Demos

CHAPTER XIX

You remember that one side of the valley in which stood New Wanley was clad with trees. Through this wood a public path made transverse ascent to the shoulder of the bill, a way little used save by Wanley ramblers in summer time. The section of the wood above the path was closed against trespassers; among the copses below anyone might freely wander. In places it was scarcely possible to make a way for fern, bramble, and underwood, but elsewhere mossy tracks led one among hazels or under arches of foliage which made of the mid-day sky a cool, golden shimmer. One such track, abruptly turning round a great rock over the face of which drooped the boughs of an ash, came upon a little sloping lawn, which started from a high hazel-covered bank. The bank itself was so shaped as to afford an easy seat, shaded even when the grass in front was all sunshine.

Adela had long known this retreat, and had been accustomed to sit here with Letty, especially when she needed to exchange deep confidences with her friend. Once, just as they were settling themselves upon the bank, they were startled by a movement among the leaves above, followed by the voice of someone addressing them with cheerful friendliness, and making request to be allowed to descend and join them. It was Hubert Eldon, just home for the long vacation. Once or twice subsequently the girls had met Hubert on the same spot; there had been a picnic here, too, in which Mrs. Eldon and Mrs. Waltham took part. But Adela always thought of the place as peculiarly her own. To others it was only a delightfully secluded corner of the wood, fresh and green; for her it had something intimately dear, as the haunt where she had first met her own self face to face and had heard the whispering of secrets as if by another voice to her tremulous heart.

She sat here one morning in July, six months after her marriage. It was more than a year since she had seen the spot, and on reaching it to-day it seemed to her less beautiful than formerly; the leafage was to her eyes thinner and less warm of hue than in earlier years, the grass had a coarser look and did not clothe the soil so completely. An impulse had brought her hither, and her first sense on arriving had been one of disappointment. Was the change in her way of seeing? or had the retreat indeed suffered, perchance from the smoke of New Wanley? The disappointment was like that we experience in revisiting a place kept only in memory since childhood. Adela had not travelled much in the past year, but her growth in experience had put great tracts between her and the days when she came here to listen and wonder. It was indeed a memory of her childhood that led her into the wood.

She had brought with her a German book on Socialism and a little German dictionary. At the advice of Mr. Westlake, given some months ago on the occasion of a visit to the Manor, she had applied herself diligently to this study. But it was not only with a view to using the time that she had selected these books this morning. In visiting a scene which would strongly revive the past, instinct—rather than conscious purpose—had bidden her keep firm hold upon the present. On experiencing her disillusion a sense of trouble had almost led her to retrace her steps at once, but she overcame this, and, seating herself on the familiar bank, began to toil through hard sentences. Such moments of self-discipline were of daily occurrence in her life; she kept watch and ward over her feelings and found in efforts of the mind a short way out of inner conflicts which she durst not suffer to pass beyond the first stage.

Near at hand there grew a silver birch Hubert Eldon, on one of the occasions when he talked here with Adela and Letty, had by chance let his eyes wander from Adela to the birch tree, and his fancy, just then active among tender images, suggested a likeness between that graceful, gleaming stem with its delicately drooping foliage and the sweet-featured girl who stood before him with her head bowed in unconscious loveliness. As the silver birch among the trees of the wood, so was Adela among the men and women of the world. And to one looking upon her by chance such a comparison might still have occurred. But in face she was no longer what she had then been. Her eyebrows, formerly so smooth and smiling, now constantly drew themselves together as if at a thought of pain or in some mental exertion. Her cheeks had none of their maiden colour. Her lips were closed too firmly, and sometimes trembled like those of old persons who have known much trouble.

In spite of herself her attention flagged from the hard, dull book; the spirit of the place was too strong for her, and, as in summers gone by, she was lost in vision. But not with eyes like these had she been wont to dream on the green branches or on the sward that lay deep in sunlight. On her raised lids sat the heaviness of mourning; she seemed to strain her sight to something very far off, something which withdrew itself from her desire, upon which her soul called and called in vain. Her cheeks showed their thinness, her brow foretold the lines which would mark it when she grew old. It was a sob in her throat which called her back to consciousness, a sob which her lips, well-trained warders, would not allow to pass.

She forced herself to the book again, and for some minutes plied her dictionary with feverish zeal. Then there came over her countenance a strange gleam of joy, as if she triumphed in self-conquest. She smiled as she continued her work, clearly making a happiness of each mastered sentence. And, looking up with the smile still fixed, she found that her solitude was invaded. Letty Tew had just appeared round the rock which sheltered the green haven.

‘You here, Adela?’ the girl exclaimed. ‘How strange!’

‘Why strange, Letty?’

‘Oh, only because I had a sort of feeling that perhaps I might meet you. Not here, particularly,’ she added, as if eager to explain herself, ‘but somewhere in the wood. The day is so fine; it tempts one to walk about.’

Letty did not approach her friend as she would have done when formerly they met here. Her manner was constrained, almost timid; it seemed an afterthought when she bent forward for the kiss. Since Adela’s marriage the intercourse between them had been comparatively slight. For the first three months they had seen each other only at long intervals, in part owing to circumstances. After the fortnight she spent in London at the time of her marriage, Adela had returned to Wanley in far from her usual state of health; during the first days of February there had been a fear that she might fall gravely ill. Only in advanced spring had she begun to go beyond the grounds of the Manor, and it was still unusual for her to do so except in her carriage. Letty had acquiesced in the altered relations; she suffered, and for various reasons, but did not endeavour to revive an intimacy which Adela seemed no longer to desire. Visits to the Manor were from the first distressing to her; the natural subjects of conversation were those which both avoided, and to talk in the manner of mere acquaintances was scarcely possible. Of course this state of things led to remark. Mrs. Waltham was inclined to suspect some wrong feeling on Letty’s side, though of what nature it was hard to determine. Alfred, on the other hand, took his sister’s behaviour ill, more especially as he felt a distinct change in her manner to himself. Was the girl going to be spoilt by the possession of wealth? What on earth did she mean by her reserve, her cold dignity? Wasn’t Letty good enough for her now that she was lady of the Manor? Letty herself, when the subject was spoken of, pretended to recognise no change beyond what was to be expected. So far from being hurt, her love for Adela grew warmer during these months of seeming estrangement; her only trouble was that she could not go often and sit by her friend’s side—sit silently, hand holding hand. That would have been better than speech, which misled, or at best was inadequate. Meantime she supported herself with the hope that love might some day again render her worthy of Adela’s confidence. That her friend was far above her she had always gladly confessed; she felt it more than ever now that she tried in vain to read Adela’s secret thoughts. The marriage was a mystery to her; to the last moment she had prayed that something might prevent it. Yet, now that Adela was Mrs. Mutimer, she conscientiously put away every thought of discontent, and only wondered what high motive had dictated the choice and—for such she knew it must be—the sacrifice.

‘What are you reading?’ Letty asked, sitting down on the bank at a little distance.

‘It’s hardly to be called reading. I have to look out every other word. It’s a book by a man called Schaeffle, on the “Social Question.”’

‘Oh yes,’ said the girl, hazarding a conjecture that the work had something to do with Socialism. ‘Of course that interests you.’

‘I think I’m going to write a translation of it. My husband doesn’t read German, and this book is important.’

‘I suppose you are quite a Socialist, Adela?’ Letty inquired, in a tone which seemed anxious to presuppose the affirmative answer. She had never yet ventured to touch on the subject.

‘Yes, I am a Socialist,’ said Adela firmly. ‘I am sure anyone will be who thinks about it, and really understands the need for Socialism. Does the word still sound a little dreadful to you? I remember so well when it did to me. It was only because I knew nothing about it.’

‘I don’t think I have that excuse,’ said the other. ‘Alfred is constantly explaining. But, Adela—’

She paused, not quite daring to speak her thoughts. Adela smiled an encouragement.

‘I was going to say—I’m sure you won’t be offended. But you still go to church?’

‘Oh yes, I go to church. You mustn’t think that everything Alfred insists upon belongs to Socialism. I believe that all Christians ought to be Socialists; I think it is part of our religion, if only we carry it out faithfully.’

‘But does Mr. Wyvern think so?’

‘Yes, he does; he does indeed. I talk with Mr. Wyvern frequently, and I never knew, before he showed me, how necessary it is for a Christian to be a Socialist.’

‘You surprise me, Adela. Yet he doesn’t confess himself a Socialist.’

‘Indeed, he does. When did you hear Mr. Wyvern preach a sermon without insisting on justice and unselfishness and love of our neighbour? If we try to be just and unselfish, and to love our neighbour as ourself, we help the cause of Socialism. Mr. Wyvern doesn’t deal with politics—it is not necessary he should. That is for men like my husband, who give their lives to the practical work. Mr. Wyvern confines himself to spiritual teaching. He would injure his usefulness if he went beyond that.’

Letty was awed by the exceeding change which showed itself not only in Adela’s ways of thought, but in her very voice and manner of speaking. The tone was so authoritative, so free from the diffidence which had formerly kept Adela from asserting strongly even her cherished faiths. She felt, too, that with the maiden hesitancy something else had gone, at all events in a great degree; something that it troubled her to miss; namely, that winning persuasiveness which had been one of the characteristics that made Adela so entirely lovable. At present Mrs. Mutimer scarcely sought to persuade; she uttered her beliefs as indubitable. A competent observer might now and then have surmised that she felt it needful to remind herself of the creed she had accepted.

‘You were smiling when I first caught sight of you,’ Letty said, after reflecting for a moment. ‘Was it something in the book?’

Adela again smiled.

‘No, something in myself,’ she replied with an air of confidence.

‘Because you are happy, Adela?’

‘Yes, because I am happy.’

‘How glad I am to hear that, dear!’ Letty exclaimed, for the first time allowing herself to use the affectionate word. ‘You will let me be glad with you?’

Her hands stole a little forward, but Adela did not notice it; for she was gazing straight before her, with an agitated look.

‘Yes, I am very happy, I have found something to do in life. I was afraid at first that I shouldn’t be able to give my husband any help in his work; I seemed useless. But I am learning, and I hope soon to be of real use, if only in little things. You know that I have begun to give a tea to the children every Wednesday? They’re not in need of food and comforts, I’m glad to say; nobody wants in New Wanley; but it’s nice to bring them together at the Manor, and teach them to behave gently to each other, and to sit properly at table, and things like that. Will you come and see them to-day?’

‘I shall be very pleased.’

‘To-day I’m going to begin something new. After tea we shall have a reading. Mr. Wyvern sent me a book this morning—“Andersen’s Fairy Tales.”’

‘Oh, I’ve read them. Yes, that’ll do nicely. Read them “The Ugly Duckling,” Adela; it’s a beautiful story. I thought perhaps you were going to read something—something instructive, you know.’

Adela laughed. It was Adela’s laugh still, but not what it used to be.

‘No, I want to amuse them. They get enough instruction in school. I hope soon to give another evening to the older girls. I wonder whether you would like to come and help me then?’

‘If only you would let me! There is nothing I should like more than to do something for you.’

‘But you mustn’t do it for me. It must be for the girls’ sake.’

‘Yes, for theirs as well, but ever so much more for yours, dear. You can’t think how glad I am that you have asked me.’

Again the little hand was put forward, and this time Adela took it. But she did not soften as she once would have done. With eyes still far away, she talked for some minutes of the hopes with which her life was filled. Frequently she made mention of her husband, and always as one to whom it was a privilege to devote herself. Her voice had little failings and uncertainties now and then, but this appeared to come of excessive feeling.

They rose and walked from the wood together.

‘Alfred wants us to go to Malvern for a fortnight,’ Letty said, when they were near the gates of the Manor. ‘We were wondering whether you could come, Adela?’

‘No, I can’t leave Wanley,’ was the reply. ‘My husband’—she never referred to Mutimer otherwise than by this name—‘spoke of the seaside the other day, but we decided not to go away at all. There is so much to be done.’

When Adela went to the drawing-room just before luncheon, she found Alice Mutimer engaged with a novel. Reading novels had become an absorbing occupation with Alice. She took them to bed with her so as to read late, and lay late in the morning for the same reason. She must have been one of Mr. Mudie’s most diligent subscribers. She had no taste for walking in the country, and could only occasionally be persuaded to take a drive. It was not surprising that her face had not quite the healthy colour of a year ago; there was negligence, too, in her dress, and she had grown addicted to recumbent attitudes. Between her and Adela no semblance of friendship had yet arisen, though the latter frequently sought to substitute a nearer relation for superficial friendliness. Alice never exhibited anything short of good-will, but her first impressions were lasting; she suspected her sister-in-law of a desire to patronise, and was determined to allow nothing of the kind. With a more decided character, Alice’s prepossessions would certainly have made life at the Manor anything but smooth; as it was, nothing ever occurred to make unpleasantness worth her while. Besides, when not buried in her novels, she gave herself up to absentmindedness; Adela found conversation with her almost impossible, for Alice would answer a remark with a smiling ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ and at once go off into dreamland, so that one hesitated to disturb her.

‘What time is it?’ she inquired, when she became aware of Adela moving about the room.

‘All but half-past one.’

‘Really? I suppose I must go and get ready for lunch. What a pity we can’t do without meals!’

‘You should go out in the morning and get an appetite. Really, you are getting very pale, Alice. I’m sure you read far too much.’

Adela had it on her lips to say ‘too many novels,’ but was afraid to administer a direct rebuke.

‘Oh, I like reading, and I don’t care a bit for going out.’

‘What about your practising?’ Adela asked, with a playful shake of the head.

‘Yes, I know it’s very neglectful, but really it is such awful work.’

‘And your French?’

‘I’ll make a beginning to-morrow. At least, I think I will. I don’t neglect things wilfully, but it’s so awfully hard to really get at it when the time comes.’

The luncheon-bell rang, and Alice, with a cry of dismay, sped to her room. She knew that her brother was to lunch at home to-day, and Richard was terrible in the matter of punctuality.

As Soon as the meal was over Alice hastened back to her low chair in the drawing-room. Richard and his wife went together into the garden.

‘What do you think Rodman’s been advising me this morning?’ Mutimer said, speaking with a cigar in his mouth. ‘It’s a queer idea; I don’t quite know what to think of it. You know there’ll be a general election some time next year, and he advises me to stand for Belwick.’

He did not look at his wife. Coming to a garden-seat, he put up one foot upon it, and brushed the cigar ash against the back. Adela sat down; she had not replied at once, and was thoughtful.

‘As a Socialist candidate?’ she asked, when at length he turned his eyes to her.

‘Well, I don’t know. Radical rather, I should think. It would come to the same thing, of course, and there’d be no use in spoiling the thing for the sake of a name.’

Adela had a Japanese fan in her hand; she put it against her forehead, and still seemed to consider.

‘Do you think you could find time for Parliament?’

‘That has to be thought of, of course; but by then I should think we might arrange it. There’s not much that Rodman can’t see to.’

‘You are inclined to think of it?’

Adela’s tone to her husband was not one of tenderness, but of studious regard and deference. She very seldom turned her eyes to his, but there was humility in her bent look. If ever he and she began to speak at the same time, she checked herself instantly, and Mutimer had no thought of giving her precedence. This behaviour in his wife struck him as altogether becoming.

‘I almost think I am,’ he replied. ‘I’ve a notion I could give them an idea or two at Westminster. It would be news to them to hear a man say what he really thinks.’

Adela smiled faintly, but said nothing.

‘Would you like me to be in Parliament?’ Richard asked, putting down his foot and leaning back his head a little.

‘Certainly, if you feel that it is a step gained.’

‘That’s just what I think it would be. Well, we must talk about it again. By-the-by, I’ve just had to send a fellow about his business.’

‘To discharge a man?’ Adela asked, with pain.

‘Yes. It’s that man Rendal; I was talking about him the other day, you remember. He’s been getting drunk; I’ll warrant it’s not the first time.’

‘And you really must send him away? Couldn’t you give him another chance?’

‘No. He was impudent to me, and I can’t allow that. He’ll have to go.’

Richard spoke with decision. When the fact of impudence was disclosed Adela felt that it was useless to plead. She looked at her fan and was sorrowful.

‘So you are going to read to the youngsters to-day?’ Mutimer recommenced.

‘Yes; Mr. Wyvern has given me a book that will do very well indeed.’

‘Oh, has he?’ said Richard doubtfully. ‘Is it a religious book? That kind of thing won’t do, you know.’

‘No, it isn’t religious at all. Only a book of fairy tales.’

‘Fairy tales!’ There was scorn in his way of repeating the words. ‘Couldn’t you find something useful? A history book, you know, or about animals, or something of that kind. We mustn’t encourage them in idle reading. And that reminds me of Alice. You really must get her away from those novels. I can’t make out what’s come to the girl. She seems to be going off her head. Did you notice at lunch?—she didn’t seem to understand what I said to her. Do try and persuade her to practise, if nothing else.’

‘I am afraid to do more than just advise in a pleasant way,’ said Adela.

‘Well, I shall lose my temper with her before long.’

‘How is Harry doing? ‘Adela asked, to pass over the difficult subject.

‘He’s an idle scamp! If some one ‘ud give him a good thrashing, that’s what he wants.’

‘Shall I ask him to dinner to-morrow?’

‘You can if you like, of course,’ Richard replied with hesitation. ‘I shouldn’t have thought you cared much about having him.’

‘Oh, I am always very glad to have him. I have meant to ask you to let him dine with us oftener. I am so afraid he should think we neglect him, and that would be sure to have a bad effect.’

Mutimer looked at her with satisfaction, and assented to her reasoning.

‘But about the fairy tales,’ Adela said presently, when Richard had finished his cigar and was about to return to the works. ‘Do you seriously object to them? Of course I could find another book.’

‘What do you think? I am rather surprised that Wyvern suggested reading of that kind; he generally has good ideas.’

‘I fancy he wished to give the children a better kind of amusement,’ said Adela, with hesitation.

‘A better kind, eh? Well, do as you like. I dare say it’s no great harm.’

‘But if you really—’

‘No, no; read the tales. I dare say they wouldn’t listen to a better book.’

It was not very encouraging, but Adela ventured to abide by the vicar’s choice. She went to her own sitting-room and sought the story that Letty had spoken of. From ‘The Ugly Duckling’ she was led on to the story of the mermaid, from that to the enchanted swans. The book had never been in her hands before, and the delight she received from it was of a kind quite new to her. She had to make an effort to close it and turn to her specified occupations. For Adela had so systematised her day that no minute’s margin was left for self-indulgence. Her reading was serious study. If ever she was tempted to throw open one of the volumes which Alice left about, a glance at the pages was enough to make her push it away as if it were impure. She had read very few stories of any kind, and of late had felt a strong inclination towards such literature; the spectacle of Alice’s day-long absorption was enough to excite her curiosity, even if there had not existed other reasons. But these longings for a world of romance she crushed down as unworthy of a woman to whom life had revealed its dread significances: and, though she but conjectured the matter and tone of the fiction Alice delighted in, instinctive fear would alone have restrained her from it. For pleasure in the ordinary sense she did not admit into her scheme of existence; the season for that had gone by. Henceforth she must think, and work, and pray. Therefore she had set herself gladly to learn German; it was a definite task to which such and such hours could be devoted, and the labour would strengthen her mini Her ignorance she represented as a great marsh which by toil had to be filled up and converted into solid ground. She had gone through the library catalogue and made a list of books which seemed needful to be read; and Mr. Wyvern had been of service in guiding her, as well as in lending volumes from his own shelves. The vicar, indeed, had surprised her by the zealous kindness with which he entered into all her plans; at first she had talked to him with apprehension, remembering that chance alone had prevented her from appealing to him to save her from this marriage. But Mr. Wyvern, with whose philosophy we have some acquaintance, exerted himself to make the best of the irremediable, and Adela already owed him much for his unobtrusive moral support. Even Mutimer was putting aside his suspicions and beginning to believe that the clergyman would have openly encouraged Socialism had his position allowed him to do so. He was glad to see his wife immersed in grave historical and scientific reading; he said to himself that in this way she would be delivered from her religious prejudices, and some day attain to ‘free thought.’ Adela as yet had no such end in view, but already she understood that her education, in the serious sense, was only now beginning. As a girl, her fate had been that of girls in general; when she could write without orthographical errors, and could play by rote a few pieces of pianoforte music, her education had been pronounced completed. In the profound moral revolution which her nature had recently undergone her intellect also shared; when the first numbing shock had spent itself, she felt the growth of an intellectual appetite formerly unknown. Resolutely setting herself to exalt her husband, she magnified his acquirements, and, as a duty, directed her mind to the things he deemed of importance. One of her impulses took the form of a hope which would have vastly amused Richard had he divined it. Adela secretly trusted that some day her knowledge might be sufficient to allow her to cope with her husband’s religious scepticism. It was significant that she could face in this way the great difficulty of her life; the stage at which it seemed sufficient to iterate creeds was already behind her. Probably Mr. Wyvern’ 5 conversation was not without its effect in aiding her to these larger views, but she never spoke to him on the subject directly. Her native dignity developed itself with her womanhood, and one of the characteristics of the new Adela was a reserve which at times seemed to indicate coldness or even spiritual pride.

The weather made it possible to spread the children’s tea in the open air. At four o’clock Letty came, and was quietly happy in being allowed to superintend one of the tables. Adela was already on affectionate terms with many of the little ones, though others regarded her with awe rather than warmth of confidence. This was strange, when we remember how childlike she had formerly been with children. But herein, too, there was a change; she could not now have caught up Letty’s little sister and trotted with her about the garden as she was used to do. She could no longer smile in the old simple, endearing way; it took some time before a child got accustomed to her eyes and lips. Her movements, though graceful as ever, were subdued to matronly gravity; never again would Adela turn and run down the hill, as after that meeting with Hubert Eldon. But her sweetness was in the end irresistible to all who came within the circle of its magic. You saw its influence in Letty, whose eyes seemed never at rest save when they were watching Adela, who sprang to her side with delight if the faintest sign did but summon her. You saw its influence, moreover, when, the tea over, the children ranged themselves on the lawn to hear her read. After the first few sentences, everywhere was profoundest attention; the music of her sweetly modulated voice, the art which she learnt only from nature, so allied themselves with the beauty of the pages she read that from beginning to end not a movement interrupted her.

Whilst she was reading a visitor presented himself at the Manor, and asked if Mrs. Mutimer was at home. The servant explained how and where Mrs. Mutimer was engaged, for the party was held in a quarter of the garden hidden from the approach to the front door.

‘Is Miss Mutimer within?’ was the visitor’s next inquiry.

Receiving an affirmative reply, he begged that Miss Mutimer might be informed of Mr. Keene’s desire to see her. And Mr. Keene was led to the drawing-room.

Alice was reposing on a couch; she did not trouble herself to rise when the visitor entered, but held a hand to him, at the same time scarcely suppressing a yawn. Novel reading has a tendency to produce this expression of weariness. Then she smiled, as one does in greeting an old acquaintance.

‘Who ever would have expected to see you!’ she began, drawing away her hand when it seemed to her that Mr. Keene had detained it quite long enough. ‘Does Dick expect you?’

‘Your brother does not expect me, Miss Mutimer,’ Keene replied. He invariably began conversation with her in a severely formal and respectful tone, and to-day there was melancholy in his voice.

‘You’ve just come on your own—because you thought you would?’

‘I have come because I could not help it, Miss Mutimer. It is more than a month since I had the happiness of seeing you.’

He stood by the couch, his body bent in deference, his eyes regarding her with melancholy homage.

‘Mrs. Mutimer has a tea-party of children from New Wanley,’ said Alice with a provoking smile. ‘Won’t you go and join them? She’s reading to them, I believe; no doubt it’s something that would do you good.’

‘Of course I will go if you send me. I would go anywhere at your command.’

‘Then please do. Turn to the right when you get out into the garden.’

Keene stood for an instant with his eyes on the ground, then sighed deeply—groaned, in fact—smote his breast, and marched towards the door like a soldier at drill. As soon as he had turned his back Alice gathered herself from the couch, and, as soon as she stood upright, called to him.

‘Mr. Keene!’

He halted and faced round.

‘You needn’t go unless you like, you know.’

He almost ran towards her.

‘Just ring the bell, will you? I want some tea, and I’ll give you a cup if you care for it.’

She took a seat, and indicated with a finger the place where he might repose. It was at a three yards’ distance. Then they talked as they were wont to, with much coquetry on Alice’s side, and on Keene’s always humble submissiveness tempered with glances and sighs. They drank tea, and Keene used the opportunity of putting down his cup to take a nearer seat.

‘Miss Mutimer—’

‘Yes?’

‘Is there any hope for me? You remember you said I was to wait a month, and I’ve waited longer.’

‘Yes, you have been very good,’ said Alice, smiling loftily.

‘Is there any hope for me?’ he repeated, with an air of encouragement.

‘Less than ever,’ was the girl’s reply, lightly given, indeed, but not to be mistaken for a jest.

‘You mean that? Come, now, you don’t really mean that? There must be, at all events, as much hope as before.’

‘There isn’t. There never was so little hope. There’s no hope at all, not a scrap!’

She pressed her lips and looked at him with a grave face. He too became grave, and in a changed way.

‘I am not to take this seriously?’ he asked with bated breath.

‘You are. There’s not one scrap of hope, and it’s better you should know it.’

‘Then—there—there must be somebody else?’ he groaned, his distress no longer humorous.

Alice continued to look him in the face for a moment, and at length nodded twice.

‘There is somebody else?’

She nodded three times.

‘Then I’ll go. Good-bye, Miss Mutimer. Yes, I’ll go.’

He did not offer to shake hands, but bowed and moved away dejectedly.

‘But you’re not going back to London?’ Alice asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You’d better not do that. They’ll know you’ve called. You’d far better stay and see Dick; don’t you think so?’

He shook his head and still moved towards the door.

‘Mr. Keene!’ Alice raised her voice. ‘Please do as I tell you. It isn’t my fault, and I don’t see why you should pay no heed to me all at once. Will you attend to me, Mr. Keene?’

‘What do you wish me to do?’ he asked, only half turning.

‘To go and see Mrs. Mutimer in the garden, and accept her invitation to dinner.’

‘I haven’t got a dress-suit,’ he groaned.

‘No matter. If you go away I’ll never speak to you again, and you know you wouldn’t like that.’

He gazed at her miserably—his face was one which lent itself to a miserable expression, and the venerable appearance of his frockcoat and light trousers filled in the picture of mishap.

‘Have you been joking with me?’

‘No, I’ve been telling you the truth. But that’s no reason why you should break loose all at once. Please do as I tell you; go to the garden now and stop to dinner. I am not accustomed to ask a thing twice.’

She was almost serious. Keene smiled in a sickly way, bowed, and went to do her bidding.