CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER IV.A Quiet Sunday Afternoon.To dissolve public report into its component parts is never a light task. Analysis, as a rule, reveals three constituents: truth, embroidery, and mere falsehood; but the proportions vary infinitely. Denborough, which went to bed, to a man, at ten o'clock, or so soon after as it reached home from the public house, said that the people at Littlehill sat up very late; this was truth, at least relative truth, and that is all we can expect here. It said that they habitually danced and sang the night through; this was embroidery; they had once danced and sung the night through, when Dale had a party from London. It said that orgies—if the meaning of its nods, winks, and smiles may be summarized—went on at Littlehill; this was falsehood. Dale and his friends amused themselves, and it must be allowed that their enjoyment was not marred, but rather increased, by the knowledge that they did not command the respect of Denborough. They had no friends there. Why should they care for Denborough's approval? Denborough's approval was naught, whereas Denborough's disapproval ministered to thepleasure most of us feel in giving gentle shocks to our neighbors' sense of propriety. No doubt an electric eel enjoys itself. But, after all, if the mere truth must be told, they were mild sinners at Littlehill, the leading spirits, Dale and Arthur Angell, being indeed young men whose antinomianism found a harmless issue in ink, and whose lawlessness was best expressed in meter. A cynic once married his daughter to a professed atheist, on the ground that the man could not afford to be other than an exemplary husband and father. Poets are not trammeled so tight as that, for, as Mrs. Delane remarked, there was Byron, and perhaps one or two more; yet, for the most part, she who marries a poet has nothing worse than nerves to fear. But a little lawlessness will go a long way in the right place,—for example, lawn-tennis on Sunday in the suburbs,—and the Littlehill party extorted a gratifying meed of curiosity and frowns, which were not entirely undeserved by some of their doings, and were more than deserved by what was told of their doings.After luncheon on Sunday, Mr. Delane had a nap, as his commendable custom was. Then he took his hat and stick and set out for Littlehill. The Grange park stretches to the outskirts of the town, and borders in part on the grounds of Littlehill, so that the Squire had a pleasant walk under the cool shade of his own immemorial elms, and enjoyed the satisfaction of inspecting his own most excellent shorthorns. Reflecting on the elms and the shorthorns, and on the house, the acres, and the family thatwere his, he admitted that he had been born to advantages and opportunities such as fell to the lot of a few men; and, inspired to charity by the distant church-bell sounding over the meadows, he acknowledged a corresponding duty of lenient judgment in respect of the less fortunate. Thus he arrived at Littlehill in a tolerant temper, and contented himself with an indulgent shake of the head when he saw the gravel fresh marked with horses' hoofs."Been riding instead of going to church, the young rascals," he said to himself, as he rang the bell.A small, shrewd-faced man opened the door and ushered Mr. Delane into the hall. Then he stopped."If you go straight on, sir," said he, "through that baize door, and across the passage, and through the opposite door, you will find Mr. Bannister."Mr. Delane's face expressed surprise."Mr. Bannister, sir," the man explained, "don't like visitors being announced, sir. If you would be so kind as walk in——"It was a harmless whim, and the Squire nodded assent. He passed through the baize door, crossed the passage, and paused before opening the opposite door. The sounds which came from behind it arrested his attention. To the accompaniment of a gentle drumming noise, as if of sticks or umbrellas bumped against the floor, a voice was declaiming, or rather chanting, poetry. The voice rose and fell, and Mr. Delane could not distinguishthe words, until it burst forth triumphantly with the lines:"Love grows hate for love's sake, life takes death for guide;Night hath none but one red star—Tyrannicide.""Good gracious!" said Mr. Delane.The voice dropped again for a few moments, then it hurled out:"Down the way of Tsars awhile in vain deferred,Bid the Second Alexander light the Third.How for shame shall men rebuke them? how may weBlame, whose fathers died and slew, to leave us free?"The voice was interrupted and drowned by the crash of the pianoforte, struck with remorseless force, and another voice, the voice of a woman, cried, rising even above the crash:"Now, one of your own, Dale.""I think I'd better go in," thought Mr. Delane, and he knocked loudly at the door.He was bidden to enter by the former of the two voices, and, going in, found himself in a billiard room. Five or six people sat round the wall on settees, each holding a cue, with which they were still gently strumming on the floor. A stout, elderly woman was at the piano, and a young man sat cross-legged in the middle of the billiard-table, with a book in one hand and a cigar in the other. There was a good deal of tobacco smoke in the room, and Mr. Delane did not at first distinguish the faces of the company.The young man on the table uncoiled himself with great agility, jumped down, and came forwardto meet the newcomer with outstretched hands. As he outstretched them, he dropped the book and the cigar to the ground on either side of him."Ah, here you are! Delightful of you to come!" he cried. "Now, let me guess you!""Mr. Bannister?—Have I the pleasure?""Yes, yes. Now let's see—don't tell me your name."He drew back a step, surveyed Mr. Delane's portly figure, his dignified carriage, his plain solid watch-chain, his square-toed strong boots."The Squire!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Delane, isn't it?""I am Mr. Delane.""Good! You don't mind being guessed, do you? It's so much more amusing. What will you have?""Thank you, I've lunched, Mr. Bannister.""Have you? We've just breakfasted—had a ride before, you know. But I must introduce you."He searched the floor, picked up the cigar, looked at it regretfully, and threw it out of an open window."This," he resumed, waving his hand toward the piano, "is Mrs. Ernest Hodge. This is Miss Fane, Mrs. Hodge's daughter—no, not by a first marriage; everybody suggests that. Professional name, you know—she sings. Hodge really wouldn't do, would it, Mrs. Hodge? This is Philip Hume. This is Arthur Angell, who writes verses—like me. This is—but I expect you know these gentlemen?"Mr. Delane peered through the smoke which Philip Hume was producing from a long pipe, and to his amazement discerned three familiar faces: those of Dr. Roberts, the Mayor, and Alderman Johnstone. The Doctor was flushed and looked excited; the Mayor was a picture of dignified complacency; Johnstone appeared embarrassed and uncomfortable, for his bald head was embellished with a flowery garland. Dale saw Mr. Delane's eyes rest on this article."We always crown anybody who adds to our knowledge," he explained. "He gets a wreath of honor. The Alderman added to our knowledge of the expense of building a room. So Miss Fane crowned him."An appreciative chuckle from the Mayor followed this explanation; he knocked the butt of his cue against the floor, and winked at Philip Hume.The last-named, seeing that Mr. Delane was somewhat surprised at the company, came up to him and said:"Come and sit down; Dale never remembers that anybody wants a seat. Here's an armchair."Mr. Delane sat down next to Miss Fane, and noticed, even in his perturbation, that his neighbor was a remarkably pretty girl, with fair hair clustering in a thick mass on the nape of her neck, and large blue eyes which left gazing on Dale Bannister when their owner turned to greet him. Mr. Delane would have enjoyed talking to her, had not his soul been vexed at the presence of the three Denborough men.One did not expect to meet the tradesmen of the town; and what business had the Doctor there? To spend Sunday in that fashion would not increase his popularity or his practice. And then that nonsense about the wreath! How undignified it was! it was even worse than yelling out Nihilistic verses by way of Sabbath amusement."I shall get away as soon as I can," he thought, "and I shall say a word to the Doctor."He was called from his meditations by Miss Fane. She sat in a low chair with her feet on a stool, and now, tilting the chair back, she fixed her eyes on Mr. Delane, and asked:"Are you shocked?"No man likes to admit that he is shocked."I am not, but many people would be.""I suppose you don't like meeting those men?""Hedger is an honest man in his way of life. I have no great opinion of Johnstone.""This is your house, isn't it?""Yes.""All the houses about here are yours, aren't they?""Most of them are, Miss Fane.""Then you are a great man?"The question was put so simply that Mr. Delane could not suspect a sarcastic intent."Only locally," he answered, smiling."Have you any daughters?" she asked."Yes; one.""What is she like?""Fancy asking her father! I think Janet a beauty.""Fair or dark?""Dark.""Dale likes dark girls. Tall or short?""Tall.""Good eyes?""I like them.""Oh, that'll do. Dale will like her;" and Miss Fane nodded reassuringly. Mr. Delane had not the heart to intimate his indifference to Dale Bannister's opinion of his daughter."Do you know this country?" he asked, by way of conversation."We've only been here a week, but we've ridden a good deal. We hold Dale on, you know.""You are on a visit to Mr. Bannister?""Oh, yes, mother and I are here."Mr. Delane could not help wondering whether their presence was such a matter of course as her tone implied, but before he could probe the matter further, he heard Dale exclaim:"Oh, it's a wretched thing! Read it yourself, Roberts.""Mount him on the rostrum," cried the young man who had been presented to Mr. Delane as Arthur Angell, and who had hitherto been engaged in an animated discussion with the Doctor.Laughing, and only half resisting, the Doctor allowing himself to be hoisted on to the billiard-table, sat down, and announced in a loud voice:"'Blood for Blood': by Dale Bannister."The poem which bore this alarming title was perhaps the most outrageous of the author's works. It held up to ridicule and devoted to damnation every person and every institution which the Squire respected and worshiped. And the misguided young man declaimed it with sparkling eyes and emphasizing gestures, as though every wicked word of it were gospel. And to this man's charge were committed the wives and families of the citizens of Denborough! The Squire's self-respect demanded a protest. He rose with dignity, and went up to his host."Good-by, Mr. Bannister.""What? you're not going yet? What? Does this stuff bore you?""It does not bore me. But I must add—excuse an old-fashioned fellow—that it does something worse.""What? Oh, you're on the other side? Of course you are!""Whatever side I was, I could not listen to that. As an older man, let me give you a word of advice."Dale lifted his hands in good-humored protest."Sorry you don't like it," he said. "Shut up, Roberts! If I'd known, we wouldn't have had it. But it's true—true—true."The Doctor listened with sparkling eyes."I must differ utterly; I must indeed. Good-by, Mr. Bannister. Hedger?"The Mayor started."I am walking into the town. Come with me."The Mayor wavered. The Squire stood and waited for him."I didn't think of goin' yet, Mr. Delane, sir."Dale watched the encounter with a smile."Your wife will expect you," said the Squire. "Come along."The Mayor rose, ignoring Johnstone's grin and the amusement on the faces of the company."I'll come and look you up," said Dale, pressing the Squire's hand warmly. "Oh, it's all right. Tastes differ. I'm not offended. I'll come some day this week."He showed them out, and, returning, said to the Doctor, "Roberts, you'll get into trouble.""Nonsense!" said the Doctor. "What business is it of his?"Dale had turned to Johnstone."Good-by," said he abruptly. "We close at five.""I've 'ad a pleasant afternoon, sir.""It will be deducted from your bill," answered Dale.After ejecting Johnstone, he stood by the table, looking moodily at the floor."What's the matter, Dale?" asked Miss Fane."I suppose he thought we were beasts or lunatics.""Probably," said Philip Hume. "What then?""Well, yes," answered Dale, smiling again. "You're quite right, Phil. What then?"

A Quiet Sunday Afternoon.

To dissolve public report into its component parts is never a light task. Analysis, as a rule, reveals three constituents: truth, embroidery, and mere falsehood; but the proportions vary infinitely. Denborough, which went to bed, to a man, at ten o'clock, or so soon after as it reached home from the public house, said that the people at Littlehill sat up very late; this was truth, at least relative truth, and that is all we can expect here. It said that they habitually danced and sang the night through; this was embroidery; they had once danced and sung the night through, when Dale had a party from London. It said that orgies—if the meaning of its nods, winks, and smiles may be summarized—went on at Littlehill; this was falsehood. Dale and his friends amused themselves, and it must be allowed that their enjoyment was not marred, but rather increased, by the knowledge that they did not command the respect of Denborough. They had no friends there. Why should they care for Denborough's approval? Denborough's approval was naught, whereas Denborough's disapproval ministered to thepleasure most of us feel in giving gentle shocks to our neighbors' sense of propriety. No doubt an electric eel enjoys itself. But, after all, if the mere truth must be told, they were mild sinners at Littlehill, the leading spirits, Dale and Arthur Angell, being indeed young men whose antinomianism found a harmless issue in ink, and whose lawlessness was best expressed in meter. A cynic once married his daughter to a professed atheist, on the ground that the man could not afford to be other than an exemplary husband and father. Poets are not trammeled so tight as that, for, as Mrs. Delane remarked, there was Byron, and perhaps one or two more; yet, for the most part, she who marries a poet has nothing worse than nerves to fear. But a little lawlessness will go a long way in the right place,—for example, lawn-tennis on Sunday in the suburbs,—and the Littlehill party extorted a gratifying meed of curiosity and frowns, which were not entirely undeserved by some of their doings, and were more than deserved by what was told of their doings.

After luncheon on Sunday, Mr. Delane had a nap, as his commendable custom was. Then he took his hat and stick and set out for Littlehill. The Grange park stretches to the outskirts of the town, and borders in part on the grounds of Littlehill, so that the Squire had a pleasant walk under the cool shade of his own immemorial elms, and enjoyed the satisfaction of inspecting his own most excellent shorthorns. Reflecting on the elms and the shorthorns, and on the house, the acres, and the family thatwere his, he admitted that he had been born to advantages and opportunities such as fell to the lot of a few men; and, inspired to charity by the distant church-bell sounding over the meadows, he acknowledged a corresponding duty of lenient judgment in respect of the less fortunate. Thus he arrived at Littlehill in a tolerant temper, and contented himself with an indulgent shake of the head when he saw the gravel fresh marked with horses' hoofs.

"Been riding instead of going to church, the young rascals," he said to himself, as he rang the bell.

A small, shrewd-faced man opened the door and ushered Mr. Delane into the hall. Then he stopped.

"If you go straight on, sir," said he, "through that baize door, and across the passage, and through the opposite door, you will find Mr. Bannister."

Mr. Delane's face expressed surprise.

"Mr. Bannister, sir," the man explained, "don't like visitors being announced, sir. If you would be so kind as walk in——"

It was a harmless whim, and the Squire nodded assent. He passed through the baize door, crossed the passage, and paused before opening the opposite door. The sounds which came from behind it arrested his attention. To the accompaniment of a gentle drumming noise, as if of sticks or umbrellas bumped against the floor, a voice was declaiming, or rather chanting, poetry. The voice rose and fell, and Mr. Delane could not distinguishthe words, until it burst forth triumphantly with the lines:

"Love grows hate for love's sake, life takes death for guide;

Night hath none but one red star—Tyrannicide."

"Good gracious!" said Mr. Delane.

The voice dropped again for a few moments, then it hurled out:

"Down the way of Tsars awhile in vain deferred,

Bid the Second Alexander light the Third.

How for shame shall men rebuke them? how may we

Blame, whose fathers died and slew, to leave us free?"

The voice was interrupted and drowned by the crash of the pianoforte, struck with remorseless force, and another voice, the voice of a woman, cried, rising even above the crash:

"Now, one of your own, Dale."

"I think I'd better go in," thought Mr. Delane, and he knocked loudly at the door.

He was bidden to enter by the former of the two voices, and, going in, found himself in a billiard room. Five or six people sat round the wall on settees, each holding a cue, with which they were still gently strumming on the floor. A stout, elderly woman was at the piano, and a young man sat cross-legged in the middle of the billiard-table, with a book in one hand and a cigar in the other. There was a good deal of tobacco smoke in the room, and Mr. Delane did not at first distinguish the faces of the company.

The young man on the table uncoiled himself with great agility, jumped down, and came forwardto meet the newcomer with outstretched hands. As he outstretched them, he dropped the book and the cigar to the ground on either side of him.

"Ah, here you are! Delightful of you to come!" he cried. "Now, let me guess you!"

"Mr. Bannister?—Have I the pleasure?"

"Yes, yes. Now let's see—don't tell me your name."

He drew back a step, surveyed Mr. Delane's portly figure, his dignified carriage, his plain solid watch-chain, his square-toed strong boots.

"The Squire!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Delane, isn't it?"

"I am Mr. Delane."

"Good! You don't mind being guessed, do you? It's so much more amusing. What will you have?"

"Thank you, I've lunched, Mr. Bannister."

"Have you? We've just breakfasted—had a ride before, you know. But I must introduce you."

He searched the floor, picked up the cigar, looked at it regretfully, and threw it out of an open window.

"This," he resumed, waving his hand toward the piano, "is Mrs. Ernest Hodge. This is Miss Fane, Mrs. Hodge's daughter—no, not by a first marriage; everybody suggests that. Professional name, you know—she sings. Hodge really wouldn't do, would it, Mrs. Hodge? This is Philip Hume. This is Arthur Angell, who writes verses—like me. This is—but I expect you know these gentlemen?"

Mr. Delane peered through the smoke which Philip Hume was producing from a long pipe, and to his amazement discerned three familiar faces: those of Dr. Roberts, the Mayor, and Alderman Johnstone. The Doctor was flushed and looked excited; the Mayor was a picture of dignified complacency; Johnstone appeared embarrassed and uncomfortable, for his bald head was embellished with a flowery garland. Dale saw Mr. Delane's eyes rest on this article.

"We always crown anybody who adds to our knowledge," he explained. "He gets a wreath of honor. The Alderman added to our knowledge of the expense of building a room. So Miss Fane crowned him."

An appreciative chuckle from the Mayor followed this explanation; he knocked the butt of his cue against the floor, and winked at Philip Hume.

The last-named, seeing that Mr. Delane was somewhat surprised at the company, came up to him and said:

"Come and sit down; Dale never remembers that anybody wants a seat. Here's an armchair."

Mr. Delane sat down next to Miss Fane, and noticed, even in his perturbation, that his neighbor was a remarkably pretty girl, with fair hair clustering in a thick mass on the nape of her neck, and large blue eyes which left gazing on Dale Bannister when their owner turned to greet him. Mr. Delane would have enjoyed talking to her, had not his soul been vexed at the presence of the three Denborough men.One did not expect to meet the tradesmen of the town; and what business had the Doctor there? To spend Sunday in that fashion would not increase his popularity or his practice. And then that nonsense about the wreath! How undignified it was! it was even worse than yelling out Nihilistic verses by way of Sabbath amusement.

"I shall get away as soon as I can," he thought, "and I shall say a word to the Doctor."

He was called from his meditations by Miss Fane. She sat in a low chair with her feet on a stool, and now, tilting the chair back, she fixed her eyes on Mr. Delane, and asked:

"Are you shocked?"

No man likes to admit that he is shocked.

"I am not, but many people would be."

"I suppose you don't like meeting those men?"

"Hedger is an honest man in his way of life. I have no great opinion of Johnstone."

"This is your house, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"All the houses about here are yours, aren't they?"

"Most of them are, Miss Fane."

"Then you are a great man?"

The question was put so simply that Mr. Delane could not suspect a sarcastic intent.

"Only locally," he answered, smiling.

"Have you any daughters?" she asked.

"Yes; one."

"What is she like?"

"Fancy asking her father! I think Janet a beauty."

"Fair or dark?"

"Dark."

"Dale likes dark girls. Tall or short?"

"Tall."

"Good eyes?"

"I like them."

"Oh, that'll do. Dale will like her;" and Miss Fane nodded reassuringly. Mr. Delane had not the heart to intimate his indifference to Dale Bannister's opinion of his daughter.

"Do you know this country?" he asked, by way of conversation.

"We've only been here a week, but we've ridden a good deal. We hold Dale on, you know."

"You are on a visit to Mr. Bannister?"

"Oh, yes, mother and I are here."

Mr. Delane could not help wondering whether their presence was such a matter of course as her tone implied, but before he could probe the matter further, he heard Dale exclaim:

"Oh, it's a wretched thing! Read it yourself, Roberts."

"Mount him on the rostrum," cried the young man who had been presented to Mr. Delane as Arthur Angell, and who had hitherto been engaged in an animated discussion with the Doctor.

Laughing, and only half resisting, the Doctor allowing himself to be hoisted on to the billiard-table, sat down, and announced in a loud voice:

"'Blood for Blood': by Dale Bannister."

The poem which bore this alarming title was perhaps the most outrageous of the author's works. It held up to ridicule and devoted to damnation every person and every institution which the Squire respected and worshiped. And the misguided young man declaimed it with sparkling eyes and emphasizing gestures, as though every wicked word of it were gospel. And to this man's charge were committed the wives and families of the citizens of Denborough! The Squire's self-respect demanded a protest. He rose with dignity, and went up to his host.

"Good-by, Mr. Bannister."

"What? you're not going yet? What? Does this stuff bore you?"

"It does not bore me. But I must add—excuse an old-fashioned fellow—that it does something worse."

"What? Oh, you're on the other side? Of course you are!"

"Whatever side I was, I could not listen to that. As an older man, let me give you a word of advice."

Dale lifted his hands in good-humored protest.

"Sorry you don't like it," he said. "Shut up, Roberts! If I'd known, we wouldn't have had it. But it's true—true—true."

The Doctor listened with sparkling eyes.

"I must differ utterly; I must indeed. Good-by, Mr. Bannister. Hedger?"

The Mayor started.

"I am walking into the town. Come with me."

The Mayor wavered. The Squire stood and waited for him.

"I didn't think of goin' yet, Mr. Delane, sir."

Dale watched the encounter with a smile.

"Your wife will expect you," said the Squire. "Come along."

The Mayor rose, ignoring Johnstone's grin and the amusement on the faces of the company.

"I'll come and look you up," said Dale, pressing the Squire's hand warmly. "Oh, it's all right. Tastes differ. I'm not offended. I'll come some day this week."

He showed them out, and, returning, said to the Doctor, "Roberts, you'll get into trouble."

"Nonsense!" said the Doctor. "What business is it of his?"

Dale had turned to Johnstone.

"Good-by," said he abruptly. "We close at five."

"I've 'ad a pleasant afternoon, sir."

"It will be deducted from your bill," answered Dale.

After ejecting Johnstone, he stood by the table, looking moodily at the floor.

"What's the matter, Dale?" asked Miss Fane.

"I suppose he thought we were beasts or lunatics."

"Probably," said Philip Hume. "What then?"

"Well, yes," answered Dale, smiling again. "You're quite right, Phil. What then?"

CHAPTER V.The Necessary Scapegoat.If men never told their wives anything, the condition of society would no doubt be profoundly modified, though it is not easy to forecast the precise changes. If a guess may be hazarded, it is probable that much less good would be done, and some less evil said: the loss of matter of interest for half the world may be allowed to sway the balance in favor of the present practice—a practice so universal that Mr. Delane, the Mayor, and Alderman Johnstone, one and all, followed it by telling their wives about their Sunday afternoon at Littlehill. Dr. Roberts, it is true, gave a meager account to his wife, but the narratives of the other three amply filled the gaps he left, and, as each of them naturally dwelt on the most remarkable features of their entertainment, it may be supposed that the general impression produced in Market Denborough did not fall short of the truth in vividness of color. The facts as to what occurred have been set down without extenuation and without malice: the province of Market Denborough society was to supply the inferences arising therefrom, and this task it fulfilled with nogrudging hand. Before eight-and-forty hours had passed, there were reports that the Squire had discovered a full-blown Saturnalia in process at Littlehill—and that in these scandalous proceedings the Mayor, Alderman Johnstone, and Dr. Roberts were participators.Then ensued conduct on the part of the Mayor and the Alderman deserving of unmeasured scorn. They could not deny that dreadful things had been done and said, though they had not seen the deeds nor understood the words: their denial would have had no chance of credit. They could not venture to say that Squire Delane had done anything except manfully protest. They began by accusing one another in round terms, but each found himself so vulnerable that by an unholy tacit compact they agreed to exonerate one another. The Mayor allowed that Johnstone was not conspicuous in wickedness; Johnstone admitted that the Mayor had erred, if at all, only through weakness and good-nature. Public opinion demanded a sacrifice; and the Doctor was left to satisfy it. Everybody was of one mind in holding that Dr. Roberts had disgraced himself, and nobody was surprised to hear that the Squire's phaeton had been seen standing at his door for half an hour on Wednesday morning. The Squire was within, and was understood to be giving the Doctor a piece of his mind.The Doctor was stiff-necked."It is entirely a private matter," said he, "and no one has a right to dictate to me.""My dear Roberts, I spoke merely in yourown interest. It would ruin you if it became known that you held those atrocious opinions; and become known it must, if you openly ally yourself with this young man.""I am not the servant of the people I attend. I may choose my own opinions.""Yes, and they may choose their own doctor," retorted the Squire.The two parted, almost quarreling. Perhaps they would have quite quarreled had not the Squire thought of Mrs. Roberts and the baby. He wondered that the Doctor did not think of them, too, but he seemed to Mr. Delane to be under such a spell that he thought of nothing but Dale Bannister. It was not as if Roberts were the only medical man in the place. There was young Doctor Spink—and he was a real M. D.—up the street, ready and eager to snap up stray patients. And Doctor Spink was a churchwarden. The Squire did not like him overmuch, but he found himself thinking whether it would not be well to send for him next time there was a case of illness at the Grange.The Squire meditated, while others acted. On her walk the same afternoon, Ethel Roberts heard news which perturbed her. The Vicar's wife was ill and Dr. Spink had been sent for. The Vicar was a well-to-do man. He had a large family, which yet grew. He had been a constant and a valuable client of her husband's. And now Dr. Spink was sent for."Jim," she said, "did you know that Mrs. Gilkison was ill?""Ill?" said the Doctor, looking up from "Sluggards." "No, I've heard nothing of it."She came and leaned over his chair."They've sent for Dr. Spink," she said."What?" he exclaimed, dropping his beloved volume."Mrs. Hedger told me.""Well, they can do as they like. I suppose his 'Doctor' is the attraction.""Do you think it's that, dear?""What else can it be?—unless it's a mere freak.""Well, Jim, I thought—I thought perhaps that the Vicar had heard about—about—Littlehill. Yes, I know it's very stupid and narrow, dear—but still——"The Doctor swore under his breath."I can't help it if the man's an ass," he said.Ethel smiled patiently."It's a pity to offend people, Jim, dear, isn't it?""Are you against me too, Ethel?""Against you? You know I never would be, but——""Then do let us leave Denborough gossip alone. Fancy Denborough taking on itself to disapprove of Dale Bannister! It's too rich!"Ethel sighed. Denborough's disapproval was no doubt a matter of indifference to Dale Bannister: it meant loss of bread and butter to James Roberts and his house.Meanwhile Dale Bannister, all unconscious of the dread determinations of the Vicar, pursued his way in cheerful unconcern. People cameand went. Arthur Angell returned to his haunts rather dissatisfied with the quiet of Littlehill, but rejoicing to have found in the Doctor one thorough-going believer. Mrs. Hodge, her daughter, and Philip Hume seemed to be permanent parts of the household. Riding was their chief amusement. They would pass down High Street, Dale on his ancient mare, with Nellie and Philip by his side, laughing and talking merrily, Dale's own voice being very audible as he pointed out, with amusement a trifle too obvious to be polite, what struck him as remarkable in Denborough ways of life.Philip, however, whom Mr. Delane had described to his wife as the only apparently sane person at Littlehill, was rather uneasy in his mind about Roberts."You'll get that fellow disliked, Dale," he said one morning, "if you don't take care.""I? What have I to do with it?" asked Dale."They'll think him unsafe, if they see him with you.""He needn't come unless he likes. He's not a bad fellow, only he takes everything so precious seriously.""He thinks you do, judging by your books.""Oh, I do by fits. By the way, I have a fit now! Behold, I will write! Nellie! Where's Nellie?"Nellie Fane came at his call."Sit down just opposite me, and look at me. I am going to write. The editor of theCynosurebegs for twenty lines—no more; twenty lines—fiftypounds! Now, Nellie, inspire me, and you shall have a new hat out of it. No, look at me!"Nellie sat down and gazed at him, obediently."Two pound ten a line; not bad for a young 'un," he pursued. "They say Byron wrote on gin and water. I write on your eyes, Nellie—much better.""You're not writing at all—only talking nonsense.""I'm just beginning.""Look here, Dale, why don't you keep the Doctor——" began Philip."Oh, hang the Doctor! I'd just got an idea. Look at me, Nellie!"Philip shrugged his shoulders, and Dr. Roberts dropped out of discussion.The twenty lines were written, though they were never considered one of his masterpieces, then Dale rose with a sigh of relief."Now for lunch, and then I'm going to return Mr. Delane's call.""I thought we were to ride," said Nellie disappointedly."Well, won't you come?""Don't be absurd!""Mightn't she come, Phil?""Mrs. Delane has not called, has she?" inquired Philip, as though for information."Of course I shan't go, Dale. You must go alone.""What a nuisance! I shall have to walk. I daren't trust myself to that animal alone."After luncheon he started, walking by the same way by which Mr. Delane had come.He reached the lodge of the Grange; a courtesying child held open the gate, and he passed along under the immemorial elms, returning a cheery good-day to the gardeners, who paused in their work to touch their hats with friendly deference. The deference was wrong, of course, but the friendliness pleased him, and even the deference seemed somehow in keeping with the elms and with the sturdy old red-brick mansion, with its coat of arms and defiant Norman motto over the principal door. Littlehill was a pleasant house, but it had none of the ancient dignity of Dirkham, and Dale's quick brain was suddenly struck with a new understanding of how such places bred the men they did. He had had a fancy for a stay in the country; it would amuse him, he thought, to study country life; that was the meaning of his coming to Littlehill. Well, Dirkham summed up one side of country life, and he would be glad to study it.Mr. Delane was not at home—he had gone to Petty Sessions; and Dale, with regret, for he wanted to see the inside of the house, left his name—as usual he had forgotten to bring a card—and turned away. As he turned, a pony carriage drew up and a girl jumped out. Dale drew back to let her pass, raising his hat. The servant said a word to her, and when he had gone some ten or fifteen yards, he heard his name called."Oh, Mr. Bannister, do come in! I expect papa back every minute, and he will be so sorryto miss you. Mamma is up in London; but I hope you'll come in."Dale had no idea of refusing the invitation given so cordially. He had been sorry to go away before, and the sight of Janet Delane made him more reluctant still. He followed her into the oak-paneled hall, hung with pictures of dead Delanes and furnished with couches and easy-chairs."Well," she said, after tea was brought, "and what do you think of us?""I have not seen very much of you yet.""As far as you have gone? And be candid.""You are very restful."She made a little grimace."You mean very slow?""Indeed I don't! I think you very interesting.""You find us interesting, but slow. Yes, you meant that, Mr. Bannister, and it's not kind.""Have your revenge by telling me what you think of me.""Oh, we find you interesting, too. We're all talking about you.""And slow?""No, certainly not slow," she said, with a smile and a glance: the glance should be described, if it were describable, but it was not.Dale, however, understood it, for he replied, laughing:"They've been prejudicing you against me.""I don't despair of you. I think you may be reformed. But I'm afraid you're very bad just now.""Why do you think that? From what your father said?""Partly. Partly also because Colonel Smith and Tora—do you know them?—are so enthusiastic about you.""Is that a bad sign?""Terrible. They are quite revolutionary. So are you, aren't you?""Not in private life.""But of course," she asked, with serious eyes, "you believe what you write?""Well, I do; but you pay writers a compliment by saying 'of course.'""Oh, I hope not! Anything is better than insincerity.""Even my opinions?""Yes. Opinions may be changed, but not natures, you know."She was still looking at him with serious, inquiring eyes. The eyes were very fine eyes. Perhaps that was the reason why Dale thought the last remark so excellent. He said nothing, and she went on:"People who are clever and—and great, you know, ought to be so careful that they are right, oughtn't they?""Oh, a rhymer rhymes as the fit takes him," answered he, with affected modesty."I wouldn't believe that of you. You wouldn't misuse your powers like that.""You have read my poetry?""Some of it." She paused and added, with a little blush for her companion: "There was some papa would not let me read."A man may not unreasonably write what a young girl's father may very reasonably not like her to read. Nevertheless, Dale Bannister felt rather uncomfortable."Those were the shocking political ones, I suppose?" he asked."No; I read most of those. These were against religion and——""Well?""Morality, papa said," she answered, with the same grave look of inquiry.Dale rose and held out his hand, saying petulantly:"Good-by, Miss Delane. You evidently don't think me fit to enter your house.""Oh, now I have made you angry. I have no right to speak about it, and, of course, I know nothing about it. Only——""Only what?""Some things are right and some are wrong, aren't they?""Oh, granted—if we could only agree which were which.""As to some we have been told. And I don't think that about you at all—I really don't. Do wait till papa comes."Dale sat down again. He had had his lecture; experience told him that a lecture from such lecturers is tolerably often followed by a petting, and the pettings were worth the lectures. In this instance he was disappointed. Janet did not pet him, though she displayed much friendliness, and he took his leave (for the Squire did not appear) feeling somewhat put out.Approbation and applause were dear to this man, who seemed to spend his energies in courting blame and distrust; whatever people thought of his writings, he wished them to be fascinated by him. He was not sure that he had fascinated Miss Delane."I should like to see more of her," he thought. "She's rather an odd girl."

The Necessary Scapegoat.

If men never told their wives anything, the condition of society would no doubt be profoundly modified, though it is not easy to forecast the precise changes. If a guess may be hazarded, it is probable that much less good would be done, and some less evil said: the loss of matter of interest for half the world may be allowed to sway the balance in favor of the present practice—a practice so universal that Mr. Delane, the Mayor, and Alderman Johnstone, one and all, followed it by telling their wives about their Sunday afternoon at Littlehill. Dr. Roberts, it is true, gave a meager account to his wife, but the narratives of the other three amply filled the gaps he left, and, as each of them naturally dwelt on the most remarkable features of their entertainment, it may be supposed that the general impression produced in Market Denborough did not fall short of the truth in vividness of color. The facts as to what occurred have been set down without extenuation and without malice: the province of Market Denborough society was to supply the inferences arising therefrom, and this task it fulfilled with nogrudging hand. Before eight-and-forty hours had passed, there were reports that the Squire had discovered a full-blown Saturnalia in process at Littlehill—and that in these scandalous proceedings the Mayor, Alderman Johnstone, and Dr. Roberts were participators.

Then ensued conduct on the part of the Mayor and the Alderman deserving of unmeasured scorn. They could not deny that dreadful things had been done and said, though they had not seen the deeds nor understood the words: their denial would have had no chance of credit. They could not venture to say that Squire Delane had done anything except manfully protest. They began by accusing one another in round terms, but each found himself so vulnerable that by an unholy tacit compact they agreed to exonerate one another. The Mayor allowed that Johnstone was not conspicuous in wickedness; Johnstone admitted that the Mayor had erred, if at all, only through weakness and good-nature. Public opinion demanded a sacrifice; and the Doctor was left to satisfy it. Everybody was of one mind in holding that Dr. Roberts had disgraced himself, and nobody was surprised to hear that the Squire's phaeton had been seen standing at his door for half an hour on Wednesday morning. The Squire was within, and was understood to be giving the Doctor a piece of his mind.

The Doctor was stiff-necked.

"It is entirely a private matter," said he, "and no one has a right to dictate to me."

"My dear Roberts, I spoke merely in yourown interest. It would ruin you if it became known that you held those atrocious opinions; and become known it must, if you openly ally yourself with this young man."

"I am not the servant of the people I attend. I may choose my own opinions."

"Yes, and they may choose their own doctor," retorted the Squire.

The two parted, almost quarreling. Perhaps they would have quite quarreled had not the Squire thought of Mrs. Roberts and the baby. He wondered that the Doctor did not think of them, too, but he seemed to Mr. Delane to be under such a spell that he thought of nothing but Dale Bannister. It was not as if Roberts were the only medical man in the place. There was young Doctor Spink—and he was a real M. D.—up the street, ready and eager to snap up stray patients. And Doctor Spink was a churchwarden. The Squire did not like him overmuch, but he found himself thinking whether it would not be well to send for him next time there was a case of illness at the Grange.

The Squire meditated, while others acted. On her walk the same afternoon, Ethel Roberts heard news which perturbed her. The Vicar's wife was ill and Dr. Spink had been sent for. The Vicar was a well-to-do man. He had a large family, which yet grew. He had been a constant and a valuable client of her husband's. And now Dr. Spink was sent for.

"Jim," she said, "did you know that Mrs. Gilkison was ill?"

"Ill?" said the Doctor, looking up from "Sluggards." "No, I've heard nothing of it."

She came and leaned over his chair.

"They've sent for Dr. Spink," she said.

"What?" he exclaimed, dropping his beloved volume.

"Mrs. Hedger told me."

"Well, they can do as they like. I suppose his 'Doctor' is the attraction."

"Do you think it's that, dear?"

"What else can it be?—unless it's a mere freak."

"Well, Jim, I thought—I thought perhaps that the Vicar had heard about—about—Littlehill. Yes, I know it's very stupid and narrow, dear—but still——"

The Doctor swore under his breath.

"I can't help it if the man's an ass," he said.

Ethel smiled patiently.

"It's a pity to offend people, Jim, dear, isn't it?"

"Are you against me too, Ethel?"

"Against you? You know I never would be, but——"

"Then do let us leave Denborough gossip alone. Fancy Denborough taking on itself to disapprove of Dale Bannister! It's too rich!"

Ethel sighed. Denborough's disapproval was no doubt a matter of indifference to Dale Bannister: it meant loss of bread and butter to James Roberts and his house.

Meanwhile Dale Bannister, all unconscious of the dread determinations of the Vicar, pursued his way in cheerful unconcern. People cameand went. Arthur Angell returned to his haunts rather dissatisfied with the quiet of Littlehill, but rejoicing to have found in the Doctor one thorough-going believer. Mrs. Hodge, her daughter, and Philip Hume seemed to be permanent parts of the household. Riding was their chief amusement. They would pass down High Street, Dale on his ancient mare, with Nellie and Philip by his side, laughing and talking merrily, Dale's own voice being very audible as he pointed out, with amusement a trifle too obvious to be polite, what struck him as remarkable in Denborough ways of life.

Philip, however, whom Mr. Delane had described to his wife as the only apparently sane person at Littlehill, was rather uneasy in his mind about Roberts.

"You'll get that fellow disliked, Dale," he said one morning, "if you don't take care."

"I? What have I to do with it?" asked Dale.

"They'll think him unsafe, if they see him with you."

"He needn't come unless he likes. He's not a bad fellow, only he takes everything so precious seriously."

"He thinks you do, judging by your books."

"Oh, I do by fits. By the way, I have a fit now! Behold, I will write! Nellie! Where's Nellie?"

Nellie Fane came at his call.

"Sit down just opposite me, and look at me. I am going to write. The editor of theCynosurebegs for twenty lines—no more; twenty lines—fiftypounds! Now, Nellie, inspire me, and you shall have a new hat out of it. No, look at me!"

Nellie sat down and gazed at him, obediently.

"Two pound ten a line; not bad for a young 'un," he pursued. "They say Byron wrote on gin and water. I write on your eyes, Nellie—much better."

"You're not writing at all—only talking nonsense."

"I'm just beginning."

"Look here, Dale, why don't you keep the Doctor——" began Philip.

"Oh, hang the Doctor! I'd just got an idea. Look at me, Nellie!"

Philip shrugged his shoulders, and Dr. Roberts dropped out of discussion.

The twenty lines were written, though they were never considered one of his masterpieces, then Dale rose with a sigh of relief.

"Now for lunch, and then I'm going to return Mr. Delane's call."

"I thought we were to ride," said Nellie disappointedly.

"Well, won't you come?"

"Don't be absurd!"

"Mightn't she come, Phil?"

"Mrs. Delane has not called, has she?" inquired Philip, as though for information.

"Of course I shan't go, Dale. You must go alone."

"What a nuisance! I shall have to walk. I daren't trust myself to that animal alone."

After luncheon he started, walking by the same way by which Mr. Delane had come.

He reached the lodge of the Grange; a courtesying child held open the gate, and he passed along under the immemorial elms, returning a cheery good-day to the gardeners, who paused in their work to touch their hats with friendly deference. The deference was wrong, of course, but the friendliness pleased him, and even the deference seemed somehow in keeping with the elms and with the sturdy old red-brick mansion, with its coat of arms and defiant Norman motto over the principal door. Littlehill was a pleasant house, but it had none of the ancient dignity of Dirkham, and Dale's quick brain was suddenly struck with a new understanding of how such places bred the men they did. He had had a fancy for a stay in the country; it would amuse him, he thought, to study country life; that was the meaning of his coming to Littlehill. Well, Dirkham summed up one side of country life, and he would be glad to study it.

Mr. Delane was not at home—he had gone to Petty Sessions; and Dale, with regret, for he wanted to see the inside of the house, left his name—as usual he had forgotten to bring a card—and turned away. As he turned, a pony carriage drew up and a girl jumped out. Dale drew back to let her pass, raising his hat. The servant said a word to her, and when he had gone some ten or fifteen yards, he heard his name called.

"Oh, Mr. Bannister, do come in! I expect papa back every minute, and he will be so sorryto miss you. Mamma is up in London; but I hope you'll come in."

Dale had no idea of refusing the invitation given so cordially. He had been sorry to go away before, and the sight of Janet Delane made him more reluctant still. He followed her into the oak-paneled hall, hung with pictures of dead Delanes and furnished with couches and easy-chairs.

"Well," she said, after tea was brought, "and what do you think of us?"

"I have not seen very much of you yet."

"As far as you have gone? And be candid."

"You are very restful."

She made a little grimace.

"You mean very slow?"

"Indeed I don't! I think you very interesting."

"You find us interesting, but slow. Yes, you meant that, Mr. Bannister, and it's not kind."

"Have your revenge by telling me what you think of me."

"Oh, we find you interesting, too. We're all talking about you."

"And slow?"

"No, certainly not slow," she said, with a smile and a glance: the glance should be described, if it were describable, but it was not.

Dale, however, understood it, for he replied, laughing:

"They've been prejudicing you against me."

"I don't despair of you. I think you may be reformed. But I'm afraid you're very bad just now."

"Why do you think that? From what your father said?"

"Partly. Partly also because Colonel Smith and Tora—do you know them?—are so enthusiastic about you."

"Is that a bad sign?"

"Terrible. They are quite revolutionary. So are you, aren't you?"

"Not in private life."

"But of course," she asked, with serious eyes, "you believe what you write?"

"Well, I do; but you pay writers a compliment by saying 'of course.'"

"Oh, I hope not! Anything is better than insincerity."

"Even my opinions?"

"Yes. Opinions may be changed, but not natures, you know."

She was still looking at him with serious, inquiring eyes. The eyes were very fine eyes. Perhaps that was the reason why Dale thought the last remark so excellent. He said nothing, and she went on:

"People who are clever and—and great, you know, ought to be so careful that they are right, oughtn't they?"

"Oh, a rhymer rhymes as the fit takes him," answered he, with affected modesty.

"I wouldn't believe that of you. You wouldn't misuse your powers like that."

"You have read my poetry?"

"Some of it." She paused and added, with a little blush for her companion: "There was some papa would not let me read."

A man may not unreasonably write what a young girl's father may very reasonably not like her to read. Nevertheless, Dale Bannister felt rather uncomfortable.

"Those were the shocking political ones, I suppose?" he asked.

"No; I read most of those. These were against religion and——"

"Well?"

"Morality, papa said," she answered, with the same grave look of inquiry.

Dale rose and held out his hand, saying petulantly:

"Good-by, Miss Delane. You evidently don't think me fit to enter your house."

"Oh, now I have made you angry. I have no right to speak about it, and, of course, I know nothing about it. Only——"

"Only what?"

"Some things are right and some are wrong, aren't they?"

"Oh, granted—if we could only agree which were which."

"As to some we have been told. And I don't think that about you at all—I really don't. Do wait till papa comes."

Dale sat down again. He had had his lecture; experience told him that a lecture from such lecturers is tolerably often followed by a petting, and the pettings were worth the lectures. In this instance he was disappointed. Janet did not pet him, though she displayed much friendliness, and he took his leave (for the Squire did not appear) feeling somewhat put out.

Approbation and applause were dear to this man, who seemed to spend his energies in courting blame and distrust; whatever people thought of his writings, he wished them to be fascinated by him. He was not sure that he had fascinated Miss Delane.

"I should like to see more of her," he thought. "She's rather an odd girl."

CHAPTER VI.Littlehill Goes into Society.Mr. Delane's late return from his public duties was attributable simply to Colonel Smith's obstinacy. He and the Colonel sat together on the bench, and very grievously did they quarrel over the case of a man who had been caught in the possession of the body of a fresh-killed hare. They differed first as to the policy of the law, secondly as to its application, thirdly as to its vindication; and when the Vicar of Denborough, who was a county justice and present with them, sided with the Squire on all these points, the Colonel angrily denounced the reverend gentleman as a disgrace, not only to the judicial bench, but even to his own cloth. All this took time, as did also the Colonel's cross-examination of the constable in charge of the case, and it was evening before the dispute was ended, and a fine imposed. The Colonel paid the fine, and thus everyone, including the law and the prisoner, was in the end satisfied.Mr. Delane and the Colonel, widely and fiercely as they differed on every subject under the sun, were very good friends, and they rode home together in the dusk of a Septemberevening, for their roads lay the same way for some distance. Presently they fell in with Sir Harry Fulmer, who had been to see Dale Bannister, and, in his absence, had spent the afternoon with Nellie Fane and Philip Hume."Hume's quite a good fellow," he declared; "quiet, you know, and rather sarcastic, but quite a gentleman. And Miss Fane—I say, have you seen her, Colonel?""By the way, who is Miss Fane?" asked the Squire."Oh, she acts, or sings, or something. Awfully jolly girl, and uncommon pretty. Don't you think so, Squire?""Yes, I did, Harry. But why is she staying there?""Really, Delane," said the Colonel, "what possible business is that of yours?""I've called on Bannister, and he's going to return my call. I think it's a good deal of business of mine.""Well!" exclaimed the Colonel; "for sheer uncharitableness and the thinking of all evil, give me a respectable Christian man like yourself, Delane.""Oh, it's all right," said Sir Harry cheerfully. "The old lady, Mrs. What's-her-name, is there.""I hope it is," said the Squire. "Bannister has himself to thank for any suspicions which may be aroused.""Suspicions? Bosh!" said the Colonel. "They are all coming to dine with me to-morrow. I met Bannister and asked him. Hesaid he had friends, and I told him to bring the lot. Will you and Mrs. Delane come, Squire?""My wife's away, thanks.""Then bring Janet.""Hum! I think I'll wait.""Oh, as you please. You'll come, Harry?"Sir Harry was delighted to come."Tora was most anxious to know them," the Colonel continued, "and I hate ceremonious ways. There'll be nobody else, except the Doctor and his wife.""You haven't asked Hedger and Johnstone, have you?" inquired the Squire. "They're friends of Bannister's. I met them at his house.""I haven't, but I don't know why I shouldn't.""Still you won't," said Sir Harry, with a laugh.The Colonel knew that he would not, and changed the subject."This is a great occasion," said Philip Hume at afternoon tea next day. "To-night we are to be received into county society.""Is Colonel Smith 'county society'?" asked Nellie."Yes. The Mayor told me so. The Colonel is a Radical, and a bad one at that, but the poor man comes of good family and is within the toils.""I expect he really likes it," said Nellie, "I should.""Are you nervous?" inquired Philip.Nellie laughed and colored."I really am a little. I hope I shall behave properly. Mother is in a dreadful state.""Where is Mrs. Hodge?""Putting some new lace on her gown.""And Dale?""He's writing. Mr. Hume, has he told you anything about his visit yesterday?""Yes. He says he met an angel.""Oh, that accounts for the title.""What title?""Why, I went and looked over his shoulder, and saw he was beginning some verses, headed, 'To a Pretty Saint.' I always look, you know, but this time he snatched the paper away.""'To a Pretty Saint'? Dear, dear! Perhaps he meant you, Nellie."Miss Fane shook her head."He meant Miss Delane, I'm sure," she said dolefully. "I hope Miss Smith is just exactly a county young lady—you know what I mean. I want to see one.""Do you contemplate remodeling yourself?""I'm sure Dale will like that sort of girl."Philip looked at her sideways. He thought of telling her that "county young ladies" did not proclaim all their thoughts. But then he reflected that he would not.The Littlehill party arrived at Mount Pleasant, the Colonel's residence, in the nick of time; and Mrs. Hodge sailed in to dinner on her host's arm in high good humor. Dale, as the great man and the stranger, escorted Tora,Philip Hume Mrs. Roberts, and Sir Harry fell to Nellie's lot.Mrs. Hodge was an amusing companion. She did not dally at the outworks of acquaintance, but closed at once into intimacy, and before half an hour was gone, she found herself trying hard not to call the Colonel "my dear," and to remember to employ the usual prefixes to the names of the company. The Colonel was delighted; was he at last escaping from the stifling prison of conventionality and breathing a freer air?Unhappily, just in proportion as good cheer and good fellowship put Mrs. Hodge at her ease, and made her more and more to the Colonel's taste, her daughter's smothered uneasiness grew more intense. Nellie had borne herself with an impossible dignity and distance of manner toward Sir Harry, in the fear lest Sir Harry should find her wanting in the characteristics of good society, and her frigidity was increased by her careful watch on her mother's conduct. Sir Harry was disappointed. As he could not sit by Tora Smith, he had consoled himself with the prospect of some fun with "little Miss Fane." And little Miss Fane held him at arms'-length. He determined to try to break down her guard."How did you manage to shock the Squire so?" he asked."Was he shocked? I didn't know.""You were there, weren't you?""Oh, yes. Well, I suppose it was Mr. Bannister's poetry.""Why should that shock him?" asked Sir Harry, who knew very well. "By Jove, I wish I could write some like it!"She turned to him with sudden interest."Do you admire Dale's writings?""Awfully," said Sir Harry. "Don't you?""Of courseIdo, but I didn't know whether you would. Do you know Miss Delane?""Yes, very well.""Do you like her?""Oh, yes. I have known her all my life, and I like her. She frightens me a little, you know.""Does she? How?""She expects such a lot of a fellow. Have you met her?""No. D—Mr. Bannister has. He likes her.""I expect she blew him up, didn't she?""Oh, I shouldn't think so. Dale wouldn't like that.""Depends how it's done," observed Sir Harry. "Don't you ever blow him up?""Of course not. I'm much too—I look up to him too much."They were interrupted by the Colonel's voice. He was saying, with much energy:"Ability we don't expect in a Government office, but honesty one might hope for.""Just what Hodge used to say of old Pratt," said Mrs. Hodge."I beg pardon?" said the Colonel."Pratt was his manager, you know—my husband's.""Oh, yes, of course.""Nellie, you remember your father throwingdown that two pound ten on the table, and saying, 'Well, I'm——'""No, mother, I don't. Do you think I could learn to hunt, Sir Harry?""Of course you could, in no time.""Does Miss Delane?""And Pratt said that if Hodge couldn't play the king at two pound ten a week,—though that's hard living, my dear,—I beg pardon—Colonel——"The Colonel bowed courteously. Nellie grew very red."Why, bantam-cocks had risen since his day, and that was all about it." And Mrs. Hodge emptied her glass and beamed pleasantly on the company.Suddenly Dale Bannister began to laugh gently. Tora Smith turned an inquiring look in his direction."What is it, Mr. Bannister?""I saw your father's butler looking at my friend Mrs. Hodge.""What nonsense! Simmons is not allowed to look at anyone.""Isn't he? Why not?""No good servant does."Dale smiled."I know what you mean," Tora continued; "but surely while they're actually waiting, Mr. Bannister, we can't treat them quite like ourselves? At any other time, of course——""You'd take a walk with them?""They'd be horribly uncomfortable if I did," she answered, laughing."That's the worst of it," said he."Do you think us great shams?""I have come to learn, not to criticise.""We want a leader," said Tora, with pretty earnestness."Haven't you one?""Sir Harry Fulmer is our leader, but we're not contented with him. He's a very mild Radical. Won't you come to our help?""I expect I should be too extreme the other way.""Oh, I love people who are extreme—in my direction, I mean.""Well, then, try the Doctor.""Mr. Roberts? Oh, he's hardly prominent enough; we must have somebody of position. Now, what are you laughing at, Mr. Bannister?"The gentleman to whom they referred sat looking on at them with no great pleasure, though they found one another entertaining enough to prevent them noticing him. Dale Bannister said that his new friend took life seriously, and the charge was too true for the Doctor's happiness. Dale Bannister had taken hold of his imagination. He expected Dale to do all he would give his life to see done, but could not do himself. The effect of Dale was to be instantaneous, enormous, transforming Denborough and its inhabitants. He regarded the poet much as a man might look upon a benevolent volcano, did such a thing exist in the order of nature. His function was, in the Doctor's eyes, to pour forth the burning lava of truth and justice, wherewith the ignorance,prejudice, and cruelty of the present order should be consumed and smothered; let the flood be copious, scorching, and unceasing! The Doctor could do little more than hail the blessed shower and declare its virtues; but that he was ready to do at any cost. And the volcano would not act! The eruptions were sadly intermittent. The hero, instead of going forth to war, was capering nimbly in a lady's chamber, to the lascivious pleasing of a lute; that is to say, he was talking trifles to Tora Smith, with apparent enjoyment, forgetful of his mission, ignoring the powers of darkness around. No light-spreading saying, no swordflash had come from him all the evening. He was fiddling while Rome was—waiting for the burning it needed so badly.Perhaps it was a woebegone look about the Doctor that made Philip Hume take the chair next him after dinner, while Dale was, still as if in play, emitting anarchist sparks for the Colonel's entertainment."Is it possible," asked the Doctor in low, half-angry tones, "that he thinks these people are any good—that they are sincere or thorough in the matter? He's wasting his time.""Well, well, my dear fellow, we must all dine, whatever our opinions.""Oh, yes; we must dine, while the world starves.""The bow can't be always stretched," said Philip, with a slight smile."You don't think, Hume, do you, that he's getting any less—less in earnest, you know?""Oh, he wrote a scorcher this very morning.""Did he? That's good news. Where is it to appear?""I don't know. He didn't write it on commission.""His poems have such magnificent restlessness, haven't they? I can't bear to see him idle.""Poor Dale! You must give him some holidays. He likes pleasure like the rest of us."The Doctor sighed impatiently, and Philip looking at him anxiously, laid a hand on his arm."Roberts," he said, "there is no need that you should be ground to powder.""I don't understand.""I hope you never will. Your wife doesn't look very strong. Why don't you give her a change?""A change? How am I to afford a change? Besides, who wants a change? What change do most workers get?""Hang most workers! Your wife wants a change.""I haven't got the money, anyhow.""Then there's an end of it."The Colonel rose, and they made for the drawing room.Philip detained his companion for a moment."Well?" said the Doctor, feeling the touch on his arm."For God's sake, old fellow, go slow," said Philip, pressing his arm, and looking at him with an appealing smile.

Littlehill Goes into Society.

Mr. Delane's late return from his public duties was attributable simply to Colonel Smith's obstinacy. He and the Colonel sat together on the bench, and very grievously did they quarrel over the case of a man who had been caught in the possession of the body of a fresh-killed hare. They differed first as to the policy of the law, secondly as to its application, thirdly as to its vindication; and when the Vicar of Denborough, who was a county justice and present with them, sided with the Squire on all these points, the Colonel angrily denounced the reverend gentleman as a disgrace, not only to the judicial bench, but even to his own cloth. All this took time, as did also the Colonel's cross-examination of the constable in charge of the case, and it was evening before the dispute was ended, and a fine imposed. The Colonel paid the fine, and thus everyone, including the law and the prisoner, was in the end satisfied.

Mr. Delane and the Colonel, widely and fiercely as they differed on every subject under the sun, were very good friends, and they rode home together in the dusk of a Septemberevening, for their roads lay the same way for some distance. Presently they fell in with Sir Harry Fulmer, who had been to see Dale Bannister, and, in his absence, had spent the afternoon with Nellie Fane and Philip Hume.

"Hume's quite a good fellow," he declared; "quiet, you know, and rather sarcastic, but quite a gentleman. And Miss Fane—I say, have you seen her, Colonel?"

"By the way, who is Miss Fane?" asked the Squire.

"Oh, she acts, or sings, or something. Awfully jolly girl, and uncommon pretty. Don't you think so, Squire?"

"Yes, I did, Harry. But why is she staying there?"

"Really, Delane," said the Colonel, "what possible business is that of yours?"

"I've called on Bannister, and he's going to return my call. I think it's a good deal of business of mine."

"Well!" exclaimed the Colonel; "for sheer uncharitableness and the thinking of all evil, give me a respectable Christian man like yourself, Delane."

"Oh, it's all right," said Sir Harry cheerfully. "The old lady, Mrs. What's-her-name, is there."

"I hope it is," said the Squire. "Bannister has himself to thank for any suspicions which may be aroused."

"Suspicions? Bosh!" said the Colonel. "They are all coming to dine with me to-morrow. I met Bannister and asked him. Hesaid he had friends, and I told him to bring the lot. Will you and Mrs. Delane come, Squire?"

"My wife's away, thanks."

"Then bring Janet."

"Hum! I think I'll wait."

"Oh, as you please. You'll come, Harry?"

Sir Harry was delighted to come.

"Tora was most anxious to know them," the Colonel continued, "and I hate ceremonious ways. There'll be nobody else, except the Doctor and his wife."

"You haven't asked Hedger and Johnstone, have you?" inquired the Squire. "They're friends of Bannister's. I met them at his house."

"I haven't, but I don't know why I shouldn't."

"Still you won't," said Sir Harry, with a laugh.

The Colonel knew that he would not, and changed the subject.

"This is a great occasion," said Philip Hume at afternoon tea next day. "To-night we are to be received into county society."

"Is Colonel Smith 'county society'?" asked Nellie.

"Yes. The Mayor told me so. The Colonel is a Radical, and a bad one at that, but the poor man comes of good family and is within the toils."

"I expect he really likes it," said Nellie, "I should."

"Are you nervous?" inquired Philip.

Nellie laughed and colored.

"I really am a little. I hope I shall behave properly. Mother is in a dreadful state."

"Where is Mrs. Hodge?"

"Putting some new lace on her gown."

"And Dale?"

"He's writing. Mr. Hume, has he told you anything about his visit yesterday?"

"Yes. He says he met an angel."

"Oh, that accounts for the title."

"What title?"

"Why, I went and looked over his shoulder, and saw he was beginning some verses, headed, 'To a Pretty Saint.' I always look, you know, but this time he snatched the paper away."

"'To a Pretty Saint'? Dear, dear! Perhaps he meant you, Nellie."

Miss Fane shook her head.

"He meant Miss Delane, I'm sure," she said dolefully. "I hope Miss Smith is just exactly a county young lady—you know what I mean. I want to see one."

"Do you contemplate remodeling yourself?"

"I'm sure Dale will like that sort of girl."

Philip looked at her sideways. He thought of telling her that "county young ladies" did not proclaim all their thoughts. But then he reflected that he would not.

The Littlehill party arrived at Mount Pleasant, the Colonel's residence, in the nick of time; and Mrs. Hodge sailed in to dinner on her host's arm in high good humor. Dale, as the great man and the stranger, escorted Tora,Philip Hume Mrs. Roberts, and Sir Harry fell to Nellie's lot.

Mrs. Hodge was an amusing companion. She did not dally at the outworks of acquaintance, but closed at once into intimacy, and before half an hour was gone, she found herself trying hard not to call the Colonel "my dear," and to remember to employ the usual prefixes to the names of the company. The Colonel was delighted; was he at last escaping from the stifling prison of conventionality and breathing a freer air?

Unhappily, just in proportion as good cheer and good fellowship put Mrs. Hodge at her ease, and made her more and more to the Colonel's taste, her daughter's smothered uneasiness grew more intense. Nellie had borne herself with an impossible dignity and distance of manner toward Sir Harry, in the fear lest Sir Harry should find her wanting in the characteristics of good society, and her frigidity was increased by her careful watch on her mother's conduct. Sir Harry was disappointed. As he could not sit by Tora Smith, he had consoled himself with the prospect of some fun with "little Miss Fane." And little Miss Fane held him at arms'-length. He determined to try to break down her guard.

"How did you manage to shock the Squire so?" he asked.

"Was he shocked? I didn't know."

"You were there, weren't you?"

"Oh, yes. Well, I suppose it was Mr. Bannister's poetry."

"Why should that shock him?" asked Sir Harry, who knew very well. "By Jove, I wish I could write some like it!"

She turned to him with sudden interest.

"Do you admire Dale's writings?"

"Awfully," said Sir Harry. "Don't you?"

"Of courseIdo, but I didn't know whether you would. Do you know Miss Delane?"

"Yes, very well."

"Do you like her?"

"Oh, yes. I have known her all my life, and I like her. She frightens me a little, you know."

"Does she? How?"

"She expects such a lot of a fellow. Have you met her?"

"No. D—Mr. Bannister has. He likes her."

"I expect she blew him up, didn't she?"

"Oh, I shouldn't think so. Dale wouldn't like that."

"Depends how it's done," observed Sir Harry. "Don't you ever blow him up?"

"Of course not. I'm much too—I look up to him too much."

They were interrupted by the Colonel's voice. He was saying, with much energy:

"Ability we don't expect in a Government office, but honesty one might hope for."

"Just what Hodge used to say of old Pratt," said Mrs. Hodge.

"I beg pardon?" said the Colonel.

"Pratt was his manager, you know—my husband's."

"Oh, yes, of course."

"Nellie, you remember your father throwingdown that two pound ten on the table, and saying, 'Well, I'm——'"

"No, mother, I don't. Do you think I could learn to hunt, Sir Harry?"

"Of course you could, in no time."

"Does Miss Delane?"

"And Pratt said that if Hodge couldn't play the king at two pound ten a week,—though that's hard living, my dear,—I beg pardon—Colonel——"

The Colonel bowed courteously. Nellie grew very red.

"Why, bantam-cocks had risen since his day, and that was all about it." And Mrs. Hodge emptied her glass and beamed pleasantly on the company.

Suddenly Dale Bannister began to laugh gently. Tora Smith turned an inquiring look in his direction.

"What is it, Mr. Bannister?"

"I saw your father's butler looking at my friend Mrs. Hodge."

"What nonsense! Simmons is not allowed to look at anyone."

"Isn't he? Why not?"

"No good servant does."

Dale smiled.

"I know what you mean," Tora continued; "but surely while they're actually waiting, Mr. Bannister, we can't treat them quite like ourselves? At any other time, of course——"

"You'd take a walk with them?"

"They'd be horribly uncomfortable if I did," she answered, laughing.

"That's the worst of it," said he.

"Do you think us great shams?"

"I have come to learn, not to criticise."

"We want a leader," said Tora, with pretty earnestness.

"Haven't you one?"

"Sir Harry Fulmer is our leader, but we're not contented with him. He's a very mild Radical. Won't you come to our help?"

"I expect I should be too extreme the other way."

"Oh, I love people who are extreme—in my direction, I mean."

"Well, then, try the Doctor."

"Mr. Roberts? Oh, he's hardly prominent enough; we must have somebody of position. Now, what are you laughing at, Mr. Bannister?"

The gentleman to whom they referred sat looking on at them with no great pleasure, though they found one another entertaining enough to prevent them noticing him. Dale Bannister said that his new friend took life seriously, and the charge was too true for the Doctor's happiness. Dale Bannister had taken hold of his imagination. He expected Dale to do all he would give his life to see done, but could not do himself. The effect of Dale was to be instantaneous, enormous, transforming Denborough and its inhabitants. He regarded the poet much as a man might look upon a benevolent volcano, did such a thing exist in the order of nature. His function was, in the Doctor's eyes, to pour forth the burning lava of truth and justice, wherewith the ignorance,prejudice, and cruelty of the present order should be consumed and smothered; let the flood be copious, scorching, and unceasing! The Doctor could do little more than hail the blessed shower and declare its virtues; but that he was ready to do at any cost. And the volcano would not act! The eruptions were sadly intermittent. The hero, instead of going forth to war, was capering nimbly in a lady's chamber, to the lascivious pleasing of a lute; that is to say, he was talking trifles to Tora Smith, with apparent enjoyment, forgetful of his mission, ignoring the powers of darkness around. No light-spreading saying, no swordflash had come from him all the evening. He was fiddling while Rome was—waiting for the burning it needed so badly.

Perhaps it was a woebegone look about the Doctor that made Philip Hume take the chair next him after dinner, while Dale was, still as if in play, emitting anarchist sparks for the Colonel's entertainment.

"Is it possible," asked the Doctor in low, half-angry tones, "that he thinks these people are any good—that they are sincere or thorough in the matter? He's wasting his time."

"Well, well, my dear fellow, we must all dine, whatever our opinions."

"Oh, yes; we must dine, while the world starves."

"The bow can't be always stretched," said Philip, with a slight smile.

"You don't think, Hume, do you, that he's getting any less—less in earnest, you know?"

"Oh, he wrote a scorcher this very morning."

"Did he? That's good news. Where is it to appear?"

"I don't know. He didn't write it on commission."

"His poems have such magnificent restlessness, haven't they? I can't bear to see him idle."

"Poor Dale! You must give him some holidays. He likes pleasure like the rest of us."

The Doctor sighed impatiently, and Philip looking at him anxiously, laid a hand on his arm.

"Roberts," he said, "there is no need that you should be ground to powder."

"I don't understand."

"I hope you never will. Your wife doesn't look very strong. Why don't you give her a change?"

"A change? How am I to afford a change? Besides, who wants a change? What change do most workers get?"

"Hang most workers! Your wife wants a change."

"I haven't got the money, anyhow."

"Then there's an end of it."

The Colonel rose, and they made for the drawing room.

Philip detained his companion for a moment.

"Well?" said the Doctor, feeling the touch on his arm.

"For God's sake, old fellow, go slow," said Philip, pressing his arm, and looking at him with an appealing smile.

CHAPTER VII."To a Pretty Saint."When Mrs. Delane came back from London, she was met with a question of the precise kind on which she felt herself to be no mean authority. It was a problem of propriety, of etiquette, and of the usages of society, and Mrs. Delane attacked it with a due sense of its importance and with the pleasure of an expert. It arose out of Dale Bannister's call at the Grange. Dale had been accustomed, when a lady found favor in his eyes, to inform her of the gratifying news through the medium of a set of verses, more or less enthusiastic and rhapsodic in their nature. The impulse to follow his usual practice was strong on him after meeting Janet Delane, and issued in the composition of that poem called "To a Pretty Saint," the title of which Nellie had seen. He copied it out fair, and was about to put it in the post when a thought suddenly struck him. Miss Delane was not quite like most of his acquaintances. It was perhaps possible that she might think his action premature, or even impertinent, and that she might deem it incumbent on her to resent being called either a saint or pretty by a friend of one interview'sstanding. Dale was divided between his newborn doubt of his own instinct of what was permissible and his great reluctance to doom his work to suppression. He decided to consult Philip Hume, who was, as he knew, more habituated to the social atmosphere of places like Denshire."Eh? what?" said Philip, who was busily engaged in writing a newspaper article. "Written a poem to a girl? All right. I'll listen presently.""I don't want you to listen. I want your advice as to whether to send it or not.""If you've wasted your time writing the thing,—by the way, take care the Doctor doesn't hear of it,—you may as well send it.""The question is, whether she'll be offended.""I'm glad it isn't more important, because I'm busy.""Look here! Stop that anonymous stabber of yours and listen. It's to Miss Delane."Philip stopped in the middle of a particularly vicious paragraph of the "stabber," and looked up with amusement on his face."It's a perfectly—you know—suitable poem," pursued Dale. "The only question is, will she think it a liberty?""Oh, send it. They like getting 'em;" and Philip took up his pen again."You don't know the sort of girl she is.""Then what the deuce is the good of asking me? Ask Nellie.""No, I shan't," said Dale shortly.Thus thrown, by his friend's indifference, on his own judgment, Dale made up his mind to send the verses,—he could not deny himself the pleasure,—but, half alarmed at his own audacity, which feeling was a new one in him, he "hedged" by inclosing with them a letter of an apologetic character. Miss Delane was not to suppose that he took the liberty of referring to her in the terms of his title: the little copy of verses had merely been suggested by a remark she made. He had failed to find an answer on the spot. Would she pardon him for giving his answer now in this indirect way?—and so forth.The verses, with their accompanying letter, were received by Janet, and Janet had no doubt of what she did feel about them, but some considerable doubt as to what she ought to feel; so she carried them to her mother. Mrs. Delane put on herpince-nezand read the documents in the case."I'm sure he didn't mean to be—anything but what's nice, mamma," said Janet."I dare say not, my dear. The question is, whether the young man knows his manners. Let's see."After careful perusal, during which Janet watched her mother's face with some anxiety, Mrs. Delane delivered judgment."There's no positive harm in them," she said, "and I don't think we need take any actual steps. Still, Janet, he is evidently to be treated with discretion.""How do you mean, mamma?""Well, he isn't in need of encouragement, is he? He's not backward in making friends.""I suppose not. May I keep them?""Keep them? Do you want to keep them?""Not particularly, dear," answered Janet. "I—I thought he meant me to.""No doubt. Write a civil note, dear, thank him for letting you see them, and return them inclosed."Janet was a little reluctant to part with her autograph manuscript,—not because of its pecuniary value, though that was more than a trifle, had she known, but because such things are pleasant possessions to show to envious friends,—but she did as she was told. She did not, however, feel herself bound altogether to smother her pride or to make a secret of the tribute she had received. Tora Smith heard the story with evident amusement, and, thinking that others would share her appreciation of it, relieved the somewhat uphill course of Mrs. Hodge's call by a repetition of it: whereby it happened that Nellie Fane came to know, not only that Dale had written verses to Miss Delane and sent them, but also that Miss Delane had returned the offering. She told Philip the latter fact, and the two ventured to rally the poet on the occurrence. Dale took their action very badly, and his displeasure soon reduced Nellie to apologies. Philip was less sensitive."D. W. T., by Jove!" he remarked. "Quite like old times, Dale!"Dale muttered something about "infernal chatter.""You will soon be in a position to publish a volume of 'Rejected Addresses.'""Not at all," said Dale. "It's simply that she didn't understand I meant her to keep them.""Oh, that's her delicate way of snubbing you, my boy.""What the deuce do you know about it, Phil? You never wrote verses in your life. Don't you agree with me, Nellie?""Miss Smith said Miss Delane thought she had better not keep them.""I knew that girl was a gossip directly I set eyes on her.""You're naturally hurt, old fellow, but——""Go to the deuce! Look here, I'll bet you a fiver she takes them back and keeps them.""Done!" said Philip, and Dale seized his hat."Why does he want her to take them?" asked Nellie."Vanity, my dear, vanity. I suppose he's accustomed to having his verses laid up in lavender. Is that what you do with yours?""He never wrote me any," answered Nellie in a tone of superlative indifference.It being only two o'clock, Dale felt he could not yet go to the Grange. He made a detour by the town, on pretense of buying stamps; and, the stars fighting with him, outside the Mayor's shop he saw Janet talking to the Mayor himself."Thank you, Miss Delane, miss," said the Mayor. "Mrs. Hedger is doin' nicely. She had a bit of feverishness about her, but Dr. Spink's treated her wonderful.""Dr. Spink? I thought you went to Dr. Roberts?""I did, miss, but—— Well, things come round to me, miss, being a center like.""What things?""Well, you may not have heard, miss, of the things that—— Good-mornin', Mr. Bannister, sir, good-mornin'. A fine day. Anything in our line, sir?""Good-morning, Mr. Mayor," said Dale. "Ah, Miss Delane, how do you do?"His coming interrupted Janet's investigations into the affairs of the Doctor, and she took her leave of the Mayor, Dale assuming permission to walk with her. He ought to have asked, no doubt, thought Janet, but it would be making too much of it to tell him so.They had hardly started when he turned to her:"Why did you send back my verses?""I could hardly venture to keep them, could I?""Why not?""On so slight an acquaintance! It was very kind of you to let me see them before they were published.""They're not going to be published.""Oh, you must publish them. They're so very pretty.""Didn't you think I meant you to keep them?""I should have been very conceited if I had, shouldn't I?""Well, they were for you—not to be published. If you don't like them, they'll be burned, that's all."Janet stole a glance at his face; he looked like a petulant Apollo—so she thought."That would be a pity," she said gravely; "but I don't think I ought to keep them.""Why not?"Socrates is reported to have said that nothing is reasonable which cannot be stated in a reasonable form. Miss Janet Delane would have dissented."Of course I like them very much. But—well, we haven't known each other very long, Mr. Bannister.""You mean it was impertinent?""Oh, no. I thought your letter perfect—I did really. But mamma thought——""Oh!" said Dale, with brightening face. "You would have kept them?""That's not the question," said Janet, smiling. It was pleasant to see Apollo looking less petulant. "But what would people say if they heard I had poems of Mr. Dale Bannister's about me? I should be thought a dangerous person.""I'll write some which you would like to have.""I am sure you could, if you only would. Fancy, if you wrote really noble verses—worthy of you!""Well, I will, if it will please you.""Nonsense, Mr. Bannister! There's no question of pleasing me: it doesn't matter—well, I mean, then, the great thing is to do justice to yourself.""I ought to have some encouragement in well-doing," said Dale plaintively.She shook her head with a smile, and he went on:"I wish you'd come to Littlehill and see the house. I've improved it tremendously.""Oh, you must invite mamma.""Would Mrs. Delane come?"This question was a little awkward, for Mrs. Delane, after cross-examining Tora Smith closely as to Mrs. Hodge and her daughter, had announced that she would not go."A bachelor doesn't entertain ladies, does he?""I should like to; and there are some ladies——" A sudden thought struck him, and he stopped. He looked so pointedly at Janet that, to her intense annoyance, she felt herself blushing. She made the grave mistake of changing the conversation abruptly."How did you like the Smiths?""Oh, pretty well.""I should have thought you would have got on tremendously well together.""Oh, I don't know. I think I like people to be one thing or the other, and the Smiths are halfway housers.""You're very ungrateful.""Oh, they only asked us as a demonstration," said Dale, who had some acuteness.Janet laughed, but her companion was moodily prodding the ground with his stick as he walked along.They reached a cottage where she had a visit to pay, and she bade him good-by."Then you won't have the verses?""I think not.""Very well, then, here goes;" and he took the paper out of his pocket and tore it to bits. The fragments fluttered to the ground."How foolish!" she said. "I dare say they were worth a lot of money—but, then, you can write them out again.""Do you think I shall?" he asked, grinding the fragments into the mud."I'm afraid you will do nothing wise," she said, giving him her hand. Yet the extravagance rather pleased her.Until Dale reached his own house it did not strike him that he had lost his bet. Philip quickly reminded him, and laughed mercilessly when a crumpled five-pound note was thrown at his head by his angry friend."I tell you she wanted to keep them," said Dale unjustifiably."Then why didn't she?" asked Nellie."Mrs. Delane didn't approve of it.""I expect Mrs. Delane doesn't approve of you at all," remarked Philip."No, nor of my friends either," answered Dale, flinging himself into a chair."Well, my dear," said Mrs. Hodge, who sat by, "her opinion will neither make us nor mar us.""How have we had the misfortune to offend the lady?" inquired Philip. "She has never seen us.""Here's your tea, Dale," said Nellie. "Are you tired?""Yes, a little. Thanks, Nellie.""Was she looking nice, Dale?""I didn't see her.""I mean Miss Delane.""Oh, yes, I suppose so. I didn't look much."

"To a Pretty Saint."

When Mrs. Delane came back from London, she was met with a question of the precise kind on which she felt herself to be no mean authority. It was a problem of propriety, of etiquette, and of the usages of society, and Mrs. Delane attacked it with a due sense of its importance and with the pleasure of an expert. It arose out of Dale Bannister's call at the Grange. Dale had been accustomed, when a lady found favor in his eyes, to inform her of the gratifying news through the medium of a set of verses, more or less enthusiastic and rhapsodic in their nature. The impulse to follow his usual practice was strong on him after meeting Janet Delane, and issued in the composition of that poem called "To a Pretty Saint," the title of which Nellie had seen. He copied it out fair, and was about to put it in the post when a thought suddenly struck him. Miss Delane was not quite like most of his acquaintances. It was perhaps possible that she might think his action premature, or even impertinent, and that she might deem it incumbent on her to resent being called either a saint or pretty by a friend of one interview'sstanding. Dale was divided between his newborn doubt of his own instinct of what was permissible and his great reluctance to doom his work to suppression. He decided to consult Philip Hume, who was, as he knew, more habituated to the social atmosphere of places like Denshire.

"Eh? what?" said Philip, who was busily engaged in writing a newspaper article. "Written a poem to a girl? All right. I'll listen presently."

"I don't want you to listen. I want your advice as to whether to send it or not."

"If you've wasted your time writing the thing,—by the way, take care the Doctor doesn't hear of it,—you may as well send it."

"The question is, whether she'll be offended."

"I'm glad it isn't more important, because I'm busy."

"Look here! Stop that anonymous stabber of yours and listen. It's to Miss Delane."

Philip stopped in the middle of a particularly vicious paragraph of the "stabber," and looked up with amusement on his face.

"It's a perfectly—you know—suitable poem," pursued Dale. "The only question is, will she think it a liberty?"

"Oh, send it. They like getting 'em;" and Philip took up his pen again.

"You don't know the sort of girl she is."

"Then what the deuce is the good of asking me? Ask Nellie."

"No, I shan't," said Dale shortly.

Thus thrown, by his friend's indifference, on his own judgment, Dale made up his mind to send the verses,—he could not deny himself the pleasure,—but, half alarmed at his own audacity, which feeling was a new one in him, he "hedged" by inclosing with them a letter of an apologetic character. Miss Delane was not to suppose that he took the liberty of referring to her in the terms of his title: the little copy of verses had merely been suggested by a remark she made. He had failed to find an answer on the spot. Would she pardon him for giving his answer now in this indirect way?—and so forth.

The verses, with their accompanying letter, were received by Janet, and Janet had no doubt of what she did feel about them, but some considerable doubt as to what she ought to feel; so she carried them to her mother. Mrs. Delane put on herpince-nezand read the documents in the case.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to be—anything but what's nice, mamma," said Janet.

"I dare say not, my dear. The question is, whether the young man knows his manners. Let's see."

After careful perusal, during which Janet watched her mother's face with some anxiety, Mrs. Delane delivered judgment.

"There's no positive harm in them," she said, "and I don't think we need take any actual steps. Still, Janet, he is evidently to be treated with discretion."

"How do you mean, mamma?"

"Well, he isn't in need of encouragement, is he? He's not backward in making friends."

"I suppose not. May I keep them?"

"Keep them? Do you want to keep them?"

"Not particularly, dear," answered Janet. "I—I thought he meant me to."

"No doubt. Write a civil note, dear, thank him for letting you see them, and return them inclosed."

Janet was a little reluctant to part with her autograph manuscript,—not because of its pecuniary value, though that was more than a trifle, had she known, but because such things are pleasant possessions to show to envious friends,—but she did as she was told. She did not, however, feel herself bound altogether to smother her pride or to make a secret of the tribute she had received. Tora Smith heard the story with evident amusement, and, thinking that others would share her appreciation of it, relieved the somewhat uphill course of Mrs. Hodge's call by a repetition of it: whereby it happened that Nellie Fane came to know, not only that Dale had written verses to Miss Delane and sent them, but also that Miss Delane had returned the offering. She told Philip the latter fact, and the two ventured to rally the poet on the occurrence. Dale took their action very badly, and his displeasure soon reduced Nellie to apologies. Philip was less sensitive.

"D. W. T., by Jove!" he remarked. "Quite like old times, Dale!"

Dale muttered something about "infernal chatter."

"You will soon be in a position to publish a volume of 'Rejected Addresses.'"

"Not at all," said Dale. "It's simply that she didn't understand I meant her to keep them."

"Oh, that's her delicate way of snubbing you, my boy."

"What the deuce do you know about it, Phil? You never wrote verses in your life. Don't you agree with me, Nellie?"

"Miss Smith said Miss Delane thought she had better not keep them."

"I knew that girl was a gossip directly I set eyes on her."

"You're naturally hurt, old fellow, but——"

"Go to the deuce! Look here, I'll bet you a fiver she takes them back and keeps them."

"Done!" said Philip, and Dale seized his hat.

"Why does he want her to take them?" asked Nellie.

"Vanity, my dear, vanity. I suppose he's accustomed to having his verses laid up in lavender. Is that what you do with yours?"

"He never wrote me any," answered Nellie in a tone of superlative indifference.

It being only two o'clock, Dale felt he could not yet go to the Grange. He made a detour by the town, on pretense of buying stamps; and, the stars fighting with him, outside the Mayor's shop he saw Janet talking to the Mayor himself.

"Thank you, Miss Delane, miss," said the Mayor. "Mrs. Hedger is doin' nicely. She had a bit of feverishness about her, but Dr. Spink's treated her wonderful."

"Dr. Spink? I thought you went to Dr. Roberts?"

"I did, miss, but—— Well, things come round to me, miss, being a center like."

"What things?"

"Well, you may not have heard, miss, of the things that—— Good-mornin', Mr. Bannister, sir, good-mornin'. A fine day. Anything in our line, sir?"

"Good-morning, Mr. Mayor," said Dale. "Ah, Miss Delane, how do you do?"

His coming interrupted Janet's investigations into the affairs of the Doctor, and she took her leave of the Mayor, Dale assuming permission to walk with her. He ought to have asked, no doubt, thought Janet, but it would be making too much of it to tell him so.

They had hardly started when he turned to her:

"Why did you send back my verses?"

"I could hardly venture to keep them, could I?"

"Why not?"

"On so slight an acquaintance! It was very kind of you to let me see them before they were published."

"They're not going to be published."

"Oh, you must publish them. They're so very pretty."

"Didn't you think I meant you to keep them?"

"I should have been very conceited if I had, shouldn't I?"

"Well, they were for you—not to be published. If you don't like them, they'll be burned, that's all."

Janet stole a glance at his face; he looked like a petulant Apollo—so she thought.

"That would be a pity," she said gravely; "but I don't think I ought to keep them."

"Why not?"

Socrates is reported to have said that nothing is reasonable which cannot be stated in a reasonable form. Miss Janet Delane would have dissented.

"Of course I like them very much. But—well, we haven't known each other very long, Mr. Bannister."

"You mean it was impertinent?"

"Oh, no. I thought your letter perfect—I did really. But mamma thought——"

"Oh!" said Dale, with brightening face. "You would have kept them?"

"That's not the question," said Janet, smiling. It was pleasant to see Apollo looking less petulant. "But what would people say if they heard I had poems of Mr. Dale Bannister's about me? I should be thought a dangerous person."

"I'll write some which you would like to have."

"I am sure you could, if you only would. Fancy, if you wrote really noble verses—worthy of you!"

"Well, I will, if it will please you."

"Nonsense, Mr. Bannister! There's no question of pleasing me: it doesn't matter—well, I mean, then, the great thing is to do justice to yourself."

"I ought to have some encouragement in well-doing," said Dale plaintively.

She shook her head with a smile, and he went on:

"I wish you'd come to Littlehill and see the house. I've improved it tremendously."

"Oh, you must invite mamma."

"Would Mrs. Delane come?"

This question was a little awkward, for Mrs. Delane, after cross-examining Tora Smith closely as to Mrs. Hodge and her daughter, had announced that she would not go.

"A bachelor doesn't entertain ladies, does he?"

"I should like to; and there are some ladies——" A sudden thought struck him, and he stopped. He looked so pointedly at Janet that, to her intense annoyance, she felt herself blushing. She made the grave mistake of changing the conversation abruptly.

"How did you like the Smiths?"

"Oh, pretty well."

"I should have thought you would have got on tremendously well together."

"Oh, I don't know. I think I like people to be one thing or the other, and the Smiths are halfway housers."

"You're very ungrateful."

"Oh, they only asked us as a demonstration," said Dale, who had some acuteness.

Janet laughed, but her companion was moodily prodding the ground with his stick as he walked along.

They reached a cottage where she had a visit to pay, and she bade him good-by.

"Then you won't have the verses?"

"I think not."

"Very well, then, here goes;" and he took the paper out of his pocket and tore it to bits. The fragments fluttered to the ground.

"How foolish!" she said. "I dare say they were worth a lot of money—but, then, you can write them out again."

"Do you think I shall?" he asked, grinding the fragments into the mud.

"I'm afraid you will do nothing wise," she said, giving him her hand. Yet the extravagance rather pleased her.

Until Dale reached his own house it did not strike him that he had lost his bet. Philip quickly reminded him, and laughed mercilessly when a crumpled five-pound note was thrown at his head by his angry friend.

"I tell you she wanted to keep them," said Dale unjustifiably.

"Then why didn't she?" asked Nellie.

"Mrs. Delane didn't approve of it."

"I expect Mrs. Delane doesn't approve of you at all," remarked Philip.

"No, nor of my friends either," answered Dale, flinging himself into a chair.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Hodge, who sat by, "her opinion will neither make us nor mar us."

"How have we had the misfortune to offend the lady?" inquired Philip. "She has never seen us."

"Here's your tea, Dale," said Nellie. "Are you tired?"

"Yes, a little. Thanks, Nellie."

"Was she looking nice, Dale?"

"I didn't see her."

"I mean Miss Delane."

"Oh, yes, I suppose so. I didn't look much."

Back to IndexNext