around her was wonderfully keen and exhilarating; the skies overhead
were intensely blue; out there on the downs the soft, white snow would
be beautiful.  Nan walked on at a brisker pace, and her spirits rose.
The sunlight seemed to get into her veins.  And then her footing
required a great deal of attention, and she had plenty of active
exercise; for though here and there the force of the wind had left the
roads almost bare, elsewhere the snow had formed long drifts of three
to five feet in depth, and these had either to be got round or plunged
through.  Then, up Kemp-Town way, where there is less traffic, her
difficulties increased.  The keen air seemed to make her easily
breathless.  But at all events she felt comfortably warm, and the sun
felt hot on her cheek.

She had at length persuaded herself that she was anxious about Singing
Sal's safety.  Many people must have perished in that snowstorm--caught
unawares on the lonely downs.  At all events, she could ask at one or
two of the coastguard stations if anything had been heard of Sal.  It
was just possible she might meet her, if the entertainment at Updene
farm had come off.

At Black Rock station they had heard nothing; but she went on all the
same.  For now this was a wonderful and beautiful landscape all around
her, up on these high cliffs; and the novelty of it delighted her,
though the bewildering white somewhat dazzled her eyes.  Towards the
edge of the cliffs, where the wind had swept across, there was
generally not more than an inch or two of snow--hard and crisp, with
traceries of birds' feet on it, like long strings of lace; but a few
yards on her left the snow had got banked up in the most peculiar
drifts, resembling in a curious manner the higher ranges of the Alps.
Sometimes, however, the snow became deep here also; so that she had to
betake herself to the road, where the farmers' men around had already
cut a way through the deeper stoppages; and there she found herself
going along a white gallery--yellow-white on the left, where the
sunlight fell on the snow, but an intense blue on the right, where the
crystalline snow, in shadow, reflected the blue of the sky overhead.
And still she ploughed on her way, with all her pulses tingling with
life and gladness; for this wonder of yellow whiteness and blue
whiteness, and the sunlight, and the keen air, all lent themselves to a
kind of fascination; and she scarcely perceived that her usual
landmarks were gone: it was enough for her to keep walking, stumbling,
sinking, avoiding the deeper drifts, and farther and farther losing
herself in the solitariness of this white, hushed world.

Then, far away, and showing very black against the white, she perceived
the figure of a woman, and instantly jumped to the conclusion that that
must be Singing Sal.  But what was Sal--if it were she--about?  That
dark figure was wildly swaying one arm like an orator declaiming to an
excited assemblage.  Had the dramatic stimulus of the previous night's
entertainment--Nan asked herself--got into the woman's brain?  Was she
reciting poetry to that extravagant gesturing?  Nan walked more slowly
now, and took breath; while the woman, whoever she was, evidently was
coming along at a swinging pace.

No; that was no dramatic gesture.  It was too monotonous.  It looked
more as if she were sowing--to imperceptible furrows.  Nan's eyes were
very long-sighted, but this thing puzzled her altogether.  She now
certainly looked like a farmer's man scattering seed-corn.

Singing Sal saw and recognised her young-lady friend at some distance,
and seemed to moderate her gestures, though these did not quite cease.
When she came up, Nan said to her,

'What are you doing?'

'Well, Miss,' she said, with a bright smile--her face was quite red
with the cold air, and her hair not so smooth as she generally kept
it--'my arm does ache, to tell the truth.  And my barley's nearly done.
I have tried to scatter it wide, so as the finches and larks may have a
chance, even when the jackdaws and rooks are at it.'

'Are you scattering food for the birds, then?'

'They're starved out in this weather, Miss; and then the boys come out
wi' their guns; and the dicky-laggers are after them too----'

'The what?'

'The bird-catchers, Miss.  If I was a farmer now, I'd take a horsewhip,
I would, and I'd send those gentry double quick back to Whitechapel.
And the gentle-folks, Miss, it isn't right of them to encourage the
trapping of larks when there's plenty of other food to be got.  Well,
my three-penn'orth o' barley that I bought in Newhaven is near done
now.'

She looked into the little wallet that she had twisted round in front
of her.

'Oh, if you don't mind,' said Nan, eagerly, 'I will give you a
shilling--or two or three shillings--to get some more.'

'You could do better than that, Miss,' said Sal.  'Maybe you know some
one that lives in Lewes Crescent?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Well, ye see, Miss, there's such a lot o' birds as won't eat grain at
all; and if you was to get the key of the garden in Lewes Crescent, and
get a man to sweep the snow off a bit of the grass, and your friends
might throw down some mutton bones and scraps from the kitchen, and the
birds from far and near would find it out--being easily seen, as it
might be.  Half the thrushes and blackbirds along this countryside 'll
be dead before this snow gives out.'

'Oh, I will go back at once and do that,' said Nan, readily.

'Look how they've been running about all the morning,' said this
fresh-coloured, dark-eyed woman, regarding the traceries on the snow at
her feet.  'Most of them larks--you can see the spur.  And that's a
rook with his big heavy claws.  And there's a hare, Miss--I should say
he was trotting as light as could be--and there's nothing uglier than a
trotting hare--he's like a race-horse walking--all stiff and jolting,
because of the high aunches--haunches, Miss.  They're all
bewildered-like, birds and beasts the same.  I saw the pad of a fox
close by Rottingdean; he must have come a long way to try for a
poultry-yard.  And, what's rarer, I saw a covey of partridges, Miss,
settle down on the sea as I was coming along by Saltdean Gap.  They was
tired out, poor things, and not driven before the wind either, but
fighting against it, and going out to sea blind-like; and then I saw
them sink down on to the water, and then the waves knocked them about
anyway.  I hear there was a wonderful sight of brent geese up by
Berling Gap yesterday--but I'm keeping you standing in the cold,
Miss----'

'I will walk back with you,' said Nan, turning.

'No, Miss.  No, thank you, Miss,' said Sal, sturdily.

'But only as far as Lewes Crescent,' said Nan, with a gentle laugh.
'You know I am going to stop there for the mutton bones.  I want to
know what has happened to you since the last time I saw you--that's a
good while ago now.'

'Two things, Miss, has happened that I'm proud of;' said Sal, as the
two set out to face the brisk westerly wind.  'I was taking a turn
through Surrey, and when I was at ----, they told me that a great poet
lived close by there--Mr. ----'

'Of course every one knows Mr. ----,' said Nan.

'I didn't,' said Sal, rather shamefacedly.  'You see, Miss, the two I
showed you are enough company for me; and I haven't got money to buy
books wi'.  Well, I was passing near the old gentleman's house, and he
came out, and he spoke to me as we went along the road.  He said he had
seen me reading the afternoon before, on the common; and he began to
speak about poetry; and then he asked me if I had read any of Mr.
----'s, without saying he was himself.  I was sorry to say no, Miss,
for he was such a kind old gentleman; but he said he would send me
them; and most like they're waiting for me now at Goring, where I gave
him an address.  Lor', the questions he asked me!--about Shakespeare
and Burns--you know, Miss, I had them in my bag; and then about myself.
I shouldn't wonder if he wrote a poem about me.'

'Well, that's modest,' said Nan, with another quiet laugh.

Sal did not at all like that gentle reproof.

'It isn't my pride, Miss; it's what he said to me that I go by,' she
retorted.  'I didn't ask him.'

'If he does, all England will hear about you then,' said Nan.  'And
now, what was the other thing?'

Sal again grew shamefaced a little.  She opened the inner side of her
wallet, took out a soiled, weather-beaten copy of the _Globe_
Shakespeare, and from it extracted a letter.

'Perhaps you would like to read it yourself, Miss,' she suggested.

Nan took it, and had little difficulty in deciphering its contents,
though the language was occasionally a trifle hyperbolical.  It
contained nothing less than an offer of marriage addressed to Sal by a
sailor in one of Her Majesty's ironclads, who said that he was tired of
the sea, and that, if Sal would give up her wandering life, so would
he, and he would retire into the coastguard.  He pointed out the
sacrifices he was ready to make for her; for it appeared that he was a
petty officer.  No matter; he was willing to become simple A.B. again;
for he had his 'feelin's;' and if so be as she would become his wife,
then they would have a good weather-proof cottage, a bit of garden, and
three-and-fourpence a day.  It was a most business-like, sensible offer.

'And I'm sure I could do something for him,' Nan eagerly said.  'I
think I could get him promotion.  The Senior Naval Lord of the
Admiralty is a friend of mine.  And wouldn't it be better for you?'

'No, Miss,' said Sal, with an odd kind of smile.  'I was glad to get
the letter, for it shows I'm respected.  But I'm not going to be caged
yet.  I never saw or heard of the man I would marry--except it might
have been Robbie Burns, if he was still alive.  Sometimes when I've
been reading a bit, coming along the downs all by myself like, I've
seen somebody in the distance; and I've said to myself, "Well, now, if
that was only to turn out to be that black-a-vised Ayrshire ploughman,
it would be all over with me; it would be 'Whistle and I'll come to ye,
my lad.'"  And then some shambling fellow of a labourer has come along,
straw-haired, bent-backed, twisted-kneed, and scarcely enough spirit in
him to say, "Marnin t' ye--good marnin t' ye, wench!"'

'You are very independent,' said the sage Nan.  'And that's all very
well, as long as your health lasts.  But you might become ill.  You
would want relatives and friends, and a home.  And in the coastguard
houses you would have a very comfortable home, and a garden to look
after; and your husband might get promotion.'

'If ever I marry,' said Sal, shaking her head, 'it won't be one of the
man-of-war's men.  They've just as little spirit or independence as the
day labourers.  They've had it all crushed out of them by the hard
usage of the officers.'

'Oh, how can you say so!' said Nan, warmly.  'The officers are English
gentlemen.  In former days there may have been cruelty, but I am
certain that exists no longer.  I know several officers: kinder-hearted
men don't exist.  Why, there is a captain in the navy----'

She stopped in great embarrassment.  But Singing Sal, not heeding,
said, laconically--

'It ain't the captain, Miss.  He's too great a gentleman to interfere.
It's the first lieutenant, who can make the ship a hell upon earth if
he has a mind to.  Ah!  Miss, it's little you know of the discipline
that goes on on board a man-o'-war.  There's no human being could stand
it who wasn't brought up to it.  The merchantmen can't stand it, and
won't stand it; that's where the officers find a difficulty when the
Reserves are called out.  You wouldn't find a man-o'-war's man marching
up to the First Lord of the Admiralty with a lump of salt beef in his
hand and asking him if it was fit to eat.  And this Lord, Miss, being a
civilian like, he never thought of having the man clapped in irons:
"Throw it overboard," says he.  "I will see that no more o' that kind
of stuff is issued to Her Majesty's fleet."  That was the story I
heard, Miss; the men were laughing about it at Beachy Head.  And then,
in the merchantmen Jack has a better chance, if he is a smart
fellow----'

And so forth.  They had once more got on to the subject of sailors and
officers, regarded from their different points of view; and it was not
until they had reached Brighton that the sight of Lewes Crescent
reminded Nan that she had now to part from her companion and go in
search of mutton bones for the thrushes and blackbirds.

CHAPTER XIX.

BREAKING DOWN.

Not only was she successful in this work of charity, but she must needs
also institute a similar system of outdoor relief at her own end of the
town; so that it was nearly dusk when she re-entered the house in
Brunswick Terrace.  She did not think of asking if there were any
visitors; she went upstairs; perceived that the drawing-room door was
an inch or two open, and was just about to enter when she heard voices.
Inadvertently she paused.

It was Mr. Jacomb's voice.  Then her mother said--

'I married happily myself, and I have never tried to influence my
daughters----'

Nan shrank back, like a guilty thing.  She had only listened to
discover whether it was some one she knew who had called; but these few
words of her mother's made her heart jump.  She stole away noiselessly
to her own room.  She sat down, anxious and agitated, fearing she
scarcely knew what.

She was not long left in suspense.  Her mother came into the room and
shut the door.

'I thought I heard you come in, Nan,' she said; 'and it's lucky you
have, for Mr. Jacomb is here.'

'But I don't want to see Mr. Jacomb, mamma,' she said, breathlessly.

'He wants to see you,' her mother said, quietly; 'and I suppose you
know what it is about.'

'I--I suppose so--yes, I can guess----.  Oh, mother, dear!' cried Nan,
going and clinging to her mother.  'Do me this great kindness!  I can't
see him.  I don't want to see him.  Mother, you will go and speak to
him for me!'

'Well, that is extraordinary,' said Lady Beresford, who, however, had
far too great a respect for her nerves to become excited over this
matter or anything else.  'That's a strange request.  I have just told
him I would not interfere.  Of course I don't consider it a good match;
you might do a great deal better from a worldly point of view.  But you
have always been peculiar, Nan.  If you think it would be for your
happiness to become a poor clergyman's wife, I will not oppose it.  At
the same time, I have always thought you might do better----'

'Oh, mother, don't you understand?' Nan broke in.  'It's to ask him to
go away!  I'm so sorry.  If he had spoken before, I would have told him
before----'

'You mean you refuse him, and I am to take the message,' said her
mother, staring at her.  'That is all?'

The girl was silent.

'I must say, Nan, you have been acting very strangely.  You have lead
us all to believe that you were going to marry him.  Why did you let
the man come about the house?'

'Don't speak like that to me, mother,' said Nan, with her under lip
beginning to quiver.  'I--I tried to think of it.  I knew he wanted me
to be his wife; I thought it might be right; I thought I could do
something that way; and--and I tried to persuade myself.  But I can't
marry him, mother--I can't--I don't wish to marry any one--I never will
marry----'

'Don't talk nonsense, child!' said her mother, severely, for there was
a sort of tendency towards excitement in the atmosphere.  'Let me
understand clearly.  I suppose you know your own mind.  I am to go and
tell this man definitely that you won't marry him?'

'Mother, don't put it in that harsh way.  Tell him I am very sorry.
Tell him I tried hard to think of it.  Tell him I am sorry he has
waited so long; but if he had asked sooner----'

'He would have had the same answer?'

The girl's faced flushed red, and she said in a strange sort of a way--

'Yes--perhaps so--I think it must have been the same answer at any
time.  Oh, I never, never could have brought myself to marry him!
Mother, does it look cruel--does it look as if I had treated him
badly?' she added, in the same anxious way.

'No, I would not say that,' answered her mother, calmly.  'A man must
take his chance; and until he speaks he can't have an answer.  I do not
think Mr. Jacomb has any reason to complain--except, perhaps, that you
don't go yourself and hear what he has to say----'

'Oh, mother, I couldn't do that.  It would only be pain for both of us.
And then I don't refuse him, you see, mother; that's something----'

Lady Beresford was uncertain.  The truth was, she was not at all sorry
to be the bearer of this message--even at the cost of a little
trouble--for she did think that her daughter ought to marry into a
better position in life.  But she had just been listening to what Mr.
Jacomb had to say for himself; and he had said a good deal, not only
about himself but about Nan, and her disposition, and what would best
secure her happiness, and so forth.  Lady Beresford had been just a
little bit impressed, and the question was whether Nan ought not to be
invited to a fair consideration of the matter as represented by Mr.
Jacomb himself.

'Well, Nan, if your mind is quite clear about it----'

'Oh it is, mother,' she answered eagerly, 'quite--quite----'

That was an end.  Her mother left the room, slowly; Nan listened for
her footsteps until she heard her go into the drawing-room and close
the door.  Her first thought was to lock herself in, so that there
should be no appeal.  Her next was that it was excessively mean and
cruel of her to experience this wonderful sense of relief, now that the
die was irrevocably cast.

'If there was anything I could do for him,' she was
thinking--'anything--anything but that;' and then she listened again to
the stillness until she heard a bell ring, and the drawing-room door
open again, and some one descend the stairs into the hall.  She felt
guilty and sorry at the same time.  She wished she could do something
by way of compensation.  He would not think it was mere heartlessness?
For indeed she had tried.  And would she not have done him a far
greater wrong if she had married him without being able to give him her
whole heart?

Nan went to the window; but it was too dark for her to see anything.
She took it for granted he had gone away.  She was glad, and ashamed of
herself for being glad.  She reproved herself.  And then she had a
vague sort of feeling that she would wear sackcloth and ashes--or try
to be ten times kinder to everybody--or do something, anything, no
matter what--to atone for this very unmistakable sense of gladness that
seemed to pervade her whole being.  She couldn't help it, because it
was there; but she would do something by way of compensation.  And the
first thing she could think of was to go and brush the billiard-table
with such thoroughness that Mr. Tom, when he came home should say he
had never seen it in such good condition before.

That was a roaring party that somewhat later came in--all flushed faces
and high spirits and delight; for they had walked all the way from
Falmer over the downs, under the guidance of the Canadian experience of
Frank King; and they had had wonderful adventures with the snow-drifts;
and the night was beautiful--a crescent moon in the south, and high up
in the south-east the gleaming belt of Orion.  And Nan greatly entered
into the joy of these adventurers, and wished to hear more of their
futile efforts at skating; and was asking this one and the other about
everything--until she found Mr. Tom's eyes fixed on her.

'Nan,' said he, with scrutiny and decision, 'you've been in the country
to-day, walking.'

She admitted she had.

'And you had for your luncheon a bit of bread and an apple.'

'I generally take that as a precaution,' Nan said, simply.

'I thought so,' said Mr. Tom, with great satisfaction at his own
shrewdness.  'I can tell in a minute.  For you always come back looking
highly pleased with yourself and inclined to be cheeky.  I don't like
the look of you when you're too set up.  Your tongue gets too sharp.
I'd advise you people to look out.'

Nan's conscience smote her.  Was she so glad, then, that even outsiders
saw it in her face?  She became graver; and she vowed that she would be
most reticent at dinner.  Had she not promised to herself to try to be
ten times kinder to everybody?

And she very soon, at dinner, had an opportunity of displaying her
generosity.  They were busy making havoc of the manner of a
distinguished person who was much talked of at that time, and whom they
had all chanced to meet.  Now Nan ordinarily was very intolerant of
affectation; but had she not promised to be ten times kinder to
everybody?  So she struck in in defence of this lady.

'But it is her nature to be affected,' said Nan.  'She is quite true to
herself.  That is her disposition.  It wouldn't be natural for her to
try not to be affected.  She was born with that disposition.  Look at
the idiotic grimaces that infants make when they try to show they are
pleased.  And Mrs. ---- wouldn't be herself at all if she wasn't
affected.  She might as well try to leave off her affectations as her
clothes.  She couldn't go about without any.'

'She goes about with precious little,' said Mr. Tom, who strongly
disapproved of scanty ball-dresses.  And then he added, 'But that's Nan
all over.  She's always for making the best of everything and
everybody.  It's always the best possible world with her.'

'And isn't that wise,' said Frank King, with a laugh, 'considering it's
the only one we've got to live in at present?'

Nan was very bright and cheerful during this dinner, and Captain Frank
King was most markedly attentive to her, and interested in her talking.
When Nan began to speak, he seemed to consider that the whole table
ought to listen; and his was the first look that approved, and the
first laugh that followed.  Then he discovered that she knew all sorts
of out-of-the-way things that an ordinary young lady could by no
possibility have been expected to know.  It was more than ever clear to
him that these solitary wanderings had taught her something.  Where had
she acquired all this familiarity, for example, with details about his
own profession--or what had been his profession?

They went on to talk of the jeers of cabmen at each other, and how
sharp some of them were.  Then again they began to talk about other
common sayings--the very origin of which had been forgotten; and Frank
King spoke of a taunt which was an infallible recipe for driving a
bargee mad--'_Who choked the boy with duff?_'--though nobody, not the
bargees themselves, now knew anything whatever about the tragic
incident that must have happened sometime and somewhere.

'Yes,' said Nan at once, 'and there is another like that that the
collier-boats can't stand.  If you call out to a collier, "_There's a
rat in your chains_" he'd drive his schooner ashore to get after you.'

'I suppose you have tried,' said her mother, with calm dignity.

'I believe Nan spends most of her time,' said the Beauty, 'in making
mud-pies with the boys in Shoreham Harbour.'

'Never you mind, Nan,' her brother said to encourage her.  'Next time
we go to Newhaven, you'll call out to the colliers, "_There's a rat in
your chains_," and I'll stop behind a wall and watch them beating you.'

All during that dinner Nan was both amused and amusing, until a
trifling little incident occurred.  She and Frank King on the other
side of the table had almost monopolised the conversation, although
quite unwittingly; and everybody seemed to regard this as a matter of
course.  Now it happened that Madge, who sat next her betrothed, made
some slight remark to him.  Perhaps he did not hear.  At all events, he
did not answer, but addressed Nan instead, with reference to something
she had just been saying about lifeboats.  Instantly, a hurt expression
came over Madge's face, and as instantly Nan saw it.  From that moment
she grew more reserved.  She avoided addressing herself directly to
Captain Frank King.  She devoted herself chiefly to her mother; and
when, at the end of dinner, they adjourned in a body to the
billiard-room (with the happy indifference of youth) she followed Lady
Beresford up to the drawing-room and would herself make tea for her.

'Do you know, Nan,' she said, quite plainly, 'that whenever you are in
the room Frank pays no attention to any one else?'

'I thought he was doing his best to amuse everybody at dinner,' Nan
said--though she did not raise her eyes.  'He told some very good
stories.'

'Yes, to you,' Madge insisted.  Then she added, 'You know I like it.  I
hope he will always be good friends with all the family: for you see,
Nan, it will be lonely for me at Kingscourt for a while, and of course
I should like to have somebody from Brighton always in the house.  And
I know he admires you very much.  He's always talking about your
character, and your disposition, and your temperament, as if he had
been studying you like a doctor.  I suppose I've got no character, or
he would talk about that sometimes.  I don't understand it--that
talking about something inside you, as if it was something separate
from yourself; and calling it all kinds of sentiments and virtues, as
if it was clockwork you couldn't see.  I don't see anything like that
in you, Nan--except that you are very kind, you know--but not so
different from other people--as he seems to think.'

'It doesn't much matter what he thinks, does it?' suggested Nan, gently.

'Oh no, of course not,' Madge said, promptly.  'He said I was a very
good skater, considering the horrid condition of the ice.  They have a
large lake at Kingscourt.'  Then after a pause, 'Nan, where did you
learn all that about the lighthouses and the birds at night?'

'Oh, that?  I really don't know.  What about it?--it is of no
consequence.'

'But it interests people.'

'It ought not to interest you, or Captain King either.  You will have
to think of very different things at Kingscourt.'

'When you and Mr. Jacomb come to Kings----'

'Madge,' said Nan, quickly, 'you must not say anything like that.  I do
not mean to marry Mr. Jacomb, if that is what you mean.'

'No?  Honour bright?'

'I shall not marry Mr. Jacomb; and I am not likely to marry any one,'
she said, calmly.  'There are other things one can give one's life to,
I suppose.  It would be strange if there were not.'

Madge thought for a second or two.

'Oh, Nan,' she said cheerfully, 'it would be so nice to have an
old-maid sister at Kingscourt.  She could do such a lot of things, and
be so nice and helpful, without the fuss and pretension of a married
woman.  It would be really delightful to have you at Kingscourt!'

'I hope, dear, you will be happy at Kingscourt,' said Nan, in a
somewhat lower voice.

'I shall never be quite happy until you come to stay there,' said
Madge, with decision.

'You will have plenty of occupation,' said Nan, absently.  'I have been
thinking if a war broke out I should like to go as one of the nurses;
and of course that wants training beforehand.  There must be an
institution of some kind, I suppose.  Now, good-night, dear.'

'Good-night, Mother Nan.  But we are not going to let you go away into
wars.  You are coming to Kingscourt.  I know Frank will insist on it.
And it would just be the very place for you; you see you would be in
nobody's way; and you always were so fond of giving help.  Oh, Nan,'
her sister suddenly said, 'what is the matter?  You are crying!  What
is it, Nan?'

Nan rose quickly.

'Crying?  No--no--never mind, Madge--I am tired
rather--there--good-night.'

She got her sister out of the room only in time.  Her overstrained
calmness had at length given way.  She threw herself on the bed, and
burst into a passion of weeping; and thus she lay far into the night,
stifling her sobs so that no one should hear.

CHAPTER XX.

THE SHADOW.

The process of disenchantment is one of the saddest and one of the
commonest things in life; whether the cause of it be the golden youth
who, apparently a very Bayard before marriage, after marriage gradually
reveals himself to be hopelessly selfish, or develops a craving for
brandy, or becomes merely brutal and ill-tempered; or whether it is the
creature of all angelic gifts and graces who, after her marriage,
destroys the romance of domestic life by her slatternly ways, or sinks
into the condition of a confirmed sigher, or in time discovers to her
husband that he has married a woman comprising in herself, to use the
American phrase, nine distinct sorts of a born fool.  These discoveries
are common in life; but they generally follow marriage, which gives
ample opportunities for study.  Before marriage man and maid meet but
at intervals; and then both are alike on their best behaviour.  The
slattern is no slattern now; she is always dainty and nice and neat;
the golden youth is generous to a fault, and noble in all his ways; and
if either or both should be somewhat foolish, or even downright stupid,
the lack of wisdom is concealed by a tender smile or a soft touch of
the hand.  It is the dream-time of life; and it is not usual for one to
awake until it is over.

But it was different with Frank King.  The conditions in which he was
placed were altogether peculiar.  He had made two gigantic
mistakes--the first in imagining that any two human beings could be
alike: the second in imagining that, even if they were alike, he could
transfer his affection from the one to the other--and he was now
engaged in a hopeless and terrible struggle to convince himself that
these were not mistakes.  He would not see that Madge Beresford was
very different from Nan.  He was determined to find in her all he had
hoped to find.  He argued with himself that she was just like Nan, as
Nan had been at her age.  Madge was so kind, and good, and nice; of
course it would all come right in the end.

At the same time, he never wished to be alone with Madge, as is the
habit of lovers.  Nor if he was suddenly interested in anything did he
naturally turn to her, and call her attention.  On the other hand, the
little social circle did not seem complete when Nan, with her grave
humour, and her quiet smile, and her gentle, kindly ways, was absent.
When she came into the room, then satisfaction and rest were in the
very air.  If there was a brighter green on the sea, where a gleam of
wintry sunshine struck the roughened waters, whose eyes but Nan's could
see that properly?  It was she whom he addressed on all occasions;
perhaps unwittingly.  It seemed so easy to talk to Nan.  For the rest,
he shut his eyes to other considerations.  From the strange fascination
and delight that house in Brunswick Terrace always had for him, he knew
he must be in love with somebody there; and who could that be but Madge
Beresford, seeing that he was engaged to her?

Unhappily for poor Madge, Frank King was now called home by the old
people at Kingscourt; and for a time, at least, all correspondence
between him and his betrothed would obviously have to be by letter.
Madge was in great straits.  A look, a smile, a touch of the fingers
may make up for lack of ideas; but letter-writing peremptorily demands
them, of some kind or another.  As usual, Madge came to her elder
sister.

'Oh, Nan, I do so hate letter-writing.  I promised to write every
morning.  I don't know what in the world to say.  It is such a
nuisance.'

Nan was silent; of late she had tried to withdraw as much as possible
from these confidences of her sister's; but not very successfully.
Madge clung to her.  Lady Beresford would not be bothered.  Edith was
busy with her own affairs.  But Nan--old Mother Nan--who had nothing to
think of but other people, might as well begin and play the old maid at
once, and give counsel in these distressing affairs.

'I wish you would tell me what to say,' continued Madge, quite coolly.

'I?  Oh, I cannot,' said Nan, almost shuddering, and turning away.

'But you know what interests him; for he's always talking to you,'
persisted Madge, good-naturedly.  'Anybody but me would be jealous; but
I'm not.  The day before yesterday Mrs. ---- went by; and I asked him
to look at her hair, that every one is raving about; and he plainly
told me your hair was the prettiest he had ever seen.  Now, I don't
call that polite.  He might have said "except yours," if only for the
look of the thing.  But I don't mind--not a bit I'm very glad he likes
you, Nan----'

'Madge!  Madge!'

It was almost a cry wrung from the heart.  But in an instant she had
controlled herself again.  She turned to her sister, and said with
great apparent calmness,

'Surely, dear, you ought to know what to write.  These are things that
cannot be advised about.  Letters of that kind are secret----'

'Oh, I don't care about that.  I think it is stupid,' said Madge at
once.  'There is no use having any pretence about it.  And I don't know
in the world what to write about.  Look,--I have begun about the
Kenyons' invitation, and asked him whether he'd mind my going.  I like
those little dances better than the big balls----'

She held out the letter she had begun.  But Nan would not even look at
it.

'It isn't usual, is it, Madge,' she said, hurriedly, 'for a girl who is
engaged to go out to a dance by herself?'

'But we are all going!'

'You know what I mean.  It is a compliment you should pay him not to
go.'

'Well,' said Madge somewhat defiantly, 'I don't know about that.  One
does as one is done by.  And I don't think he'd care if I went and
danced the whole night through--even with Jack Hanbury.'

'Oh, how can you say such a thing!' said her sister, staring at her;
for this was a new development altogether.

But Madge was not to be put down.

'Oh, I am not such a fool.  I can see well enough.  There isn't much
romance about the whole affair; and that's the short and the long of
it.  Of course it's a very good arrangement for both of us, I believe;
and that's what they say now-a-days--marriages are "arranged."'

'I don't know what you mean Madge!  You never spoke like that before.'

'Perhaps I was afraid of frightening you; for you have high and mighty
notions of things, dear Nan, for all your mouse-like ways.  But don't I
see very well that he is marrying to please his parents; and to settle
down and be the good boy of the family?  That's the meaning of the
whole thing----'

'You don't mean to say, Madge,' said the elder sister, though she
hesitated, and seemed to have to force herself to ask the question,
'You don't mean to say you think he does not--love you?'

At this Madge flushed up a little, and said--

'Oh, well, I suppose he does, in a kind of way, though he doesn't take
much trouble about saying it.  It isn't of much consequence; we shall
have plenty of time afterwards.  Mind, if only Jack Hanbury could get
invited by the Kenyons, and I were to dance two or three times with
him, and Frank get to hear of it, I suppose there would be a noble
rampage: _then_ he might speak out a little more.'

'Have you been dreaming Madge?' said Nan, again staring at her sister.
'What has put such monstrous things into your head?  Mr. Hanbury--at
the Kenyons'--and you would dance with him!'

'Well, why not?' said Madge, with a frown; for this difficulty about
the letter-writing had clearly operated on her temper and made her
impatient.  'All the world isn't supposed to know about the
Vice-Chancellor's warning.  Why shouldn't he be invited by the Kenyons?
And why should he know that I am going?  And why, if we both happen to
be there, shouldn't we dance together?  Human beings are human beings,
in spite of Vice-Chancellors.  They can't lock up a man for dancing
with you?  At all events, they can't lock me up, even if Jack is there.'

'Madge, put these things out of your head.  You won't go to the
Kenyons', for Captain King would not like it----'

'I don't think he'd take the trouble to object,' Madge interjected.

'And Mr. Hanbury won't be there; and there will be no dancing, and no
quarrel.  If you wish to write to Captain King about what will interest
him, write about what interests yourself.  That he is sure to be
interested in----'

'Well, but that is exactly what I can't write to him about.  I know
what I am interested in well enough.  Edith has just told me Mr.
Roberts has been pressing her to fix a time for their marriage.  She
thinks the end of April; so that they could be back in London for the
latter end of the season.  Now I think that would do very well for us
too--and it is always nice for two sisters to get married on the same
day--only Frank has never asked me a word about it, and how am I to
write to him about it?  So you see, wise Mother Nan, I can't write to
him about what interests me.'

Nan had started somewhat when she heard this proposal; it seemed
strange to her.

'April?' she said.  'You've known Captain King a very short time,
Madge.  You were not thinking of getting married in April next?'

'Perhaps I'd better wait until I'm asked,' said Madge, with a laugh, as
she turned to go away.  'Well, if you won't tell me what to write
about, I must go and get this bothered letter done somehow.  I do
believe the best way will be to write about you; that will interest him
anyway.'

Frank King remained away for a few weeks, and during this time the
first symptoms appeared of the coming spring.  The days began to
lengthen, there were crocuses in the gardens, there were reports of
primroses and sweet violets in the woods about Horsham; in London
Parliament was sitting, and in Brighton well-known faces were
recognisable amongst the promenaders on the Saturday afternoons.  Then
Mr. Roberts, as Edith's accepted suitor, received many invitations to
the house in Brunswick Terrace; and in return was most indefatigable in
arranging riding-parties, driving-parties, walking-parties, with in
each case a good hotel for luncheon as his objective point.  Madge
joined in these diversions with great good-will; and made them the
excuse for the shortness of the letters addressed to Kingscourt.  Nan
went also; she was glad to get into the country on any pretence; and
she seemed merry enough.  When Mr. Roberts drove along the King's Road
with these three comely damsels under his escort, he was a proud man;
and he may have comforted himself with the question, that as beer
sometimes led to a baronetcy, why shouldn't soda-water?

Strangely enough, Nan had entirely ceased making inquiries about
sisterhoods and institutions for the training of nurses.  She seemed
quite reconciled to the situation of things as they were.  She did not
cease her long absences from the house; but every one knew that on
these occasions she was off on one of her solitary wanderings; and she
came home in the evening apparently more contented than ever.  She had
even brought herself to speak of Madge's married life, which at first
she would not do.

'You see,' she said to her sister on one occasion, 'if you and Edith
get married on the same day, I must remain and take care of mamma; she
must not be left quite alone.'

'Oh, as for that,' said Madge, 'Mrs. Arthurs does better than the whole
of us; and I'm not going to have you made a prisoner of.  I'm going to
have a room at Kingscourt called "Nan's room," and it shall have no
other name as long as I am there.  Then we shall have a proper house in
London by and by; and of course you'll come up for the season, and see
all the gaieties.  I think we ought to have one of the red houses just
by Prince's; that would be handy for everything; and you might come up,
Nan, and help me to buy things for it.  And you shall have a room there
too, you shall; and you may decorate it and furnish it just as you
like.  I know quite well what you would like--the room small; the
woodwork all bluey-white; plenty of Venetian embroidery flung about;
all the fire-place brass; some of those green Persian plates over the
mantelpiece; about thirteen thousand Chinese fans arranged like
fireworks on the walls; a fearful quantity of books and a low
easy-chair; red candles; and in the middle of the whole thing a nasty,
dirty, little beggar-girl to feed and pet----'

'I think, Madge,' her sister said, gravely, 'that you should not set
your heart on a town-house at all.  Remember, old Mr. King is giving
his son Kingscourt at a great sacrifice.  As I understand it, it will
be a long time before the family estate is what it has been; and you
would be very ungrateful if you were extravagant----'

'Oh, I don't see that,' said Madge.  'They are conferring no favour on
me.  I don't see why I should economise.  I am marrying for fun, not
for love.'

She blurted out this inadvertently--to Nan's amazement and horror--but
instantly retracted it, with the blood rushing to her temples.

'Of course I don't mean that, Nan--how could I have been so stupid!  I
don't mean _that--exactly_.  What I mean is that it doesn't seem to me
as if it was supposed to be a very fearfully romantic match, and all
that kind of thing.  It's a very good arrangement; but it isn't I who
ought to be expected to make sacrifices----'

'But surely your husband's interests will be yours!' exclaimed Nan.

'Oh yes, certainly,' her sister said, somewhat indifferently.  'No
doubt that's true, in a way.  Quite true, in a kind of way.  Still,
there are limits; and I should not like to be buried alive for ever in
the country.'

Then she sighed.

'Poor Jack!' she said.

She went to the window.

'When I marry, I know at least one who will be sorry.  I can fancy him
walking up and down there--looking at the house as he used to do; and,
oh! so grateful if only you went to the window for a moment.  He will
see it in the papers, I suppose.'

She turned to her sister, and said, triumphantly--

'Well, the Vice-Chancellor was done that time!'

'What time?'

'Valentine's morning.  You can send flowers without any kind of writing
to be traced.  Do you think I don't know who sent me the flowers?'

'At all events, you should not be proud of it.  You should be sorry.
It is a very great pity----'

'Yes, that's what I think,' said Madge.  'How can I help pitying him?
It wouldn't be natural not to pity him, Vice-chancellor or no
Vice-chancellor.  I hate that man.'

'I say it is a great pity that Mr. Hanbury does not accept his
dismissal as inevitable; and as for you, Madge, you ought not even to
think of him.  Captain King sent you that beautiful card-case on
Valentine's morning; that is what you should remember.'

'Captain King could send me a white elephant if he chose,' said Madge,
spitefully.  'There's no danger to him in anything he does.  It's
different with poor Jack.'

'Madge,' said her sister, seriously, 'do you know that you are talking
as if you looked forward to this marriage with regret?'

'Oh no, I don't--I'm not such a fool,' said Madge, plainly.  'I know
it's stupid to think about Jack Hanbury; but still, one has got a
little feeling.'

Then she laughed.

'I will tell you another secret, Nan.  If he daren't write to me he can
send me things.  He sent me a book--a novel--and I know he meant me to
think the hero himself.  For he was disappointed in love, too, and
wrote beautifully about his sufferings, and at last the poor fellow
blew his brains out.'

'Well, Mr. Hanbury couldn't do that, at all events--for reasons,' Nan
said.

'Now that is a very bad joke,' said Madge, in a sudden outburst of
temper; 'an old, stupid, bad joke, that has been made a hundred times.
I'm ashamed of you, Nan.  They say you have a great sense of humour;
that's when you say things they can't understand; and they pretend to
have a great sense of humour too.  But where's the humour in that?'

'But Madge, dear,' said Nan, gently, 'I didn't mean to say anything
against Mr. Hanbury----'

'In any case, there is one in this house who does not despise Mr.
Hanbury for being poor,' said Madge, hotly.  'It isn't his fault that
his papa and mamma haven't given him money and sent him out into the
world to buy a wife!'

And therewith she quickly went to the door and opened it, and went out
and shut it again with something very closely resembling a slam.

CHAPTER XXI.

DANGER AHEAD.

Nan waited the return of Frank King with the deepest anxiety.  She
would see nothing in these wild words of Madge's but an ebullition of
temper.  She could not bring herself to believe that her own sister--a
girl with everything around her she could desire in the world--would
deliberately enter upon one of those hateful marriages of convenience.
It was true, Nan had to confess to herself, that Madge was not very
impressionable.  There was no great depth in her nature.  Then she was
a trifle vain, and liked admiration; and she was evidently pleased to
have a handsome and certainly eligible suitor.  But no--it was
impossible that she had really meant what she said.  When Captain King
came back, then the true state of affairs would be seen.  Madge was not
going to marry for money or position--or even out of spite.

And when Frank King did come back, matters looked very well at first.
Madge received him in a very nice, friendly fashion, and was pleased by
certain messages from the old folks at Kingscourt.  Nan's fears began
to fade away.  Nothing more was heard of Jack Hanbury.  So far as Madge
was concerned everything seemed right.

But Nan, who was very anxious, and on that account unusually sensitive,
seemed to detect something strange in Frank King's manner.  He had
nothing of the gay audacity of an accepted suitor.  When he paid Madge
any little attention, it appeared almost an effort.  He was preoccupied
and thoughtful; sometimes, after regarding Madge in silence, he would
apparently wake up to the consciousness that he ought to be more
attentive to her; but there did not seem to be much joyousness in their
relationship.  When these two happened to be together--during the
morning stroll down the pier, or on the way home from church, or seated
at a concert--they did not seem to have many things to speak about
Frank King grew more and more grave; and Nan saw it, and wondered, and
quite failed to guess at the reason.

The fact was that he had now discovered what terrible mistake he had
made.  He could blind himself no longer.  Madge was not Nan; nor
anything approaching to Nan; they were as different as day and night.
Face to face with this discovery, he asked himself what he ought to do.
Clearly, if he had made a mistake, it was his first duty that no one
else should suffer by it.  Because he was disappointed in not finding
in Madge certain qualities and characteristics he had expected to find,
he was not going to withdraw from an engagement he had voluntarily
entered into.  It was not Madge's fault.  If the prospect of this
marriage pleased her, he was bound to fulfil his promise.  After all,
Madge had her own qualities.  Might they not wear as well through the
rough work of the world, even if they had not for him the fascination
he had hoped for?  In any case, the disappointment should be his, not
hers.  She should not suffer any slight.  And then he would make
another desperate resolve to be very affectionate and attentive to her;
resolves which usually ended in his carrying to her some little present
of flowers, or something like that, having presented which, he would
turn and talk to Nan.

'I say, Beresford,' he suddenly observed, one night at dinner, 'I have
an invitation to go salmon-fishing in Ireland.  Will you come?'

'Well, but----' Madge interposed with an injured air, as if she ought
to have been consulted first.

'I should like it tremendously!' said Mr. Tom, with a rush.

'I am told the scenery in the neighbourhood is very fine,' continued
Captain King; 'at all events we are sure to think so half a dozen years
hence.  That is one of the grand points about one's memory; you forget
all the trivial details and discomforts, and only remember the best.'

He quite naturally turned to Nan.

'I am sure, Miss Nan,' he said, 'you have quite a series of beautiful
little pictures in your mind about that Splügen excursion.  Don't you
remember the drive along the Via Mala, in the shut-up carriage--the
darkness outside--and the swish of the rain----'

'Well,' said Madge, somewhat spitefully, 'considering you were in a
closed carriage and driving through darkness, I don't see much of a
beautiful picture to remember!'

He did not seem to heed.  It was Nan he was addressing; and there was a
pleased light in her eyes.  Reminiscences are to some people very
delightful things.

'And you recollect the crowded saloon in the Splügen inn, and the snug
little corner we got near the stove, and the little table.  That's
where you discovered the use of stupid people at dinner-parties----'

'What's that?' Mr. Tom demanded to know.

'It's a secret,' Captain King answered, with a laugh.  'And I think you
were rather down-hearted next morning--until we began to get up through
the clouds.  That is a picture to remember at all events--a Christmas
picture in summer time.  Do you remember how green the pines looked
above the snow?  And how blue the sky was when the mist got driven
over?  And how business-like you looked in your ulster--buttoned up to
the chin for resolute Alpine work.  I fancy I can hear now the very
chirp of your boots on the wet snow--it was very silent away up there.'

'I know,' said Nan, somewhat shamefacedly, 'that when I saw
"_Ristoratore_" stuck up on the house near the top, I thought it was a
place for restoring people found in the snow, until I heard the driver
call out "_Du, hole Schnapps_."'

'Wasn't that a wild whirl down the other side!' he continued,
delightedly.  'But you should have come into the Customs-house with me
when I went to declare my cigars.  You see it wouldn't do for me, who
might one day get a coastguard appointment, to try on any smuggling.
But I did remonstrate.  I said I had already paid at Paris and at
Basel; and that it was hard to have to pay three import dues on my
cigars.  Well, they were very civil.  They said they couldn't help it.
"Why not buy your cigars in the country where you smoke them?" asked an
old gentleman in spectacles.  "Because, Monsieur," I answered him, with
the usual cheek of the English, "I prefer to smoke cigars made of
tobacco."  But he was quite polite.  After charging me eighteen francs,
he bowed me out, and said "a rivederla;" to which I responded "Oh no,
thank you;" and then I found you and your sisters all laughing at me,
as if I had been before a police-magistrate to be admonished.'

'You don't forget all the disagreeable details, then?' said Nan, with a
smile.

But the smile vanished from her face when he began to talk about
Bellagio.  He did so without any covert intention.  It was always a joy
to him to think or talk about the time that he and the three sisters
spent together far away there in the south.  And it was only about the
Serenata and the procession of illuminated boats that he was thinking
at this moment.

'I suppose they will sooner or later have all our ships and steamers
lit with the electric light; and everything will be ghastly white and
ghastly black.  But do you remember how soft and beautiful the masses
of yellow stars were when the boats came along the lake in the
darkness?  It was indeed a lovely night.  And I think we had the best
of it--sitting there in the garden.  I know I for one didn't miss the
music a bit.  And then it was still more lovely when the moon rose; and
you could see the water, and the mountains on the other side, and even
the houses by the shore.  I remember there was a bush somewhere near us
that scented all the air----'

Madge had been regarding her sister closely.

'It must have been a magical night,' she said quickly, 'for Nan's face
has got quite white just thinking of it.'

He started.  A quick glance at the girl beside him showed him that she
was indeed pale; her eyes cast down; her hand trembling.  Instantly he
said, in a confused hurry,--

'You see, Miss Anne, there was some delay about the concert.  One
steamer did really come back to Bellagio.  We had our serenade all the
same--that is to say, any who were awake.  You see, they did not intend
to swindle you----'

'Oh, no!  oh, no!' said Nan; and then, conscious that Madge was still
regarding her, she added with a desperate effort at composure,--

'We heard some pretty music on the water at Venice.  Edith picked up
some of the airs.  She will play them to you after dinner.'

That same night, as usual, Madge came into Nan's room, just before
going off.

'Nan,' she said, looking straight at her, 'what was it upset you about
Frank's reminding you of Bellagio?'

'Bellagio?' repeated Nan, with an effort to appear unconscious, but
with her eyes turned away.

'Yes; you know very well.'

'I know that I was thinking of something quite different from anything
that Captain King was saying,' Nan said, at length.  'And--and it is of
no consequence to you, Madge, believe me.'

Madge regarded her suspiciously for a second, and then said, with an
air of triumph,

'At all events, he isn't going to Ireland.'

'Oh, indeed,' Nan answered, gently.  'Well I'm glad; I suppose you
prefer his not going?'

'It nearly came to a quarrel, I know,' said Madge, frankly.  'I thought
it just a bit too cool.  At all events, he ought to pretend to care a
little for me.'

'Oh, Madge, how can you say such things?  Care for you--and he has
asked you to be his wife?  Could he care for you more than that?'

'He has never even thanked me for not going to the Kenyons' ball,' said
Madge, who appeared to imagine that Nan was responsible for everything
Captain King did or did not do.

'Surely he would take it for granted you would not go!' remonstrated
the elder sister.

'But he takes everything for granted.  And he scarcely ever thinks it
worth while to speak to me.  And I know it will be a regular bore when
we go to Kingscourt, with the old people still there, and me not
mistress at all; and what am I to do?'

She poured out this string of wild complaints rapidly and angrily.

'Good-night, Madge,' said Nan; 'I am rather tired to-night.'

'Good-night.  But I can tell you if he hadn't given up Ireland, there
would have been a row.'

It was altogether a strange condition of affairs; and next day it was
apparently made worse.  There had been a stiffish gale blowing all
night from the south; and in the morning, though the sky was cloudless,
there was a heavy sea running, so that from the windows they saw white
masses of foam springing into the air--hurled back by the sea-wall at
the end of Medina Terrace.  When Captain King came along Mr. Tom at
once proposed they should all of them take a stroll as far as the
Terrace; for now the tide was full up and the foam was springing into
the blue sky to a most unusual height.  And, indeed, when they arrived
they found a pretty big crowd collected; a good many of whom had
obviously been caught unawares by the shifting and swirling masses of
spray.  It was a curious sight.  First the great wave came rolling on
with but little beyond an ominous hissing noise; then there was a heavy
shock that made the earth tremble, and at the same moment a roar as of
thunder; then into the clear sky rose a huge wall of gray, illuminated
by the sunlight, and showing clearly and blackly the big stones and
smaller shingle that had been caught and whirled up in the seething
mass.  Occasionally a plank of drift timber was similarly whirled
up--some thirty or forty feet; disappearing altogether again as it fell
crashing into the roar of the retreating wave.  It was a spectacle,
moreover, that changed every few seconds, as the heavy volumes of the
sea hit the breakwater at different angles.  The air was thick with the
salt spray; and hot with the sunlight--even on this March morning.

Then it became time for Mr. Tom and Captain Frank to go and witness a
challenge game of rackets that had been much talked of; and the girls
walked back with them as far as Brunswick Terrace, Madge being with
Frank King.

'Why is it one never sees Mr. Jacomb now?' he asked of his companion.

'I saw him only the other day,' she said evasively.

'But he does not come to the house, does he?'

'N--no,' said Madge.

'Has he left Brighton?'

'Oh no,' answered Madge, and she drew his attention to a brig that was
making up Channel under very scant sail indeed.

'I daresay he has a good deal of work to do,' said Frank King absently.
'When are they going to be married?'

Madge saw that the revelation could be put off no longer.

'Oh, but they are not going to be married.  Nan isn't going to be
married at all.'

He stared at her, as if he had scarcely heard her aright; and then he
said slowly--

'Nan isn't going to be married?  Why have you never told me before?'

'Oh, it is a private family matter,' said Madge, petulantly.  'It is
not to be talked about.  Besides, how could I know it would interest
you?'

He remained perfectly silent and thoughtful.  They walked along.  Madge
began to think she had been too ungracious.

'I suppose she tried to bring herself to it for a time,' she said, more
gently.  'She has wonderful ideas, Nan has; and I suppose she thought
she could do a deal of good as a clergyman's wife.  For my part, I
don't see what she could do more than she does at present.  It's just
what she's fit for.  Poor people don't resent her going into their
houses as they would if it was you or I.  She manages it somehow.
That's how she gets to know all about out-of-the-way sort of things;
she's practical; and people think it strange that a young lady like her
should know the ways and habits of common people; and that's why she
interests them when she talks.  There's nothing wonderful in it.
Anybody can find out what the profit is on selling oranges, if you like
to go and talk to a hideous old wretch who is smelling of gin.  But I
don't say anything against Nan.  It's her way.  It's what she was
intended for by Providence, I do believe.  But she was sold that time
she wanted to get up a little committee to send a constant supply of
books and magazines to the lighthouses--circulating you know.  She
wrote to Sir George about it; and found the Admiralty did that already.'

There was a strange, hopeless, tired look on this man's face.  He did
not seem to hear her.  He appeared to know nothing of what was going on
around him.

When they reached the door of the house, he said,--

'Good-bye!'

'Good-bye?' she repeated, inquiringly.  'I thought we were all going to
see the Exhibition of Paintings this afternoon.'

'I think I must go up to London for a few days,' he said, with some
hesitation.  'There--is some business----'

She said no more; but turned and went indoors without a word.  He bade
good-bye to Edith and to Nan--not looking into Nan's face at all.  Then
he left with the brother, and Mr. Tom was silent, for his friend King
seemed much disturbed about something, and he did not wish to worry him.

As for Madge, she chose to work herself into a pretty passion, though
she said nothing.  That she should have been boasting of her triumph in
inducing, or forcing, him to give up that visit to Ireland only to find
him going off to London without warning or explanation, was altogether
insufferable.  She was gloomy and morose all the afternoon; would not
go to see the pictures; refused to come in and speak to certain
callers; and at dinner made a little show of sarcasm that did not hurt
anybody very much.

The evening brought her a letter.  Thus it ran:--

'Dear Madge--I thought you looked angry when you went indoors this
morning.  Don't quarrel about such a trifle as my going to London.  I
shall be back in two or three days; and hope to bring with me the big
photograph of Kingscourt, if they have got any copies printed yet.

'Your FRANK.'

'From whom is your letter, Madge?' Lady Beresford said, incidentally.

'From Frank, mamma,' said the young lady, as she quietly and
determinedly walked across the room and--thrust it into the fire!

That same night Miss Madge also wrote a note; but the odd thing was
that the writing of both note and address was in a disguised hand.  And
when, some little time thereafter, the others were in the
billiard-room, it was Madge herself who slipped out from the house and
went and dropped that missive into the nearest pillar letter-box.

CHAPTER XXII.

A CATASTROPHE.

However, Madge's ill-temper was never of long duration; and at this
particular time, instead of sinking farther into sulks over the absence
of her lover, she grew day by day more joyous and generous and
affectionate.  The change was most marked; and Nan, who was her
sister's chief confidant, could not make it out at all.  Her gaiety
became almost hysterical; and her kindness to everybody in the house
ran to extravagance.  She bought trinkets for the servants.  She
presented Mr. Tom with a boot-jack mounted in silver; and he was
pleased to say that it was the first sensible present he had ever known
a girl make.  But it was towards Nan that she was most particularly
affectionate and caressing.

'You know I'm not clever, Nan,' she said, in a burst of confidence,
'and I haven't got clockworks in my brain, and I daresay I'm not
interesting--_to everybody_.  But I know girls who are stupider than I
am who are made plenty of.  And of course, if you don't have any
romance when you're young, when are you likely to get it after?'

'But I don't know what you mean, Madge!' Nan exclaimed.

Nor did Madge explain at the moment.  She continued--

'I believe it was you, Nan, who told me of the young lady who remarked,
"What's the use of temptation if you don't yield to it?"'

'That was only a joke,' said Nan, with her demure smile.

'Oh, I think there's sense in it,' said the practical Madge.  'It
doesn't do to be too wise when you're young.'

'It so seldom happens, Madge!' said her sister.

'There you are again, old Mother Hubbard, with your preaching!  But I'm
not going to quarrel with you this time.  I want your advice.  I want
you to tell me what little thing I should buy for Frank, just to be
friends all round, don't you know?'

'Friends?  Yes, I hope so!' said Nan, with a grave smile.  'But how can
I tell you, Madge?  I don't know, as you ought to know, what Captain
King has in the way of cigar-cases or such things----'

'But call him Frank, Nan!  Do, to please me.  And I know he would like
it.'

'Some time I may,' said Nan evasively.  'Afterwards, perhaps.'

'When you come to Kingscourt,' said Madge, with a curious kind of laugh.

Nan was silent, and turned away; she never seemed to wish to speak of
Kingscourt or her going there.

Frank King's stay in London was prolonged for some reason or other; at
length he announced his intention of returning to Brighton on a
particular Thursday.  On the Tuesday night Nan and Madge arranged that
they would get fresh flowers the next day for the decoration of the
rooms.

'And this is what I will do for you, Madge, as it is a special
occasion,' remarked Miss Anne, with grave patronage.  'If you will get
up early tomorrow, I will take you to a place, not more than four miles
off, where you will find any quantity of hart's-tongue fern.  It is a
deep ditch, I suppose a quarter of a mile long, and the banks are
covered.  Of course I don't want any one to know, for it is so near
Brighton it would be harried for the shops; but I will show you the
place, as you will soon be going away now; and we can take a basket.'

'But how did you find it out, Nan?'

'Some one showed it to me.'

'The singing-woman, I suppose?'

'Yes.  Think of that.  I believe she could get twopence a root; and she
might fill a cart there.  But she won't touch one.'

'No,' said Edith, with a superior smile.  'She leaves that for young
ladies who could very well afford to go to a florist's.'

'What I shall take won't hurt,' said Nan, meekly.

So, next morning, Nan got up about eight; dressed, and was ready to
start.  That is to say, she never arranged her programme for the day
with the slightest respect to meals.  So long as she could get an apple
and a piece of bread to put in her pocket she felt provided against
everything.  However, she thought she would go along to Madge's room,
and see if that young lady had ideas about breakfast.

Madge's room was empty; and Nan thought it strange she should have gone
downstairs without knocking at her door in passing.  But when Nan also
went below she found that Madge had left the house before any one was
up.  She could not understand it at all.

Mr. Tom came down.

'Oh,' said he, indifferently, 'she wants to be mighty clever and find
out those ferns for herself.'

'But I did not tell her where they were.  I only said they were on the
road to ----' said Nan, naming the place: the writer has reasons of his
own for not being more explicit.

'All the cleverer if she can find out.  The cheek of the young party is
pyramidal,' said Mr. Tom, as he rang for breakfast.

But at lunch, also, Madge had not turned up.

'It is very extraordinary,' said Lady Beresford, though she was too
languid to be deeply concerned.

'Oh no, it isn't, mother,' said Mr. Tom.  'It's all Nan's fault.  Nan
has infected her.  The Baby, you'll see, has taken to tramping about
the country with gipsies; and prowling about farmers' kitchens; and
catching leverets, and stuff.  We lives on the simple fruits of the
earth, my dears; we eats of the root, and we drinks of the spring; but
that doesn't prevent us having a whacking appetite somewhere about
seven forty-five.  Edith, my love, pass me the cayenne-pepper.'

'Boys shouldn't use cayenne-pepper,' said Nan.

'And babies should speak only when they're spoken to,' he observed.
'Mother, dear, I have arrived at the opinion that Madge has run away
with young Hanbury.  I am certain of it.  The young gentleman is fool
enough for anything----'

'You always were spiteful against Mr. Hanbury,' said Edith, 'because
his feet are smaller than yours.'

'My love,' retorted Mr. Tom, with imperturbable good-nature, 'his feet
may be small.  It is in his stupidity that he is really great.  Jack
Hanbury can only be described in the words of the American poet: he is
a commodious ass.'

Now this conjecture of Mr. Tom's about the cause of Madge's
disappearance was only a piece of gay facetiousness.  It never did
really occur to him that any one--that any creature with a head capable
of being broken--would have the wild audacity to run away with one of
his sisters, while he, Mr. Tom Beresford, was to the fore.  But that
afternoon post brought Nan a letter.  She was amazed to see by the
handwriting that it was from Madge; she was still more alarmed when she
read these words, scrawled with a trembling hand, and in pencil:

'Dearest, dearest Nan, don't be angry.  By the time you get this Jack
and I will be married.  It is all for the best, dear Nan; and you will
pacify them; and it is no use following us; for we shall be in France
until it is all smoothed down.  Not a single bridesmaid--we
daren't--but what wouldn't I do for Jack's sake?  It is time I did
something to make up for all he has suffered--he was looking so ill--in
another month he would have _died_.  He worships me.  You never saw
anything like it.  Jack has just come back; so good-bye; from your
loving, loving sister, MARGARET HANBURY.--Do you know who that is, Nan?'

Nan, not a little frightened, took the letter to her brother, and gave
it him without a word.  But Mr. Tom's rage was at once prompt and
voluble.  That she should have disgraced the family--for, of course,
the whole thing would be in the papers!  That she should have cheated
and jilted his most particular friend!  But as for this fellow
Hanbury----

'I said it all along.  I told you what would come of it!  I knew that
fellow was haunting her like a shadow.  Well, we'll see how a shadow
likes being locked up on bread and water.  Oh, it's no use your
protesting, Nan; I will let the law take its course.  We'll see how he
likes that.  "Stone walls do not a prison make"--that's what love-sick
fellows say; don't they?  Wait a bit.  Mr. Jack Hanbury will find that
stone walls make a very good imitation of a prison, at all events----'

'But, Tom--dear Tom,' Nan pleaded, 'it is no use making matters worse.
Let us try to make them better.  If Madge is married, it can't be
helped now.  We must make the best of it----'

He paid no attention to her; he was still staring at the ill-written
letter.

'That's all gammon about their going to France.  He hasn't money for
travelling.  She spent all hers in nick-nacks--to propitiate people,
the sneak!  They're in London.'

He looked at his watch.

'I can just catch the 5.45 express.  Nan, you go and tell the others;
they needn't squawk about it all over Brighton.'

'What are you going to do, Tom?' said his sister, breathlessly.

'Find out where they are first.  Then Colonel Fitzgerald and Mr. Mason
must take it up.  Then Mr. Jack Hanbury will suddenly find himself
inside Millbank prison.'

She caught him by the hand.

'Tom, is it wise?' she pleaded again.  'They are married.  What is the
use of revenge?  You don't want to make your own sister miserable?----'

'She has brought it on herself,' he said, roughly.

'Then that is what I am to think of you,' she said, regarding him,
'that some day I may hear you talk in that way about me?'

He never could resist the appeal of Nan's clear, faithful eyes.

'You wouldn't be such a fool,' he said.  'And they won't touch Madge.
It's only that fellow they'll go for--the mean hound, to marry a girl
for her money.'

'How do you know it was for her money, Tom?' Nan pleaded.  'I am
certain they were fond of each other----'

'I don't want to miss my train,' said he.  'You go and tell the
maternal I'm off to London.  I suppose you don't know the address of
Hanbury's father?'

'No, I don't.'

'Well, I'm off.  Ta, ta!'

So the irate Mr. Tom departed.  But in the comparative silence of the
Pullman car the fury of his rage began to abate; and it dawned upon him
that, after all, Nan's counsel might have something in it.  No doubt
these two young fools--as he mentally termed them--were married by this
time.  He still clung to the idea that Jack Hanbury deserved
punishment--a horsewhipping or something of the kind; but Madge was
Madge.  She was silly; and she had 'got into a hole;' still, she was
Madge.  She might be let off with a serious lecture on her folly and on
her disregard of what she owed to the other members of the family.
Only, the first thing was to find out their whereabouts.

On arriving in London he drove to his club, and after some little
searching discovered that Mr. Gregory Hanbury's address was Adelphi
Terrace, whither he at once repaired.  Mr. Hanbury was at dinner.  He
sent up his card nevertheless, and asked to be allowed to see Mr.
Hanbury on particular business.  The answer was a request that he would
step upstairs into the dining-room.

He found that occupied by two gentlemen who were dining together at the
upper end of a large table.  One came forward to meet him.  He took it
for granted this was Mr. Hanbury--a slight, short man, with black hair
and eyes, and a very stiff white cravat.

'Mr. Beresford,' said he, 'I can guess what has brought you here.  Let
me introduce you to my brother--Major Hanbury.  It is an unfortunate
business.'

The other gentleman--also slight and short, but with a sun-browned,
dried-up face, and big gray moustache--bowed and resumed his seat.

'You know, then, that your son has run away with my sister,' said Mr.
Tom, somewhat hotly--though he had determined to keep his temper.
'Perhaps you know also where they are?'

'No farther,' said the black-haired gentleman, with perfect calmness,
'than that I believe them to be in London.  It is only about a couple
of hours since I heard of the whole affair.  I immediately sent for my
brother.  It is a most distressing business altogether.  Of course you
are chiefly concerned for your sister; but my son is in a far more
serious position.'

'Yes, I should think so!' exclaimed Mr. Tom.  'I should think he was!
But you don't know where they are?'

'No; I only know they are in London.  I received a letter from my son
this afternoon, asking me to intercede for him with the Court of
Chancery; and it is from this letter that I learn how serious his
position is--more serious than he seems to imagine.  He appears to
think that now the marriage has taken place, the Vice-Chancellor will
condone everything----'

'He won't: I will take good care that he shan't!' Mr. Tom said.

'My dear sir, I am sorry to say that my son is in a very awkward
situation, even although no personal vindictiveness be shown towards
him.  Your sister is not of age, I believe?'

'Of course not.  She's just turned eighteen.'

'Ah.  Then you see, Jack had to declare that she was of age.  And he
appears to have stated that he had resided three weeks in the parish,
whereat he only came up from Brighton yesterday morning.  And, again,
marrying in the direct teeth of an order of the Court--I am afraid,
sir, that he is in a bad enough predicament without any personal
vengeance being shown him.'

This seemed to strike Mr. Tom.

'I don't hit a man when he's down.  I will let the law take its course.
I shan't interfere.'

'Don't you think, sir,' said this man with the calm black eyes and the
quiet manner, 'that it might be wiser, in the interests of your sister,
if you were to help us to arrange some amicable settlement which we
could put before the Court?  I believe the guardians of the young lady
were very much misinformed about my son's character and his intentions
with regard to her.  I am certain that it was not her fortune that
attracted him, or that could have led him into the perilous position he
now occupies.  Now, if we could go before the Vice-Chancellor, and say,
"The marriage is not so unsuitable, after all.  The young man comes of
a highly respectable family.  His relations (that is, my brother and
myself, sir) are willing to place a substantial sum at his disposal for
investment in a sound business--indeed there is a brewery at
Southampton that my brother has just been speaking of----"'

'A brewery!' exclaimed Mr. Tom; but he instantly recollected that beer
was as good as soda-water from a social point of view.

'And if we could say to the Vice-Chancellor that the friends of the
young lady were willing to condone his offence--always providing, of
course, and naturally, that your sister's fortune should be strictly
settled upon herself--then, perhaps, he might be let off with a humble
apology to the Court; and the young people be left to their own
happiness.  My dear sir, we lawyers see so much of the inevitable
hardship of human life that when a chance occurs of friendly
compromise----'

'That's all very well,' blurted out Mr. Tom.  'But I call it very mean
and shabby of him to inveigle my sister away like that.  She was
engaged to be married to an old friend of mine; a much better fellow,
I'll be bound!  I call it very shabby.'

'My dear sir,' said the lawyer, placidly, 'I do not seek for a moment
to excuse my son's conduct, except to remind you that at a certain
period of life romance counts for something.  I believe many young
ladies are like the young lady in the play--I really forget what her
name was--who was disappointed to find that she was not to be run away
with.  However, that is a different matter.  I put it to you whether it
would not be better for every one concerned if we were to try to arrive
at an amicable arrangement, and give the young people a fair start in
life.'

'Of course I can't answer for all our side,' said Mr. Tom, promptly.
'You'd better come with me to-morrow, and we'll talk it over with
Colonel Fitzgerald and Mr. Mason.  I don't bear malice.  I think what
you say is fair and right--if the settlement is strict.  And if it came
to be a question of interceding, there's an old friend of ours, Sir
George Stratherne, who, I know, knows the Vice-chancellor very
intimately----'

'My dear sir!' the lawyer protested, with either real or affected
horror, 'do not breathe such a thing!--do not think of such a thing.
The duty of the Vice-chancellor to his wards is of the extremest kind;
his decisions are beyond suspicion; what we have got to say we must say
in open court.'

'But if they were to lock your son up in prison,' said Mr. Tom, with a
gentle smile, 'that couldn't prevent Sir George taking my sister to
call on the Vice-Chancellor some afternoon at his own house.  And Madge
is rather pretty.  And she might cry.'

'Will you take a glass of wine, Mr. Beresford?' said the lawyer,
effusively; for he saw that he had quite won over Mr. Tom to his side.

'No, thank you,' said the latter, rising; 'I must apologise for
interrupting your dinner.  I'll look up Colonel Fitzgerald and Mason
to-morrow morning; and bring them along here most likely; that will be
the simplest way.  I suppose you are likely to know sooner than any one
where these two fugitives have got to?'

'I think so.  I have sent an advertisement to the morning papers.  I
shall certainly counsel my son to surrender at once and throw himself
on the mercy of the Court.  My dear sir, I am exceedingly obliged to
you for your kindness, your very great kindness in calling.'

'Oh, don't mention it,' said Mr. Tom, going to the door.  And then he
added, ruefully, 'Now I've got to go and hunt up my friend; and tell
him that my own sister has jilted him.  You've no idea what a treat
that will be!'

CHAPTER XXIII.

AT LAST.

He found Frank King in the little room in Cleveland Row, alone, sitting
before the fire, a shut book on the small table beside him.

'I've got bad news for you, King,' he said, bluntly.  'I wish it hadn't
been my sister.  But you know what women are.  It's better to have
nothing at all to do with them.'

'But what is it?' Frank King said, with some alarm on his face.

'Madge has bolted.'

'Madge has bolted?' the other repeated, staring at Mr. Tom in a
bewildered sort of way.

'Yes.  Gone and married that fellow Hanbury.  This morning.  I'm very
sorry I have to come to you with a story like that about my own sister.'

Mr. Tom was very much surprised to find his friend jump up from the
chair and seize him by the arm.

'Do you know this, Beresford,' he said, in great excitement, 'you have
taken a millstone from my neck.  I have been sitting wondering whether
I shouldn't cut my throat at once, or make off for Australia----'

'Oh, come, I say!' interposed Mr. Tom, with a quick flush.

'Oh, you needn't think I have anything to say against your sister,'
exclaimed his friend--on whose face there was a sudden and quite
radiant gladness.  'You don't understand it at all, Beresford.  It will
take some explanation.  But I assure you you could not have brought me
pleasanter news; and yet I have not a word to say against your sister.
I know that is a privilege you reserve for yourself; and quite right
too.'

It was manifestly clear that Captain King was not shamming
satisfaction; not for many a day had his face looked so bright.

'Well, I'm glad you take it that way,' said Mr. Tom.  'I thought you
would be cut up.  Most fellows are; though they pretend not to be.  I
really do believe you're rather glad that Madge has given you the slip.'

'Sit down, Beresford, and I will tell you all about it.  I proposed to
your sister Anne years ago.'

'To Nan?  Why wasn't I told?'

'These things are not generally preached from the house-tops.  She
refused me point-blank; and I knew she was a girl who knew her own
mind.  Then I rejoined my ship; and remained mostly abroad for a long
time.  I fancied it would all blow over; but it didn't; I was harder
hit than I thought; and then, you know, sailors are driven to think of
bygone things.  Well, you remember when I came home--when I met you in
the street.  I thought I should like to have just another glimpse of
Nan--of Miss Anne, I mean--before she married the parson.  Do you
remember my going into the drawing-room?  Madge was there--the perfect
image of Nan!  Indeed; I thought at first she was Nan herself.  And
wasn't it natural I should imagine the two sisters must be alike in
disposition too?  And then, as it was hopeless about Nan, I fancied--I
imagined--well, the truth is, I made a most confounded mistake,
Beresford; and the only thing I have been thinking of, day and night,
of late, was what was the proper and manly thing to do--whether to tell
Madge frankly--or whether to say nothing, with the hope that after
marriage it would all come right.  And now you needn't wonder at my
being precious glad she has herself settled the affair; and there is
not a human being in the world more heartily wishes her lifelong
happiness than I do.  And I wish to goodness I knew some way of letting
her know that too.'

Tom stretched out his legs--his hands were in his pockets--and said,
contemplatively,--

'So you thought Madge was the same as Nan.  I could have told you
different, if you had asked me.  You thought you could find another
girl like Nan.  If you want to try, you'll have to step out.  By the
time you've found her, the Wandering Jew 'll be a fool compared to you.
Girls like Nan don't grow on every blackberry bush.'

'I know that,' said Frank King, with a sigh.

Then Mr. Tom looked at his watch.

'I'm very hungry,' said he.  'Have you dined?'

'No, I have not.  I was going to walk along to the club when you came
in.'

'Come with me to the Waterloo.  You see, something must be done about
these two ninnies.  He must get something to do; and set to work.  The
Baby has never been accustomed to live up a tree.  She must have a
proper house.'

Frank King got his coat and hat; and they both went out.  He was
thinking of his own affairs mostly--and of this singular sense of
relief that seemed to permeate him; Mr. Tom, on the other hand, was
discussing the various aspects of the elopement, more particularly with
regard to the Court of Chancery.  During dinner the two friends arrived
at the conclusion that people generally would look upon the affair as a
harmless, or even humorous, escapade; and that the Court, seeing that
the thing was done, would allow the young people to go their way, with
a suitable admonition.

This was not quite what happened, however.  To begin with, there was a
clamour of contention and advice among guardians and friends; there
were anonymous appeals to the runaways in agony-columns; there were
futile attempts made to pacify the Court of Chancery.  All the
Beresfords came up to town, except Nan, who remained to look after the
Brighton house.  The chief difficulty of the moment was to discover the
whereabouts of Mr. John Hanbury.  That gentleman was coy; and wanted to
find out something of what was likely to happen to him if he emerged
from his hiding-place.  At last it was conveyed to him that he was only
making matters worse; then he wrote from certain furnished apartments
in a house on the south-west side of Regent's Park; finally, there was
a series of business interviews, and it was arranged that on a
particular day he should attend the Court and hear the decision of the
Vice-Chancellor.

On that fateful morning, poor Madge, her pretty eyes all bedimmed with
tears, and her lips tremulous, was with her sisters and mother in the
rooms in Bruton Street; the gentlemen only attended the Court.  Jack
Hanbury was looking exceedingly nervous and pale.  And indeed, when the
case came on, and the Vice-chancellor began to make certain
observations, even Mr. Tom, whose care for the future of his sister had
now quite overcome all his scorn for that fellow Hanbury, grew somewhat
alarmed.  The Court did not all appear inclined to take the
free-and-easy view of the matter that had been anticipated.  The
Vice-Chancellor's sentences, one after the other, seemed to become more
and more severe, as he described the gross conduct and contempt of
which this young man had been guilty.  He deplored the condition of the
law in England, which allowed persons to get married on the strength of
false statements.  He wound up his lecture, which had a conciseness and
pertinence about it not often found in lectures, by the brief
announcement that he should forthwith make an order committing Mr. John
Hanbury to Holloway Prison.

There was an ominous silence for a brief second or so.  Then the Court
was addressed by Mr. Rupert--who was Mary Beresford's husband, and a
fairly well-known Q.C.--who made a very humble and touching little
appeal.  He said he represented the relatives of the young lady; he was
himself a near relative; and they were all inclined to beg his Lordship
to take a merciful view of the case.  They did not think the young man,
though he had acted most improperly, was inspired by mercenary motives.
He was now in Court; and was anxious to make the most profound apology.
If his Lordship----

But at this moment his Lordship, by the slightest of gestures, seemed
to intimate that Mr. Rupert was only wasting time; and the end of it
was that Mr. Jack Hanbury, after having heard a little more lecturing
on the heinousness of his conduct, found himself under the charge of
the tipstaff of the Court, with Holloway prison as his destination.  It
was not to be considered as a humorous escapade after all.

'Madge will have a fit,' said Mr. Tom, when they were outside again.
'Some one must go and tell her.  I shan't.'

'I knew he must be committed,' said Mr. Rupert to the young man's
father.  'There was no help for that; his contempt of Court was too
heinous.  Now the proper thing to do is to let him have a little dose
of prison--the authority of the Court must be vindicated, naturally;
and then we must have a definite scheme for the establishment of the
young man in business before we beg the Court to reconsider the matter.
I mean, you must name a sum; and it must be ready.  And then there must
be an understanding that Miss Beresford--I mean Mrs. Hanbury's--small
fortune shall be settled on herself.'

'My advice,' remarked Mr. Tom, 'is that Madge should go herself and see
the Vice-Chancellor.  She might do the pathetic business--a wife and
not a widow, or whatever the poetry of the thing is.  I think it's
deuced hard lines to lock up a fellow for merely humbugging an old
parson up in Kentish Town.  Why shouldn't people get married when they
want to?  Fancy having to live three weeks in Kentish Town!  I wouldn't
live three weeks in Kentish Town to marry a Duchess.'

'I am afraid,' said Mr. Rupert, drily, 'that the Vice-chancellor is too
familiar with the sight of pretty damsels in distress.  I think, Mr.
Hanbury, if you can produce a deed of partnership with your friends in
Southampton, that would be more likely to influence the Court.  On our
side we agree.  And of course there must be a humble apology from the
young man himself.  We had better wait a week, or a fortnight, and then
renew the application.  I will go myself and tell the young lady what
has happened.'

Madge did not go into a fit at all; but what she did do was to decline
positively to remain in Bruton Street.  No; back she would go to the
rooms that her dear Jack had taken for her.  They might come to see her
there if they liked; but that was her home; it was her place as a wife
to remain in the home that her husband had chosen for her.  Madge did
not cry as much as had been expected; she was angry and indignant, and
she said hard things about the condition of the law in England; and she
had a vague belief that her brother Tom was a renegade and traitor and
coward because he did not challenge the Vice-Chancellor to a duel on
Calais sands.

Nevertheless, in her enforced widowhood, Madge found time to write the
enclosed letter--nay, she went first of all to the trouble of walking
down Baker Street until she came to a shop where she could get very
pretty and nicely scented notepaper for the purpose:--

'DEAR FRANK--Tom brought me yesterday your very manly and generous
letter, and I must write and thank you for your kind wishes for my
happiness.  It's dreadful to think that persons should be shut up in
prison, when everybody is agreed it is needless--merely to satisfy a
form.  You are very kind in what you say; you were always kind to
me--kinder than I deserved.  But I didn't think you would mind very
much my running away; for I am sure you care far more for Nan than you
ever cared for me; and now Edith declares that Nan has been in love
with you all the time.  I hear you have been doing everything in your
power towards getting poor Jack out of prison; and so I thought I would
do you a good turn also.  You might take this letter to Nan, and ask
her if every word in it isn't true--unless you think you've had enough
of our family already.  Dear Frank, I am so glad you forgive me; and
when I get out of my present deep distress I hope you will come and see
us and be like old friends.--Yours sincerely, MADGE HANBURY.'

At this present moment Captain King, as they still call him (for all
these things happened not so long ago), considers this letter the most
valuable he ever received.  Not any message from home announcing to the
schoolboy that a hamper would speedily arrive; not any communication
from the Admiralty after he had arrived at man's estate; nay, not any
one of Nan's numerous love-letters--witty, and tender, and clever, as
these were--had for him anything like the gigantic importance of this
letter.  It is needless to say that, very shortly after the receipt of
it, and without saying a word to anybody, he slipped down to Brighton,
and got a room at the Norfolk.

It was so strange to think that Nan was a little way along there; and
that there was still a chance that that same Nan--the wonder of the
world with whose going away from him the world had got quite altered
somehow--might still be his!  It bewildered him as yet.  To think of
Nan at Kingscourt!--her presence filling the house with sunlight;
charming everybody with her quiet, humorous ways, and her
self-possession, and her sweetness, and the faithfulness of her frank,
clear eyes!  And all his thinking came back to the one point.  This was
now Nan herself he had a chance of winning; not any imaginary Nan; not
any substitute; not any vision to be wavering this way and that; but
the very Nan herself.  And if it was true--if the real Nan, after all,
was to go hand-in-hand through life with him--where, of all the places
in the world, should they first go to together?  To that far-away inn
at Splügen, surely!  Now it would be his own Nan who would sit at the
small table, and laugh with her shining, clear eyes.  She would walk
with him up the steep Pass; the sunlight on her pink cheeks; he would
hear the chirp of her boots on the wet snow.

Amid all this wild whirl of hope and doubt and delightful assurance, it
was hard to have to wait for an opportunity of speaking to Nan alone.
He would not go to the house, lest there should be visitors, or some
one staying there; he would rather catch Nan on one of her pilgrimages
in the country or along the downs, with solitude and silence to aid him
in his prayer.  But that chance seemed far off.  He watched for Nan
incessantly; and his sharp sailor's eyes followed her keenly, while he
kept at a considerable distance.  But Nan seemed to be very busy at
this time.  Again and again he was tempted to speak to her as she came
out of this or that shop, or when he saw her carrying an armful of toys
into some small back street.  But he was afraid.  There was so much to
win; so much to lose.  He guessed that sooner or later the vagrant
blood in Nan would drive her to seek the solitariness of the high
cliffs over the sea.

It turned out differently, however.  One squally and stormy morning he
saw her leave the house, her ulster buttoned up, her hat well down over
her brows.  He let her pass the hotel, and slipped out afterwards.  By
and by she turned up into the town, and finally entered a stationer's
shop, where there was a public library.  No doubt she had merely come
to order some books, he said to himself, downheartedly, and would go
straight back again.

However, on coming out, he noticed her glance up at the driven sky,
where the clouds were breaking here and there.  Then she went down East
Street towards the sea.  Then she passed the Aquarium by the lower
road.  This he could not understand at all, as she generally kept to
the cliffs.

He soon discovered her intention.  There was a heavy sea rolling in;
and she had always had a great delight in watching the big waves come
swinging past the head of the Chain Pier.  That, indeed, turned out to
be her destination.  When he had seen the slight, girlish-looking
figure well away out there, he also went on the Pier, and followed.

It is needless to say that there was not a human being out there at the
end.  Tags and rags of flying clouds were sending showers of rain
spinning across; between them great bursts of sunlight flooded the sea;
and the vast green masses of water shone as they broke on the wooden
piles and thundered on below.  When he reached the head of the Pier, he
found that Nan, who fancied herself entirely alone, was resting her two
elbows on the bar, and so holding on her hat, as she looked down on the
mighty volumes of water that broke and rushed roaring below.

He touched her on the shoulder; she jumped up with a start, and turned,
growing a little pale as she confronted him.  He, also, had an
apprehensive look in his eyes--perhaps it was that that frightened her.

'Nothing has happened to Madge?' she said, quickly.

'No.  But come over there to the shelter.  I wish to show you a letter
she has written.'

A few steps brought them to a sudden silence; it was like stepping from
the outer air into a diving-bell.

'Nan, I want you to read this letter, and tell me if it is true.'

He gave it her; she read it; then slowly, very slowly, the one hand
holding the letter dropped, and she stood there silent, her eyes
downcast.

'Nan, I have loved you since the very first night I ever saw you.  I
tried to make believe that Madge was you; Madge herself has saved us
from what might have happened through that desperate mistake.  And you,
Nan--you are free now--there is no one in the way--is it true what
Edith says?'

'It isn't quite true,' said Nan, in a very low voice; and her fingers
were making sad work with Madge's letter.  'I mean--if she means--what
you can say--since the very first night that we met.  But I think at
least--it is true--since'--and here Nan looked up at him with her
faithful eyes, and in them there was something that was neither
laughing nor crying, but was strangely near to both--'since--since ever
we parted at Como!'

CHAPTER XXIV.

'BRING HOME THE BRIDE SO FAIR!'

'Poor Jack!' that was all Madge's cry.  She did not care what
arrangement was being got up by the parents and guardians interested.
She did not want her fortune settled on herself.  To her it did not
matter whether the brewery was in Southampton or in Jerusalem.  All her
piteous appeal was that her dear Jack should be got out of prison; and
the opinion that she had formed of the gross tyranny, and cruelty, and
obstinacy of English law was of a character that dare not be set forth
here.

'What is the use of it?' she would say.  'What good can it do except to
keep people miserable?'

'My dear child,' the sighing and sorely-troubled mother would answer,
'the Vice-Chancellor has admitted that it can do no good.  But the
authority of the Court must be vindicated----'

'It is nothing but a mean and contemptible revenge?' exclaimed Madge.

However, Mr. Tom took a much more cool and business-like view of the
matter.

'When he is let out,' he remarked, 'I hope the Vice-chancellor will
make the other side pay the costs of all these applications and
proceedings.  I don't see why we should pay, simply because Jack
Hanbury went and made an ass of himself.'

'I beg you to remember that you are speaking of my husband?' said
Madge, with a sudden fierceness.

'Oh, well, but didn't he?' Mr. Tom said.  'What was the use of bolting
like that, when he knew he must be laid by the heels?  Why didn't he go
to his father and uncle to begin with, and get them to make this
arrangement they have now, and then have gone to the chief clerk and
showed him that there was no objection anywhere----'

'It was because you were all against him,' said poor Madge, beginning
to cry.  'Everybody--everybody.  And now he may be shut up there for a
whole year--or two years----'

'Oh, but he isn't so badly off,' said Mr. Tom, soothingly.  'You can
see they treat him very well.  By Jingo, if it was the treadmill,
now--that would exercise his toes for him.  I tried it once in York
Castle; and I can tell you when you find this thing pawing at you over
your head it's like an elephant having a game with you.  Never mind,
Madge.  Don't cry.  Look here; I'll bet you five sovereigns to one that
they let him out on the next application--that's for Thursday.  Are you
on?'

'Do you mean it?' she said, looking up.

'I do.'

It was wonderful how quickly the light came into her face.

'Then there is a chance?' she said.  'I can't believe the others; for
they are only trying to comfort me.  But if you would bet on it,
Tom--then there's really a chance.'

'Bet's off.  You should have snapped at it, Madge.  Never mind, you'll
have your dear Jack: that'll do instead.'

That afternoon Mary Beresford, now Mrs. Rupert, called, and Mr. Tom,
with much dignity of manner, came into the room holding an open letter
in his hand,

'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said, 'and friends assembled, I have a piece
of news for you.  Mr. Francis Holford King, late Commander in Her
Majesty's Navy, has just contracted a--what d'ye call it?--kind of
engagement with Miss Anne Beresford of that ilk.  It strikes me this is
what is termed consolation-stakes----'

'There you are quite wrong,' said Madge, promptly and cheerfully.  'He
meant to make me the consolation-stakes: for it was Nan that he wanted
to marry all the way through.'

'Well, I shall be glad to see you all married,' said Tom.  'I've had
enough bother with you.'

'You look quite worn out,' his eldest sister remarked.

'At least,' he said, sitting down in an easy-chair and stretching out
his legs, 'at least I have gained some wisdom.  I see the puzzlement
you girls are in who haven't got to earn your own living.  You don't
know what on earth to do with yourselves.  You read Ruskin, and think
you should be earnest; but you don't know what to be earnest about.
Then you take to improving your mind; and cram your head full of
earth-currents, and equinoxes, and eclipses of the moon.  But what does
it all come to?  You can't do anything with it.  Even if you could come
and tell me that a lime-burner in Jupiter has thrown his wig into the
fire, and so altered the spectrum, what's that to me?  Then you have a
go at philanthropy--that's more practical; Sunday-school teaching,
mending children's clothes, doing for other people what they ought to
do for themselves, and generally cultivating pauperism.  Then, lo and
behold! in the middle of all this there comes by a good-looking young
fellow; and phew! all your grand ideas are off like smoke; and it's all
"Dear Jack!" and "Dear Alfred!" and "I'll go to the ends of the earth
with my sodger laddie!"  Oh, I know what life is.  I see you girls
begin with all your fine ideas, and reading up, and earnestness----'

'I suppose, then, there is no such thing as the formation of
character,' said his eldest sister, calmly.

'The formation of character!' exclaimed Mr. Tom.  'Out of books?  Why,
the only one among you who has any character worth mentioning is Nan.
Do you think she got it out of books?  No, she didn't.  She got it--she
got it----'

Here Mr. Tom paused for a second; but only to make a wilder dash.

'----out of the sunlight!  There's a grand poetical idea for you.  Nan
has been more in the open than any of you; and the sunlight has filled
her brain, and her mind, and her disposition altogether----'

'I presume that also accounts for the redness of her hair?' said Mrs.
Rupert.

Tom rose to his feet.  There was an air of resignation on his face as
he left the room.  He said, half to himself,

'Well, Nature was right in making me a man.  I couldn't have mustered
up half enough spite to make a passable woman.'

Now, the end of the Madge and Jack episode was in this wise.  On the
second application the Vice-Chancellor flatly refused to release the
young man from prison.  His gross offence had not yet been purged.  It
was quite true, his Lordship admitted, that the young lady and the
guardians and relatives on both sides were also sharing in this
punishment; and it was unfortunate.  Moreover, arrangements had now
been made which seemed to render the marriage a perfectly eligible one,
if only it had been properly brought about.  Nevertheless the Court
could not overlook the young man's conduct; in prison he was; and in
prison he must remain.

More tears on the part of Madge.  More advice from Mr. Tom that she
should go and plead with the Vice-Chancellor herself; he was sure her
pretty, weeping eyes would soften the flintiest heart.  Correspondence
addressed by Captain Frank King to Admiral Sir George Stratherne,
K.C.B., containing suggestions not in consonance with the lofty
integrity of British courts of law.

Then, at last, the Vice-chancellor relented.  Mr. Hanbury had given an
undertaking to execute any settlement the Court might think fit with
regard to the young lady's property.  Then he must pay all costs of the
proceedings, likewise the guardians' costs.  This being so, his
Lordship was disposed to take a merciful view of the case; and would
make an order discharging the young man from prison.

'Oh, Jack,' poor Madge exclaimed, when he was restored to her, 'shall I
ever forget what you have suffered for my sake?'

Jack looked rather foolish among all these people; but at last he
plucked up courage, and went and made a straightforward apology to Lady
Beresford; and said he hoped this piece of folly would soon be
forgotten; and that Madge would be happy after all.  The sisters were
disposed to pet him.  Tom tolerated him a little.  Then there was a
general bustle; for they were all (including Frank King) going down
again to Brighton; and they made a large party.

How clear the air and the sunlight were after the close atmosphere of
London!  The shining sea--the fresh breeze blowing in--the busy
brightness and cheerfulness of the King's Road--it all seemed new and
delightful again!  And of course amidst the general clamour and
commotion of getting into the house, who was to take much notice of
Nan, or watch her self-conscious shyness, or regard the manner in which
she received Frank King after his absence?  You see, Nan was always
wanted to do things, or fetch things, or send for things.  'She's a
house-keeperish kind of young party,' Tom used to say of her, when he
had coolly sent her to look out his shooting-boots.

The spring-time was come; not only was the sunshine clearer, and the
wind from the sea softer and fresher, but human nature, also, grew
conscious of vague anticipations and an indefinable delight, Flowers
from the sheltered valleys behind the downs began to appear in the
streets.  The year was opening; soon the colours of the summer would
shining over the land.

'Nan-nie,' said Frank King to her who was most occasions now his only
and dear companion, they were walking along one of the country ways,
'don't you think June is a good month to get married in?'

'Frank dear,' she said, 'I haven't had much experience.'

'Now, look here, Nan,' he said--the others were a long way ahead, and
he could scold her as he liked.  'You may have some strong
points--wisdom, perhaps--and a capacity for extracting money out of
people for lifeboats--and a knack of boxing the ears of small boys whom
you find shying stones at sparrows--I say you may have your strong
points; but flippancy isn't one of them.  And this is a very serious
matter.'

'I know it is,' said Nan, demurely.  'And far more serious than you
imagine.  For, do you know, Frank, that the moment I get married I
shall cease to be responsible for the direction of my own life
altogether.  You alone will be responsible.  Whatever you say I should
do, I will do; what you say I must think, or believe, or try for, that
will be my guide.  Don't you know that I have been trying all my life
to get rid of the responsibility of deciding for myself?  I nearly
ended--like such a lot of people!--in "going over to the Church."  Oh,
Frank,' she said, 'I think if it hadn't been for you I should have
married a clergyman, and been good.'

She laughed a little, soft, low laugh; and continued:

'No, I think that never could have happened.  But I should have done
something--gone into one of those visiting sisterhoods, or got trained
as a nurse--you don't know what a good hospital nurse you spoiled in
me.  However, now that is not my business.  Undine got a soul when she
married; I give up mine.  I shall efface myself.  It's you who have to
tell me what to think, and believe, and try to do.'

'Very well,' said he.  'I shall begin by advising you to give up
cultivating the acquaintance of tinkers and gipsies; and first of all
to resolve not to speak again to Singing Sal.'

'Oh, but that's foolish--that is unnecessary!' she said, with a stare;
and he burst out laughing.

'Here we are at the outset!' he said.  'But don't you think, Nan-nie,
you might let things go on as they are?  You haven't done so badly
after all.  Do you know that people don't altogether detest you?  Some
of them would even say that you made the world a little brighter and
pleasanter for those around you; and that is always something.'

'But it's so little,' said Nan.  'And--and I had thought of--of I don't
know what, I believe--in that Cathedral at Lucerne--and now I am going
to do just like everybody else.  It's rather sneaky.'

'What is?' he asked.  'To be a good woman?'

'Oh, you are not philosophical,' she said.  'And me--me too.  My brain,
what there was of it, is clean gone; my heart has got complete mastery.
It is really ludicrous that my highest ambition, and my highest
delight, should be to be able to say "I love you," and to go on saying
it any number of times.  But then, dear Frank, when all this nonsense
is over between us, then we will set to work and try and do some good.
There must be something for us to do in the world.'

'Oh yes, no doubt,' he said, 'and do you know when I think this
nonsense will be over between you and me, Nan?--when you and I are
lying dead together in Kingscourt churchyard.'

She touched his hand with her hand--for a moment.

'And perhaps not even then, Frank.'

Well, it was a double wedding, after all; and Mr. Roberts was
determined that it should be memorable in Brighton, if music, and
flowers, and public charities would serve.  Then Mr. and Mrs. Jack
Hanbury were to come along from Southampton; and Mr. Jacomb had, in the
most frank and manly fashion, himself asked permission to assist at the
marriage ceremony.  There were, of course, many presents; two of which
were especially grateful to Nan.  The first was a dragon-fly in rubies
and diamonds, the box enclosing which was wrapped round by a sheet of
note-paper really belonging to Her Majesty, and hailing from Whitehall.
These were the words scrawled on the sheet of paper:--

'_This is for the wedding of the BEAUTIFUL WRETCH, who has now
completed the list of her atrocities by jilting her oldest
sweetheart.--G. S._'

The second present that was particularly prized by Nan carries us on to
the wedding-day.  It was one of the clearest of clear June days; a
fresh southerly wind tempering the heat; there was scarcely a cloud in
the blue.  How these rumours get about it is impossible to say; but a
good many people seemed to have discovered that there was to be a
double wedding; and there was an unusual crowd about the entrance to
the church and along both sides of the roofed portico.  Among these
people was one who attracted a little mild polite curiosity.  She was a
country-looking, fresh-complexioned young woman, who was smartly
dressed and trim as to ribbons and such things; and she held in her
hand a basket of fairly good size and of fancy wicker-work.  And this
basket, those nearest her could see, held nothing else than a mass of
wild roses, all with the thorns carefully removed from the stems, and
set in a bed of moss and sweetbrier leaves.  It was such a bouquet,
surely, as had never been presented to a bride before--if, indeed, it
was, intended for the bride.

That was soon to be seen.  The great organ was still pealing out
Mendelssohn's 'Wedding March' (Mr. Tom had offered to give 10 pounds to
the poor-box of the choir if the choristers would play instead the
Swedish 'Bring home the bride so fair!')--(forgetting that there were
two brides, and that Edith was dark) when the first of the bridal
procession came along, Edith and her husband and her bridesmaids.  Then
came Nan.  As she was passing, the fresh-coloured wench timidly stepped
forward and offered her the basket of wild roses.  Nan stopped; glanced
at her, and recognised her; and then, to the wonder of the crowd, they
saw the young bride take the basket with her trembling white-gloved
fingers, while the other hand was boldly put forward to shake hands
with the country lass.  Singing Sal was greatly taken aback; but she
took Nan's hand for the briefest second, and managed to say something
quite incoherent about 'long life and happiness, Miss--I beg your
pardon, Miss--Ma'am;' and then the gleaming procession passed on.

Nan was very proud of that basket of wild flowers.  She would not part
with it.  She had it placed before her on the table when all the people
had assembled and sat down.  And perhaps there was one there who,
looking alternately at the bright-eyed bride who sat beside him, and at
that basket of wild roses, red, and white, and pink, and whitish-red
and whitish-pink, may have said to himself that there was no red one
there half so red as her lips, and no white one half so white as her
clear and shining soul.

FINIS.

THE PUPIL OF AURELIUS

BY

WILLIAM BLACK

AUTHOR OF 'MACLEOD OF DARE,' 'SUNRISE,' ETC.

NEW EDITION

LONDON

MACMILLAN AND CO.

1882

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER

   I. A Blow Faced
  II. Alone in London
 III. A Fellow-sufferer
  IV. A Resolve
   V. Treasure Trove
  VI. The End of the Episode

CHAPTER I.

A BLOW FACED.

On a Sunday morning in the early part of November 1878 a stranger
arrived at Euston Square, and passed from the gloom of the station into
the brighter air of the London streets, there pausing for a second or
two to look around him.  He was a man of about fifty, short, thin,
wiry, square-shouldered; his features firm even to sternness, and
hardened by exposure to wind and weather; his hair gray; his beard also
gray and clipped short.  The harshness of his face, however, was in a
measure tempered by the look of his eyes; these were calm and
contemplative, perhaps even with a shade of melancholy in them.  For
the rest, he was well and warmly clad in home-spun cloth; and he
carried with him a small hand-bag, which appeared to be his only
luggage.

He hesitated only for a moment.  As he turned off to the left he met
two labourers coming along.

'This is the way to London Bridge, is it not?' he asked, slowly, and
with a strong northern accent.

'Yes, sir,' said one of them; and then, as he looked after the
departing stranger, he took the pipe from his mouth and grinned, and
said to his companion,

'Scottie means to walk it.'

The new-comer's next encounter was less satisfactory.  A drunken-faced
woman jumped up from a door-step and begged for alms.  He had not seen
her.  Instinctively his hand went to his pocket.  Then he glanced at
her.

'No!' he said, with unnecessary severity, and passed on.

But instantly the woman was transformed into a cursing and swearing
virago.  She followed him, making the little thoroughfare resound with
her shrill abuse.  Most people would, in such circumstances, have
looked out for a policeman, or tried to get away somewhere, but this
man turned round and stood still and regarded the woman.  There was
neither anger nor surprise nor scorn in his look, but a calm
observation.  He listened to her foul language, as if wishing to
understand it; and he regarded the bloated face and bleared eyes.  The
woman was not prepared for this examination.  With another parting
volley she slunk off.  Then the new-comer continued on his way, saying
only to himself:

'It is strange.  I do not think that God could have meant any of His
creatures to be like that.'

Now let us see what manner of man this was who was passing into the
larger space and wan sunlight of Euston Road, making for London Bridge,
with but little hurry, and always with his eyes regarding the withered
trees, or the closed shops, or the early omnibuses, with an observation
that had no curiosity in it, rather as if these were mere passing
phenomena that left no permanent impression on a mind too busily
occupied with its own speculations.

His name was John Douglas.  His father had been a small shipowner in
Greenock, and, dying, had left this, his eldest son, a fortune of about
10,000 pounds.  John Douglas, after patient judgment of the matter,
arrived at the conclusion that it was far from just and fitting that he
should have the exclusive use of this money, so he lent 7000 pounds, or
thereabouts, to his two younger brothers, who forthwith took it, and,
unhappily, themselves also, to the bottom of the sea, in a vessel
which, recklessly, they had not insured.  Thereupon John Douglas,
having still over 3000 pounds, invested it in what was then considered
a safe concern, and finding his wants very few and very simple,
repaired to the Renfrewshire coast, and found there a small cottage
overlooking the Firth of Clyde and the sea, where he could live cheaply
and comfortably.  And he did live there very comfortably and
contentedly, though not quite to the satisfaction of his neighbours,
who resented the intrusion amongst them of a man who minded his own
business, who would not listen to any tittle-tattle, who was absolutely
indifferent as to what opinion, good or ill, they might have of him,
and who took long and solitary walks among the hills on Sundays as on
other days.

It ought to be said here at the outset that this man's character is not
set up as in any way an exemplar.  If mankind at large were so many
John Douglases the world would not get on at all.  We should have no
iron bridges built, or Atlantic cables laid, or financial companies
started, and we certainly should not have any man-killing machines a
million or half-a-million strong; whereas every well-conducted person
knows that such things are now-a-days absolutely necessary.  The truth
is, that John Douglas, or Captain Douglas, as the neighbours called him
with a kind of grudging respect, was a skulker from the battle of
humanity.  What he wanted was a beach of white sand, a hot day, a blue
sea, a book, a pipe, and the absence of his fellow-creatures.  He was
kind to such people as he was forced to meet; and he was a favourite
amongst the children in that part, for he bought them toys and
sweetmeats when he went to Greenock; but he preferred the society of
his books to that of his neighbours, and he was impatient of idle talk.
Indeed, what was the use of their conversing with a man who was far
more interested in the first blossoming of the furze in spring than in
a Cabinet crisis, and who would go away and search for birds' nests in
the woods, for the mere pleasure of looking at them, when the whole
civilised world, from the Cloch Lighthouse all the way to Largs, was
convulsed with the news that minister in a parish adjacent had been
heard to say something disrespectful about Calvin?

The three books, one or other of which John Douglas usually carried
with him on his rambles by sea-shore or through some country lanes,
were the New Testament, Marcus Aurelius, and Tannahill's Poems; but
perhaps it was the wise Emperor with whom he most closely communed as
the waves rippled along the sand, and the shifting lights crossed the
clear blue of the Arran hills.  He had so entered into the spirit of
that proud and patient stoicism, that he considered himself proof
against anything that might happen to him in life or in death.  It was
a voice from far away, it is true--muffled, as if from the tomb; but it
was human, sympathetic, kindly in the main.

'Every moment think steadily as a Roman and a man to do what thou hast
in hand with perfect and simple dignity, and feeling of affection, and
freedom, and justice; and to give thyself relief from all other
thoughts.  And thou wilt give thyself relief, if thou doest every act
of thy life as if it were the last, laying aside all carelessness and
passionate aversion from the commands of reason, and all hypocrisy, and
self-love, and discontent with the portion which has been given to
thee.  Thou seest how few the things are, the which if a man lays hold
of, he is able to live a life which flows in quiet, and is like the
existence of the gods; for the gods, on their part, will require
nothing more from him who observes these things.'

And again:

'If thou workest at that which is before thee, following right reason
seriously, vigorously, calmly, without allowing anything else to
distract thee, but keeping thy divine part pure, as if thou shouldst be
bound to give it back immediately; if thou holdest to this, expecting
nothing, fearing nothing, but satisfied with thy present activity
according to nature, and with heroic truth in every word and sound
which thou utterest, thou wilt live happy.  And there is no man who is
able to prevent this.'

Or if one should not find any great work in the world to tackle?--

'Always bear this in mind, that very little indeed is necessary for
living a happy life.  And because thou hast despaired of becoming a
dialectician, and skilled in the knowledge of nature, do not for this
reason renounce the hope of being both free and modest and social and
obedient to God.'

Or has one been injured?--

'The best way of avenging thyself is not to become like the wrongdoer.'

Why should one desire praise or fear blame?--

'Which of these things is beautiful because it is praised, or spoiled
by being blamed?  Is such a thing as an emerald made worse than it was
if it is not praised? or gold, ivory, purple, a lyre, a little knife, a
flower, a shrub?'

John Douglas knew nothing of the opinion in which he was held by his
neighbours; and, if he had known, he would not have heeded one jot.

Now it was in the waning of the year, when the great fuchsia-tree
covering the front of Braeside Cottage had dropped all its dark-red
bells, and when the rowan-trees along the road were yellowing, though
masses of the scarlet berries still remained to delight the eye, that
the news of the breaking of the City of Glasgow Bank came to these
parts.  There were those who knew that the residue of Captain Douglas's
small fortune was invested in that flourishing concern, which had been
paying dividends of 10 and 11 per cent; and they also suspected that he
would know nothing of the terrible crash, for he seldom read
newspapers.  But not one of them would go and take the bad news to him.
If he had not been a very sociable man, it was not through pride.  He
had done many generous actions.  The children were fond of him.  They
waited for himself to find out the misfortune that had overtaken him.

Douglas's first intimation was contained in a letter sent him by a
solicitor in Greenock.  The vague reference to what had happened he did
not understand at first; but he called his old housekeeper and bade her
to bring him the newspapers of the last few days; and then he sat down,
quietly and composedly, and read the story of his ruin.

First came rumours about a certain bank.  Then the definite statement
that the City of Glasgow Bank had suspended payment.  Then guesses at
the deficit, beginning with 3,000,000 pounds, along with indignant
comments about the manner in which the business of the bank had been
conducted, and commiseration for the shareholders, the large majority
of whom, it was anticipated, would have to surrender every farthing of
which they were possessed.

Douglas read on and read through; and was neither shocked nor
bewildered.  He even remembered something about an official
communication which he had opened a day or two before, and hastily
dropped in order to fling a book at a strange cat that had come into
the garden, and was cowering in wait for a chaffinch.  He scarcely knew
enough of business to understand who the creditors were; but he could
perceive that if they had even 2,000,000 pounds owing to them, the
first calls would far more than sweep away his little property and
leave him a beggar.  Very well.  He looked at the newspapers again;
there was nothing in these crumpled sheets that could hurt him.  A
branch of a tree blown down by the wind on the top of his head could
hurt him; or a chimney-pot falling from a roof; or a horse lifting its
leg and kicking him; but a newspaper report he could thrust into the
fire.  He looked out of the window; the broad waters of the Firth were
all ruffled into a dark blue by the morning breeze, and the sunlight
shone along the yellow shores of Innellan; and far in the south Arran's
jagged peaks were a clear blue among the silvery clouds: these things
could not be altered by anything happening in Glasgow.  He looked at
his hands; there were ten fingers there that had not done much work in
the world; surely it was time they should try?  And surely they could
win for him bread and milk, or at the worst bread and water?  In the
meantime the thought of the cat had recalled to him that he had not as
yet scattered crumbs for the birds that morning.  That was the first
thing to be done; and so he went and did it.

There can be no doubt that this contemptuous indifference was largely
the result of the teachings of Marcus Aurelius, which this solitary man
had drank in until they seemed to have got absorbed into his very
blood.  But there was something more; there was a vein of personal
pride of a very distinct kind.  He would not admit to himself that any
number of bank-directors in Glasgow or elsewhere had the power to harm
him.  Moreover, when, after waiting a considerable time to see how
things would go, he went to Greenock to consult the solicitor who had
written to him, and to whom he was known, this stubborn pride and
independence came out more strongly than ever.

'The question is,' said he, in his slow, emphatic way, 'do I owe the
money, or do I not owe the money?'

'No doubt of it, Captain Douglas,' the other remonstrated; 'you are
morally as well as legally bound.  But the liquidators are human
beings; they do not wish to press for the uttermost farthing; and well
they know that this first call of 500 pounds on every 100 pounds of
stock will ruin many and many a poor creature, and turn him or her out
into the world.  There is even a talk of a Relief Fund; I believe the
Lord Provost of Glasgow and other gentlemen----'

John Douglas's face flushed quickly.

'I wish not to hear of such things,' he said, with a touch of
resentment.  Then he added more slowly, 'I will take money from no man.
I will earn my own living; if I cannot do that, what title have I to
live at all?  But I will take this obligation from you yourself, Mr.
Campbell; if you will lend me five pounds, which I will repay to you.
And I would like to take with me a few portraits, of my family and
forbears, that can be of no use to any one; and one or two books
likewise; then the rest can go to the liquidators, to roup or scatter
to the winds as they see fit.  I am a man of few words; I will repay
you the money, if my health remains to me; and it will be enough to
carry me to London and start me there.'

'To London!' said the tall fair man in spectacles.

'It is the great labour market of the world; it is natural I should go
there.  Besides, there is another thing,' he added, with a trifle of
embarrassment.  'Our family were well known in these parts in former
years, and respected.  I know not what I may have to turn my hand to.
I will begin where I can be alone.'

He was a wilful man, and he had his way.  He got the five pounds and
the few pictures, and the three books named above; and when he entered
the third-class carriage that was to bear him through the night to
London, it was without fear.  He had ten fingers, and he could live on
a crust of bread and a drink of clear water.  What was the hardship?
Had not the great Emperor himself counted it among the blessings of his
life--one of the things for which he was ever to be grateful--that he
had been taught to work with his own hands?

CHAPTER II.

ALONE IN LONDON.

This, then, was the man who now found himself in the sickly daylight of
the great city, walking along the wide thoroughfare on this Sunday
morning.  The grim and grizzled face was somewhat tired looking after
the long and wakeful journey, and the dark eyes were fatigued and
melancholy; but his step was light and firm.  And it was well that it
was so.  He had been in other large towns before, but not in this one;
and as he had determined to make for London Bridge, to get lodgings
near there,--seeing that that looked on the map to be about the centre
of the commercial district,--he had traced out the safest route, by
Pentonville Road and City Road down to the Bank.  As he trudged and
trudged, however, and no Bank made its appearance, he gradually woke
himself out of that dreamy and contemplative mood.  He began to make
inquiries about distance and so forth.  The driver of a four-wheeled
cab, his purple bemuddled face lighting up with a dull sort of humour,
gave him a facetious invitation to get inside the tumble-down old
vehicle.  The conductors of one or two passing omnibuses hailed him;
and he gathered from their 'Benk!  Benk!' that at least he was in the
right direction.  But he was not going to spend money causelessly; so
he trudged on.

At length, when he got to the wide square fronting the Royal Exchange,
the solitariness of the place struck him with a strange chill.  All the
great buildings closed and deserted; not a habitable-looking house
anywhere.  But there were numbers of people passing along the
thoroughfares--mostly groups of young men of about two-and-twenty,
tallow-faced, round-shouldered, wearing over-coats and billycock hats,
and smoking short pipes; and there were crowded omnibuses coming
rolling along (what a difference was this roar and rabble from the
quiet of the Sabbath morning far away there on the northern coast!),
and these people must live somewhere.  So again he contentedly trudged
on; down King William Street; over the bridge spanning the misty river;
along the Borough Road; until he arrived at Union Street.  He had so
far failed in his quest for lodgings; but in Union Street he espied a
coffee-house; and as he had become both tired and hungry, he entered
the dingy little place, sat down, and ordered a cup of coffee and a
roll and butter.

It was a kind of shelter, after all; though everything was dreadfully
dirty, and there was a heavy odour in the place.  The waiter brought
him a greasy newspaper; but he put it aside.  Then came his breakfast.
The butter was not touchable; but he reflected that it was a luxury
which he, living on another man's money, had had no right to order.
When he had paid back the 5 pounds, he would consider the question of
butter--though not butter such as this.  He ate the dry roll, and
managed to swallow the strangely-tasting coffee; then he fell asleep;
and was eventually wakened by the ringing of church bells.