dunquerque even to propose such a thing to Phillis,
and I am not at all certain that he would ever have made her
understand either the necessity or the romance of the thing. And I am
quite sure that she would never understand that Jack Dunquerque was
asking her to do a wrong thing.

Certainly it was not likely that this young man would proceed further
in the path of irregularity--which leads to repentance--than he had
hitherto done. He had now to confess before the young lady's guardian
something of the part he played.

Looked at dispassionately, and unsoftened by the haze of illusion,
this part had, as he acknowledged with groans, an appearance far from
pleasing to the Christian moralist.

He had taken advantage of the girl's total ignorance to introduce
himself at the house where she was practically alone for the whole
day; he found her like a child in the absence of the reserve which
girls are trained to; he stepped at once into the position of a
confidential friend; he took her about for walks and drives, a thing
which might have compromised her seriously; he allowed Joseph Jagenal,
without, it is true, stating it in so many words, to believe him an
old friend of Phillis's; he followed her to Twickenham and installed
himself at Mrs. L'Estrange's as an _ami de famille_; he had done
so much to make the girl's life bright and happy, he was so dear to
her, that he felt there was but one step to be taken to pass from a
brother to a lover.

It was a black record to look at, and it was poor consolation to think
that any other man would have done the same.

Jack Dunquerque, like Phillis herself, was changed within a month.
Somehow the fun and carelessness which struck Gilead Beck as so
remarkable in a man of five-and-twenty were a good deal damped. For
the first time in his life he was serious; for the first time he had a
serious and definite object before him. He was perfectly serious in an
unbounded love for Phillis. Day by day the sweet beauty of the girl,
her grace, her simple faith, her child-like affection, sank into his
heart and softened him. Day after day, as he rowed along the meadows
of the Thames, or lazied under the hanging willows by the shore, or
sat with her in the garden, or rode along the leafy roads by her side,
the sincerity of her nature, as clear and cloudless as the blue depths
of heaven; its purity, like the bright water that leaps and bubbles
and flows beneath the shade of Lebanon; its perfect truthfulness, like
the midday sunshine in June; the innocence with which, even as another
Eve, she bared her very soul for him to read--these things, when he
thought of them, brought the unaccustomed tears to his eyes, and made
his spirit rise and bound within him as to unheard of heights. For
love, to an honest man, is like Nature to a poet or colour to an
artist--it makes him see great depths, and gives him, if only for once
in his life, a Pisgah view of a Land far, far holier, a life far, far
higher, a condition far, far sweeter and nobler than anything in this
world can give us--except the love of a good woman. In such a vision
the ordinary course of our life is suspended; we move on air; we see
men as trees walking, and regard them not. Happy the man who once in
his life has been so lifted out of the present, and knows not
afterwards whether he was in the flesh or out of the flesh.

Jack, with the influence of this great passion upon him, was
transformed. Fortunately for us this emotion had its ebb and flow.
Else that great dinner to Literature had never come off. But at all
times he was under its sobering influence. And it was in a penitent
and humble mood that he sought Lawrence Colquhoun, in the hope of
"squaring it" with him as Ladds advised. Good fellow, Tommy; none
better; but wanting in the higher delicacy. Somehow the common words
and phrases of every-day use applied to Phillis jarred upon him. After
all, one feels a difficulty in offering a princess the change for a
shilling in coppers. If I had to do it, I should fall back on a
draught upon the Cheque Bank.

Lawrence was full of his own annoyances--most of us always are, and it
is one of the less understood ills of life that one can never get,
even for five minutes, a Monopoly of Complaint. But he listened
patiently while Jack--Jack of the Rueful Countenance--poured out his
tale of repentance, woe, and prayer.

"You see," he said, winding up, "I never thought what it would come
to. I dropped into it by accident and then--then----"

"When people come to flirt they stay to spoon," said Lawrence. "In
other words, my dear fellow, you are in love. Ah!"

Jack wondered what was meant by the interjection. In all the list of
interjections given by Lindley Murray, or the new light Dr. Morris,
such as Pish! Phaw! Alas! Humph! and the rest which are in everybody's
mouth, there is none which blows with such an uncertain sound as this.
Impossible to tell whether it means encouragement, sympathy, or cold
distrust.

"Ah!" said Lawrence. "Sit down and be comfortable, Jack. When one is
really worried, nothing like a perfect chair. Take my own. Now, then,
let us talk it over."

"It doesn't look well," thought Jack.

"Always face the situation," said Lawrence (he had got an uncommonly
awkward situation of his own to face, and it was a little relief to
turn to some one else's). "Nothing done by blinking facts. Here we
are. Young lady of eighteen or so--just released from a convent;
ignorant of the world; pretty; attractive ways; rich, as girls go--on
the one hand. On the other, you: good-looking, as my cousin Agatha
L'Estrange says, though I can't see it; of a cheerful disposition--_aptus
ludere_, fit to play, _cum puellâ_, all the day----"

"Don't chaff, Colquhoun; it's too serious."

But Colquhoun went on:

"An inflammable young man. Well, with any other girl the danger would
have been seen at once; poor Phillis is so innocent that she is
supposed to be quite safe. So you go on calling. My cousin Agatha
writes me word that she has been looking for the light of love, as she
calls it, in Phillis's eyes; and it isn't there. She is a
sentimentalist, and therefore silly. Why didn't she look in your eyes,
Jack? That would have been very much more to the purpose."

"She has, now. I told her yesterday that I--I--loved Phillis."

"Did she ask you to take the young lady's hand and a blessing at once?
Come, Jack, look at the thing sensibly. There are two or three very
strong reasons why it can't be."

"Why it can't be!" echoed Jack dolefully.

"First, the girl hasn't come out. Now, I ask you, would it not be
simply sinful not to give her a fair run? In any case you could not be
engaged till after she has had one season. Then her father, who did
not forget that he was grandson of a Peer, wanted his daughter to make
a good match, and always spoke of the fortune he was to leave her as a
guarantee that she would marry well. He never thought he was going to
die, of course; but all events I know so much of his wishes. Lastly,
my dear Jack Dunquerque, you are the best fellow in the world, but,
you know--but----"

"But I am not Lord Isleworth."

"That is just it. You are his lordship's younger brother, with one or
two between you and the title. Now don't you see? Need we talk about
it any more?"

"I suppose Phil--I mean Miss Fleming--will be allowed to choose for
herself. You are not going to make her marry a man because he happens
to have a title and an estate, and offers himself?"

"I suppose," said Lawrence, laughing, "that I am going to lock Phillis
up in a tower until the right man comes. No, no, Jack; there shall be
no compulsion. If she sets her heart upon marrying you--she is a
downright young lady--why, she must do it; but after she has had her
run among the ball-rooms, not before. Let her take a look round first;
there will be other Jack Dunquerques ready to look at, be sure of
that. Perhaps she will think them fairer to outward view than you. If
she does, you will have to give her up in the end, you know."

"I have said no word of love to her, Colquhoun, I give you my honour,"
said Jack hotly, "I don't think she would understand it if I did."

"I am glad of that at least."

"If I am to give her up and go away, I dare say," the poor youth went
on, with a little choking in his throat, "that she will regret me at
first and for a day or two. But she will get over that; and--as you
say, there are plenty of fellows in the world better than
myself--and----"

"My dear Jack, there will be no going away. You tell me you have not
told her all the effect that her _beaux yeux_ have produced upon
you. Well, then--and there has been nothing to compromise her at all?"

"Nothing; that is, once we went to the Tower in a hansom cab."

"Oh, that is all, is it? Jack Dunquerque--Jack Dunquerque!"

"And we have been up the river a good many times in a boat."

"I see. The river is pleasant at this time of the year."

"And we have been riding together a good deal. Phil rides very well,
you know."

"Does she? It seems to me, Jack, that my cousin Agatha is a fool, and
that you have been having rather a high time in consequence. Surely
you can't complain if I ask you to consider the innings over for the
present?"

"No; I can't complain, if one may hope----"

"Let us hope nothing. Sufficient for the day. He who hopes nothing
gets everything. Come out of it at once, Jack, before you get hit too
hard."

"I think no one was ever hit so hard before," said Jack. "Colquhoun,
you don't know your ward. It is impossible for any one to be with her
without falling in love with her. She is----" Here he stopped, because
he could not go any farther. Anybody who did not know the manly nature
of Jack Dunquerque might have thought he was stopped by emotion.

"We all get the fever some time or other. But we worry through. Look
at me, Jack. I am forty, and, as you see, a comparatively hale and
hearty man, despite my years. It doesn't shorten life, that kind of
fever; it doesn't take away appetite; it doesn't interfere with your
powers of enjoyment. There is even a luxury about it. You can't
remember Geraldine Arundale, now Lady Newladegge, when she came out,
of course. You were getting ready for Eton about that time. Well, she
and I carried on for a whole season. People talked. Then she got
engaged to her present husband, after seeing him twice. She wanted a
Title, you see. I was very bad, that journey; and I remember that
Agatha, who was in my confidence, had a hot time of it over the
faithlessness of shallow hearts. But I got over the attack, and I have
not been dangerously ill, so to speak since. That is, I have made a
contemptible ass of myself on several occasions, and I dare say I
shall go on making an ass of myself as long as I live. Because the
older you grow, somehow, the sweeter do the flowers smell."

Jack only groaned. It really is no kind of consolation to tell a
suffering man that you have gone through it yourself. Gilead Beck told
me once of a man who lived in one of the Southern States of America:
he was a mild, and placid creature, inoffensive as a canary bird,
quiet as a mongoose, and much esteemed for his unusual meekness. This
harmless being once got ear-ache--very bad ear-ache. Boyhood's
ear-aches are awful things to remember; but those of manhood, when
they do come, which is seldom, are the Devil. To him in agony came a
friend, who sat down beside him, like Eliphaz the Temanite, and
sighed. This the harmless being who had the ear-ache put up with,
though it was irritating. Presently the friend began to relate how he
once had the ear-ache himself. Then the harmless creature rose up
suddenly, and, seizing an adjacent chunk of wood, gave that friend a
token of friendship on the head with such effect that he ceased the
telling of that and all other stories, and has remained quite dumb
ever since. The jury acquitted that inoffensive and meek creature, who
wept when the ear-ache was gone, and often laid flowers on the grave
of his departed friend.

Jack did not heave chunks of wood at Colquhoun. He only looked at him
with ineffable contempt.

"Lady Newladegge! why, she's five-and-thirty! and she's fat!"

"She wasn't always five-and-thirty, nor was she always fat. On the
contrary, when she was twenty, and I was in love with her, she was
slender, and, if one may so speak of a Peeress, she was cuddlesome!"

"Cuddlesome!" Jack cried, his deepest feelings outraged. "Good
Heavens! to think of comparing Phil with a woman who was once
cuddlesome!"

Lawrence Colquhoun laughed.

"In fifteen years, or thereabouts, perhaps you will take much the same
view of things as I do. Meantime Jack, let things remain as they are.
You shall have a fair chance with the rest; and you must remember that
you have had a much better chance than anybody else, because you have
had the first running. Leave off going to Twickenham quite so much;
but don't stop going altogether, or Phillis may be led to suspect.
Can't you contrive to slack off by degrees?"

Jack breathed a little more freely. The house, then, was not shut to
him.

"The young lady will have her first season next year. I don't say I
hope she will marry anybody else, Jack, but I am bound to give her the
chance. As soon as she really understands a little more of life she
will find out for herself what is best for her, perhaps. Now we've
talked enough about it."

Jack Dunquerque went away sorrowful. He expected some such result of
this endeavour to "square" it with Colquhoun, but yet he was
disappointed.

"Hang it all, Jack," said Ladds, "what can you want more? You are told
to wait a year. No one will step in between you and the young lady
till she comes out. You are not told to discontinue your visits--only
not to go too often, and not to compromise her. What more does the man
want?"

"You are a very good fellow, Tommy," sighed the lover; "a very good
fellow in the main. But you see, you don't know Phil. Let me call her
Phil to you, old man. There's not another man in the world that I
_could_ talk about her to--not one, by Jove; it would seem a
desecration."

"Go on, Jack--talk away; and I'll give you good advice."

He did talk away! What says Solomon? "Ointment and perfume rejoice the
soul; so doth the sweetness of a man's friend by hearty counsel." The
Wise Man might have expressed himself more clearly, but his meaning
can be made out.

Meantime Lawrence Colquhoun, pulling himself together after Jack went
away, remembered that he had not once gone near his ward since he
drove her to Twickenham.

"It is too bad," said Conscience; "a whole month."

"It is all that woman's fault," he pleaded. "I have been dangling
about, in obedience to her, like a fool."

"Like a fool!" echoed Conscience.

He went that very day, and was easily persuaded to stay and dine with
the two ladies.

He said very little, but Agatha observed him watching his ward
closely.

After dinner she got a chance.

It was a pleasant evening, early in June. They had strawberries on a
garden table. Phillis presently grew tired of sitting under the shade,
and strolled down to the river-side, where she sat on the grass and
threw biscuits to the swans.

"What do you think, Lawrence?"

He was watching her in silence.

"I don't understand it, Agatha. What have you done to her?"

"Nothing. Are you pleased?"

"You are a witch; I believe you must have a familiar somewhere. She is
wonderful--wonderful!"

"Is she a ward to be proud of and to love, Lawrence? Is she the
sweetest and prettiest girl you ever saw? My dear cousin, I declare to
you that I think her faultless. At least, her very faults are
attractive. She is impetuous and self-willed, but she is full of
sympathy. And that seems to have grown up in her altogether in the
last few months."

"Her manner appears to be more perfect than anything I have ever
seen."

"It is because she has no self-consciousness. She is like a child
still, my dear Phillis, so far."

"I wonder if it is because she cannot read? Why should we not prohibit
the whole sex from learning to read?"

"Nonsense, Lawrence. What would the novelists do? Besides, she is
learning to read fast. I put her this morning into the Third Lesson
Book--two syllables. And it is not as if she were ignorant, because
she knows a great deal."

"Then why is it?"

"I think her sweet nature has something to do with it; and, besides,
she has been shielded from many bad influences. We send girls to
school, and--and--well, Lawrence, we cannot all be angels, any more
than men. If girls learn about love, and establishments, and
flirtations, and the rest of it, why, they naturally want their share
of these good things. Then they get self-conscious."

"What about Jack Dunquerque?" asked Lawrence abruptly. "He has been to
me about her."

Agatha blushed as prettily as any self-conscious young girl.

"He loves Phillis," she said; "but Phillis only regards him as a
brother."

"Agatha, you are no wiser than little Red Riding Hood. Jack Dunquerque
is a wolf."

"I am sure he is a most honourable, good young man."

"As for good, goodness knows. Honourable no doubt, and a wolf. You are
a matchmaker, you bad, bad woman. I believe you want him to marry that
young Princess over there."

"And what did you tell poor Jack?"

"Told him to wait. Acted the stern guardian. Won't have an engagement.
Must let Phillis have her run. Mustn't come here perpetually trying to
gobble up my dainty heiress. Think upon that now, Cousin Agatha."

"She could not marry into a better family."

"Very true. The Dunquerques had an Ark of their own, I believe, at the
Deluge. But then Jack is not Lord Isleworth; and he isn't ambitious,
and he isn't clever, and he isn't rich."

"Go on, Lawrence; it is charming to see you in a new
character--Lawrence the Prudent!"

"Charmed to charm _la belle cousine_. He is in love, and he is hit as
hard as any man I ever saw. But Phillis shall not be snapped up in
this hasty and inconsiderate manner. There are lots of better _partis_
in the field."

Then Phillis came back, dangling her hat by its ribbons. The setting
sun made a glory of her hair, lit up the splendour of her eyes, and
made a clear outline of her delicate features and tall shapely figure.

"Come and sit by me, Phillis," said her guardian. "I have neglected
you. Agatha will tell you that I am a worthless youth of forty, who
neglects all his duties. You are so much improved, my child, that I
hardly knew you. Prettier and--and--everything. How goes on the
education?"

"Reading and writing," said Phillis, "do not make education. Really,
Lawrence, you ought to know better. A year or two with Mr. Dyson would
have done you much good. I am in words of two syllables; and Agatha
thinks I am getting on very nicely. I am in despair about my painting
since we have been to picture-galleries. And to think how conceited I
was once over it! But I _can_ draw, Lawrence; I shall not give up my
drawing."

"And you liked your galleries?"

"Some of them. The Academy was tiring. Why don't they put all the
portraits in one room together, so that we need not waste time over
them?"

"What did you look at?"

"I looked at what all the other people pressed to see, first of all.
There was a picture of Waterloo, with the French and English crowded
together so that they could shake hands. It was drawn beautifully; but
somehow it made me feel as if War was a little thing. Mr. Dyson used
to say that women take the grandeur and strength out of Art. Then
there was a brown man with a sling on a platform. The platform rested
on stalks of corn; and if the man were to throw the stone he would
topple over, and tumble off his platform. And there was another one,
of a row of women going to be sold for slaves; a curious picture, and
beautifully painted, but I did not like it."

"What did you like?"

"I liked some that told their own story, and made me think. There was
a picture of a moor--take me to see a moor, Lawrence--with a windy
sky, and a wooden fence, and a light upon. Oh, I liked all the
landscapes. I think our artists feel trees and sunshine. But what is
my opinion worth?"

"Come with me to-morrow, Phillis; we will go through the pictures
together, and you shall teach me what to like. Your opinion worth?
Why, child, all the opinions of all the critics together are not worth
yours."




CHAPTER XXXVI.

    "What is it that has been done?"


These anonymous letters and this fit of jealousy, the more dangerous
because it was a new thing, came at an awkward time for Gabriel
Cassilis. He had got "big" things in hand, and the eyes of the City,
he felt, were on him. It was all-important that he should keep his
clearness of vision and unclouded activity of brain. For the first
time in his life his operations equalled, or nearly approached, his
ambition. For the first time he had what he called a considerable sum
in his hands. That is to say, there was his own money--he was reported
to be worth three hundred thousand pounds--Gilead Beck's little pile,
with his unlimited credit, and smaller sums placed in his hands for
investment by private friends, such as Colquhoun, Ladds, and others. A
total which enabled him to wait. And the share-market oscillating. And
telegrams in cipher reaching him from all quarters. And Gabriel
Cassilis unable to work, tormented by the one thought, like Io by her
gad-fly, attacked by fits of giddiness which made him cling to the
arms of his chair, and relying on a brain which was active, indeed,
because it was filled with a never-ending succession of pictures, in
which his wife and Colquhoun always formed the principal figures, but
which refused steady work.

Gabriel Cassilis was a gamester who played to win. His game was not
the roulette-table, where the bank holds one chance out of thirty, and
must win in the long run; it was a game in which he staked his
foresight, knowledge of events, financial connections, and calm
judgment against greed, panic, enthusiasm, and ignorance. It was his
business to be prepared against any turn of the tide. He would have
stood calmly in the Rue Quincampoix, buying in and selling out up to
an hour before the smash. And that would have found him without a
single share in Law's great scheme. A great game, but a difficult one.
It requires many qualities, and when you have got these, it requires a
steady watchfulness and attention to the smallest cloud appearing on
the horizon.

There were many clouds on the horizon. His grand _coup_ was to be in
Eldorado Stock. Thanks to Mr. Wylie's pamphlet they went down, and
Gabriel Cassilis bought in--bought all he could; and the Stock went
up. There was a fortnight before settling day.

They went up higher, and yet higher. El Señor Don Bellaco de la
Carambola, Minister of the Eldorado Republic at St. James's, wrote a
strong letter to the daily papers in reply to Mr. Wylie's pamphlet. He
called attention to the rapid--the enormous--advance made in the
State. As no one had seen the place, it was quite safe to speak of
buildings, banks, commercial prosperity, and "openings up." It
appeared, indeed from his letter that the time of universal wealth,
long looked for by mankind, was actually arrived for Eldorado.

The Stock went higher. Half the country clergy who had a few hundreds
in the bank wanted to put them in Eldorado Stock. Still Gabriel
Cassilis made no move, but held on.

And every day to get another of those accursed letters, with some new
fact; every day to groan under fresh torture of suspicion; every day
to go home and dine with the calm cold creature whose beauty had been
his pride, and try to think that this impassive woman could be
faithless.

This torture lasted for weeks; it began when Colquhoun first went to
his house, and continued through May into June. His mental sufferings
were so great that his speech became affected. He found himself saying
wrong words, or not being able to hit upon the right word at all. So
he grew silent. When he returned home, which was now early, he hovered
about the house. Or he crept up to his nursery, and played with his
year-old child. And the nurses noticed how, while he laughed and
crowed to please the baby, the tears came into his eyes.

The letters grew more savage.

He would take them out and look at them. Some of the sentences burned
into his brain like fire.

"As Mr. Lawrence Colquhoun is the only man she ever loved. Ask her for
the secret. They think no one knows it.

"Does she care for the child--your child? Ask Tomlinson how often she
sees it.

"When you go to your office, Mr. Colquhoun comes to your house. When
you come home, he goes out of it. Then they meet somewhere else.

"Ask him for the secret. Then ask her, and compare what they say.

"Five years ago Mr. Lawrence Colquhoun and Miss Pengelley were going
to be married. Everybody said so. She went to Scotland. He went after
her. Ask him why.

"You are an old fool with a young wife. She loves your money, not you;
she despises you because you are a City man; and she loves Mr.
Colquhoun."

He sat alone in his study after dinner, reading these wretched things,
in misery of soul. And a thought came across him.

"I will go and see Colquhoun," he said. "I will talk to him, and ask
him what is this secret."

It was about ten o'clock. He put on his hat and took a cab to
Colquhoun's chambers.

On that day Lawrence Colquhoun was ill at ease. It was borne in upon
him with especial force--probably because it was one of the sultry and
thunderous days when Conscience has it all her own disagreeable
way--that he was and had been an enormous Ass. By some accident he was
acquainted with the fact that he had given rise to talk by his
frequent visits to Victoria Cassilis.

"And to think," he said to himself, "that I only went there at her own
special request, and because she likes quarrelling!"

He began to think of possible dangers, not to himself, but to her and
to her husband, even old stories revived and things forgotten and
brought to light. And the thing which she had done came before him in
its real shape and ghastliness--a bad and ugly thing; a thing for
whose sake he should have fled from her presence and avoided her; a
thing which he was guilty in hiding. No possible danger to himself?
Well, in some sense none; in every other sense all dangers. He had
known of this thing, and yet he sat at her table; he was conscious of
the crime, and yet he was seen with her in public places; he was
almost _particeps criminis_, because he did not tell what he knew; and
yet he went day after day to her house--for the pleasure of
quarrelling with her.

He sat down and wrote to her. He told her that perhaps she did not
wholly understand him when he told her that the renewed acquaintance
between them must cease; that, considering the past and with an eye to
the future, he was going to put it out of her power to compromise
herself by seeing her no more. He reminded her that she had a great
secret to keep unknown, and a great position to lose; and then he
begged her to give up her wild attempts at renewing the old ties of
friendship.

The letter, considering what the secret really was, seemed a wretched
mockery to the writer, but he signed it and sent it by his servant.

Then he strolled to his club, and read the papers before dinner. But
he was not easy. There was upon him the weight of impending
misfortune. He dined, and tried to drown care in claret, but with poor
success, Then he issued forth--it was nine o'clock and still
light--and walked gently homewards.

He walked so slowly that it was half-past nine when he let himself
into his chambers in the Albany. His servant was out, and the rooms
looked dismal and lonely. They were not dismal, being on the second
floor, where it is light and airy, and being furnished as mediæval
bachelorhood with plenty of money alone understands furniture. But he
was nervous to-night, and grim stories came into his mind of spectres
and strange visitors to lonely men in chambers. Such things happen
mostly, he remembered, on twilight evenings in midsummer. He was quite
right. The only ghost I ever saw myself was in one of the Inns of
Court, in chambers, at nine o'clock on a June evening.

He made haste to light a lamp--no such abomination as gas was
permitted in Lawrence Colquhoun's chambers: it was one of the silver
reading-lamps, good for small tables, and provided with a green shade,
so that the light might fall in a bright circle, which was Cimmertian
blackness shading off into the sepia of twilight. It was his habit,
too, to have lighted candles on the mantelshelf and on a table; but
to-night he forgot them, so that, except for the light cast upwards by
the gas in the court and an opposite window illuminated, and for the
half-darkness of the June evening, the room was dark. It was very
quiet, too. There was no footsteps in the court below, and no voices
or steps in the room near him. His nearest neighbour, young Lord
Orlebar, would certainly not be home, much before one or two, when he
might return with a few friends connected with the twin services of
the army and the ballet for a little cheerful supper. Below him was
old Sir Richard de Counterpane, who was by this time certainly in bed,
and perhaps sound asleep. Very quiet--he had never known it more
quiet; and he began to feel as if it would be a relief to his nerves
were something or somebody to make a little noise.

He took a novel, one that he had begun a week ago. Whether the novel
of the day is inferior to the novel of Colquhoun's youth, or whether
he was a bad reader of fiction, certainly he had been more than a week
over the first volume alone.

Now it interested him less than ever.

He threw it away and lit a cigar. And then his thoughts went back to
Victoria. What was the devil which possessed the woman that she could
not rest quiet? What was the meaning of this madness upon her?

"A cold--an Arctic woman," Lawrence murmured. "Cold when I told her
how much I loved her; cold when she engaged herself to me; cold in her
crime; and yet she follows me about as if she was devoured by the
ardour of love, like another Sappho."

It was not that, Lawrence Colquhoun; it was the _spretæ injuria
formæ_, the jealousy and hatred caused by the lost power.

"I wish," he said, starting to his feet, and walking like the Polar
bear across his den and back again, "I wish to heaven I had gone on
living in the Empire City with my pair of villainous Chinamen. At
least I was free from her over there. And when I saw her marriage, by
Gad! I thought it was a finisher. Then I came home again."

He stopped in his retrospection, because he heard a foot upon the
stairs.

A woman's foot; a light step and a quick step.

"May be De Counterpane's nurse. Too early for one of young Orlebar's
friends. Can't be anybody for me."

But it was; and a woman stopped at his doorway, and seeing him alone,
stepped in.

She had a hooded cloak thrown about an evening-dress; the hood was
drawn completely over her face, so that you could see nothing of it in
the dim light. And she came in without a word.

Then Colquhoun, who was no coward, felt his blood run cold, because he
knew by her figure and by her step that it was Victoria Cassilis.

She threw back the hood with a gesture almost theatrical, and stood
before him with parted lips and flashing eyes.

His spirits rallied a little then, because he saw that her face was
white, and that she was in a royal rage. Lawrence Colquhoun could
tackle a woman in a rage. That is indeed elementary, and nothing at
all to be proud of. The really difficult thing is to tackle a woman in
tears and distress. The stoutest heart quails before such an
enterprise.

"What is this?" she began, with a rush as of the liberated whirlwind.
"What does this letter mean, Lawrence?"

"Exactly what it says, Mrs. Cassilis. May I ask, is it customary for
married ladies to visit single gentlemen in their chambers, and at
night?"

"It is not usual for--married--ladies--to visit--single--gentlemen,
Lawrence. Do not ask foolish questions. Tell me what this means, I
say."

"It means that my visits to your house have been too frequent, and
that they will be discontinued. In other words, Mrs. Cassilis, the
thing has gone too far, and I shall cease to be seen with you. I
suppose you know that people will talk."

"Let them talk. What do I care how people talk? Lawrence, if you think
that I am going to let you go like this, you are mistaken."

"I believe this poor lady has gone mad," said Lawrence quietly. It was
not the best way to quiet and soothe her, but he could not help
himself.

"You think you are going to play fast and loose with me twice in my
life, and you are mistaken. You shall not. Years ago you showed me
what you are--cold, treacherous, and crafty----"

"Go on, Victoria; I like that kind of thing, because now I know that
you are not mad. Quite in your best style."

"And I forgave you when you returned, and allowed you once more to
visit me. What other woman would have acted so to such a man?"

"Yet she must be mad," said Lawrence. "How else could she talk such
frightful rubbish?"

"Once more we have been friends. Again you have drawn me on, until I
have learned to look to you, for the second time, for the appreciation
denied to me by my--Mr. Cassilis. No, sir; this second desertion must
not and shall not be."

"One would think," said Lawrence helplessly, "that we had not
quarrelled every time we met. Now, Mrs. Cassilis, you have my
resolution. What you please, in your sweet romantic way, to call
second desertion must be and shall be."

"Then I will know the reason why?"

"I have told you the reason why. Don't be a fool, Mrs. Cassilis. Ask
yourself what you want. Do you want me to run away with you? I am a
lazy man, I know, and I generally do what people ask me to do; but as
for that thing, I am damned if I do it!"

"Insult me, Lawrence!" she cried, sinking into a chair. "Swear at me,
as you will."

"Do you wish me to philander about your house like a ridiculous tame
cat, till all the world cries out?"

She started to her feet.

"No!" she cried. "I care nothing about your coming and going. But I
know why--Oh, I know why!--you make up this lame excuse about my good
name--_my_ good name! As if you cared about that!"

"More than you cared about it yourself," he retorted, "But pray go
on."

"It is Phillis Fleming; I saw it from the very first. You began by
taking her away from me and placing her with your cousin, where you
could have her completely under your own influence. You let Jack
Dunquerque hang about her at first, just to show the ignorant creature
what was meant by flirtation, and then you send him about his
business. Lawrence, you are more wicked than I thought you."

"Jealousy, by Gad!" he cried. "Did ever mortal man hear of such a
thing? Jealousy! And after all that she has done----"

"I warn you. You may do a good many things. You may deceive and insult
me in any way except one. But you shall never, never marry Phillis
Fleming!"

Colquhoun was about to reply that he never thought of marrying Phillis
Fleming, but it occurred to him that there was no reason for making
that assertion. So he replied nothing.

"I escaped," she said, "under pretence of being ill. And I made them
fetch me a cab to come away in. My cab is at the Burlington Gardens
end of the court now. Before I go you shall make me a promise,
Lawrence--you used to keep your promises--to act as if this miserable
letter had not been written."

"I shall promise nothing of the kind."

"Then remember, Lawrence--you _shall never marry Phillis Fleming_! Not
if I have to stop it by proclaiming my own disgrace--you shall not
marry that girl, or any other girl. I have that power over you, at any
rate. Now I shall go."

"There is some one on the stairs," said Lawrence quietly.

"Perhaps he is coming here. You had better not be seen. Best go into
the other room and wait."

There was only one objection to her waiting in the other room, and
that was that the door was on the opposite side; that the outer oak
was wide open; that the step upon the stairs was already the step upon
the landing; and that the owner of the step was already entering the
room.

Mrs. Cassilis instinctively shrank back into the darkest corner--that
near the window. The curtains were of some light-coloured stuff. She
drew them closely round her and cowered down, covering her head with
the hood, like Guinevere before her injured lord. For the late caller
was no other than her own husband, Gabriel Cassilis.

As he stood in the doorway the light of the reading-lamp--Mrs.
Cassilis in one of her gestures had tilted up the shade--fell upon his
pale face and stooping form. Colquhoun noticed that he stooped more
than usual, and that his grave face bore an anxious look--such a look
as one sees sometimes in the faces of men who have long suffered
grievous bodily pain. He hesitated for a moment, tapping his knuckles
with his double eyeglasses, his habitual gesture.

"I came up this evening, Colquhoun. Are you quite alone?"

"As you see, Mr. Cassilis," said Colquhoun. He looked hastily round
the room. In the corner he saw the dim outline of the crouching form.
He adjusted the shade, and turned the lamp a little lower. The gas in
the chambers on the other side of the narrow court was put out, and
the room was almost dark. "As you see, Mr. Cassilis. And what gives me
the pleasure of this late call from you?"

"I thought I would come--I came to say----" he stopped helplessly, and
threw himself into a chair. It was a chair standing near the corner in
which his wife was crouching; and he pushed it back until he might
have heard her breathing close to his ear, and, if he had put forth
his hand, might have touched her.

"Glad to see you always, Mr. Cassilis. You came to speak about some
money matters? I have an engagement in five minutes; but we shall have
time, I dare say."

"An engagement? Ah! a lady, perhaps." This with a forced laugh,
because he was thinking of his wife.

"A lady? Yes--yes, a lady."

"Young men--young men----" said Gabriel Cassilis. "Well, I will not
keep you. I came here to speak to you about--about my wife."

"O Lord!" cried Lawrence. "I beg your pardon--about Mrs. Cassilis?"

"Yes; it is a very stupid business. You have known her for a long
time."

"I have, Mr. Cassilis; for nearly eight years."

"Ah, old friends; and once, I believe, people thought----"

"Once, Mr. Cassilis, I myself thought--I cannot tell you what I
thought Victoria Pengelley might be to me. But that is over long
since."

"One for her," thought Lawrence, whose nerves were steady in danger.
His two listeners trembled and shook, but from different causes.

"Over long since," repeated Gabriel Cassilis. "There was nothing in
it, then?"

"We were two persons entirely dissimilar in disposition, Mr.
Cassilis," Lawrence replied evasively. "Perhaps I was not worthy of
her--her calm, clear judgment."

"Another for her," he thought, with a chuckle. The situation would
have pleased him but that he felt sorry for the poor man.

"Victoria is outwardly cold, yet capable of the deepest emotions. It
is on her account, Colquhoun, that I come here. Foolish gossip has
been at work, connecting your names. I think it the best thing,
without saying anything to Victoria, who must never suspect----"

"Never suspect," echoed Colquhoun.

"That I ever heard this absurdity. But we must guard her from calumny,
Colquhoun. Cæsar's wife, you know; and--and--I think that, perhaps, if
you were to be a little less frequent in your calls--and----"

"I quite understand, Mr. Cassilis; and I am not in the least offended.
I assure you most sincerely--I wish Mrs. Cassilis were here to
listen--that I am deeply sorry for having innocently put you to the
pain of saying this. However, the world shall have no further cause of
gossip."

No motion or sign from the dark corner where the hiding woman
crouched.

Mr. Cassilis rose and tapped his knuckles with his glasses. "Thank
you, Colquhoun. It is good of you to take this most unusual request so
kindly. With such a wife as mine jealousy would be absurd. But I have
to keep her name from even a breath--even a breath."

"Quite right, Mr. Cassilis."

He looked round the room.

"Snug quarters for a bachelor--ah! I lived in lodgings always myself.
I thought I heard a woman's voice as I came up-stairs."

"From Sir Richard de Counterpane's rooms down stairs, perhaps. His
nurses, I suppose. The poor old man is getting infirm."

"Ay--ay; and your bedroom is there, I suppose?"

Lawrence took the lamp and opened the door. It was a bare, badly
furnished room, with a little camp-bedstead, and nothing else hardly.
For Lawrence kept his luxurious habits for the day.

Was it pure curiosity that made Gabriel Cassilis look all round the
room?

"Ah, hermit-like. Now, I like a large bed. However, I am very glad I
came. One word, Colquhoun, is better than a thousand letters; and you
are sure you do not misunderstand me?"

"Quite," said Lawrence, taking his hat. "I am going out, too."

"No jealousy at all," said Gabriel Cassilis, going down the stairs.

"Certainly not."

"Nothing but a desire to--to----"

"I understand perfectly," said Lawrence.

As they descended, Lawrence heard steps on the stairs behind them.
They were not yet, then, out of danger.

"Very odd," said Mr. Cassilis. "Coming up I heard a woman's voice. Now
it seems as if there were a woman's feet."

"Nerves, perhaps," said Colquhoun. The steps above them stopped. "I
hear nothing."

"Nor do I. Nerves--ah, yes--nerves."

Mr. Cassilis turned to the left, Colquhoun with him. Behind them he
saw the cloaked and hooded figure of Victoria Cassilis. At the
Burlington Gardens end a cab was waiting. Near the horse's head stood
a woman's figure which Lawrence thought he knew. As they passed her
this woman, whoever she was, covered her face with a handkerchief. And
at the same moment the cab drove by rapidly. Gabriel Cassilis saw
neither woman nor cab. He was too happy to notice anything. There was
nothing in it; nothing at all except mischievous gossip. And he had
laid the Ghost.

"Dear me!" he said to himself presently, "I forgot to ask about the
Secret. But of course there is none. How should there be?"

Next morning there came another letter.

    "You have been fooled worse than ever," it said. "Your wife was in
    Mr. Colquhoun's chambers the whole time that you were there. She
    came down the stairs after you; she passed through the gate,
    almost touching you, and she drove past you in a hansom cab. _I
    know the number_, and will give it to you when the time comes.
    Mr. Colquhoun lied to you. How long? How long?"

It should have been a busy day in the City. To begin with, it only
wanted four days to settling-day. Telegrams and letters poured in, and
they lay unopened on the desk at which Gabriel Cassilis sat, with this
letter before him, mad with jealousy and rage.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

    "'Come now,' the Master Builder cried,
      'The twenty years of work are done;
    Flaunt forth the Flag, and crown with pride
      The Glory of the Coping-Stone.'"


Jack Dunquerque was to "slack off" his visits to Twickenham. That is
to say, as he interpreted the injunction, he was not wholly to
discontinue them, in order not to excite suspicion. But he was not to
haunt the house; he was to make less frequent voyages up the silver
Thames; he was not to ride in leafy lanes side by side with
Phillis--without having Phillis by his side he cared little about
leafy lanes, and would rather be at the club; further, by these
absences he was to leave off being necessary to the brightness of her
life.

It was a hard saying. Nevertheless, the young man felt that he had
little reason for complaint. Other fellows he knew, going after other
heiresses, had been quite peremptorily sent about their business for
good, particularly needy young men like himself. All that Colquhoun
extorted of him was that he should "slack off." He felt, in a manner,
grateful, although had he been a youth of quicker perception, he would
have remembered that the lover who "slacks off" can be no other than
the lover who wishes he had not begun. But nobody ever called Jack a
clever young man.

He was not to give her up altogether. He was not even to give up
hoping. He was to have his chance with the rest. But he was warned
that no chance was to be open to him until the young lady should enter
upon her first season.

Not to give up seeing her. That was everything. Jack Dunquerque had
hitherto lived the life of all young men, careless and _insouciant_,
with its little round of daily pleasures. He was only different from
other young men that he had learned, partly from a sympathetic nature
and partly by travel, not to put all his pleasure in that life about
town and in country houses which seems to so many the one thing which
the world has to offer. He who has lived out on the Prairies for weeks
has found that there are other pleasures besides the gas-light joys of
Town. But his life had been without thought and purposeless--a very
chaos of a life. And now he felt vaguely that his whole being was
changed. To be with Phillis day after day, to listen to the
outpourings of her freshness and innocence, brought to him the same
sort of refreshment as sitting under the little cataract of a mountain
stream brings to one who rambles in a hot West Indian island. Things
for which he once cared greatly he now cared for no more; the
club-life, the cards, and the billiards ceased to interest him; he
took no delight in them. Perhaps it was a proof of a certain weakness
of nature in Jack Dunquerque that he could not at the same time love
things in which Phillis took no part and the things which made the
simple pleasures of her every-day life.

He might have been weak, and yet, whether he was weak or strong, he
knew that she leaned upon him. He was so sympathetic; he seemed to
know so much; he decided so quickly; he was in his way so masterful,
that the girl looked up to him as a paragon of wisdom and strength.

I think she will always so regard him, because the knowledge of her
respect raises Jack daily in moral and spiritual strength, and so her
hero approaches daily to her ideal. What is the highest love worth if
it have not the power of lifting man and woman together up to the
higher levels, where the air is purer, the sunshine brighter, the
vision clearer?

But Colquhoun's commands had wrought a further change in him; that
ugly good-looking face of his, which Agatha L'Estrange admired so
much, and which was wont to be wreathed with a multitudinous smile,
was now doleful. To the world of mankind--male mankind--the chief
charm of Jack Dunquerque, the main cause of his popularity--his
unvarying cheerfulness--was vanished.

"You ought to be called Doleful Jack," said Ladds. "Jack of Rueful
Countenance."

"You don't know, Tommy," replied the lover, sorrowfully wagging his
head. "I've seen Colquhoun; and he won't have it. Says I must wait."

"He's waited till forty. I've waited to five and thirty, and we're
both pretty jolly. Come, young un, you may take courage by our
examples."

"You never met Phil when you were five and twenty," said Jack. "Nobody
ever saw a girl like Phillis."

Five and thirty seems so great an age to five and twenty. And at five
and thirty one feels so young, that it comes upon the possessor of so
many years like a shock of cold water to be reminded that he is really
no longer young.

One good thing--Lawrence Colquhoun did not reproach him. Partly
perhaps because, as a guardian, he did not thoroughly realize Jack's
flagitious conduct; partly because he was an easy-going man, with a
notion in his head that he had nothing to do with the work of Duennas
and Keepers of the Gynæceum. He treated the confessions of the
remorseful lover with a cheery contempt--passed them by; no great harm
had been done; and the girl was but a child.

His own conscience it was which bullied Jack so tremendously. One day
he rounded on his accuser like the poor worm in the proverb, who might
perhaps have got safe back to its hole but for that ill-advised
turning. He met the charges like a man. He pleaded that, criminal as
he had been, nefarious and inexcusable as his action was, this action
had given him a very high time; and that, if it was all to do over
again, he should probably alter his conduct only in degree, but not in
kind; that is to say, he would see Phillis oftener and stay with her
longer. Conscience knocked him out of time in a couple of rounds; but
still he did have the satisfaction of showing fight.

Of course he would do the same thing again. There has never been found
by duenna, by guardian, by despotic parent, or by interested relation,
any law of restraint strong enough to keep apart two young people of
the opposite sex and like age, after they have once become attracted
towards each other. Prudence and prudery, jealousy and interest, never
have much chance. The ancient dames of duennadom may purse their
withered lips and wrinkle their crow's-footed eyes; Love, the
unconquered, laughs and conquers again.

It is of no use to repeat long explanations about Phillis. Such as she
was, we know her--a law unto herself; careless of prohibitions and
unsuspicious of danger. Like Una, she wandered unprotected and
fearless among whatever two-legged wolves, bears, eagles, lions,
vultures and other beasts and birds of prey might be anxiously waiting
to snap her up. Jack was the great-hearted lion who was to bear her
safely through the wistful growls of the meaner beasts. The lion is
not clever like the fox or the beaver, but one always conceives of him
as a gentleman, and therefore fit to be entrusted with such a
beautiful maiden as Una or Phillis. And if Jack was quietly allowed to
carry off his treasure it was Agatha L'Estrange who was chiefly to
blame; and she, falling in love with Jack herself, quite in a motherly
way, allowed the wooing to go on under her very nose. "A bad, bad
woman," as Lawrence Colquhoun called her.

But such a wooing! Miss Ethel Citybredde, when she sees Amandus making
a steady but not an eagerly impetuous advance in her direction at a
ball, feels her languid pulses beat a little faster. "He is coming
after Me," she says to herself, with pride. They snatch a few moments
to sit together in a conservatory. He offers no remark worthy of
repetition, nor does she; yet she thinks to herself, "He is going to
ask me to marry him; he will kiss me; there will be a grand wedding;
everybody will be pleased; other girls will be envious; and I shall be
delighted. Papa knows that he is well off and well connected. How
charming!"

Now Phillis allowed her lover to woo her without one thought of love
or marriage, of which, indeed, she knew nothing. But if the passion
was all on one side, the affection was equally divided. And when Jack
truly said that Phillis did not love him, he forgot that she had given
him already all that she knew of love; in that her thoughts, which on
her first emancipation leaped forth, bounding and running in all
directions with a wild yearning to behold the Great Unknown, were now
returning to herself, and mostly flowed steadily, like streams of
electric influence, in the direction of Jack; inasmuch as she referred
unconsciously everything to Jack, as she dressed for him, drew for
him, pored diligently over hated reading-books for him, and told him
all her thoughts.

I have not told, nor can I tell, of the many walks and talks these two
young people had together. Day after day Jack's boat--that comfortable
old tub, in which he could, and often did, cut a crab without spilling
the contents into the river--lay moored off Agatha's lawn, or rolled
slowly up and down the river, Jack rowing, while Phillis steered,
sang, talked, and laughed. This was pleasant in the morning; but it
was far more pleasant in the evening, when the river was so quiet, so
still and so black, and when thoughts crowded into the girl's brain,
which fled like spirits when she tried to put them into words.

Or they rode together along the leafy roads through Richmond Park, and
down by that unknown region, far away from the world, where heron rise
up from the water's edge, where the wild fowl fly above the lake in
figures which remind one of Euclid's definitions, and the deer collect
in herds among great ferns half as high as themselves. There they
would let the horses walk, while Phillis, with the slender curving
lines of her figure, her dainty dress which fitted it so well, and her
sweet face, made the heart of her lover hungry; and when she turned to
speak to him, and he saw in the clear depths of her eyes his own face
reflected, his passion grew almost too much for him to bear.

A delicate dainty maiden, who was yet of strong and healthy
_physique_; one who did not disdain to own a love for cake and
strawberries, cream and ices, and other pleasant things; who had no
young-ladyish affectations; who took life eagerly, not languidly. And
not a coward, as many maidens boast to be; she ruled her horse with a
rein as firm as Jack Dunquerque, and sat him as steadily; she clinched
her little fingers and set her lips hard when she heard a tale of
wrong; her eyes lit up and her bosom heaved when she heard of heroic
gest; she was strong to endure and to do. Not every girl would, as
Phillis did, rise in the morning at five to train her untaught eyes
and hand over those little symbols by which we read and write; not
every girl would patiently begin at nineteen the mechanical drudgery
of the music-lesson. And she did this in confidence, because Jack
asked her every day about her lessons, and Agatha L'Estrange was
pleased.

The emotion which is the next after, and worse than that of love, is
sympathy. Phillis passed through the stages of curiosity and knowledge
before she arrived at the stage of sympathy. Perhaps she was not far
from the highest stage of all.

She learned something every day, and told Jack what it was. Sometimes
it was an increase in her knowledge of evil. Jack, who was by no means
so clever as his biographer, thought that a pity. His idea was the
common one--that a maiden should be kept innocent of the knowledge of
evil. I think Jack took a prejudiced, even a Philistine, view of the
case. He put himself on the same level as the Frenchman who keeps his
daughter out of mischief by locking her up in a convent. It is not the
knowledge of evil that hurts, any more than the knowledge of
black-beetles, earwigs, slugs, and other crawling things; the pure in
spirit cast it off, just as the gardener who digs and delves among his
plants washes his hands and is clean. The thing that hurts is the
suspicion and constant thought of evil; the loveliest and most divine
creature in the world is she who neither commits any ill, nor thinks
any, nor suspects others of ill--who has a perfect pity for
backsliders, and a perfect trust in the people around her. Unfortunate
it is that experience of life turns pity to anger, and trust into
hesitation.

Or they would be out upon Agatha's lawn, playing croquet, to which
that good lady still adhered, or lawn-tennis, which she tolerated.
There would be the curate--he had abandoned that design of getting up
_all_ about Laud, but was madly, ecclesiastically madly, in love
with Phillis; there would be occasionally Ladds, who, in his heavy,
kindly way, pleased this young May Queen. Besides, Ladds was fond of
Jack. There would be Gilead Beck in the straightest of frock coats,
and on the most careful behaviour; there would be also two or three
young ladies, compared with whom Phillis was as Rosalind at the court
of her uncle, or as Esther among the damsels of the Persian king's
seraglio, so fresh and so incomparably fair.

"Mrs. L'Estrange," Jack whispered one day, "I am going to say a rude
thing. Did you pick out the other girls on purpose to set off
Phillis?"

"What a shame, Jack!" said Agatha, who like the rest of the world
called him by what was not his Christian name. "The girls are very
nice--not so pretty as Phillis, but good-looking, all of them. I call
them as pretty a set of girls as you would be likely to see on any
lawn this season."

"Yes," said Jack; "only you see they are all alike, and Phillis is
different."

That was it--Phillis was different. The girls were graceful, pleasant,
and well bred. But Phillis was all this, and more. The others followed
the beaten track, in which the strength of life is subdued and its
intensity forbidden. Phillis was in earnest about everything, quietly
in earnest; not openly bent on enjoyment, like the young ladies who
run down Greenwich Hill, for instance, but in her way making others
feel something of what she felt herself. Her intensity was visible in
the eager face, the mobile flashes of her sensitive lips, and her
brightening eyes. And, most unlike her neighbours, she even forgot her
own dress, much as she loved the theory and practice of dress, when
once she was interested, and was careless about theirs.

It was not pleasant for the minor stars. They felt in a vague
uncomfortable way that Phillis was far more attractive; they said to
each other that she was strange; one who pretended to know more French
than the others said that she was _farouche_.

She was not in the least _farouche_, and the young lady her
calumniator did not understand the adjective; but _farouche_ she
continued to be among the maidens of Twickenham and Richmond.

Jack Dunquerque heard the epithet applied on one occasion, and burst
out laughing.

Phillis _farouche_! Phillis, without fear and without suspicion!

But then they do teach French so badly at girls' schools. And so poor
Phillis remained ticketed with the adjective which least of any
belonged to her.

A pleasant six weeks from April to June, while the late spring
blossomed and flowered into summer; a time to remember all his life
afterwards with the saddened joy which, despite Dante's observation,
does still belong to the memory of past pleasures.

But every pleasant time passes, and the six weeks were over.

Jack was to "slack off." The phrase struck him, applied to himself and
Phillis, as simply in bad taste; but the meaning was plain. He was to
present himself at Twickenham with less frequency.

Accordingly he began well by going there the very next day. The new
_régime_ has to be commenced somehow, and Jack began his at once.
He pulled up in his tub. It was a cloudy and windy day; drops of rain
fell from time to time; the river was swept by sudden gusts which came
driving down the stream, marked by broad black patches; there were no
other boats out, and Jack struggled upwards against the current; the
exercise at least was a relief to the oppression of his thoughts.

What was he to do with himself after the "slacking off" had
begun--after that day, in fact? The visits might drop to twice a week,
then once a week, and then? But surely Colquhoun would be satisfied
with such a measure of self-denial. In the intervals--say from
Saturday to Saturday--he could occupy himself in thinking about her.
He might write to her--would that be against the letter of the law? It
was clearly against the spirit. And--another consideration--it was no
use writing unless he wrote in printed characters, and in words of not
more than two syllables. He thought of such a love-letter, and of
Phillis gravely spelling it out word by word to Mrs. L'Estrange. For
poor Phillis had not as yet accustomed herself to look on the printed
page as a vehicle for thought, although Agatha read to her every day.
She regarded it as the means of conveying to the reader facts such as
the elementary reading-book delights to set forth; so dry that the
adult reader, if a woman, presently feels the dust in her eyes, and if
a man, is fain to get up and call wildly for quarts of bitter beer.
No; Phillis was not educated up to the reception of a letter.

He would, he thought, sit in the least-frequented room of his
club--the drawing-room--and with a book of some kind before him, just
for a pretence, would pass the leaden hours in thinking of Phillis's
perfections. Heavens! when was there a moment, by day or by night,
that he did not think of them?

Bump! It was the bow of the ship, which knew by experience very well
when to stop, and grounded herself without any conscious volition on
his part at the accustomed spot.

Jack jumped out, and fastened the painter to the tree to which Phillis
had once tied him. Then he strode across the lawns and flower-beds,
and made for the little morning-room, where he hoped to find the
ladies.

He found one of them. Fortune sometimes favors lovers. It was the
younger one--Phillis herself.

She was bending over her work with brush and colour-box, looking as
serious as if all her future depended on the success of that
particular picture; beside her, tossed contemptuously aside, lay the
much-despised Lesson-Book in Reading; for she had done her daily task.
She did not hear Jack step in at the open window, and went on with her
painting.

She wore a dress made of that stuff which looks like brown holland
till you come close to it, and then you think it is silk, but are not
quite certain, and I believe they call it Indian tussore. Round her
dainty waist was a leathern belt set in silver with a châtelaine, like
a small armoury of deadly weapons; and for colour she had a crimson
ribbon about her neck. To show that the ribbon was not entirely meant
for vanity, but had its uses, Phillis had slung upon it a cross of
Maltese silver-work, which I fear Jack had given her himself. And
below the cross, where her rounded figure showed it off, she had
placed a little bunch of sweet peas. Such a dainty damsel! Not content
with the flower in her dress, she had stuck a white jasamine-blossom
in her hair. All these things Jack noted with speechless admiration.

Then she began to sing in a low voice, all to herself, a little French
ballad which Mrs. L'Estrange had taught her--one of the sweet old
French songs.

She was painting in the other window, at a table drawn up to face it.
The curtains were partly pulled together, and the blind was half drawn
down, so that she sat in a subdued light, in which only her face was
lit up, like the faces in a certain kind of photograph, while her hair
and figure lay in shadow. The hangings were of some light-rose hue,
which tinted the whole room, and threw a warm colouring over the
old-fashioned furniture, the pictures, the books, the flowers on the
tables, and the ferns in their glasses. Mrs. L'Estrange was no
follower after the new school. Neutral tints had small charms for her;
she liked the warmth and glow of the older fashion in which she had
been brought up.

It looked to Jack Dunquerque like some shrine dedicated to peace and
love, with Phillis for its priestess--or even its goddess. Outside the
skies were grey; the wind swept down the river with driving rain; here
was warmth, colour, and brightness. So he stood still and watched.

And as he waited an overwhelming passion of love seized him. If the
world was well lost for Antony when he threw it all away for a queen
no longer young, and the mother of one son at least almost grown up,
what would it have been had his Cleopatra welcomed him in all the
splendour of her white Greek beauty at sweet seventeen? There was no
world to be lost for this obscure cadet of a noble house, but all the
world to be won. His world was before his eyes; it was an unconscious
maid, ignorant of her own surpassing worth, and of the power of her
beauty. To win her was to be the lord of all the world he cared for.

Presently she laid down her brush, and raised her head. Then she
pushed aside the curtains, and looked out upon the gardens. The rain
drove against the windows, and the wind beat about the branches of the
lilacs on the lawn. She shivered, and pulled the curtains together
again.

"I wish Jack were here," she said to herself.

"He is here, Phil," Jack replied.

She looked round, and darted across the room, catching him by both
hands.

"Jack! Oh, I am glad! There is nobody at home. Agatha has gone up to
town, and I am quite alone. What shall we do this afternoon?"

Clearly the right thing for him to propose was that he should
instantly leave the young lady, and row himself back to Richmond.
This, however, was not what he did propose. On the contrary, he kept
Phillis's hands in his, and held them tight, looking in her upturned
face, where he saw nothing but undisguised joy at his appearance.

"Shall we talk? Shall I play to you? Shall I draw you a picture? What
shall we do, Jack?"

"Well, Phil, I think--perhaps--we had better talk."

Something in his voice struck her; she looked at him sharply.

"What has happened, Jack? You do not look happy."

"Nothing, Phil--nothing but what I might have expected." But he looked
so dismal that it was quite certain he had not expected it.

"Tell me, Jack."

He shook his head.

"Jack, what _is_ the good of being friends if you won't tell me
what makes you unhappy?"

"I don't know how to tell you, Phil. I don't see a way to begin."

"Sit down, and begin somehow." She placed him comfortably in the
largest chair in the room, and then she stood in front of him, and
looked in his face with compassionate eyes. The sight of those
deep-brown orbs, so full of light and pity, smote her lover with a
kind of madness. "What is it makes people unhappy? Are you ill?"

He shook his head, and laughed.

"No, Phil; I am never ill. You see, I am not exactly unhappy----"

"But Jack, you look so dismal."

"Yes, that is it; I am a little dismal. No. Phil--no. I am really
unhappy, and you are the cause."

"I the cause? But, Jack, why?"

"I had a talk with your guardian, Lawrence Colquhoun, yesterday. It
was all about you. And he wants me--not to come here so often, in
fact. And I musn't come."

"But why not? What does Lawrence mean?"

"That is just what I cannot explain to you. You must try to forgive
me."

"Forgive you, Jack?"

"You see, Phil, I have behaved badly from the beginning. I ought not
to have called upon you as I did in Carnarvon Square; I ought not to
have let you call me Jack, nor should I have called you Phil. It is
altogether improper in the eyes of the world."

She was silent for a while.

"Perhaps I have known, Jack, that it was a little unusual. Other girls
haven't got a Jack Dunquerque, have they? Poor things! That is all you
mean, isn't it, Jack?"

"Phil, don't look at me like that! You don't know--you can't
understand--No; it is more than unusual; it is quite wrong."

"I have done nothing wrong," the girl said proudly. "If I had, my
conscience would make me unhappy. But I do begin to understand what
you mean. Last week Agatha asked me if I was not thinking too much
about you. And the curate made me laugh because he said, quite by
himself in a corner, you know, that Mr. Dunquerque was a happy man;
and when I asked him, why he turned very red, and said it was because
I had given to him what all the world would long to have. He meant,
Jack----"

"I wish he was here," Jack cried hotly, "for me to wring his neck!"

"And one day Laura Herries----"

"That's the girl who said you were _farouche_, Phil. Go on."

"Was talking to Agatha about some young lady who had got compromised
by a gentleman's attentions. I asked why, and she replied quite
sharply that if I did not know, no one could know. Then she got up and
went away. Agatha was angry about it, I could see; but she only said
something about understanding when I come out."

"Miss Herries ought to have her neck wrung, too, as well as the
curate," said Jack.

"Compromise--improper." Phil beat her little foot on the floor. "What
does it all mean? Jack, tell me--what is this wrong thing that you and
I have done?"

"Not you, Phil; a thousand times not you."

"Then I do not care much what other people say," she replied simply.
"Do you know, Jack, it seems to me as if we never ought to care for
what people, besides people we love, say about us."

"But it is I who have done wrong," said Jack.

"Have you, Jack? Oh, then I forgive you. I think I know you. You
should have come to me with an unreal smile on your face, and
pretended the greatest deference to my opinion, even when you knew it
wasn't worth having. That is what the curate does to young ladies. I
saw him yesterday taking Miss Herries's opinion on Holman Hunt's
picture. She said it was 'sweetly pretty.' He said, 'Do you really
think so?' in such a solemn voice, as if he wasn't quite sure that the
phrase summed up the whole picture, but was going to think it over
quietly. Don't laugh, Jack, because I cannot read like other people,
and all I have to go by is what Mr. Dyson told me, and Agatha tells
me, and what I see--and--and what you tell me, Jack, which is worth
all the rest to me."

The tears came into her eyes, but only for a moment, and she brushed
them aside.

"And I forgive you, Jack, all the more because you did not treat me as
you would have treated the girls who seem to me so lifeless and
languid, and--Jack, it may be wrong to say it, but Oh, so small! What
compliment could you have paid me better than to single me out for
your friend--you who have seen so much and done so much--my
friend--mine? We were friends from the first, were we not? And I have
never since hidden anything from you, Jack, and never will."

He kept it down still, this mighty yearning that filled his heart, but
he could not bear to look her in the face. Every word that she said
stabbed him like a knife, because it showed her childish innocence and
her utter unconsciousness of what her words might mean.

And then she laid her little hand in his.

"And now you have compromised me, as they would say? What does it
matter Jack? We can go on always just the same as we have been doing,
can we not?"

He shook his head and answered huskily, "No, Phil. Your guardian will
not allow it. You must obey him. He says that I am to come here less
frequently; that I must not do you--he is quite right, Phil--any more
mischief; and that you are to have your first season in London without
any ties or entanglements."

"My guardian leaves me alone here with Agatha. It is you who have been
my real guardian, Jack. I shall do what you tell me to do."

"I want to do what is best for you, Phil--but--Child"--he caught her
by the hands, and she half fell, half knelt at his feet, and looked up
in his eyes with her face full of trouble and emotion--"child, must I
tell you? Could not Agatha L'Estrange tell you that there is something
in the world very different from friendship? Is it left for me to
teach you? They call it Love, Phil."

He whispered the last words.

"Love? But I know all about it, Jack."

"No, Phil, you know nothing. It isn't the love that you bear to Agatha
that I mean."

"Is it the love I have for you, Jack?" she asked in all innocence.

"It may be, Phil. Tell me only"--he was reckless now, and spoke fast
and fiercely--"tell me if you love me as I love you. Try to tell me. I
love you so much that I cannot sleep for thinking of you; and I think
of you all day long. It seems as if my life must have been a long
blank before I saw you; all my happiness is to be with you; to think
of going on without you maddens me."

"Poor Jack!" she said softly. She did not offer to withdraw her hands,
but let them lie in his warm and tender grasp.

"My dear, my darling--my queen and pearl of girls--who can help loving
you? And even to be with you, to have you close to me, to hold your
hands in mine, that isn't enough."

"What more--O Jack, Jack! what more?"

She began to tremble, and she tried to take back her hands. He let
them go, but before she could change her position he bent down, threw
his arms about her, and held her face close to his while he kissed it
a thousand times.

"What more? My darling, my angel, this--and this! Phil, Phil! wake at
last from your long childhood; leave the Garden of Eden where you have
wandered so many years, and come out into the other world--the world
of love. My dear, my dear! can you love me a little, only a little, in
return? We are all so different from what you thought us; you will
find out some day that I am not clever and good at all; that I have
only one thing to give you--my love. Phil, Phil, answer me--speak to
me--forgive me!"

He let her go, for she tore herself from him and sprang to her feet,
burying her face in her hands and sobbing aloud.

"Forgive me--forgive me!" It was all that he could say.

"Jack, what is it? what does it mean? O Jack!"--she lifted her face
and looked about her, with hands outstretched as one who feels in the
darkness; her cheeks were white and her eyes wild--"what does it mean?
what is it you have said? what is it you have done?"

"Phil!"

"Yes! Hush! don't speak to me--not yet, Jack. Wait a moment. My brain
is full of strange thoughts"--she put out trembling hands before her,
like one who wakes suddenly in a dream, and spoke with short, quick
breath. "Something seems to have come upon me. Help me, Jack! Oh, help
me! I am frightened."

He took her in his arms and soothed and caressed her like a child,
while she sobbed and cried.

"Look at me, Jack," she said presently. "Tell me, am I the same? Is
there any change in me?"

"Yes, Phil; yes, my darling. You are changed. Your sweet eyes are full
of tears, like the skies in April; and your cheeks are pale and white.
Let me kiss them till they get their own colour again."

He did kiss them, and she stood unresisting. But she trembled.

"I know, Jack, now," she said softly. "It all came upon me in a
moment, when your lips touched mine. O Jack, Jack! it was as if
something snapped; as if a veil fell from my eyes. I know now what you
meant when you said just now that you loved me."

"Do you, Phil? And can you love me, too?"

"Yes, Jack. I will tell you when I am able to talk again. Let me sit
down. Sit with me, Jack."

She drew him beside her on the sofa and murmured low, while he held
her hands.

"Do you like to sit just so, holding my hands? Are you better now,
Jack?

"Do you think, Jack, that I can have always loved you--without knowing
it all--just as you love me? O my poor Jack!

"My heart beats so fast. And I am so happy. What have you said to me,
Jack, that I should be so happy?

"See, the sun has come out--and the showers are over and gone--and the
birds are singing--all the sweet birds--they are singing for me, Jack,
for you and me--Oh, for you and me!"

Her voice broke down again, and she hid her face upon her lover's
shoulder, crying happy tears.

He called her a thousand endearing names; he told her that they would
be always together; that she had made him the happiest man in all the
world; that he loved her more than any girl ever had been loved in the
history of mankind; that she was the crown and pearl and queen of all
the women who ever lived; and then she looked up, smiling through her
tears.

Ah, happy, happy day! Ah, day for ever to be remembered even when, if
ever, the years shall bring its fiftieth anniversary to an aged pair,
whose children and grandchildren stand around their trembling feet?
Ah, moments that live for ever in the memory of a life! They die, but
are immortal. They perish all too quickly, but they bring forth the
precious fruits of love and constancy, of trust, affection, good
works, peace, and joy, which never perish.

"Take me on the river, Jack," she said presently. "I want to think it
all over again, and try to understand it better."

He fetched cushion and wrapper, for the boat was wet, and placed her
tenderly in the boat. And then he began to pull gently up the stream.

The day had suddenly changed. The morning had been gloomy and dull,
but the afternoon was bright; the strong wind was dropped for a light
cool breeze; the swans were cruising about with their lordly pretence
of not caring for things external; and the river ran clear and bright.

They were very silent now; the girl sat in her place, looking with
full soft eyes on the wet and dripping branches or in the cool depths
of the stream.

Presently they passed an old gentleman fishing in a punt; he was the
same old gentleman whom Phillis saw one morning--now so long ago--when
he had that little misfortune we have narrated, and tumbled backwards
in his ark. He saw them coming, and adjusted his spectacles.

"Youth and Beauty again," he murmured. "And she's been crying. That
young fellow has said something cruel to her. Wish I could break his
head for him. The pretty creature! He'll come to a bad end, that young
man." Then he impaled an immense worm savagely and went on fishing.

A very foolish old gentleman this.

"I am trying to make it all out quite clearly, Jack," Phillis
presently began. "And it is so difficult." Her eyes were still bright
with tears, but she did not tremble now, and the smile was back upon
her lips.

"My darling, let it remain difficult. Only tell me now, if you can,
that you love me."

"Yes, Jack," she said, not in the frank and childish unconsciousness
of yesterday, but with the soft blush of a woman who is wooed. "Yes,
Jack, I know now that I do love you, as you love me, because my heart
beat when you kissed me, and I felt all of a sudden that you were all
the world to me."

"Phil, I don't deserve it. I don't deserve you."

"Not deserve me? O Jack, you make me feel humble when you say that!
And I am so proud.

"So proud and so happy," she went on, after a pause. "And the girls
who know all along--how do they find it out?--want every one for
herself this great happiness, too. I have heard them talk and never
understood till now. Poor girls! I wish they had their--their own
Jack, not my Jack."

Her lover had no words to reply.

"Poor boy! And you went about with your secret so long. Tell me how
long, Jack?"

"Since the very first day I saw you in Carnarvon Square, Phil."

"All that time? Did you love me on that day--not the first day of all,
Jack? Oh, surely not the very first day?"

"Yes; not as I love you now--now that I know you so well, my
Phillis--mine--but only then because you were so pretty."

"Do men always fall in love with a girl because she is pretty?"

"Yes, Phil. They begin because she is pretty, and they love her more
every day when she is so sweet and so good as my darling Phil."

All this time Jack had been leaning on his oars, and the boat was
drifting slowly down the current. It was now close to the punt where
the old gentleman sat watching them.

"They have made it up," he said. "That's right." And he chuckled.

She looked dreamy and contented; the tears were gone out of her eyes,
and a sweet softness lay there, like the sunshine on a field of grass.

"She is a rose of Sharon and a lily of the valley," said this old
gentleman. "That young fellow ought to be banished from the State for
making other people envious of his luck. Looks a good-tempered rogue,
too."

He observed with delight that they were thinking of each other while
the boat drifted nearer to his punt. Presently--bump--bump!

Jack seized his sculls and looked up guiltily. The old gentleman was
nodding and smiling to Phillis.

"Made it up?" he asked most impertinently. "That is right, that is
right. Give you joy, sir, give you joy. Wish you both happiness. Wish
I had it to do all over again. God bless you, my dear!"

His jolly red face beamed like the setting sun under his big straw
hat, and he wagged his head and laughed.

Jack laughed too; at other times he would have thought the old angler
an extremely impertinent person. Now he only laughed.

Then he turned the boat's head, and rowed his bride swiftly homewards.

"Phil, I am like Jason bringing home Medea," he said, with a faint
reminiscence of classical tradition. I have explained that Jack was
not clever.

"I hope not," said Phil; "Medea was a dreadful person."

"Then Paris bringing home Helen--No, Phil; only your lover bringing
home the sweetest girl that ever was. And worth five and thirty
Helens."

When they landed, Agatha L'Estrange was on the lawn waiting for them.
To her surprise, Phillis, on disembarking, took Jack by the arm, and
his hand closed over hers. Mrs. L'Estrange gasped. And in Phillis's
tear-bright eyes, she saw at last the light and glow of love; and in
Phillis's blushing face she saw the happy pride of the celestial Venus
who has met her only love.

"Children--children!" she said, "what is this?"

Phillis made answer, in words which Abraham Dyson used to read to her
from a certain Book, but which she never understood till now--made
answer with her face upturned to her lover--

"I am my beloved's, and his desire is toward me."


They were a quiet party that evening. Jack did not want to talk. He
asked Phillis to sing; he sat by in a sort of rapture while her voice,
in the songs she most affected, whispered and sang to his soul not
words, but suggestions of every innocent delight. She recovered
something of her gaiety, but their usual laughter was hushed as if by
some unexpressed thought. It will never come back to her again, that
old mirth and light heart of childhood. She felt while she played as
if she was in some great cathedral; the fancies of her brain built
over her head a pile more mystic and wonderful than any she had seen.
Its arches towered to the sky; its aisles led far away into dim space.
She was walking slowly up the church hand-in-hand with Jack, towards a
great rose light in the east. An anthem of praise and thanksgiving
echoed along the corridors, and pealed like thunder among the million
rafters of the roof. Round them floated faces which looked and smiled.
And she heard the voice of Abraham Dyson in her ear--

"Life should be two-fold, not single. That, Phillis, is the great
secret of the world. Every man is a priest; every woman is a
priestess; it is a sacrament which you have learned of Jack this day.
Go on with him in faith and hope. Love is the Universal Church and
Heaven is everywhere. Live in it; die in it; and dying begin your life
of love again."

"Phil," cried Jack, "what is it? You look as if you had seen a
vision."

"I have heard the voice of Abraham Dyson," she said solemnly. "He is
satisfied and pleased with us, Jack."

That was nothing to what followed, for presently there occurred a
really wonderful thing.

On Phillis's table--they were all three sitting in the pleasant
morning-room--lay among her lesson-books and drawing materials a
portfolio. Jack turned it over carelessly. There was nothing at all in
it except a single sheet of white paper, partly written over. But
there had been other sheets, and these were torn off.

"It is an old book full of writing," said Phillis carelessly. "I have
torn out all the leaves to make rough sketches at the back. There is
only one left now."

Jack took it up and read the scanty remnant.

"Good heavens!" he cried. "Have you really destroyed all these pages,
Phil?"

Then he laughed.

"What is it, Jack? Yes I have torn them all out, drawn rough things on
them, and then burnt them, every one."

"Is it anything important?" asked Mrs. L'Estrange.

"I should think it was important!" said Jack. "Ho, ho! Phillis has
destroyed the whole of Mr. Dyson's lost chapter on the Coping-stone.
And now his will is not worth the paper it is written on."

It was actually so. Bit by bit, while Joseph Jagenal was leaving no
corner unturned in the old house at Highgate in search of the precious
document, without which Mr. Dyson's will was so much waste paper, this
young lady was contentedly cutting out the sheets one by one and using
them up for her first unfinished groups. Of course she could not read
one word of what was written. It was a fitting Nemesis to the old
man's plans that they were frustrated through the very means by which
he wished to regenerate the world.

And now nothing at all left but a tag end, a bit of the peroration,
the last words of the final summing-up. And this was what Jack read
aloud--

"... these provisions and no other. Thus will I have my College for
the better Education of Women founded and maintained. Thus shall it
grow and develop till the land is full of the gracious influence of
womankind at her best and noblest. The Coping-stone of a girl's
Education should be, and must be, Love. When Phillis Fleming, my ward,
whose example shall be taken as the model for my college, feels the
passion of Love, her education is finally completed. She will have
much afterwards to learn. But self-denial, sympathy, and faith come
best through Love. Woman is born to be loved; that woman only
approaches the higher state who has been wooed and who has loved. When
Phillis loves, she will give herself without distrust and wholly to
the man who wins her. It is my prayer, my last prayer for her, that he
may be worthy of her." Here Jack's voice faltered for a moment. "Her
education has occupied my whole thoughts for thirteen years. It has
been the business of my later years. Now I send her out into the world
prepared for all, except treachery, neglect, and ill treatment.
Perhaps her character would pass through these and come out the
brighter. But we do not know; we cannot tell beforehand. Lord, lead
her not into temptation; and so deal with her lover as he shall deal
with her."

"Amen," said Agatha L'Estrange.

But Phillis sprang to her feet and threw up her arms.

"I have found it!" she cried. "Oh, how often did he talk to me about
the Coping-stone. Now I have nothing more to learn. O Jack, Jack!" she
fell into his arms, and lay there as if it was her proper place. "We
have found the Coping-stone--you and I between us--and it is here, it
is here!"




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

    "'Tis well to be off with the old love,
    Though you never get on with a new."


During the two of three weeks following their success with Gilead Beck
the Twins were conspicuous, had any one noticed them, for a
recklessness of expenditure quite without parallel in their previous
history. They plunged as regarded hansoms, paying whatever was asked
with an airy prodigality; they dined at the club every day, and drank
champagne at all hours; they took half-guinea stalls at theatres: they
went down to Greenwich and had fish-dinners; they appeared with new
chains and rings; they even changed their regular hours of sleep, and
sometimes passed the whole day broad awake, in the pursuit of youthful
pleasures. They winked and nodded at each other in a way which
suggested all kinds of delirious delights; and Cornelius even talked
of adding an episode to the Epic, based on his own later experiences,
which he would call, he said, the Jubilee of Joy.

The funds for this fling, all too short, were provided by their
American patron. Gilead Beck had no objection to advance them
something on account; the young gentlemen found it so pleasant to
spend money, that they quickly overcame scruples about asking for
more; perhaps they would have gone on getting more, but for a word of
caution spoken by Jack Dunquerque. In consequence of this unkindness
they met each other one evening in the Studio with melancholy faces.

"I had a letter to-day from Mr. Gilead Beck," said Cornelius to
Humphrey.

"So had I," said Humphrey to Cornelius.

"In answer to a note from me," said Cornelius.

"In reply to a letter of mine," said Humphrey.

"It is sometimes a little awkward, brother Humphrey," Cornelius
remarked with a little temper, "that our inclinations so often prompt
us to do the same thing at the same time."

Said Humphrey, "I suppose then, Cornelius, that you asked him for
money?"

"I did, Humphrey. How much has the Patron advanced you already on the
great Picture?"

"Two hundred only. A mere trifle. And now he refuses to advance any
more until the Picture is completed. Some enemy, some jealous brother
artist, must have corrupted his mind."

"My case, too. I asked for a simple fifty pounds. It is the end of
May, and the country would be delightful if one could go there. I have
already drawn four or five cheques of fifty each, on account of the
Epic. He says, this mercenary and mechanical patron, that he will not
lend me any more until the Poem is brought to him finished. Some
carping critic has been talking to him."

"How much of the Poem is finished?"

"How much of the Picture is done?"

The questions were asked simultaneously, but no answer was returned by
either.

Then each sat for a few moments in gloomy silence.

"The end of May," murmured Humphrey. "We have to be ready by the
beginning of October. June--July--only four months. My painting is
designed for many hundreds of figures. Your poem for--how many lines,
brother?"

"Twenty cantos of about five hundred lines each."

"Twenty times five hundred is ten thousand."

Then they relapsed into silence again.

"Brother Cornelius," the Artist went on, "this has been a most
eventful year for us. We have been rudely disturbed from the artistic
life of contemplation and patient work into which we had gradually
dropped. We have been hurried--hurried, I say, brother--into Action,
perhaps prematurely----"

Cornelius grasped his brother's hand, but said nothing.

"You, Cornelius, have engaged yourself to be married."

Cornelius dropped his brother's hand. "Pardon me, Humphrey; it is you
that is engaged to Phillis Fleming."

"I am nothing of the sort, Cornelius," the other returned sharply. "I
am astonished that you should make such a statement."

"One of us certainly is engaged to the young lady. And as certainly it
is not I. 'Let your brother Humphrey hope,' she said. Those were her
very words. I do think, brother, that it is a little ungenerous, a
little ungenerous of you, after all the trouble I took on your behalf,
to try to force this young lady on me."

Humphrey's cheek turned pallid. He plunged his hands into his silky
beard, and walked up and down the room gesticulating.

"I went down on purpose to tell Phillis about him. I spoke to her of
his ardour. She said she appreciated--said she appreciated it,
Cornelius. I even went so far as to say that you offered her a virgin
heart--perilling my own soul by those very words--a virgin heart"--he
laughed melodramatically. "And after that German milkmaid! Ha, ha! The
Poet and the milkmaid!"

Cornelius by this time was red with anger. The brothers, alike in so
many things, differed in this, that, when roused to passion, while
Humphrey grew white Cornelius grew crimson.

"And what did I do for you?" he cried out. The brothers were now on
opposite sides of the table, walking backwards and forwards with
agitated strides. "I told her that you brought her a heart which had
never beat for another--that, after your miserable little Roman model!
An artist not able to resist the charms of his own model!"

"Cornelius!" cried Humphrey, suddenly stopping and bringing his fist
with a bang upon the table.

"Humphrey!" cried his brother, exactly imitating his gesture.

Their faces glared into each other's; Cornelius, as usual, wrapped in
his long dressing-gown, his shaven cheeks purple with passion;
Humphrey in his loose velvet jacket, his white lips and cheeks, and
his long silken beard trembling to every hair.

It was the first time the brothers had ever quarrelled in all their
lives. And like a tempest on Lake Windermere, it sprang up without the
slightest warning.

They glared in a steady way for a few minutes, and then drew back and
renewed their quick and angry walk side by side, with the table
between them.

"To bring up the old German business!" said Cornelius.

"To taunt me with the Roman girl!" said Humphrey.

"Will you keep your engagement like a gentleman, and marry the girl?"
cried the Poet.

"Will you behave as a man of honour, and go to the Altar with Phillis
Fleming?" asked the Artist.

"I will not," said Cornelius. "Nothing shall induce me to get
married."

"Nor will I," said Humphrey. "I will see myself drawn and quartered
first."

"Then," said Cornelius, "go and break it to her yourself, for I will
not."

"Break what?" asked Humphrey passionately. "Break her heart, when I
tell her, if I must, that my brother repudiates his most sacred
promises?"

Cornelius was touched. He relented. He softened.

"Can it be that she loves us both?"

They were at the end of the table, near the chairs, which as usual
were side by side.

"Can that be so, Cornelius?"

They drew nearer the chairs; they sat down; they turned, by force of
habit, lovingly towards each other; and their faces cleared.

"Brother Humphrey," said Cornelius, "I see that we have mismanaged
this affair. It will be a wrench to the poor girl, but it will have to
be done. I thought you _wanted_ to marry her."

"I thought _you_ did."

"And so we each pleaded the other's cause. And the poor girl loves us
both. Good heavens! What a dreadful thing for her."

"I remember nothing in fiction so startling. To be sure, there is some
excuse for her."

"But she can't marry us both?"

"N--n--no. I suppose not. No--certainly not. Heaven forbid! And as you
will not marry her----"

Humphrey shook his head in a decided manner.

"And I will not----"

"Marry?" interrupted Humphrey. "What! And give up this? Have to get up
early; to take breakfast at nine; to be chained to work; to be
inspected and interfered with while at work--Phillis drew me once, and
pinned the portrait on my easel; to be restricted in the matter of
port; to have to go to bed at eleven; perhaps, Cornelius, to have
babies; and beside, if they should be Twins! Fancy being shaken out of
your poetic dream by the cries of Twins!"

"No sitting up at night with pipes and brandy-and-water," echoed the
Poet. "And, Humphrey"--here he chuckled, and his face quite returned
to its brotherly form--"should we go abroad, no flirting with Roman
models--eh, eh, eh?"

"Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the Artist melodiously. "And no carrying
milk-pails up the Heidelberg hills--eh, eh, eh?"

"Marriage be hanged!" cried the Poet, starting up again. "We will
preserve our independence, Humphrey. We will be free to woo, but not
to wed."

Was there ever a more unprincipled Bard? It is sad to relate that the
Artist echoed his brother.

"We will, Cornelius--we will. _Vive la liberté!_" He snapped his
fingers, and began to sing:

    "Quand on est a Paris
      On ecrit a son pere,
    Qui fait reponse, 'Brigand,
      Tu n'en as----'"

He broke short off, and clapped his hands like a school-boy. "We will
go to Paris next week, brother."

"We will, Humphrey, if we can get any more money. And now--how to get
out of the mess?"

"Do you think Mrs. L'Estrange will interfere?"

"Or Colquhoun?"

"Or Joseph?"

"The best way would be to pretend it was all a mistake. Let us go
to-morrow, and cry off as well as we can."

"We will, Cornelius."

The quarrel and its settlement made them thirsty, and they drank a
whole potash-and-brandy each before proceeding with the interrupted
conversation.

"Poor little Phillis!" said the Artist, filling his pipe. "I hope she
won't pine much."

"Ariadne, you know," said the Poet; and then he forgot what Ariadne
did, and broke off short.

"It isn't our fault, after all. Men of genius are always run after.
Women are made to love men, and men are made to break their hearts.
Law of nature, dear Cornelius--law of Nature. Perhaps the man is a fool
who binds himself to one. Art alone should be our mistress--glorious
Art!"

"Yes," said Cornelius; "you are quite right. And what about Mr. Gilead
Beck?"

This was a delicate question, and the Artist's face grew grave.

"What are we to do, Cornelius?"

"I don't know, Humphrey."

"Will the Poem be finished?"

"No. Will the Picture?"

"Not a chance."

"Had we not better, Humphrey, considering all the circumstances, make
up our minds to throw over the engagement?"

"Tell me, Cornelius--how much of your Poem remains to be done?"

"Well, you see, there is not much actually written."

"Will you show it to me--what there is of it?"

"It is all in my head, Humphrey. Nothing is written."

He blushed prettily as he made the confession. But the Artist met him
half-way with a frank smile.

"It is curious, Cornelius, that up to the present I have not actually
drawn any of the groups. My figures are still in my head."

Both were surprised. Each, spending his own afternoons in sleep, had
given the other credit for working during that part of the day. But
they were too much accustomed to keep up appearances to make any
remark upon this curious coincidence.

"Then, brother," said the Poet, with a sigh of relief, "there really
is not the slightest use in leading Mr. Beck to believe that the works
will be finished by October, and we had better ask for a longer term.
A year longer would do for me."

"A year longer would, I think, do for me," said Humphrey, stroking his
beard, as if he was calculating how long each figure would take to put
in. "We will go and see Mr. Beck to-morrow."

"Better not," said the sagacious Poet.

"Why not?"

"He might ask for the money back."

"True, brother. He must be capable of that meanness, or he would have
given us that cheque we asked for. Very true. We will write."

"What excuse shall we make?"

"We will state the exact truth, Brother. No excuse need be invented.
We will tell our Patron that Art cannot--must not--be forced."

This settled, Cornelius declared that a weight was off his mind, which
had oppressed him since the engagement with Mr. Beck was first entered
into. Nothing, he said, so much obstructed the avenues of fancy,
checked the flow of ideas, and destroyed grasp of language, as a
slavish time-engagement. Now, he went on to explain, he felt free;
already his mind, like a garden in May, was blossoming in a thousand
sweet flowers. Now he was at peace with mankind. Before this relief he
had been--Humphrey would bear him out--inclined to lose his temper
over trifles; and the feeling of thraldom caused him only that very
evening to use harsh words even to his twin brother. Here he held out
his hand, which Humphrey grasped with effusion.

They wrote their letters next day--not early in the day, because they
prolonged their evening parliament till late, and it was one o'clock
when they took breakfast But they wrote the letters after breakfast,
and at two they took the train to Twickenham.

Phillis received them in her morning-room. They appeared almost as
nervous and agitated as when they called a week before. So shaky were
their hands that Phillis began by prescribing for them a glass of wine
each, which they took, and said they felt better.

"We come for a few words of serious explanation," said the Poet.

"Yes," said Phillis. "Will Mrs. L'Estrange do?"

"On the contrary, it is with you that we would speak."

"Very well," she replied. "Pray go on."

They were sitting side by side on the sofa, looking as grave as a pair
of owls. There was something Gog and Magogish, too, in their
proximity.

Phillis found herself smiling when she looked at them. So, to prevent
laughing in their very faces, she changed her place, and went to the
open window.

"Now," she said.

Cornelius, with the gravest face in the world, began again.

"It is a delicate and, I fear, a painful business," he said. "Miss
Fleming, you doubtless remember a conversation I had with you last
week on your lawn?"

"Certainly. You told me that your brother, Mr. Humphrey, adored me.
You also said that he brought me a virgin heart. I remember perfectly.
I did not understand your meaning then. But I do now. I understand it
now." She spoke the last words with softened voice, because she was
thinking of the Coping-stone and Jack Dunquerque.

Humphrey looked indignantly at his brother. Here was a position to be
placed in! But Cornelius lifted his hand, with a gesture which meant,
"Patience; I will see you through this affair," and went on--

"You see, Miss Fleming, I was under a mistake. My brother, who has the
highest respect, in the abstract, for womanhood, which is the
incarnation and embodiment of all that is graceful and beautiful in
this fair world of ours, does not--does not--after all----"

Phillis looked at Humphrey. He sat by his brother, trembling with a
mixture of shame and terror. They were not brave men, these Twins, and
they certainly drank habitually more than is good for the nervous
system.

She began to laugh, not loudly, but with a little ripple of mirth
which terrified them both, because in their vanity they thought it the
first symptoms of hysterical grief. Then she stepped to the sofa, and
placed both her hands on the unfortunate Artist's shoulder.

He thought that she was going to shake him, and his soul sank into his
boots.

"You mean that he does not, after all, adore me. O Mr. Humphrey, Mr.
Humphrey! was it for this that you offered me a virgin heart? Is this
your gratitude to me for drawing your likeness when you were hard at
work in the Studio? What shall I say to your brother Joseph, and what
will he say to you?"

"My dear young lady," Cornelius interposed hastily, "there is not the
slightest reason to bring Joseph into the business at all. He must not
be told of this unfortunate mistake. Humphrey does adore you--speak,
brother--do you not adore Miss Fleming?"

Humphrey was gasping and panting.

"I do," he ejaculated, "I do--Oh, most certainly."

Then Phillis left him and turned to his brother.

"But there is yourself, Mr. Cornelius. You are not an artist; you are
a poet; you spend your days in the Workshop, where Jack Dunquerque and
I found you rapt in so poetic a dream that your eyes were closed and
your mouth open. If you made a mistake about Humphrey, it is
impossible that he could have made a mistake about you."

"This is terrible," said Cornelius. "Explain, brother Humphrey. Miss
Fleming, we--no, you as well--are victims of a dreadful error."

He wiped his brow and appealed to his brother.

Released from the terror of Phillis's hands upon his shoulder, the
Artist recovered some of his courage and spoke. But his voice was
faltering. "I, too," he said, "mistook the respectful admiration of my
brother for something dearer. Miss Fleming, he is already wedded."

"Wedded? Are you a married man, Mr. Cornelius? Oh, and where is the
virgin heart?"

"Wedded to his art," Humphrey explained. Then he went a little off his
head, I suppose, in the excitement of this crisis, because he
continued in broken words, "Wedded--long ago--object of his life's
love--with milk-pails on the hills of Heidelberg, and light blue
eyes--the Muse of Song. But he regards you with respectful
admiration."

"Most respectful," said Cornelius. "As Petrarch regarded the wife of
the Count de Sade. Will you forgive us, Miss Fleming, and--and--try to
forget us?"

"So, gentlemen," the young lady said, with sparkling eyes, "you come
to say that you would rather not marry me. I wonder if that is usual
with men?"

"No, no!" they both cried together. "Happy is the man----"

"You may be the happy man, Humphrey," said Cornelius.

"No; you, brother--you."

Never had wedlock seemed so dreadful a thing as it did now, with a
possible bride standing before them, apparently only waiting for the
groom to make up his mind.

"I will forgive you both," she said; "so go away happy. But I am
afraid I shall never, never be able to forget you. And if I send you a
sketch of yourselves just as you look now, so ashamed and so foolish,
perhaps you will hang it up in the Workshop or the Studio, to be
looked at when you are awake; that is, when you are not at work."

They looked guiltily at each other and drew a little apart. It was the
most cruel speech that Phillis had ever made; but she was a little
angry with this vain and conceited pair of windbags.

"I shall not tell Mr. Joseph Jagenal, because he is a sensible man and
would take it ill, I am sure. And I shall not tell my guardian,
Lawrence Colquhoun, because I do not know what he might say or do. And
I shall not tell Mrs. L'Estrange; that is, I shall not tell her the
whole of it, for your sakes. But I must tell Jack Dunquerque, because
I am engaged to be married to Jack, and because I love him and must
tell him everything."

They cowered before her as they thought of the possible consequences
of this information.

"You need not be frightened," she went on; "Jack will not call to see
you and disturb you at your work."

Her eyes, that began by dancing with fun, now flashed indignation. It
was not that she felt angry at what most girls would have regarded as
a deliberate insult, but the unmanliness of the two filled her with
contempt. They looked so small and so mean.

"Go," she said, pointing to the door. "I forgive you. But never again
dare to offer a girl each other's virgin heart."

They literally slunk away like a pair of beaten hounds. Then Phillis
suddenly felt sorry for them as they crept out of the door, one after
the other. She ran after them and called them back.

"Stop," she cried; "we must not part like that. Shake hands,
Cornelius. Shake hands, Humphrey. Come back and take another glass of
wine. Indeed you want it; you are shaking all over; come."

She led them back, one in each hand, and poured out a glass of sherry
for each.

"You could not have married me, you know," she said, laughing,
"because I am going to marry Jack. There--forgive me for speaking
unkindly, and we will remain friends."

They took her hand, but they did not speak, and something like a tear
stood in their eyes. When they left her Phillis observed that they did
not take each other's arm as usual, but walked separate. And they
looked older.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

    "What is it you see?
    A nameless thing--a creeping snake in the grass."


Who was the writer of the letters? They were all in one hand, and that
a feigned hand. Gabriel Cassilis sat with these anonymous accusations
against his wife spread out upon the table before him. He compared one
with another; he held them up to the light; he looked for chance
indications which a careless moment might leave behind; there were
none--not a stroke of the pen; not even the name of the shop where the
paper was sold. They were all posted at the same place; but that was
nothing.

The handwriting was large, upright, and perhaps designedly ill-formed;
it appeared to be the writing of a woman, but of this Mr. Cassilis was
not sure.

Always the same tale; always reference to a secret between Colquhoun
and his wife. What was that secret?

In Colquhoun's room--alone with him--almost under his hand. But where?
He went into the bedroom, which was lighted by the gas of the court;
an open room, furnished without curtains; there was certainly no one
concealed, because concealment was impossible. And in the
sitting-room--then he remembered that the room was dimly lighted;
curtains kept out the gas-light of the court; Colquhoun had on his
entrance lowered the silver lamp; there was a heavy green shade on
this; it was possible that she might have been in the room while he
was there, and listening to every word.

The thought was maddening. He tried to put it all before himself in
logical sequence, but could not; he tried to fence with the question,
but it would not be evaded; he tried to persuade himself that
suspicions resting on an anonymous slander were baseless, but every
time his mind fell back upon the voice which proclaimed his wife's
dishonour.

A man on the rack might as well try to dream of soft beds and
luxurious dreamless sleep; a man being flogged at the cart-tail might
as well try to transport his thoughts to boyhood's games upon a
village green; a man at the stake might as well try to think of deep
delicious draughts of ice-cold water from a shady brook. The agony and
shame of the present are too much for any imagination.

It was so to Gabriel Cassilis. The one thing which he trusted in,
after all the villainies and rogueries he had learned during
sixty-five years mostly spent among men trying to make money, was his
wife's fidelity. It was like the Gospel--a thing to be accepted and
acted upon with unquestioning belief. Good heavens! if a man cannot
believe in his wife's honesty, in what is he to believe?

Gabriel Cassilis was not a violent man; he could not find relief in
angry words and desperate deeds like a Moor of Venice; his jealousy
was a smouldering fire; a flame which burned with a dull fierce heat;
a disease which crept over body and mind alike, crushing energy,
vitality, and life out of both.

Everything might go to ruin round him; he was no longer capable of
thought and action. Telegrams and letters lay piled before him on the
table, and he left them unopened.

Outside, his secretary was in dismay. His employer would receive no
one, and would attend to nothing. He signed mechanically such papers
as were brought him to sign, and then he motioned the secretary to the
door.

This apathy lasted for four days--the four days most important of any
in the lives of himself, of Gilead Beck, and of Lawrence Colquhoun.
For the fortunes of all hung upon his shaking it off, and he did not
shake it off.

On the second day, the day when he got the letter telling him that his
wife had been in Colquhoun's chambers while he was there, he sent for
a private detective.

He put into his hands all the letters.

"Written by a woman," said the officer. "Have you any clue, sir?"

"None--none whatever. I want you to watch. You will watch my wife and
you will watch Mr. Colquhoun. Get every movement watched, and report
to me every morning. Can you do this? Good. Then go, and spare neither
pains nor money."

The next morning's report was unsatisfactory. Colquhoun had gone to
the Park in the afternoon, dined at his club, and gone home to his
chambers at eleven. Mrs. Cassilis, after dining at home, went out at
ten, and returned early--at half-past eleven.

But there came a letter from the anonymous correspondent.

"You are having a watch set on them. Good. But that won't find out the
Scotch secret. She _was_ in his room while you were there--hidden
somewhere, but I do not know where."

He went home to watch his wife with his own eyes. He might as well
have watched a marble statue. She met his eyes with the calm cold look
to which he was accustomed. There was nothing in her manner to show
that she was other than she had always been. He tried in her presence
to realise the fact, if it was a fact. "This woman," he said to
himself, "has been lying hidden in Colquhoun's chambers listening
while I talked to him. She was there before I went; she was there when
I came away. What is her secret?"

What, indeed! She seemed a woman who could have no secrets, a woman
whose life from her cradle might have been exposed to the whole world,
who would have found nothing but cause of admiration and respect.

In her presence, under her influence, his jealousy lost something of
its fierceness. He feared her too much to suspect her while in his
sight. It was at night, in his office, away from her, that he gave
full swing to the bitterness of his thoughts. In the hours when he
should have been sleeping he paced his room, wrapped in his
dressing-gown--a long lean figure, with eyes aflame, and thoughts that
tore him asunder; and in the hours when he should have been waking he
sat with bent shoulders, glowering at the letters of her accuser,
gazing into a future which seemed as black as ink.

His life, he knew, was drawing to its close. Yet a few more brief
years, and the summons would come for him to cross the River. Of that
he had no fear; but it was dreadful to think that his age was to be
dishonoured. Success was his; the respect which men give to success
was his; no one inquired very curiously into the means by which
success was commanded; he was a name and a power. Now that name was to
be tarnished; by no act of his own, by no fault of his; by the
treachery of the only creature in the world, except his infant child,
in whom he trusted.

He would have, perhaps, to face the publicity of an open court; to
hear his wrongs set forth to a jury; to read his "case" in the daily
papers.

And he would have to alter his will.

Oddly enough, of all the evil things which seemed about to fall on
him, not one troubled him more than the last.

His detective brought him no news on the next day. But his unknown
correspondent did.

"She is tired," the letter said, "of not seeing Mr. Colquhoun for
three whole days. She will see him to-morrow. There is to be a
garden-party at Mrs. L'Estrange's Twickenham villa. Mr. Colquhoun will
be there, and she is going, too, to meet him. If you dared, if you had
the heart of a mouse, you would be there too. You would arrive late;
you would watch and see for yourself, unseen, if possible, how they
meet, and what they say to each other. An invitation lies for you, as
well as your wife upon the table. Go!"

While he was reading this document his secretary came in, uncalled.

"The Eldorado Stock," he said, in his usual whisper. "Have you decided
what to do? Settling day on Friday. Have you forgotten what you hold,
sir?"

"I have forgotten nothing," Gabriel Cassilis replied. "Eldorado stock?
I never forget anything. Leave me. I shall see no one to-day; no one
is to be admitted. I am very busy."

"I don't understand it," the secretary said to himself. "Has he got
information that he keeps to himself? Has he got a deeper game on than
I ever gave him credit for? What does it mean? Is he going off his
head?"

More letters and more telegrams came. They were sent in to the inner
office; but nothing came out of it.

That night Gabriel Cassilis left his chair at ten o'clock. He had
eaten nothing all day. He was faint and weak; he took something at a
City railway station, and drove home in a cab. His wife was out.

In the hall he saw her woman, the tall woman with the unprepossessing
face.

"You are Mrs. Cassilis's maid?" he asked.

"I am, sir."

"Come with me."

He took her to his own study, and sat down. Now he had the woman with
him he did not know what to ask her.

"You called me, sir," she said. "Do you want to know anything?"

"How long have you been with your mistress?"

"I came to her when her former maid, Janet, died, sir. Janet was with
her for many years before she married."

"Janet--Janet--a Scotch name."

"Janet was with my mistress in Scotland."

"Yes--Mrs. Cassilis was in Scotland--yes. And--and--Janet was in your
confidence?"

"We had no secrets from each other, sir. Janet told me everything.

"What was there to tell?"

"Nothing, sir. What should there be?"

This was idle fencing.

"You may go," he said. "Stay. Let them send me up something--a cup of
tea, a slice of meat--anything."

Then he recommenced his dreary walk up and down the room.

Later on a curious feeling came over him--quite a strange and novel
feeling. It was as if, while he thought, or rather while his fancies
like so many devils played riot in his brain, he could not find the
right words in which to clothe his thoughts. He struggled against the
feeling. He tried to talk. But the wrong words came from his lips.
Then he took a book; yes--he could read. It was nonsense; he shook off
the feeling. But he shrank from speaking to any servant, and went to
bed.

That night he slept better, and in the morning was less agitated. He
breakfasted in his study, and then he went down to his office.

It was the fourth day since he had opened no letters and attended to
no business. He remembered this, and tried to shake off the gloomy
fit. And then he thought of the coming _coup_, and tried to bring
his thoughts back to their usual channel. How much did he hold of
Eldorado Stock? Rising higher day by day. But three days, three short
days, before settling-day.

The largest stake he had ever ventured; a stake so large that when he
thought of it his spirit and nerve came back to him.

For once--for the last time--he entered his office, holding himself
erect, and looking brighter than he had done for days; and he sat down
to his letters with an air of resolution.

Unfortunately, the first letter was from the anonymous correspondent.

"She wrote to him to-day; she told him that she could bear her life no
longer; she threatened to tell the secret right out; she will have an
explanation with him to-morrow at Mrs. L'Estrange's. Do you go down
and you will hear the explanation. Be quiet, and the secret."

He started from his chair, the letter in his hand, and looked straight
before him. Was it, then, all true? Would that very day give him a
chance of finding out the secret between Lawrence Colquhoun and his
wife?

He put up his glasses and read the letter--the last of a long series,
every one of which had been a fresh arrow in his heart--again and
again.

Then he sat down and burst into tears.

A young man's tears may be forced from him by many a passing sorrow,
but an old man's only by the reality of a sorrow which cannot be put
aside. The deaths of those who are dear to the old man fall on him as
so many reminders that his own time will soon arrive; but it is not
for such things as death that he laments.

"I loved her," moaned Gabriel Cassilis. "I loved her, and I trusted
her; and this the end!"

He did not curse her, nor Colquhoun, nor himself. It was all the hand
of Fate. It was hard upon him, harder than he expected or knew, but he
bore it in silence.

He sat so, still and quiet, a long while.

Then he put together all the letters, which the detective had brought
back, and placed them in his pocket. Then he dallied and played with
the paper and pencils before him, just as one who is restless and
uncertain in his mind. Then he looked at his watch--it was past three;
the garden party was for four; and then he rose suddenly, put on his
hat, and passed out. His secretary asked him as he went through his
office, if he would return, and at what time.

Mr. Cassilis made a motion with his hand, as if to put the matter off
for a few moments, and replied nothing. When he got into the street it
occurred to him that he could not answer the secretary because that
same curious feeling was upon him again, and he had lost the power of
speech. It was strange, and he laughed. Then the power of speech as
suddenly returned to him. He called a cab and told the driver where to
go. It is a long drive to Twickenham. He was absorbed in his thoughts,
and as he sat back, gazing straight before him, the sensation of not
being able to speak kept coming and going in his brain. This made him
uneasy, but not much, because he had graver things to think about.

At half-past four he arrived within a few yards of Mrs. L'Estrange's
house, where he alighted and dismissed his cab. The cabman touched his
hat and said it was a fine day, and seasonable weather for the time of
the year.

"Ay," replied Gabriel Cassilis mechanically. "A fine day, and
seasonable weather for the time of the year."

And as he walked along under the lime-trees he found himself saying
over again, as if it was the burden of a song:

"A fine day, and seasonable weather for the time of the year."




CHAPTER XL.

    "How green are you and fresh in this old world!"


On the morning of the garden party Joseph Jagenal called on Lawrence
Colquhoun.

"I have two or three things to say," he began, "if you can give me
five minutes."

"Twenty," said Lawrence. "Now then."

He threw himself back in his easiest chair and prepared to listen.

"I am in the way of hearing things sometimes," Joseph said. "And I
heard a good deal yesterday about Mr. Gabriel Cassilis."

"What?" said Lawrence, aghast, "he surely has not been telling all the
world about it!"

"I think we are talking of different things," Joseph answered after a
pause. "Don't tell me what you mean, but what I mean is that there is
an uneasy feeling about Gabriel Cassilis."

"Ay? In what way?"

"Well, they say he is strange; does not see people; does not open
letters; and is evidently suffering from some mental distress."

"Yes."

"And when such a man as Gabriel Cassilis is in mental distress, money
is at the bottom of it."

"Generally. Not always."

"It was against my advice that you invested any of your money by his
direction."

"I invested the whole of it; and all Phillis's too. Mr. Cassilis has
the investment of our little all," Lawrence added, laughing.

But the lawyer looked grave.

"Don't do it," he said; "get it in your own hands again; let it lie
safely in the three per cents. What has a pigeon like you to do among
the City hawks? And Miss Fleming's money, too. Let it be put away
safely, and give her what she wants, a modest and sufficient income
without risk."

"I believe you are right, Jagenal. In fact, I am sure you are right.
But Cassilis would have it. He talked me into an ambition for good
investments which I never felt before. I will ask him to sell out for
me, and go back to the old three per cents. and railway shares--which
is what I have been brought up to. On the other hand, you are quite
wrong about his mental distress. That is--I happen to know--you are a
lawyer and will not talk--it is not due to money matters; and Gabriel
Cassilis is, for what I know, as keen a hand as ever at piling up the
dollars. The money is all safe; of that I am quite certain."

"Well, if you think so--But don't let him keep it," said Joseph the
Doubter.

"After all, why not get eight and nine per cent. if you can?"

"Because it isn't safe, and because you ought not to expect it. What
do you want with more money than you have got? However, I have told
you what men say. There is another thing. I am sorry to say that my
brothers have made fools of themselves, and I am come to apologise for
them."

"Don't if it is disagreeable, my dear fellow."

"It is not very disagreeable, and I would rather. They are fifty, but
they are not wise. In fact, they have lived so much out of the world
that they do not understand things. And so they went down and proposed
for the hand of your ward, Phillis Fleming."

"Oh! Both of them? And did she accept?"

"The absurd thing is that I cannot discover which of them wished to be
the bridegroom, nor which Phillis thought it was. She is quite
confused about the whole matter. However, they went away and thought
one of them was accepted, which explains a great deal of innuendo and
reference to some unknown subject of mirth which I have observed
lately. I say one of them, because I find it impossible to ascertain
which of them was the man. Well, whether they were conscience-stricken
or whether they repented, I do not know, but they went back to
Twickenham and solemnly repudiated the engagement."

"And Phillis?"

"She laughed at them, of course. Do not fear; she wasn't in the least
annoyed. I shall speak to my brothers this evening."

Colquhoun thought of the small, fragile-looking pair, and inwardly
hoped that their brother would be gentle with them.

"And there is another thing, Colquhoun. Do you want to see your ward
married?"

"To Jack Dunquerque?"

"Yes."

"Not yet. I want her to have her little fling first. Why the poor
child is only just out of the nursery, and he wants to marry her
off-hand--it's cruel. Let her see the world for a year, and then we
will consider it. Jagenal, I wish I could marry the girl myself."

"So do I," said Joseph, with a sigh.

"I fell in love with her," said Lawrence, "at first sight. That is
why," he added, in his laziest tones, "I suppose that is why I told
Jack Dunquerque not to go there any more. But he has gone there again,
and he has proposed to her, I hear, and she has accepted him. So that
I can't marry her, and you can't, and we are a brace of fogies."

"And what have you said to Mr. Dunquerque?"

"I acted the jealous guardian, and I ordered him not to call on my
ward any more for the present. I shall see how Phillis takes it, and
give in, of course, if she makes a fuss. Then Beck has been here
offering to hand over all his money to Jack, because he loves the
young man."

"Quixotic," said the lawyer.

"Yes. The end of it will be a wedding, of course. You and I may shake
a leg at it if we like. As for me, I never can marry any one; and as
for you----"

"As for me, I never thought of marrying her. I only remarked that I
had fallen in love, as you say, with her. That's no matter to
anybody."

"Well, things go on as they like, not as we like. What nonsense it is
to say that man is master of his fate! Now, what I should like would
be to get rid of the reason that prevents my marrying; to put Jack
Dunquerque into the water-butt and sit on the lid; and then for
Phillis to fall in love with me. After that, strawberries and cream
with a little champagne for the rest of my Methuselah-like career. And
I can't get any of these things. Master of his fate?"

"Have you heard of the Coping-stone chapter? It is found."

"Agatha told me something, in a disjointed way. What is the effect of
it?"

Joseph laughed.

"It is all torn up but the last page. A righteous retribution, because
if Phillis had been taught to read this would not have happened. Now,
I suspect the will must be set aside, and the money will mostly go to
Gabriel Cassilis, the nearest of kin, who doesn't want it."




CHAPTER XLI.

    "La langue des femmes est leur epee,
    et elles ne la laissent pas rouiller."


The grounds of the house formed a parallelogram, of which the longer
sides were parallel with the river. In the north-east corner stood the
house itself, its front facing west. It was not a large house, as has
been explained. A conservatory was built against nearly the whole
length of the front. The lawns and flower-beds spread to west and
south, sloping down to the river's edge. The opposite angle was
occupied by stables, kitchen-garden, and boat-house. Gabriel Cassilis
approached it from the east. An iron railing and a low hedge, along
which were planted limes, laburnums, and lilacs, separated the place
from the road. But before reaching the gate--in fact, at the corner of
the kitchen-garden--he could, himself, unseen, look through the trees
and observe the party. They were all there. He saw Mrs. L'Estrange,
Phillis, his own wife--Heavens! how calm and cold she looked, and how
beautiful he thought her!--with half a dozen other ladies. The men
were few. There was the curate. He was dangling round Phillis, and
wore an expression of holiness-out-for-a-holiday, which is always so
charming in these young men. Gabriel Cassilis also noticed that he was
casting eyes of longing at the young lady. There was Lawrence
Colquhoun. Gabriel Cassilis looked everywhere for him, till he saw
him, lying beneath a tree, his head on his hand. He was not talking to
Victoria, nor was he looking at her. On the contrary, he was watching
Phillis. There was Captain Ladds. He was talking to one of the young
ladies, and he was looking at Phillis. The young lady evidently did
not like this. And there was Gilead Beck. He was standing apart,
talking to Mrs. L'Estrange, with his hands in his pockets, leaning
against a tree. But he, too, was casting furtive glances at Phillis.

They all seemed, somehow, looking at the girl. There was no special
reason why they should look at her, except that she was so bright, so
fresh, and so charming for the eye to rest upon. The other girls were
as well dressed, but they were nowhere compared with Phillis. The
lines of their figures, perhaps, were not so fine; the shape of their
heads more commonplace; their features not so delicate; their pose
less graceful. There are some girls who go well together. Helena and
Hermia are a foil to each other; but when Desdemona shows all other
beauties pale like lesser lights. And the other beauties do not like
it.

Said one of the fair guests to another--

"What do they see in her?"

"I cannot tell," replied her friend. "She seems to me more
_farouche_ than ever."

For, having decided that _farouche_ was the word to express poor
Phillis's distinguishing quality, there was no longer any room for
question, and _farouche_ she continued to be. If there is anything
that Phillis never was, it is that quality of fierce shy wildness
which requires the adjective _farouche_. But the word stuck, because
it sounded well. To this day--to be sure, it is only a twelvemonth
since--the girls say still, "Oh, yes! Phillis Fleming. She was pretty,
but extremely _farouche_."


Gabriel Cassilis stood by the hedge and looked through the trees. He
has come all the way from town to attend this party, and now he
hesitated at the very gates. For he became conscious of two things:
first, that the old feeling of not finding his words was upon him
again; and secondly, that he was not exactly dressed for a festive
occasion. Like most City men who have long remained bachelors, Gabriel
Cassilis was careful of his personal appearance. He considered a
garden-party as an occasion demanding something special. Now he not
only wore his habitual pepper-and-salt suit, but the coat in which he
wrote at his office--a comfortable easy old frock, a little baggy at
the elbows. His mind was strung to such an intense pitch, that such a
trifling objection as his dress--because Gabriel Cassilis never looked
other than a gentleman--appeared to him insuperable. He withdrew from
the hedge, and retraced his steps. Presently he came to a lane. He
left the road, and turned down the path. He found himself by the
river. He sat down under a tree, and began to think.

He thought of the time when his lonely life was wearisome to him, when
he longed for a wife and a house of his own. He remembered how he
pictured a girl who would be his darling, who would return his
caresses and love him for his own sake. And how, when he met Victoria
Pengelley, his thoughts changed, and he pictured that girl, stately
and statuesque, at the head of the table. There would be no pettings
and caressings from her, that was quite certain. On the other hand,
there would be a woman of whom he would be proud--one who would wear
his wealth properly. And a woman of good family, well connected all
round. There were no caresses, he remembered now; there was the
coldest acceptance of him; and there had been no caresses since. But
he had been proud of her; and as for her honour--how was it possible
that the doubt should arise? That man must be himself distinctly of
the lower order of men who would begin by doubting or suspecting his
wife.

To end in this: doubt so strong as to be almost certainty: suspicion
like a knife cutting at his heart; his brain clouded; and he himself
driven to creep down clandestinely to watch his wife.

He sat there till the June sun began to sink in the west. The river
was covered with the evening craft. They were manned by the young City
men but just beginning the worship of Mammon, who would have looked
with envy upon the figure sitting motionless in the shade by the
river's edge had they known who he was. Presently he roused himself,
and looked at his watch. It was past seven. Perhaps the party would be
over by this time; he could go home with his wife; it would be
something, at least, to be with her, to keep her from that other man.
He rose,--his brain in a tumult--and repaired once more to his point
of vantage at the hedge. The lawn was empty; there was no one there.
But he saw his own carriage in the yard, and therefore his wife was
not yet gone.

In the garden, no one. He crept in softly, and looked round him. No
one saw him enter the place; and he felt something like a burglar as
he walked, with a stealthy step which he vainly tried to make
confident, across the lawn.

Two ways of entrance stood open before him. One was the porch of the
house, covered with creepers and hung with flowers. The door stood
open, and beyond it was the hall, looking dark from the bright light
outside. He heard voices within. Another way was by the conservatory,
the door of which was also open. He looked in. Among the flowers and
vines there stood a figure he knew--his wife's. But she was alone. And
she was listening. On her face was an expression which he had never
seen there, and never dreamed of. Her features were distorted; her
hands were closed in a tight clutch; her arms were stiffened--but she
was trembling. What was she doing. To whom was she listening?

He hesitated a moment, and then he stepped through the porch into the
hall. The voices came from the right, in fact, from the morning
room,--Phillis's room,--which opened by its single window upon the
lawn, and by its two doors into the hall on one side and the
conservatory on the other.

And Gabriel Cassilis, like his wife, listened. He put off his hat,
placed his umbrella in the stand, and stood in attitude, in case he
should be observed, to push open the door and step in. He was so
abject in his jealousy that he actually did not feel the disgrace and
degradation of the act. He was so keen and eager to lose no word, that
he leaned his head to the half-open door, and stood, his long thin
figure trembling with excitement, like some listener in a melodrama of
the transpontine stage.

There were two persons in the room, and one was a woman; and they were
talking together. One was Lawrence Colquhoun and the other was Phillis
Fleming.

Colquhoun was not, according to his wont, lying on a sofa, nor sitting
in the easiest of the chairs. He was standing, and he was speaking in
an earnest voice.

"When I saw you first," he said, "you were little Phillis--a wee
toddler of six or seven. I went away and forgot all about you--almost
forgot your very existence, Phillis,--till the news of Mr. Dyson's
death met me on my way home again. I fear that I have neglected you
since I came home; but I have been worried."

"What has worried you, Lawrence?" asked the girl.

She was sitting on the music-stool before the piano; and as she spoke
she turned from the piano, her fingers resting silently on the notes.
She was dressed for the party,--which was over now, and the guests
departed,--in a simple muslin costume, light and airy, which became
her well. And in her hair she had placed a flower. There were flowers
all about the room, flowers at the open window, flowers in the
conservatory beyond, flowers on the bright green lawns beyond.

"How pretty you are, Phillis!" answered her guardian.

He touched her cheek with his finger as she sat.

"I am your guardian," he said, as if in apology.

"And you have been worried about things?" she persisted. "Agatha says
you never care what happens."

"Agatha is right, as a rule. In one case, of which she knows nothing,
she is wrong. Tell me, Phillis, is there anything you want in the
world that I can get for you?"

"I think I have everything," she said, laughing. "And what you will
not give me I shall wait for till I am twenty-one."

"You mean----"

"I mean--Jack Dunquerque, Lawrence."

Only a short month ago, and Jack Dunquerque was her friend. She could
speak of him openly and friendly, without change of voice or face. Now
she blushed, and her voice trembled as she uttered his name. That is
one of the outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual state
known to the most elementary observers.

"I wanted to speak about him. Phillis, you are very young, you have
seen nothing of the world; you know no other men. All I ask you is to
wait. Do not give your promise to this man till you have at least had
an opportunity of--of comparing--of learning your own mind."

She shook her head.

"I have already given my promise," she said.

"But it is a promise that may be recalled," he urged. "Dunquerque is a
gentleman; he will not hold you to your word when he feels that he
ought not to have taken it from you. Phillis, you do not know
yourself. You have no idea of what it is that you have given, or its
value. How can I tell you the truth?"

"I think you mean the best for me, Lawrence," she said. "But the best
is--Jack."

Then she began to speak quite low, so that the listeners heard
nothing.

"See, Lawrence, you are kind, and I can tell you all without being
ashamed. I think of Jack all day long and all night. I pray for him in
the morning and in the evening. When he comes near me I tremble; I
feel that I must obey him if he were to order me in anything. I have
no more command of myself when he is with me----"

"Stop, Phillis," Lawrence interposed; "you must not tell me any more.
I was trying to act for the best; but I will make no further
opposition. See, my dear"--he took her hand in his in a tender and
kindly way--"if I write to Jack Dunquerque to-day, and tell the
villain he may come and see you whenever he likes, and that he shall
marry you whenever you like, will that do for you?"

She started to her feet, and threw her left hand--Lawrence still
holding the right--upon his shoulder, looking him full in the face.

"Will it do? O Lawrence! Agatha always said you were the kindest man
in the world; and I--forgive me!--I did not believe it, I could not
understand it. O Jack, Jack, we shall be so happy, so happy! He loves
me, Lawrence, as much as I love him."

The listeners in the greenhouse and the hall craned their necks, but
they could hear little, because the girl spoke low.

"Does he love you as much as you love him, Phillis? Does he love you a
thousand times better than you can understand? Why, child, you do not
know what love means. Perhaps women never do quite realise what it
means. Only go on believing that he loves you, and love him in return,
and all will be well with you."

"I do believe it, Lawrence! and I love him, too."

Looking through the flowers and the leaves of the conservatory glared
a face upon the pair strangely out of harmony with the peace which
breathed in the atmosphere of the place--a face violently distorted by
passion, a face in which every evil feeling was at work, a face dark
with rage. Phillis might have seen the face had she looked in that
direction, but she did not; she held Lawrence's hand, and she was
shyly pressing it in gratitude.

"Phillis," said Lawrence hoarsely, "Jack Dunquerque is a lucky man. We
all love you, my dear; and I almost as much as Jack. But I am too old
for you; and besides, besides----" He cleared his throat, and spoke
more distinctly. "I do love you, however, Phillis; a man could not be
long beside you without loving you."

There was a movement and a rustle in the leaves.

The man at the door stood bewildered. What was it all about? Colquhoun
and a woman--not his wife--talking of love. What love? what woman? And
his wife in the conservatory, looking as he never saw her look before,
and listening. What did it all mean? what thing was coming over him?
He pressed his hand to his forehead, trying to make out what it all
meant, for he seemed to be in a dream; and, as before, while he tried
to shape the words in his mind for some sort of an excuse, or a
reassurance to himself, he found that no words came, or, if any, then
the wrong words.

The house was very quiet; no sounds came from any part of it,--the
servants were resting in the kitchen, the mistress of the house was
resting in her room, after the party,--no voices but the gentle talk
of the girl and her guardian.

"Kiss me, Phillis," said Lawrence. "Then let me hold you in my arms
for once, because you are so sweet, and--and I am your guardian, you
know, and we all love you."

He drew her gently by the hands. She made no resistance; it seemed to
her right that her guardian should kiss her if he wished. She did not
know how the touch of her hand, the light in her eyes, the sound of
her voice, were stirring in the man before her depths that he thought
long ago buried and put away, awakening once more the possibilities,
at forty, of a youthful love.

His lips were touching her forehead, her face was close to his, he
held her two hands tight, when the crash of a falling flower-pot
startled him, and Victoria Cassilis stood before him.

Panting, gasping for breath, with hands clenched and eyes distended--a
living statue of the _femina demens_. For a moment she paused to take
breath, and then, with a wave of her hand which was grand because it
was natural and worthy of Rachel--because you may see it any day among
the untutored beauties of Whitechapel, among the gipsy camps, or in
the villages where Hindoo women live and quarrel--Victoria Cassilis
for once in her life was herself, and acted superbly, because she did
not act at all.

"Victoria!" The word came from Lawrence.

Phillis, with a little cry of terror, clung tightly to her guardian's
arm.

"Leave him!" cried the angry woman. "Do you hear?--leave him!"

"Better go, Phillis," said Lawrence.

At the prospect of battle the real nature of the man asserted itself.
He drew himself erect, and met her wild eyes with a steady gaze, which
had neither terror nor surprise in it--a gaze such as a mad doctor
might practise upon his patients, a look which calms the wildest
outbreaks, because it sees in them nothing but what it expected to
find, and is only sorry.

"No! she shall not go," said Victoria, sweeping her skirts behind her
with a splendid movement from her feet; "she shall not go until she
has heard me first. You dare to make love to this girl, this
schoolgirl, before my very eyes. She shall know, she shall know our
secret!"

"Victoria," said Lawrence calmly, "you do not understand what you are
saying. _Our_ secret? Say your secret, and be careful."

The door moved an inch or two; the man standing behind it was shaking
in every limb. "Their secret? her secret?" He was going to learn at
last; he was going to find the truth; he was going---- And here a
sudden thought struck him that he had neglected his affairs of late,
and that, this business once got through, he must look into things
again; a thought without words, because, somehow, just then he had no
words--he had forgotten them all.

The writer of the anonymous letters had done much mischief, as she
hoped to do. People who write anonymous letters generally contrive so
much. Unhappily, the beginning of mischief is like the boring of a
hole in a dam or dyke, because very soon, instead of a trickling
rivulet of water, you get a gigantic inundation. Nothing is easier
than to have your revenge; only it is so very difficult to calculate
the after consequences of revenge. If the writer of the letters had
known what was going to happen in consequence, most likely they would
never have been written.

"Their secret? her secret?" He listened with all his might. But
Victoria, his wife Victoria, spoke out clearly; he could hear without
straining his ears.

"Be careful," repeated Lawrence.

"I shall not be careful; the time is past for care. You have sneered
and scoffed at me; you have insulted me; you have refused almost to
know me,--all that I have borne, but this I will not bear."

"Phillis Fleming." She turned to the girl. Phillis did not shrink or
cower before her; on the contrary, she stood like Lawrence, calm and
quiet, to face the storm, whatever storm might be brewing. "This man
takes you in his arms and kisses you. He says he loves you; he dares
to tell you he loves you. No doubt you are flattered. You have had the
men round you all day long, and now you have the best of them at your
feet, alone, when they are gone. Well, the man you want to catch, the
excellent _parti_ you and Agatha would like to trap, the man who
stands there----"

"Victoria, there is still time to stop," said Lawrence calmly.

"That man is my husband!"

Phillis looked from one to the other, understanding nothing. The man
stood quietly stroking his great beard with his fingers, and looking
straight at Mrs. Cassilis.

"My husband. We were married six years ago and more. We were married
in Scotland, privately; but he is my husband, and five days after our
wedding he left me. Is that true?"

"Perfectly. You have forgotten nothing, except the reason of my
departure. If you think it worth while troubling Phillis with that,
why----"

"We quarrelled; that was the reason. He used cruel and bitter
language. He gave me back my liberty."

"We separated, Phillis, after a row, the like of which you may
conceive by remembering that Mrs. Cassilis was then six years younger,
and even more ready for such encounters than at present. We separated;
we agreed that things should go on as if the marriage, which was no
marriage, had never taken place. Janet, the maid, was to be trusted.
She stayed with her mistress; I went abroad. And then I heard by
accident that my wife had taken the liberty I gave her, in its fullest
sense, by marrying again. Then I came home, because I thought that
chapter was closed; but it was not, you see; and for her sake I wish I
had stayed in America."

Mrs. Cassilis listened as if she did not hear a word; then she went
on--

"He is my husband still. I can claim him when I want him; and I claim
him now. I say, Lawrence, so long as I live you shall marry no other
woman. You are mine; whatever happens, you are mine."

The sight of the man, callous, immovable, suddenly seemed to terrify
her. She sank weeping at his knees.

"Lawrence, forgive me, forgive me! Take me away. I never loved any one
but you. Forgive me!"

He made no answer or any sign.

"Let me go with you, somewhere, out of this place; let us go away
together, we two. I have never loved any one but you--never any one
but you, but you!"

She broke into a passion of sobs. When she looked up, it was to meet
the white face of Gabriel Cassilis. He was stooping over her, his
hands spread out helplessly, his form quivering, his lips trying to
utter something; but no sound came through them. Beyond stood
Lawrence, still with the look of watchful determination which had
broken down her rage. Then she sprang to her feet.

"You here? Then you know all. It is true; that is my legal husband.
For two years and more my life has been a lie. Stand back, and let me
go to my husband!"

But he stood between Colquhoun and herself. Lawrence saw with a sudden
terror that something had happened to the man. He expected an outburst
of wrath, but no wrath came. Gabriel Cassilis turned his head from one
to the other, and presently said, in a trembling voice--

"A fine day, and seasonable weather for the time of year."

"Good God!" cried Lawrence, "you have destroyed his reason!"

Gabriel Cassilis shook his head, and began again--

"A fine day, and seasonable----"

Here he threw himself upon the nearest chair, and buried his face in
his hands.




CHAPTER XLII.

    "Then a babbled of green fields."


And then there was silence. Which of them was to speak! Not the woman
who had wrought this mischief; not the man who knew of the wickedness
but had not spoken; not the innocent girl who only perceived that
something dreadful--something beyond the ordinary run of dreadful
events--had happened, and that Victoria Cassilis looked out of her
senses. Lawrence Colquhoun stood unmoved by her tears; his face was
hardened; it bore a look beneath which the guilty woman cowered. Yet
she looked at him and not at her husband.

Presently Colquhoun spoke. His voice was harsh, and his words were a
command.

"Go home!" he said to Victoria. "There is no more mischief for you to
do--go!"

She obeyed without a word. She threw the light wrapper which she
carried on her arm round her slender neck, and walked away, restored,
to outward seeming, to all her calm and stately coldness. The coachman
and the footman noticed nothing. If any of her acquaintances passed
her on the road, they saw no change in her. The woman was impassive
and impenetrable.

Did she love Colquhoun? No one knows. She loved to feel that she had
him in her power; she was driven to a mad jealousy when that power
slipped quite away; and although she had broken the vows which both
once swore to keep, she could not bear even to think that he should do
the same. And she did despise her husband, the man of shares,
companies, and stocks. But could she love Colquhoun? Such a woman may
feel the passion of jealousy; she may rejoice in the admiration which
gratifies her vanity; but she is far too cold and selfish for love. It
is an artful fable of the ancients which makes Narcissus pine away and
die for the loss of his own image, for thereby they teach the great
lesson that he who loves himself destroys himself.

The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel, and Gabriel Cassilis
raised a pale and trembling face--a face with so much desolation and
horror, such a piteous gaze of questioning reproach at Colquhoun, that
the man's heart melted within him. He seemed to have grown old
suddenly; his hair looked whiter; he trembled as one who has the
palsy; and his eyes mutely asked the question, "Is this thing true?"

Lawrence Colquhoun made answer. His voice was low and gentle; his eyes
were filled with tears.

"It is true, Mr. Cassilis. God knows I would have spared you the
knowledge. But it is true."

Gabriel Cassilis opened his lips as if to speak. But he refrained,
stopping suddenly, because he recollected that he could no longer
utter what he wished to say. Then he touched his mouth with his
fingers like a dumb man. He was worse than a dumb man, who cannot
speak at all, because his tongue, if he allowed it, uttered words
which had no connection with his thoughts. Men that have been called
possessed of the devil have knelt at altars, uttering blasphemous
impieties when their souls were full of prayer.

"Do you understand me, Mr. Cassilis? Do you comprehend what I am
saying?"

He nodded his head.

Colquhoun took a piece of notepaper from the writing-table, and laid
it before him with a pencil. Mr. Cassilis grasped the pencil eagerly,
and began to write. From his fingers, as from his tongue, came the
sentence which he did _not_ wish to write--

"A fine day, and seasonable weather for the time of year."

He looked at this result with sorrowful heart, and showed it to
Colquhoun, shaking his head.

"Good heavens?" cried Colquhoun, "his mind is gone."

Gabriel Cassilis touched him on the arm and shook his head.

"He understands you, Lawrence," said Phillis; "but he cannot explain
himself. Something has gone wrong with him which we do not know."

Gabriel Cassilis nodded gratefully to Phillis.

"Then Mr. Cassilis," Colquhoun began, "it is right that you should
know all. Six years ago I followed Victoria Pengelley into Scotland.
We were married privately at a registrar's office under assumed names.
If you ever want to know where and by what names, you have only to ask
me, and I will tell you. There were reasons, she said,--I never quite
understood what they were, but she chose to be a _fille romanesque_ at
the time,--why the marriage should be kept secret. After the wedding
ceremony--such as it was--she left the office with her maid, who was
the only witness, and returned to the friends with whom she was
staying. I met her every day; but always in that house and among other
people. A few days passed. She would not, for some whim of her own,
allow the marriage to be disclosed. We quarrelled for that, and other
reasons--my fault, possibly. Good God! what a honeymoon! To meet the
woman you love--your bride--in society; if for half an hour alone,
then in the solitude of open observation; to quarrel like people who
have been married for forty years---- Well, perhaps it was my fault.
On the fifth day we agreed to let things be as if they had never been.
I left my bride, who was not my wife, in anger. We used bitter
words--perhaps I the bitterest. And when we parted, I bade her go back
to her old life as if nothing had been promised on either side. I said
she should be free; that I would never claim the power and the rights
given me by a form of words; that she might marry again; that, to
leave her the more free, I would go away and never return till she was
married, or till she gave me leave. I was away for four years; and
then I saw the announcement of her marriage in the paper, and I
returned. That is the bare history, Mr. Cassilis. Since my return, on
my honour as a gentleman, you have had no cause for jealousy in my own
behaviour towards--your wife, not mine. Remember, Mr. Cassilis,
whatever else may be said, she never was my wife. And yet, in the eye
of the law, I suppose she is my wife still. And with all my heart I
pity you."

He stopped, and looked at the victim of the crime. Gabriel Cassilis
was staring helplessly from him to Phillis. Did he understand? Not
entirely, I think. Yet the words which he had heard fell upon his
heart softly, and soothed him in his trouble. At last his eyes rested
on Phillis, as if asking, as men do in times of trouble, for the quick
comprehension of a woman.

"What can I do, Mr. Cassilis?" asked the girl. "If you cannot speak,
will you make some sign? Any little sign that I can understand?"

She remembered that among her lesson-books was a dictionary. She put
that into his hand, and asked him to show her in the dictionary what
he wished to say.

He took the book in his trembling hands, turned over the leaves, and
presently, finding the page he wanted, ran his fingers down the lines
till they rested on a word.

Phillis read it, spelling it out in her pretty little school-girl
fashion.

"S, I, si; L, E, N, C, LAME DUCK, lence--silence. Is that what you
wish to say, Mr. Cassilis?"

He nodded.

"Silence," repeated Lawrence. "For all our sakes it is the best--the
only thing. Phillis, tell no one what you have heard; not even Agatha;
not even Jack Dunquerque. Or, if you tell Jack Dunquerque, send him to
me directly afterwards. Do you promise, child?"

"I promise, Lawrence. I will tell no one but Jack; and I shall ask him
first if he thinks I ought to tell him another person's secret."

"Thank you, Phillis. Mr. Cassilis, there are only we three and--and
one more. You may trust Phillis when she promises a thing; you may
trust me, for my own sake; you may, I hope, trust that other person.
And as for me, it is my intention to leave England in a week. I deeply
regret that I ever came back to this country."

A week was too far ahead for Mr. Cassilis to look forward to in his
agitation. Clearly the one thing in his mind at the moment--the one
possible thing--was concealment. He took the dictionary again, and
found the word "Home."

"Will you let me take you home, sir?" Lawrence asked.

He nodded again. There was no resentment in his face, and none in his
feeble confiding manner when he took Lawrence's arm and leaned upon it
as he crawled out to the carriage.

Only one sign of feeling. He took Phillis by the hand and kissed her.
When he had kissed her, he laid his finger on her lips. And she
understood his wish that no one should learn this thing.

"Not even Agatha, Phillis," said Lawrence. "Forget, if you can. And if
you cannot, keep silence."

They drove into town together, these men with a secret between them.
Lawrence made no further explanations. What was there to explain? The
one who suffered the most sat upright, looking straight before him in
mute suffering.

It is a long drive from Twickenham to Kensington Palace Gardens. When
they arrived, Mr. Cassilis was too weak to step out of the carriage.
They helped him--Lawrence Colquhoun and a footman--into the hall. He
was feeble with long fasting as much as from the effects of this
dreadful shock.

They carried him to his study. Among the servants who looked on was
Tomlinson, the middle-aged maid with the harsh face. She knew that her
bolt had fallen at last; and she saw, too, that it had fallen upon the
wrong person, for up-stairs sat her mistress, calm, cold and
collected. She came home looking pale and a little worn; fatigued,
perhaps, with the constant round of engagements, though the season was
little more than half over. She dressed in gentle silence, which
Tomlinson could not understand. She went down to dinner alone, and
presently went to her drawing-room, where she sat in a window, and
thought.

There Colquhoun found her.

"I have told him all," he said. "Your words told him only half, and
yet too much. You were never my wife, as you know, and never will be,
though the Law may make you take my name. Cruel and heartless woman!
to gratify an insensate jealousy you have destroyed your husband."

"Is he--is he--dead?" she cried, almost as if she wished he were.

"No; he is not dead; he is struck with some fit. He cannot speak.
Learn, now, that your jealousy was without foundation. Phillis will
marry Dunquerque. As for me, I can never marry, as you know."

"He is not dead!" she echoed, taking no notice of the last words.
Indeed, Phillis was quite out of her thoughts now. "Does he wish to
see me?"

"No; you must not, at present, attempt to see him."

"What will they do to me, Lawrence?" she asked again. "What can they
do? I did not mean him to hear. It was all to frighten you."

"To frighten me! What they can do, Mrs. Cassilis, is to put you in the
prisoner's box and me in the witness box. What he wants to do, so far
as we can yet understand, is to keep silence."

"What is the good of that? He will cry his wrongs all over the town,
and Phillis will tell everybody."

"Phillis will tell no one, no one--not even Agatha. It was lucky that
Agatha heard nothing; she was upstairs, lying down after her party.
Will you keep silence?"

"Of course I shall. What else is there for me to do?"

"For the sake of your husband; for the sake of your boy----"

"It is for my own sake, Lawrence," she interrupted coldly.

"I beg your pardon. I ought to have known by this time that you would
have acted for your own sake only. Victoria, it was an evil day for me
when I met you; it was a worse day when I consented to a secret
marriage, which was no marriage, when there was no reason for any
secrecy; it was the worst day of all when I answered your letter, and
came here to see you. Every day we have met has produced more
recrimination. That would not have mattered, but for the mischief our
meeting has wrought upon your husband. I pray that we may never in
this world meet again."

He was gone, and Victoria Cassilis has not met him since, nor do I
think now that she ever will meet him again.

The summer night closed in; the moonlight came up and shone upon the
Park before her, laying silvery patches of light in ten of thousands
upon the young leaves of the trees, and darkening the shadows a deeper
black by way of contrast. They brought her tea and lights; then they
came for orders. There were none; she would not go out that night. At
eleven Tomlinson came.

"I want nothing, Tomlinson. You need not wait up; I shall not want you
this evening."

"Yes, madam; no, madam. Mr. Cassilis is asleep, madam."

"Let some one sit up with him. See to that, Tomlinson; and don't let
him be disturbed."

"I will sit up with him myself, madam." Tomlinson was anxious to get
to the bottom of the thing. What mischief had been done, and how far
was it her own doing? To persons who want revenge these are very
important questions, when mischief has actually been perpetrated.

Then Victoria was left alone. In that great house, with its troop of
servants and nurses, with her husband and child, there was no one who
cared to know what she was doing. The master was not popular, because
he simply regarded every servant as a machine; but at least he was
just, and he paid well, and the house, from the point of view likely
to be taken by Mr. Plush and Miss Hairpin, was a comfortable one. The
mistress of the house was unpopular. Her temper at times was
intolerable, her treatment of servants showed no consideration; and
the women-folk regarded the neglect of her own child with the horror
of such neglect in which the Englishwoman of all ranks is trained. So
she was alone, and remained alone. The hands of the clock went round
and round; the moon went down, and over the garden lay the soft sepia
twilight of June; the lamp on the little table at her elbow went out;
but she sat still, hands crossed in her lap, looking out of window,
and thinking.

She saw, but she did not feel the wickedness of it, a cold and selfish
girl ripening into a cold and selfish woman--one to whom the outer
world was as a panorama of moving objects, meaning nothing, and having
no connection with herself. Like one blind, deaf, and dumb, she moved
among the mobs who danced and sang, or who grovelled and wept. She had
no tears to help the sufferers, and no smiles to encourage the happy;
she had never been able to sympathise with the acting of a theatre or
the puppets of a novel; she was so cold that she was not even
critical. It seems odd, but it is really true, that a critic may be
actually too cold. She saw a mind that, like the Indian devotee, was
occupied for ever in contemplating itself; she saw beauty which would
have been irresistible had there been one gleam, just one gleam of
womanly tenderness; she saw one man after the other first attracted
and then repelled; and then she came to the one man who was not
repelled. There was once an unfortunate creature who dared to make
love to Diana. His fate is recorded in Lempriére's Dictionary; also in
Dr. Smith's later and more expensive work. Lawrence Colquhoun
resembled that swain, and his fate was not unlike the classical
punishment. She went through the form of marriage with him, and then
she drove him from her by the cold wind of her own intense
selfishness--a very Mistral. When he was gone she began to regret a
slave of such uncomplaining slavishness. Well, no one knew except
Janet. Janet did not talk. It was rather a struggle, she remembered,
to take Gabriel Cassilis--rather a struggle, because Lawrence
Colquhoun might come home and tell the story, not because there was
anything morally wrong. She was most anxious to see him when he did
come home--out of curiosity, out of jealousy, out of a desire to know
whether her old power was gone; out of fear, out of that reason which
makes a criminal seek out from time to time the scene and accomplices
of his crime, and for the thousand reasons which make up a selfish
woman's code of conduct. It was three o'clock and daylight when she
discovered that she had really thought the whole thing over from the
beginning, and that there was nothing more to think about, except the
future--a distasteful subject to all sinners.

"After all," she summed up, as she rose to go to bed, "it is as well.
Lawrence and I should never have got along. He is too selfish, much
too selfish."

Down-stairs they were watching over the stricken man. The doctor came
and felt his pulse; he also looked wise, and wrote things in Latin on
a paper, which he gave to a servant. Then he went away, and said he
would come in the morning again. He was a great doctor, with a title,
and quite believed to know everything; but he did not know what had
befallen this patient.

When Gabriel Cassilis awoke there was some confusion in his mind, and
his brain was wandering--at least it appeared so, because what he said
had nothing to do with any possible wish or thought. He rambled at
large and at length; and then he grew angry, and then he became
suddenly sorrowful, and sighed; then he became perfectly silent. The
confused babble of speech ceased as suddenly as it had come; and since
that morning Gabriel Cassilis has not spoken.

It was at half-past nine that his secretary called, simultaneously
with the doctor.

He heard something from the servants, and pushed into the room where
his chief was lying. The eyes of the sick man opened languidly and
fell upon his first officer, but they expressed no interest and asked
no question.

"Ah!" sighed Mr. Mowll, in the impatience of a sympathy which has but
little time to spare. "Will he recover, doctor?"

"No doubt, no doubt. This way, my dear sir." He led the secretary out
of the room. "Hush! he understands what is said. This is no ordinary
seizure. Has he received any shock?"

"Shock enough to kill thirty men," said the secretary. "Where was he
yesterday? Why did he not say something--do something--to avert the
disaster?"

"Oh! Then the shock has been of a financial kind? I gathered from Mr.
Colquhoun that it was of a family nature--something sudden and
distressing."

"Family nature!" echoed the secretary. "Who ever heard of Mr. Cassilis
worrying himself about family matters? No, sir; when a man is ruined
he has no time to bother about family matters."

"Ruined? The great Mr. Gabriel Cassilis ruined?"

"I should say so, and I ought to know. They say so in the City; they
will say so to-night in the papers. If he were well, and able to face
things, there might be--no, even then there could be no hope.
Settling-day this very morning; and a pretty settling it is."

"Whatever day it is," said the doctor, "I cannot have him disturbed.
You may return in three or four hours, if you like, and then perhaps
he may be able to speak to you. Just now, leave him in peace."

What had happened was this:

When Mr. Cassilis caused to be circulated a certain pamphlet which we
have heard of, impugning the resources of the Republic of Eldorado, he
wished the stock to go down. It did go down, and he bought in--bought
in so largely that he held two millions of the stock. Men in his
position do not buy large quantities of stock without affecting the
price--Stock Exchange transactions are not secret--and Eldorado Stock
went up. This was what Gabriel Cassilis naturally desired. Also the
letter of El Señor Don Bellaco de la Carambola to the _Times_,
showing the admirable way in which Eldorado loans were received and
administered, helped. The stock went up from 64, at which price
Gabriel Cassilis bought in, to 75, at which he should have sold. Had
he done so at the right moment, he would have realised the very
handsome sum of two hundred and sixty thousand pounds; but the trouble
of the letters came, and prevented him from acting.

While his mind was agitated by these--agitated, as we have seen, to
such an extent that he could no longer think or work, or attend to any
kind of business--there arrived for him telegram after telegram, in
his own cipher, from America. These lay unopened. It was disastrous,
because they announced beforehand the fact which only his
correspondent knew--the Eldorado bonds were no longer to be paid.

That fact was now public. It was made known by all the papers that
Eldorado, having paid the interest out of the money borrowed, had no
further resources whatever, and could pay no more. It was stated in
leading articles that England should have known all along what a
miserable country Eldorado is. The British public were warned too late
not to trust in Eldorado promises any more; and the unfortunates who
held Eldorado Stock were actuated by one common impulse to sell, and
no one would buy. It was absurd to quote Eldorado bonds at anything;
and the great financier had to meet his engagements by finding the
difference between stock at 64 and stock at next to nothing for two
millions.

Gabriel Cassilis was consequently ruined. When it became known that he
had some sort of stroke, people said that it was the shock of the
fatal news. He made the one mistake of an otherwise faultless career,
they said to each other, in trusting Eldorado, and his brain could not
stand the blow. When the secretary, who understood the cipher, came to
open the letters and telegrams, he left off talking about the fatal
shock of the news. It must have been something else--something he knew
nothing of, because he saw the blow might have been averted; and the
man's mind, clear enough when he went in for a great coup, had become
unhinged during the few days before the smash.

Ruined! Gabriel Cassilis knew nothing about the wreck of his life, as
he lay upon his bed afraid to speak because he would only babble
incoherently. All was gone from him--money, reputation, wife. He had
no longer anything. The anonymous correspondent had taken all away.




CHAPTER XLIII.

    "This comes of airy visions and the whispers
    Of demons like to angels. Brother, weep."


Gilead Beck, returning from the Twickenham party before the explosion,
found Jack Dunquerque waiting for him. As we have seen, he was not
invited.

"Tell me how she was looking!" he cried. "Did she ask after me?"

"Wal, Mr. Dunquerque, I reckon you the most fortunate individual in
the hull world. She looked like an angel, and she talked like a--like
a woman, with pretty blushes; and yet she wasn't ashamed neither.
Seems as if bein' ashamed isn't her strong point. And what has she got
to be ashamed of?"

"Did Colquhoun say anything?"

"We had already got upon the subject, and I had ventured to make him a
proposition. You see, Mr. Dunquerque"--he grew confused, and
hesitated--"fact is, I want you to look at things just exactly as I
do. I'm rich. I have struck Ile; that Ile is the mightiest Special
Providence ever given to a single man. But it's given for purposes.
And one of those purposes is that some of it's got to go to you."

"To me?"

"To you, Mr. Dunquerque. Who fired that shot? Who delivered me from
the Grisly?"

"Why, Ladds did as much as I."

Mr. Beck shook his head.

"Captain Ladds is a fine fellow," he said. "Steady as a rock is
Captain Ladds. There's nobody I'd rather march under if we'd the war
to do all over again. But the Ile isn't for Captain Ladds. It isn't
for him that the Golden Butterfly fills me with yearnin's. No sir. I
owe it all to you. You've saved my life; you've sought me out, and
gone about this city with me; you've put me up to ropes; you've taken
me to that sweet creature's house and made her my friend. And Mrs.
L'Estrange my friend, too. If I was to turn away and forget you, I
should deserve to lose that precious Inseck."

He paused for a minute.

"I said to Mr. Colquhoun, 'Mr. Dunquerque shall have half of my pile,
and more if he wants it. Only you let him come back again to Miss
Fleming.' And he laughed in his easy way; there's no kind of man in
the States like that Mr. Colquhoun--seems as if he never wants to get
anything. He laughed and lay back on the grass. And then he said, 'My
dear fellow, let Jack come back if he likes; there's no fighting
against fate; only let him have the decency not to announce his
engagement till Phillis has had her first season.' Then he drank some
cider-cup, and lay back again. Mrs. Cassilis--she's a very superior
woman that, but a trifle cold, I should say--watched him whenever he
spoke. She's got a game of her own, unless I am mistaken."

"But, Beck," Jack gasped, "I can't do this thing; I can't take your
money."

"I guess, sir, you can, and I guess you will. Come, Mr. Dunquerque,
say you won't go against Providence. There's a sweet young lady
waiting for you, and a little mountain of dollars."

But Jack shook his head.

"I thank you all the same," he said. "I shall never forget your
generosity--never. But that cannot be."

"We will leave it to Miss Fleming," said Gilead. "What Miss Fleming
says is to be, shall be----"

He was interrupted by the arrival of two letters.

The first was from Joseph Jagenal. It informed him that he had learned
from his brothers that they had received money from him on account of
work which he thought would never be done. He enclosed a cheque for
the full amount, with many thanks for his kindness, and the earnest
hope that he would advance nothing more.

In the letter was his cheque for £400, the amount which the Twins had
borrowed during the four weeks of their acquaintance.

Mr. Beck put the cheque in his pocket and opened the other letter. It
was from Cornelius, and informed him that the Poem could not possibly
be finished in the time; that it was rapidly advancing; but that he
could not pledge himself to completing the work by October. Also, that
his brother Humphrey found himself in the same position as regarded
the Picture. He ended by the original statement that Art cannot be
forced.

Mr. Beck laughed.

"Not straight men, Mr. Dunquerque. I suspected it first when they
backed out at the dinner, and left me to do the talk. Wal, they may be
high-toned, whole-souled, and talented; but give me the man who works.
Now Mr. Dunquerque, if you please, we'll go and have some dinner, and
you shall talk about Miss Fleming. And the day after to-morrow--you
note that down--I've asked Mrs. L'Estrange and Miss Phillis to
breakfast. Captain Ladds is coming, and Mr. Colquhoun. And you shall
sit next to her. Mrs. Cassilis is coming too. When I asked her she
wanted to know if Mr. Colquhoun was to be there. I said yes. Then she
wanted to know if Phillis was to be there. I said yes. Then she set
her lips hard, and said, 'I will come, Mr. Beck.' She isn't happy,
that lady; she's got somethin' on her mind."


That evening Joseph Jagenal had an unpleasant duty to perform. It was
at dinner that he spoke. The Twins were just taking their first glass
of port. He had been quite silent through dinner, eating little. Now
he looked from one to the other without a word.

They changed colour. Instinctively they knew what was coming. He said
with a gulp:

"I am sorry to find that my brothers have not been acting honourably."

"What is this, brother Humphrey," asked Cornelius.

"I do not know, brother Cornelius," said the Artist.

"I will tell you," said Joseph, "what they have done. They made a
disingenuous attempt to engage the affections of a rich young lady for
the sake of her money."

"If Humphrey loved the girl----" began Cornelius.

"If Cornelius was devoted to Phillis Fleming----" began Humphrey.

"I was not, Humphrey," said Cornelius. "No such thing. And I told you
so."

"I never did love her," said Humphrey. "I always said it was you."

This was undignified.

"I do not care which it was. It belongs to both. Then you went down to
her again, under the belief that she was engaged to--to--the Lord
knows which of you--and solemnly broke it off."

Neither spoke this time.

"Another thing. I regret to find that my brothers, having made a
contract for certain work with Mr. Gilead Beck, and having been partly
paid in advance, are not executing the work."

"There, Joseph," said Humphrey, waving his hand as if this was a
matter on quite another footing, "you must excuse us. We know what is
right in Art, if we know nothing else. Art, Joseph, cannot be forced."

Cornelius murmured assent.

"We have our dignity to stand upon; we retreat with dignity. We say,
'We will not be forced; we will give the world our best.'"

"Good," said Joseph. "That is very well; but where is the money?"

Neither answered.

"I have returned that money; but it is a large sum, and you must repay
me in part. Understand me, brothers. You may stay here as long as I
live: I shall never ask more of you than to respect the family name.
There was a time when you promised great things, and I believed in
you. It is only quite lately that I have learned to my sorrow that all
this promise has been for years a pretence. You sleep all day--you
call it work. You habitually drink too much at night. You,
Cornelius"--the Poet started--"have not put pen to paper for years.
You, Humphrey"--the Artist hung his head--"have neither drawn nor
painted anything since you came to live with me. I cannot make either
of you work. I cannot retrieve the past. I cannot restore lost habits
of industry. I cannot even make you feel your fall from the promise of
your youth, or remember the hopes of our father. What I can do is to
check your intemperate habits by such means as are in my power."

He stopped; they were trembling violently.

"Half of the £400 which you have drawn from Mr. Beck will be paid by
household saving. Wine will disappear from my table; brandy-and-soda
will have to be bought at your own expense. I shall order the dinners,
and I shall keep the key of the wine-cellar."


A year has passed. The Twins have had a sad time; they look forward
with undisguised eagerness to the return of the years of fatness; they
have exhausted their own little income in purchasing the means for
their midnight _séances_; and they have run up a frightful score
at the Carnarvon Arms.

But they still keep up bravely the pretence about their work.




CHAPTER XLIV.

    "So, on the ruins he himself had made.
    Sat Marius reft of all his former glory."


"Can you understand me, sir?"

Gabriel Cassilis sat in his own study. It was the day after the
garden-party. He slept through the night, and in the morning rose
and dressed as usual. Then he took his seat in his customary chair
at his table. Before him lay papers, but he did not read them. He
sat upright, his frock-coat tightly buttoned across his chest, and
rapped his knuckles with his gold eyeglasses as if he was thinking.

They brought him breakfast, and he took a cup of tea. Then he motioned
them to take the things away. They gave him the _Times_, and he laid
it mechanically at his elbow. But he did not speak, nor did he seem to
attend to what was done around him. And his eyes had a far-off look in
them.

"Can you understand me, sir?"

The speaker was his secretary. He came in a cab, panting, eager to see
if there was still any hope. Somehow or other it was whispered already
in the City that Gabriel Cassilis had had some sort of stroke. And
there was terrible news besides.

Mr. Mowll asked because there was something in his patron's face which
frightened him. His eyes were changed. They had lost the keen sharp
look which in a soldier means victory; in a scholar, clearness of
purpose; in a priest, knowledge of human nature and ability to use
that knowledge in a financier, the power and the intuition of success.
That was gone. In its place an expression almost of childish softness.
And another thing--the lips, once set firm and close, were parted now
and mobile.

The other things were nothing. That a man of sixty-five should in a
single night become a man of eighty; that the iron grey hair should
become white; that a steady hand should shake, and straight shoulders
be bent. It was the look in his face, the far-off look, which made the
secretary ask that question before he went on.

Mr. Cassilis nodded his head gently. He could understand.

"You left the telegrams unopened for a week and more!" cried the
impatient clerk. "Why--Oh, why!--did you not let me open them?"

There was no reply.

"If I had known, I could have acted. Even the day before yesterday I
could have acted. The news came yesterday morning. It was all over the
City by three. And Eldorado's down to nothing in a moment."

Mr. Cassilis looked a mild inquiry. No anxiety in that look at all.

"Eldorado won't pay up her interest. It's due next week. Nothing to
pay it with. Your agent in New York telegraphed this a week ago. He's
been confirming the secret every day since. O Lord! O Lord! And you
the only man who had the knowledge, and all that stake in it! Can you
speak, sir?"

For his master's silence was terrible to him.

"Listen, then. Ten days ago Eldorados went down after Wylie's
pamphlet. You told him what to write and you paid him, just as you did
last year. But you tried to hide it from me. That was wrong, sir. I've
served you faithfully for twenty years. But never mind that. You
bought in at 64. Then the Eldorado minister wrote to the paper. Stock
went up to 75. You stood to win, only the day before yesterday,
£260,000; more than a quarter of a million. Yesterday, by three, they
were down to 16. This morning they are down to 8. And it's
settling-day, and you lose--you lose--your all. Oh, what a day, what a
day!"

Still no complaint, not even a sigh from the patient man in the
Windsor chair. Only that gentle tapping of the knuckles, and that
far-off look.

"The great name of Gabriel Cassilis dragged in the dust! All your
reputation gone--the whole work of your life--O sir! can't you feel
even that? Can't you feel the dreadful end of it all--Gabriel
Cassilis, the great Gabriel Cassilis, a LAME DUCK!"

Not even that. The work of his life was forgotten with all its hopes,
and the great financier, listening to his clerk with the polite
impatience of one who listens to a wearisome sermon, was trying to
understand what was the meaning of that black shadow which lay upon
his mind and made him uneasy. For the rest a perfect calm in his
brain.

"People will say it was the shock of the Eldorado smash. Well, sir, it
wasn't that; I know so much; but it's best to let people think so. If
you haven't a penny left in the world you have your character, and
that's as high as ever.

"Fortunately," Mr. Mowll went on, "my own little savings were not in
Eldorado Stock. But my employment is gone, I suppose. You will
recommend me, I hope, sir. And I do think that I've got some little
reputation in the City."

It was not for want of asserting himself that this worthy man failed,
at any rate, of achieving his reputation. For twenty years he had
magnified his office as confidential adviser of a great City light;
among his friends and in his usual haunts he successfully posed as one
burdened with the weight of affairs, laden with responsibility, and at
all times oppressed by the importance of his thoughts. He carried a
pocket-book which shut with a clasp; in the midst of a conversation he
would stop, become abstracted, rush at the pocket-book, so to speak,
confide a jotting to its care, shut it with a snap, and then go on
with a smile and an excuse. Some said that he stood in with Gabriel
Cassilis; all thought that he shared his secrets, and gave advice when
asked for it.

As a matter of fact, he was a clerk, and had always been a clerk; but
he was a clerk who knew a few things which might have been awkward if
told generally. He had a fair salary, but no confidence, no advice,
and not much more real knowledge of what his chief was doing than any
outsider. And in this tremendous smash it was a great consolation to
him to reflect that the liabilities represented an amount for which it
was really a credit to fail.

Mr. Mowll has since got another place where the transactions are not
so large, but perhaps his personal emoluments greater. In the evenings
he will talk of the great failure.

"We stood to win," he will say, leaning back with a superior
smile,--"we stood to win £260,000. We lost a million and a quarter. I
told him not to hang on too long. Against my advice he did. I
remember--ah, only four days before it happened--he said to me,
'Mowll, my boy,' he said, 'I've never known you wrong yet. But for
once I fancy my own opinion. We've worked together for twenty years,'
he said, 'and you've the clearest head of any man I ever saw,' he
said. 'But here I think you're wrong. And I shall hold on for another
day or two,' he said. Ah, little he knew what a day or two would bring
forth! And he hasn't spoken since. Plays with his little boy, and goes
about in a Bath-chair. What a man he was! and what a pair--if I may
say so--we made between us among the bulls and the bears! Dear me,
dear me!"

It may be mentioned here that everything was at once given up; the
house in Kensington Palace Gardens, with its costly furniture, its
carriages, plate, library, and pictures. Mr. Cassilis signed whatever
documents were brought for signature without hesitation, provided a
copy of his own signature was placed before him. Otherwise he could
not write his name.

And never a single word of lamentation, reproach, or sorrow. The past
was, and is still, dead to him; all the past except one thing, and
that is ever with him.

For sixty years of his life, this man of the City, whose whole desire
was to make money, to win in the game which he played with rare
success and skill, regarded bankruptcy as the one thing to be dreaded,
or at least to be looked upon, because it was absurd to dread it, as a
thing bringing with it the whole of dishonour. Not to meet your
engagements was to be in some sort a criminal. And now he was
proclaimed as one who could not meet his engagements.

If he understood what had befallen him he did not care about it. The
trouble was slight indeed in comparison with the other disaster. The
honour of his wife and the legitimacy of his child--these were gone;
and the man felt what it is that is greater than money gained or money
lost.

The blow which fell upon him left his brain clear while it changed the
whole course of his thoughts and deprived him partially of memory. But
it destroyed his power of speech. That rare and wonderful disease
which seems to attack none but the strongest, which separates the
brain from the tongue, takes away the knowledge and the sense of
language, and kills the power of connecting words with things, while
it leaves that of understanding what is said--the disease which
doctors call Aphasia--was upon Mr. Gabriel Cassilis.

In old men this is an incurable disease. Gabriel Cassilis will never
speak again. He can read, listen, and understand, but he can frame no
words with his lips nor write them with his hand. He is a prisoner who
has free use of his limbs. He is separated from the world by a greater
gulf than that which divides the blind and the deaf from the rest of
us, because he cannot make known his thoughts, his wants, or his
wishes.

It took some time to discover what was the matter with him. Patients
are not often found suffering from aphasia, and paralysis was the
first name given to his disease.

But it was very early found out that Mr. Cassilis understood all that
was said to him, and by degrees they learned what he liked and what he
disliked.

Victoria Cassilis sat up-stairs, waiting for something--she knew not
what--to happen. Her maid told her that Mr. Cassilis was ill; she made
no reply; she did not ask to see him; she did not ask for any further
news of him. She sat in her own room for two days, waiting.

Then Joseph Jagenal asked if he might see her.

She refused at first; but on hearing that he proposed to stay in the
house till she could receive him, she gave way.

He came from Lawrence, perhaps. He would bring her a message of some
kind; probably a menace.

"You have something to say to me, Mr. Jagenal?" Her face was set hard,
but her eyes were wistful. He saw that she was afraid. When a woman is
afraid, you may make her do pretty well what you please.

"I have a good deal to tell you, Mrs. Cassilis; and I am sorry to say
it is of an unpleasant nature.

"I have heard," he went on, "from Mr. Colquhoun that you made a
remarkable statement in the presence of Miss Fleming, and in the
hearing of Mr. Cassilis."

"Lawrence informed you correctly, I have no doubt," she replied
coldly.

"That statement of course was untrue," said Joseph, knowing that no
record ever was more true. "And therefore I venture to advise----"

"On the part of Lawrence?"

"In the name of Mr. Colquhoun, partly; partly in your own
interest----"

"Go on, if you please, Mr. Jagenal."

"Believing that statement to be untrue," he repeated, "for
otherwise I could not give this advice, I recommend to all parties
concerned--silence. Your husband's paralysis is attributed to the
shock of his bankruptcy----"

"His what?" cried Victoria, who had heard as yet nothing of the City
disaster.

"His bankruptcy. Mr. Cassilis is ruined."

"Ruined! Mr. Cassilis!"

She was startled out of herself.

Ruined! The thought of such disaster had never once crossed her
brains. Ruined! That Colossus of wealth--the man whom she married for
his money, while secretly she despised his power of accumulating
money!

"He is ruined, Mrs. Cassilis, and hopelessly. I have read certain
papers which he put into my hands this morning. It is clear to me that
his mind has been for some weeks agitated by certain anonymous letters
which came to him every day, and accused you--pardon me, Mrs.
Cassilis--accused you of--infidelity. The letters state that there is
a secret of some kind connected with your former acquaintance with Mr.
Colquhoun; that you have been lately in the habit of receiving him or
meeting him every day; that you were in his chambers one evening when
Mr. Cassilis called; with other particulars extremely calculated to
excite jealousy and suspicion. Lastly, he was sent by the writer to
Twickenham. The rest, I believe you know."

She made no reply.

"There can be no doubt, not the least doubt, that had your husband's
mind been untroubled, this would never have happened. The disaster is
due to his jealousy."

"I could kill her!" said Mrs. Cassilis, clenching her fist. "I could
kill her!"

"Kill whom?"

"The woman who wrote those letters. It was a woman. No man could have
done such a thing. A woman's trick. Go on."

"There is nothing more to say. How far other people are involved with
your husband, I cannot tell. I am going now into the City to find out
if I can. Your wild words, Mrs. Cassilis, and your unguarded conduct,
have brought about misfortunes on which you little calculated. But I
am not here to reproach you."

"You are my husband's man of business, I suppose," she replied
coldly--"a paid servant of his. What you say has no importance, nor
what you think. What did Lawrence bid you tell me?"

Joseph Jagenal's face clouded for a moment. But what was the good of
feeling resentment with such a woman, and in such a miserable
business?

"You have two courses open to you," he went on. "You may, by repeating
the confession you made in the hearing of Mr. Cassilis, draw upon
yourself such punishment as the Law, provided the confession be true,
can inflict. That will be a grievous thing to you. It will drive you
out of society, and brand you as a criminal; it will lock you up for
two years in prison; it will leave a stigma never to be forgotten or
obliterated; it means ruin far, far worse than what you have brought
on Mr. Cassilis. On the other hand, you may keep silence. This at
least will secure the legitimacy of your boy, and will keep for you
the amount settled on you at your marriage. But you may choose. If the
statement you made is true, of course I can be no party to compounding
a felony----"

"And Lawrence?" she interposed. "What does Lawrence say?"

"In any case Mr. Colquhoun will leave England at once."

"He will marry that Phillis girl? You may tell him," she hissed out,
"that I will do anything and suffer anything rather than consent to
his marrying her, or any one else."

"Mr. Colquhoun informs me further," pursued the crafty lawyer, "that,
for some reason only known to himself, he will never marry during the
life of a certain person. Phillis Fleming will probably marry the
Honourable Mr. Ronald Dunquerque."

She buried her head in her hands, not to hide any emotion, for there
was none to hide, but to think. Presently she rose, and said, "Take me
to--my husband, if you please."

Joseph Jagenal, as a lawyer, is tolerably well versed in such
wickedness and deceptions as the human heart is capable of. At the
same time, he acknowledges to himself that the speech made by Victoria
Cassilis to her husband, and the manner in which it was delivered,
surpassed anything he had ever experienced or conceived.

Gabriel Cassilis was sitting in an arm-chair near his table. In his
arms was his infant son, a child of a year old, for whose amusement he
was dangling a bunch of keys. The nurse was standing beside him.

When his wife opened the door he looked up, and there crossed his face
a sudden expression of such repulsion, indignation, and horror, that
the lawyer fairly expected the lady to give way altogether. But she
did not. Then Mrs. Cassilis motioned the nurse to leave them, and
Victoria said what she had come to say. She stood at the table, in the
attitude of one who commands respect rather than one who entreats
pardon. Her accentuation was precise, and her words as carefully
chosen as if she had written them down first. But her husband held his
eyes down, as if afraid of meeting her gaze. You would have called him
a culprit waiting for reproof and punishment.

"I learn to-day for the first time that you have suffered from certain
attacks made upon me by an anonymous writer; I learn also for the
first time, and to my great regret, that you have suffered in fortune
as well as in health. I have myself been too ill in mind and body to
be told anything. I am come to say at once that I am sorry if any rash
words of mine have given you pain, or any foolish actions of mine have
given you reason for jealousy. The exact truth is that Lawrence
Colquhoun and I were once engaged. The breaking off of that engagement
caused me at the time the greatest unhappiness. I resolved then that
he should never be engaged to any other girl if I could prevent it by
any means in my power. My whole action of late, which appeared to you
as if I was running after an old lover, was the prevention of his
engagement, which I determined to break off, with Phillis Fleming. In
the heat of my passion I used words which were not true. They occurred
to me at the moment. I said he was my husband. I meant to have said my
promised husband. You now know, Mr. Cassilis, the whole secret. I am
deeply humiliated in having to confess my revengeful spirit. I am
punished in your affliction."

Always herself; always her own punishment.

"We can henceforth, I presume, Mr. Cassilis, resume our old manner of
life."

Mr. Cassilis made no answer, but he patted the head of his child, and
Joseph Jagenal saw the tears running down his cheeks. For he knew that
the woman lied to him.

"For the sake of the boy, Mr. Cassilis," the lawyer pleaded, "let
things go on as before."

He made no sign.

"Will you let me say something for you in the interests of the child?"

He nodded.

"Then, Mrs. Cassilis, your husband consents that there shall be no
separation and no scandal. But it will be advisable for you both that
there shall be as little intercourse as possible. Your husband will
breakfast and dine by himself, and occupy his own apartments. You are
free, provided you live in the same house, and keep up appearances, to
do whatever you please. But you will not obtrude your presence upon
your husband."

Mr. Cassilis nodded again. Then he sought his dictionary, and hunted
for a word. It was the word he had first found, and was "Silence."

"Yes; you will also observe strict silence on what has passed at
Twickenham, here or elsewhere. Should that silence not be observed,
the advisers of Mr. Cassilis will recommend such legal measures as may
be necessary."

Again Gabriel Cassilis nodded. He had not once looked up at his wife
since that first gaze, in which he concentrated the hatred and
loathing of his speechless soul.

"Is that all?" asked Victoria Cassilis. "Or have we more
arrangements?"

"That is all, madam," said Joseph, opening the door with great
ceremony.

She went away as she had come, with cold haughtiness. Nothing seemed
to touch her; not her husband's misery; not his ruin; not the sight of
her child. One thing only pleased her. Lawrence Colquhoun would not
marry during her lifetime. Bah! she would live a hundred years, and he
should never marry at all.

In her own room was her maid.

"Tomlinson," said Mrs. Cassilis--in spite of her outward calm, her
nerves were strung to the utmost, and she felt that she must speak to
some one--"Tomlinson, if a woman wrote anonymous letters about you, if
those letters brought misery and misfortune, what would you do to that
woman?"

"I do not know, ma'am," said Tomlinson, whose cheeks grew white.

"I will kill her, Tomlinson! I will kill her! I will get those letters
and prove the handwriting, and find that woman out. I will devote my
life to it, and I will have no mercy on her when I have found her. I
will kill her--somehow--by poison--by stabbing--somehow. Don't
tremble, woman; I don't mean you. And Tomlinson, forget what I have
said."

Tomlinson could not forget. She tottered from the room, trembling in
every limb.

The wretched maid had her revenge. In full and overflowing measure.
And yet she was not satisfied. The exasperating thing about revenge is
that it never does satisfy, but leaves you at the end as angry as at
the beginning. Your enemy is crushed; you have seen him tied to a
stake, as is the pleasant wont of the Red Indian, and stick arrows,
knives, and red-hot things into him. These hurt so much that he is
glad to die. But he is dead, and you can do no more to him. And it
seems a pity, because if you had kept him alive, you might have
thought of other and more dreadful ways of revenge. These doubts will
occur to the most revenge-satiated Christian, and they lead to
self-reproach. After all, one might just as well forgive a fellow at
once.

Mrs. Cassilis was a selfish and heartless woman. All the harm that was
done to her was the loss of her great wealth. And what had her husband
done to Tomlinson that he should be stricken? And what had others done
who were involved with him in the great disaster?

Tomlinson was so terrified, however, by the look which crossed her
mistress's face, that she went away that very evening; pretended to
have received a telegram from Liverpool; when she got there wrote for
boxes and wages, with a letter in somebody else's writing, _for a
reason_, to her mistress, and then went to America, where she had
relations. She lives now in a city of the Western States, where her
brother keeps a store. She is a leader in her religious circle; and I
think that if she were to see Victoria Cassilis by any accident in the
streets of that city, she would fly again, and to the farthest corners
of the earth.

So much for revenge; and I do hope that Tomlinson's example will be
laid to heart, and pondered by other ladies'-maids whose mistresses
are selfish and sharp-tempered.




CHAPTER XLV.

    "Farewell to all my greatness."


The last day of Gilead Beck's wealth. He rose as unconscious of his
doom as that frolicsome kid whose destiny brought the tear to Delia's
eye. Had he looked at the papers he would at least have ascertained
that Gabriel Cassilis was ruined. But he had a rooted dislike to
newspapers, and never looked at them. He classed the editor of the
_Times_ with Mr. Huggins of Clearville or Mr. Van Cott of Chicago, but
supposed that he had a larger influence. Politics he despised;
criticism was beyond him; with social matters he had no concern; and
it would wound the national self-respect were he to explain how
carelessly he regarded matters which to Londoners seem of world-wide
importance.

On this day Gilead rose early because there was a good deal to look
after. His breakfast was fixed for eleven--a real breakfast. At six he
was dressed, and making, in his mind's eye, the arrangements for
seating his guests. Mr. and Mrs. Cassilis, Mrs. L'Estrange and
Phillis, Lawrence Colquhoun, Ladds, and Jack Dunquerque--all his most
intimate friends were coming. He had also invited the Twins, but a
guilty conscience made them send an excuse. They were now sitting at
home, sober by compulsion and in great wretchedness, as has been seen.

The breakfast was to be held in the same room in which he once
entertained the men of genius, but the appointments were different.
Gilead Beck now went in for flowers, to please the ladies: flowers in
June do not savour of ostentation. Also for fruit: strawberries,
apricots, cherries and grapes in early June are not things quite
beyond precedent, and his conscience acquitted him of display which
might seem shoddy. And when the table was laid, with its flowers and
fruit and dainty cold dishes garnished with all sorts of pretty
things, it was, he felt, a work of art which reflected the highest
credit on himself and everybody concerned.

Gilead Beck was at great peace with himself that morning. He was
resolved on putting into practice at once some of those schemes which
the Golden Butterfly demanded as loudly as it could whisper. He would
start that daily paper which should be independent of commercial
success; have no advertisements; boil down the news; do without long
leaders; and always speak the truth, without evasion, equivocation,
suppression, or exaggeration. A miracle in journalism. He would run
the great National Drama which should revive the ancient glories of
the stage. And for the rest he would be guided by circumstances, and
when a big thing had to be done he would step in with his Pile, and do
that big thing by himself.

There was in all this perhaps a little over-rating the power of the
Pile; but Gilead Beck was, after all, only human. Think what an
inflation of dignity, brother De Pauper-et-egens, would follow in your
own case on the acquisition of fifteen hundred pounds a day.

Another thing pleased our Gilead. He knew that in his own country the
difficulty of getting into what he felt to be the best society would
be insuperable. The society of shoddy, the companionship with the
quickly grown rich, and the friendship of the gilded bladder are in
the reach of every wealthy man. But Gilead was a man of finer
feelings; he wanted more than this; he wanted the friendship of those
who were born in the purple of good breeding. In New York he could not
have got this. In London he did get it. His friends were ladies and
gentlemen; they not only tolerated him, but they liked him; they were
people to whom he could give nothing, but they courted his society,
and this pleased him more than any other part of his grand Luck. There
was no great merit in their liking the man. Rude as his life had been,
he was gifted with the tenderest and kindest heart; lowly born and
roughly bred, he was yet a man of boundless sympathies. And because he
had kept his self-respect throughout, and was ashamed of nothing, he
slipt easily and naturally into the new circle, picking up without
difficulty what was lacking of external things. Yet he was just the
same as when he landed in England; with the same earnest, almost
solemn, way of looking at things; the same gravity; the same twang
which marked his nationality. He affected nothing and pretended
nothing; he hid nothing and was ashamed of nothing; he paraded nothing
and wanted to be thought no other than the man he was--the ex-miner,
ex-adventurer, ex-everything, who by a lucky stroke hit upon Ile, and
was living on the profits. And perhaps in all the world there was no
happier man than Gilead Beck on that bright June morning, which was to
be the last day of his grandeur. A purling stream of content murmured
and babbled hymns of praise in his heart. He had no fears; his nerves
were strong; he expected nothing but a continuous flow of prosperity
and happiness.

The first to arrive was Jack Dunquerque. Now, if this youth had read
the papers he would have been able to communicate some of the fatal
news. But he had not, because he was full of Phillis. And if any
rumour of the Eldorado collapse smote his ears, it smote them
unnoticed, because he did not connect Eldorado with Gilead Beck. What
did it matter to this intolerably selfish young man how many British
speculators lost their money by the Eldorado smash when he was going
to meet Phillis. After all, the round world and all that is therein do
really rotate about a pole--of course invisible--which goes through
every man's own centre of gravity, and sticks out in a manner which
may be felt by him. And the reason why men have so many different
opinions is, I am persuaded, this extraordinary, miraculous,
multitudinous, simultaneous revolution of the earth upon her million
axes. Enough for Jack that Phillis was coming--Phillis, whom he had
not seen since the discovery--more memorable to him than any made by
Traveller or Physicist--of the Coping-stone.

Jack came smiling and bounding up the stairs with agile spring--a
good-half hour before the time. Perhaps Phillis might be before him.
But she was not.

Then came Ladds. Gilead Beck saw that there was some trouble upon him,
but forbore to ask him what it was. He bore his heavy inscrutable
look, such as that with which he had been wont to meet gambling
losses, untoward telegrams from Newmarket, and other buffetings of
Fate.

Then came a letter from Mrs. Cassilis. Her husband was ill, and
therefore she could not come.

Then came a letter from Lawrence Colquhoun. He had most important
business in the City, and therefore he could not come.

"Seems like the Wedding-feast," said Gilead irreverently. He was a
little disconcerted by the defection of so many guests; but he had a
leaf taken out of the table, and cheerfully waited for the remaining
two.

They came at last, and I think the hearts of all three leaped within
them at sight of Phillis's happy face. If it was sweet before, when
Jack first met her, with the mysterious look of childhood on it, it
was far sweeter now with the bloom and blush of conscious womanhood,
the modest light of maidenly joy with which she met her lover. Jack
rushed, so to speak, at her hand, and held it with a ridiculous
shamelessness only excusable on the ground that they were almost in a
family circle. Then Phillis shook hands with Gilead Beck, with a smile
of gratitude which meant a good deal more than preliminary thanks for
the coming breakfast. Then it came to Ladds's turn. He turned very
red--I do not know why--and whispered in his deepest bass--

"Know all about it. Lucky beggar, Jack! Wish you happiness!"

"Thank you, Captain Ladds," Phillis replied, in her fearless fashion.
"I am very happy already. And so is Jack."

"Wanted yesterday," Ladds went on, in the same deep whisper--"wanted
yesterday to offer some slight token of regard--found I couldn't--no
more money--Eldorado smash--all gone--locked in boxes--found
ring--once my mother's. Will you accept it?"

Phillis understood the ring, but she did not understand the rest of
the speech. It was one of those old-fashioned rings set in pearls and
brilliants. She was not by any means above admiring rings, and she
accepted it with a cheerful alacrity.

"Sell up," Ladds growled,--"go away--do something--earn the daily
crust----"

"But I don't understand----" she interrupted.

"Never mind. Tell you after breakfast. Tell you all presently."

And then they went to breakfast.

It was rather a silent party. Ladds was, as might have been expected
of a man who had lost his all, disposed to taciturnity. Jack and
Phillis were too happy to talk much. Agatha L'Estrange and the host
had all the conversation to themselves.

Agatha asked him if the dainty spread before them was the usual method
of breakfast in America. Gilead Beck replied that of late years he had
been accustomed to call a chunk of cold pork with a piece of bread a
substantial breakfast, and that the same luxuries furnished him, as a
rule, with dinner.

"The old life," he said, "had its points, I confess. For those who
love cold pork it was one long round of delirious joy. And there was
always the future to look forward to. Now the future has come I like
it better. My experience, Mrs. L'Estrange, is that you may divide men
into two classes--those who've got a future, and those who haven't. I
belonged to the class who had a future. Sometimes we miss it. And I
feel like to cry whenever I think of the boys with a bright future
before them, who fell in the War at my side, not in tens, but in
hundreds. Sometimes we find it. I found it when I struck Ile. And
always, for those men, whether the future come early or whether it
come late, it lies bright and shinin' before them, and so they never
lose hope."

"And have women no future as well as men, Mr. Beck?" asked Phillis.

"I don't know, Miss Fleming. But I hope you have. Before my Golden
Butterfly came to me I was lookin' forward for my future, and I knew
it was bound to come in some form or other. I looked forward for
thirty years; my youth was gone when it came, and half my manhood. But
it is here."

"Perhaps, Mr. Beck," said Mrs. L'Estrange, who was a little _rococo_
in her morality, "it is well that this great fortune did not come to
you when you were younger."

"You think that, madam? Perhaps it is so. To fool around New York
would be a poor return for the Luck of the Butterfly. Yes; better as
it is. Providence knows very well what to be about; it don't need
promptin' from us. And impatience is no manner of use, not the least
use in the world. At the right time the Luck comes; at the right time
the Luck will go. Yes,"--he looked solemnly round the table,--"some
day the Luck is bound to go. When it goes, I hope I shall be prepared
for the change. But if it goes to-morrow, it cannot take away, Mrs.
L'Estrange, the memory of these few months, your friendship, and
yours, Miss Fleming. There's things which do not depend upon Ile; more
things than I thought formerly; things which money cannot do. More
than once I thought my pile ought to find it easy to do somethin'
useful before the time comes. But the world is a more tangled web than
I used to think."

"There are always the poor among us," said the good Agatha.

"Yes, madam, that is true. And there always will be. More you give to
the poor, more you make them poor. There's folks goin' up and folks
goin' down. You in England help the folks goin' down. You make them
fall easy. I want to help the folks goin' up."

At this moment a telegram was brought for him.

It was from his London bankers. They informed him that a cheque for a
small sum had been presented, but that his balance was already
overdrawn; and that they had received a telegram from New York on
which they would be glad to see him.

Gilead Beck read it, and could not understand it. The cheque was for
his own weekly account at the hotel.

He laid the letter aside, and went on with his exposition of the
duties and responsibilities of wealth. He pointed out to Mrs.
L'Estrange, who alone listened to him--Jack was whispering to Phillis,
and Ladds was absorbed in thoughts of his own--that when he arrived in
London he was possessed with the idea that all he had to do, in order
to protect, benefit, and advance humanity, was to found a series of
institutions; that, in the pursuit of this idea, he had visited and
examined all the British institutions he could hear of; and that his
conclusions were that they were all a failure.

"For," he concluded, "what have you done? Your citizens need not save
money, because a hospital, a church, an almshouse, a dispensary, and a
workhouse stand in every parish; they need not be moral, because
there's homes for the repentant in every other street. All around they
are protected by charity and the State. Even if they get knocked down
in the street, they need not fight, because there's a policeman within
easy hail. You breed your poor, Mrs. L'Estrange, and you take almighty
care to keep them always with you. In my country he who can work and
won't work goes to the wall; he starves, and a good thing too. Here he
gets fat.

"Every way," he went on, "you encourage your people to do nothing.
Your clever young men get a handsome income for life, I am told, at
Oxford and Cambridge, if they pass one good examination. For us the
examination is only the beginning. Your clergymen get a handsome
income for life, whether they do their work or not. Ours have got to
go on preachin' well and livin' well; else we want to know the reason
why. You give your subalterns as much as other nations give their
colonels; you set them down to a grand mess every day as if they were
all born lords. You keep four times as many naval officers as you
want, and ten times as many generals. It's all waste and lavishin'
from end to end. And as for your Royal Family, I reckon that I'd find
a dozen families in Massachusetts alone who'd run the Royal Mill for a
tenth of the money. I own they wouldn't have the same gracious
manners," he added. "And your Princess is--wal, if Miss Fleming were
Princess, she couldn't do the part better. Perhaps gracious manners
are worth paying for."

Here another telegram was brought him.

It was from New York. It informed him in plain and intelligible terms
that his wells had all run dry, that his credit was exhausted, and
that no more bills would be honoured.

He read this aloud with a firm voice and unfaltering eye. Then he
looked round him, and said solemnly----

"The time has come. It's come a little sooner than I expected. But it
has come at last."

He was staggered, but he remembered something which consoled him.

"At least," he said, "if the income is gone, the Pile remains. That's
close upon half a million of English money. We can do something with
that. Mr. Cassilis has got it all for me."

"Who?" cried Ladds eagerly.

"Mr. Gabriel Cassilis, the great English financier."

"He is ruined," said Ladds. "He has failed for two millions sterling.
If your money is in his hands----"

"Part of it, I believe, was in Eldorado Stock."

"The Eldoradians cannot pay their interest. And the stock has sunk to
nothing. Gabriel Cassilis has lost all my money in it--at least, I
have lost it on his recommendation."

"Your money all gone, Tommy?" cried Jack.

"All, Jack--Ladds' Aromatic Cocoa--Fragrant--Nutritious--no use
now--business sold twenty years ago. Proceeds sunk in Eldorado Stock.
Nothing but the smell left."

And while they were gazing in each other's face with mute
bewilderment, a third messenger arrived with a letter.

It was from Mr. Mowll the secretary. It informed poor Gilead that Mr.
Gabriel Cassilis had drawn, in accordance with his power of attorney,
upon him to the following extent. A bewildering mass of figures
followed, at the bottom of which was the total--Gilead Beck's two
million dollars. That, further, Gabriel Cassilis, always, it appeared,
acting on the wishes of Mr. Beck, had invested the whole sum in
Eldorado Stock. That, &c. He threw the letter on the table half
unread. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he rose solemnly, and
sought the corner of the room in which stood the safe containing the
Emblem of his Luck. He opened it, and took out the box of glass and
gold which held it. This was covered with a case of green leather. He
carried it to the table. They all crowded round while he raised the
leathern cover and displayed the Butterfly.

"Has any one," he lifted his head and looked helplessly round,--"has
any one felt an airthquake?"

For a strange thing had happened The wings of the insect were lying
on the floor of the box; the white quartz which formed its body had
slipped from the gold wire which held it up, and the Golden Butterfly
was in pieces.

He opened the box with a little gold key and took out the fragments of
the two wings and the body.

"Gone!" he said. "Broken!

    "'If this golden Butterfly fall and break,
    Farewell the Luck of Gilead P. Beck.'

"Your own lines, Mr. Dunquerque. Broken into little bits it is. The
Ile run dry, the credit exhausted, and the Pile fooled away."

No one spoke.

"I am sorry for you most, Mr. Dunquerque. I am powerful sorry, sir. I
had hoped, with the assistance of Miss Fleming, to divide that Pile
with you. Now, sir, I've got nothing. Not a red cent left to divide
with a beggar.

"Mrs. L'Estrange," he went on, "those last words of mine were
prophetic. When I am gone back to America--I suppose the odds and ends
here will pay my passage--you'll remember that I said the Luck would
some day go."

It was all so sudden, so incomprehensible, that no one present had a
word to say, either of sympathy or of sorrow.

Gilead Beck proceeded with his soliloquy:

"I've had a real high time for three months; the best three months of
my life. Whatever happens more can't touch the memory of the last
three months. I've met English ladies and made friends of English
gentlemen. There's Amer'can ladies and Amer'can gentlemen, but I can't
speak of them, because I never went into their society You don't find
ladies and gentlemen in Empire City. And in all the trades I've turned
my attention to, from school-keepin' to editing, there's not been one
where Amer'can ladies cared to show their hand. That means that the
Stars and Stripes may be as good as the Union Jack--come to know
them."

He stopped and pulled himself together with a laugh.

"I can't make it out,--somehow. Seems as if I'm in a dream. Is it
real? Is the story of the Golden Butterfly a true story, or is it made
up out of some man's brain?"

"It is real, Mr. Beck," said Phillis, softly putting her hand in his.
"It is real. No one could have invented such a story. See, dear Mr.
Beck, you that we all love so much, there is you in it, and I am in
it--and--and the Twins. Why, if people saw us all in a book they would
say it was impossible. I am the only girl in all the civilised world
who can neither read nor write--and Jack doesn't mind it--and you are
the only man who ever found the Golden Butterfly. Indeed it is all
real."

"It is all real, Beck," Jack echoed. "You have had the high time, and
sorry indeed we are that it is over. But perhaps it is not all over.
Surely something out of the two million dollars must have remained."

Mr. Beck pointed sorrowfully to the three pieces which were the
fragments of the Butterfly.

"Nothing is left," he said. "Nothing except the solid gold that made
his cage. And that will go to pay the hotel-bill."

Mrs. L'Estrange looked on in silence. What was this quiet lady, this
woman of even and uneventful life, to say in the presence of such
misfortune?

Ladds held out his hand.

"Worth twenty of any of us," he said. "We are in the same boat."

"And you, too, Captain Ladds!" Gilead cried. "It is worse than my own
misfortune, because I am a rough man and can go back to the rough
life. No, Mrs. L'Estrange--no, my dear young lady--I can't--not with
the same light heart as before--you've spoiled me. I must strike out
something new--away from Empire City and Ile and gold. I'm spoiled.
It's not the cold chunk of pork that I am afraid of; it is the
beautiful life and the sweetness that I'm going to lose. I said I
hoped I should be prepared to meet the fall of my Luck--when it came.
But I never thought it would come like this."

"Stay with us, Mr. Beck," said Phillis. "Don't go back to the old
life."

"Stay with us," said Jack. "We will all live together."

"Do not leave us, Mr. Beck," said Mrs. L'Estrange. (Women can blush,
although they may be past forty.) "Stay here with your friends."

He looked from one to the other, and something like a tear glittered
in his eye. But he shook his head.

Then he took up the wings of the Butterfly, the pretty golden
_laminæ_ cut in the perfect shape of a wing, marked and veined by
Nature as if, for once she was determined to show that she too could
be an Artist and imitate her self. They lay in her hands, and he
looked fondly at them.

"What shall I do with these?" he said softly. "They have been very
good to me. They have given me the pleasantest hours of my life. They
have made me dream of power as if I was Autocrat of All the Russians.
Say, Mrs. L'Estrange--since my chief pleasure has come through Mr.
Dunquerque--may I offer the broken Butterfly to Miss Fleming?"

He laid the wings before her with a sweet sad smile. Jack took them up
and looked at them. In the white quartz were the little holes where
the wings had fitted. He put them back in their old place--the wings
in the quartz. They fitted exactly, and in a moment the butterfly was
as it had always been.

Jack deftly bent round it again the golden wire which held it to the
golden flower. Singular to relate, the wire fitted like the wings just
the same as before, and the Butterfly vibrated on its perch again.

"It's wonderful!" cried Gilead Beck. "It's the Luck I've given away.
It's gone to you, Miss Fleming. But it won't take the form of Ile."

"Then take it back, Mr. Beck," cried Phillis.

"No, young lady. The Luck left me of its own accord. That was shown
when the Butterfly fell off the wires. It is yours now, yours; and you
will make a better use of it.

"I think," he went on, with his hand upon the golden case,--"I think
there's a Luck in the world which I never dreamed of, a better Luck
than Ile. Mrs. L'Estrange, you know what sort of Luck I mean?"

"Yes, Mr. Beck, I know," she replied.

Phillis laid her hands on Jack's shoulder, while his arm stole round
her waist.

"It is Love. Mr. Beck," said the girl. "Yes; that is the best Luck in
all the world, and I am sure of it."

Jack stooped and kissed her. The simplicity and innocence of this
maiden went to Gilead Beck's heart. They were a religion to him, an
education. In the presence of that guileless heart all earthly
thoughts dropped from his soul, and he was, like the girl before him,
pure in heart and clean in memory. That is indeed the sweet
enchantment of innocence; a bewitchment out of which we need never
awake unless we like.

"Take the case and all, Miss Fleming," said Gilead Beck.

But she would not have the splendid case with its thick plate glass
and solid gold pillars.

Then Gilead Beck brought out the little wooden box, the same in which
the Golden Butterfly lay when he ran from the Bear on the slopes of
the Sierra Nevada. And Phillis laid her new treasure in the
cotton-wool and slung the box by its steel chain round his neck,
laughing in a solemn fashion.

While they talked thus sadly, the door opened, and Lawrence Colquhoun
stood before them.

Agatha cried out when she saw him, because he was transformed. The
lazy insouciant look was gone; a troubled look was in its place. Worse
than a troubled look--a look of misery; a look of self-reproach; a
look as of a criminal brought to the bar and convicted.

"Lawrence!" cried Mrs. L'Estrange.

He came into the room in a helpless sort of way, his hands shaking
before him like those of some half-blind old man.

"Phillis," he said, in hoarse voice, "forgive me!"

"What have I to forgive, Lawrence?"

"Forgive me!" he repeated humbly. "Nay, you do not understand.
Dunquerque, it is for you to speak--for all of you--you all love
Phillis. Agatha--you love her--you used to love me too. How shall I
tell you?"

"I think we guess," said Gilead.

"I did it for the best, Phillis. I thought to double your fortune.
Cassilis said I should double it. I thought to double my own. I put
all your money, child, every farthing of your money, in Eldorado Stock
by his advice, and all my own too. And it is all gone--every penny of
it gone."

Jack Dunquerque clasped Phillis tighter by the hand.

She only laughed.

"Why, Lawrence," she said, "what if you have lost all my money? Jack
doesn't care. Do you Jack?"

"No, darling, no," said Jack. And at the moment--such was the
infatuation of this young man--he really did not care.

"Lawrence," said Agatha, "you acted for the best. Don't dear Lawrence,
don't trouble too much. Captain Ladds has lost all his fortune,
too--and Mr. Beck has lost all his--and we are all ruined together."

"All ruined together!" echoed Gilead Beck, looking at Mrs. L'Estrange.
"Gabriel Cassilis is a wonderful man. I always said he was a wonderful
man."


In the evening the three ruined men sat together in Gilead's room.

"Nothing saved, Colquhoun?" asked Ladds, after a long pause.

"Nothing, The stock was 70 when I bought in: 70 at 10 percent. It is
now anything you like--4, 6, 8, 16--what you please--because no one
will buy it."

"Wal," said Gilead Beck, "it does seem rough on us all, and perhaps
it's rougher on you two than it is on me. But to think, only to think,
that such an almighty Pile should be fooled away on a darned
half-caste State like Eldorado! And for all of us to believe Mr.
Gabriel Cassilis a whole-souled, high toned speculator.

"Once I thought," he continued, "that we Amer'cans must be the Ten
Tribes; because, I said, nobody but one out of the Ten Tribes would
get such a providential lift as the Golden Butterfly. Gentlemen, my
opinions are changed since this morning. I believe we're nothing
better, not a single cent better, than one of the kicked-out Tribes. I
may be an Amalekite, or I may be a Hivite; but I'm darned if I ever
call myself again one of the children of Abraham."




CHAPTER THE LAST.

    "Whisper Love, ye breezes; sigh
      In Love's content, soft air of morn;
    Let eve in brighter sunsets die,
      And day with brighter dawn be born."


It is a week since the disastrous day. Gilead Beck has sold the works
of art with which he intended to found his Grand National Collection;
he has torn up his great schemes for a National Theatre, a Grand
National Paper; he has ceased to think, for the delectation of the
Golden Butterfly, about improving the human race. His gratitude to
that prodigy of Nature has so far cooled that he now considers it more
in the light of a capricious sprite, a sort of Robin Good-fellow, than
as a benefactor. He has also changed his views as to the construction
of the round earth, and all that is therein. Ile, he says, may be
found by other lucky adventures; but Ile is not to be depended on for
a permanence. He would now recommend those who strike Ile to make
their Pile as quickly as may be, and devote all their energies to the
safety of that pile. And as to the human race, it may slide.

"What's the good," he says to Jack Dunquerque, "of helpin' up those
that are bound to climb? Let them climb. And what's the good of tryin'
to save those that are bound to fall? Let them fall. I'm down myself;
but I mean to get up again."

It is sad to record that Mr. Burls, the picture-dealer, refused to buy
back again the great picture of "Sisera and Jael." No one would
purchase the work at all. Mr. Beck offered it to the Langham Hotel as
a gift. The directors firmly declined to accept it. When it was
evident that this remarkable effort of genius was appreciated by no
one, Gilead Beck resolved on leaving it where it was. It is rumoured
that the manager of the hotel bribed the owner of a certain Regent
Street restaurant to take it away; and I have heard that it now hangs,
having been greatly cut down, on the wall of that establishment,
getting its tones mellowed day by day with the steam of roast and
boiled. As for the other pictures, Mr. Burls expressed his extreme
sorrow that temporary embarrassment prevented him purchasing them back
at the price given for them. He afterwards told Mr. Beck that the
unprincipled picture-dealer who did ultimately buy them, at the price
of so much a square foot, and as second-rate copies, was a disgrace to
his honourable profession. He, he said, stood high in public
estimation for truth, generosity, and fair dealing. None but genuine
works came from his own establishment; and what he called a Grooze was
a Grooze, and nothing but a Grooze.

As for the Pile, Gilead's power of attorney had effectually destroyed
that. There was not a cent left; not one single coin to rub against
another. All was gone in that great crash.

He called upon Gabriel Cassilis. The financier smiled upon him with
his newly-born air of sweetness and trust; but, as we have seen, he
could no longer speak, and there was nothing in his face to express
sorrow or repentance.

Gilead found himself, when all was wound up, the possessor of that
single cheque which Joseph Jagenal had placed in his hands, and which,
most fortunately for himself, he had not paid into the bank.

Four hundred pounds. With that, at forty-five, he was to begin the
world again. After all, the majority of mankind at forty five have
much less than four hundred pounds.

He heard from Canada that the town he had built, the whole of which
belonged to him, was deserted again. There was a quicker rush out of
it than into it. It stands there now, more lonely than Empire
City--its derricks and machinery rusting and dropping to pieces, the
houses empty and neglected, the land relapsing into its old condition
of bog and marsh. But Gilead Beck will never see it again.

He kept away from Twickenham during this winding-up and settlement of
affairs. It was a week later when, his mind at rest and his conscience
clear of bills and doubts, because now there was nothing more to lose,
he called at the house where he had spent so many pleasant hours.

Mrs. L'Estrange received him. She was troubled in look, and the traces
of tears were on her face.

"It is a most onfortunate time," Gilead said sympathetically; "a most
onfortunate time."

"Blow after blow, Mr. Beck," Agatha sobbed. "Stroke upon stroke."

"That is so, madam. They've got the knife well in, this time, and when
they give it a twist we're bound to cry out. You've thought me
selfish, I know, not to inquire before."

"No, Mr. Beck; no. It is only too kind of you to think of us in your
overwhelming disaster. I have never spent so wretched a week. Poor
Lawrence has literally not a penny left, except what he gets from the
sale of his horses, pictures and things. Captain Ladds is the same;
Phillis has no longer a farthing; and now, Oh dear, Oh dear. I am
going to lose her altogether!"

"But when she marries Mr. Dunquerque you will see her often."

"No, no. Haven't they told you? Jack has got almost nothing--only ten
thousand pounds altogether; and they have made up their minds to
emigrate. They are going to Virginia, where Jack will buy a small
estate."

"Is that so?" asked Gilead meditatively.

"Lawrence says that he and Captain Ladds will go away together
somewhere; perhaps back to Empire City."

"And you will be left alone--you, Mrs. L'Estrange--all alone in this
country, and ruined. It mustn't be." He straightened himself up, and
looked round the room. "It must not be, Mrs. L'Estrange. You know me
partly--that is you know the manner of man I wish to seem and try to
be; you know what I have been. You do not know, because you cannot
guess, the things which you have put into my head."

Mrs. L'Estrange blushed and began to tremble. Could it be possible
that he was actually going to--

He was.

"You and I together, Mrs. L'Estrange, are gone to wreck in this
almighty hurricane. I've got one or two thousand dollars left; perhaps
you will have as much, perhaps _not_. Mrs. L'Estrange, you will think
it presumptuous in a rough American--not an American gentleman by
birth and raising--to offer you such protection and care as he can
give to the best of women? We, too, will go to Virginia with Mr.
Dunquerque and his wife; we will settle near them, and watch their
happiness. The Virginians are a kindly folk, and love the English
people, especially if they are of gentle birth. Say, Mrs. L'Estrange."

"O Mr. Beck! I am forty years of age!"

"And I am five and forty."

Just then Phillis and Jack burst into the room. They did not look at
all like being ruined; they were wild with joy and good spirits.

"And you are going to Virginia, Mr. Dunquerque?" said Gilead. "I am
thinking of going, too, if I can persuade this lady to go with me."

"O Agatha! come with us!"

"Come with me," corrected Gilead.

Then Phillis saw how things lay--what a change in Phillis, to see so
much?--and half laughing, but more in seriousness than in mirth, threw
her arms round Agatha's neck.

"Will you come, dear Agatha? He is a good man, and he loves you; and
we will all live near together and be happy."


Three short scenes to conclude my story.

It is little more than a year since Agatha L'Estrange, as shy and
blushing as any maiden--much more shy than Phillis--laid her hand in
Gilead's, with the confession, half sobbed out, "And it isn't a
mistake you are making, because I am not ruined at all. It is only you
and these poor children and Lawrence."

We are back again to Empire City. It is the early fall, September. The
yellow leaves clothe all the forests with brown and gold; the sunlight
strikes upon the peaks and ridges of the great Sierra, lights up the
broad belt of wood making shadows blacker than night, and lies along
the grass grown streets of the deserted Empire City. Two men in
hunting-dress are making their way slowly through the grass and weeds
that choke the pathway.

"Don't like it, Colquhoun," says one; "more ghostly than ever."

They push on, and presently the foremost, Ladds, starts back with a
cry.

"What is it?" asks Colquhoun.

They push aside the brambles, and behold a skeleton. The body has been
on its knees, but now only the bones are left. They are clothed in the
garb of the celestial, and one side of the skull is broken in, as if
with a shot.

"It must be my old friend Achow," said Colquhoun calmly. "See, he's
been murdered."

In the dead of night Ladds awakened Colquhoun.

"Can't help it," he said; "very sorry. Ghosts walking about the
stairs. Says the ghost of Achow to the shade Leeching, 'No your piecy
pidgin makee shootee me.' Don't like ghosts, Colquhoun."

Next morning they left Empire City. Ladds was firm in the conviction
that he had heard and seen a Chinaman's ghost, and was resolute
against stopping another night in the place.

Just outside the town they made another discovery.

"Good Lord!" cried Ladds, frightened out of sobriety of speech. "It
rains skeletons. Look there; he's beckoning!"

And, to be sure, before them was raised, with finger as of invitation,
a skeleton hand.

This, too, belonged to a complete assortment of human bones clad in
Chinese dress. By its side lay a rusty pistol. Lawrence picked it up.

"By Gad!" he said, "it's the same pistol I gave to Leeching. How do
you read this story, Ladds?"

Ladds sat down and replied slowly. He said that he never did like
reading ghost stories, and since the apparition of the murdered Achow,
the night before, he should like them still less. Ghost stories, he
said, are all very well until you come to see and hear a ghost. Now
that he had a ghost story of his own--an original one in pigeon
English--he did not intend ever to read another. Therefore Colquhoun
must excuse him if he gave up the story of Leeching's skeleton
entirely to his own reading. He then went on to say that he never had
liked skeletons, and that he believed Empire City was nothing but a
mouldy old churchyard without the church, while, as a cemetery, it
wasn't a patch upon Highgate. And the mention of Highgate, he said,
reminded him of Phillis; and he proposed they should both get to
Virginia, and call upon Jack and his wife.

All this took time to explain; and meanwhile Lawrence was poking the
butt end of his gun about in the grass to see if there was anything
more. There was something more. It was a bag of coarse yellow canvas,
tied by a string round what had been the waist of a man. Lawrence cut
the string, and opened the bag.

"We're in luck, Tommy. Look at this."

It was the gold so laboriously scraped together by the two Chinamen,
which had caused, in a manner, the death of both.

"Lift it, Tommy." Colquhoun grew excited at his find. "Lift it--there
must be a hundred and fifty ounces, I should think. It will be worth
four or five hundred pounds. Here's a find!"

To this pair, who had only a year ago chucked away their thousands,
the luck of picking up a bag of gold appeared something wonderful.

"Tommy," said Colquhoun, "I tell you what we will do. We will add this
little windfall to what Beck would call your little pile and my little
pile. And we'll go and buy a little farm in Virginia, too; and we will
live there close to Jack and Phillis. Agatha will like it too. And
there's capital shooting."


Gabriel Cassilis and his wife reside at Brighton. The whole of the
great fortune being lost, they have nothing but Victoria's settlement.
That gives them a small income. "Enough to subsist upon," Victoria
tells her friends. The old man--he looks very old and fragile now--is
wheeled about in a chair on sunny days. When he is not being wheeled
about he plays with his child, to whom he talks; that is, pours out a
stream of meaningless words, because he will never again talk
coherently. Victoria is exactly the same as ever--cold, calm, and
proud. Nor is there anything whatever in her manner to her husband, if
she accidentally meets him, to show that she has the slightest sorrow,
shame, or repentance for the catastrophe she brought about. Joseph
Jagenal is working the great Dyson will case for them, and is
confident that he will get the testator's intentions, which can now be
only imperfectly understood, set aside, when Gabriel Cassilis will
once more become comparatively wealthy.


On a verandah in sunny Virginia, Agatha Beck sits quietly working, and
crooning some old song in sheer content and peace of heart. Presently
she lifts her head as she hears a step. That smile with which she
greets her husband shows that she is happy in her new life. Gilead
Beck is in white, with a broad straw hat, because it is in hot
September. In his hand he has a letter.

"Good news, wife; good news," he says. "Jack and Phillis are coming
here to-day, and will stay till Monday. Will be here almost as soon as
the note. Baby coming, too."

"Of course, Gilead," says Agatha, smiling superior. "As if the dear
girl would go anywhere without her little Philip. And six weeks old
to-morrow."

(Everybody who has appreciated how very far from clever Jack
Dunquerque was will be prepared to hear that he committed an enormous
etymological blunder in the baptism of his boy, whom he named Philip,
in the firm belief that Philip was the masculine form of Phillis.)

"Here they come! Here they are!"

Jack comes rattling up to the house in his American trap, jumps out,
throws the reins to the boy, and hands out his wife with the child.
Kisses and greetings.

Phillis seems at first, unchanged, except perhaps that the air of
Virginia has made her sweet delicacy of features more delicate. Yet
look again, and you find that she is changed. She was a child when we
saw her first; then we saw her grow into a maiden; she is a wife and a
mother now.

She whispers her husband.

"All right, Phil, dear.--Beck, you've got to shut your eyes for just
one minute. No, turn your back so. Now you may look."

Phillis has hung round the neck of her unconscious baby, by a golden
chain, the Golden Butterfly. It seems as strong and vigorous as ever;
and as it lies upon the child's white dress, it looks as if it were
poised for a moment's rest, but ready for flight.

"That Inseck!" said Gilead sentimentally. "Wal, it's given me the best
thing that a man can get"--he took the hand of his wife--"love and
friendship. You are welcome, Phillis, to all the rest, provided that
all the rest does not take away these."

"Nay," she said, her eyes filling with the gentle dew of happiness and
content; "I have all that I want for myself. I have my husband and my
boy--my little, little Philip! I am more than happy; and so I give to
tiny Phil all the remaining Luck of the Golden Butterfly."


THE END.