CHAPTER XXII.The Fitness of Things.If anything could have consoled Market Denborough for the certain postponement and possible loss of the Duke of Mercia's visit, it would have been the cause of these calamities. Its citizens were not more hard-hearted than other people, and they bestowed much sympathy on Nellie Fane, who, out of the competitors, was easily elected the heroine of the incident; but neither were they more impervious to the charms of excitement, of gossip, and of notoriety. The reporters and the artists who had been told off to describe and depict the scene of the royal visit did not abandon their journey, but substituted sketches of the fatal spot, of the Grange, of Littlehill, and of the actors in the tragedy; while interviews with the Mayor, and anybody else who knew, or knew someone who knew about the circumstances, or professed to do either, amply supplied the place which the pageant and the speeches had been destined to fill. And if the occurrence excited such interest in the great London papers, the broadsheets and columns of the local journals were a sight to behold. The circulation of theStandardwent up by morethan a hundred; while theChronicleannounced, it must be admitted to a somewhat skeptical world, that its weekly issue had exhausted three editions, and could no longer be obtained at the booksellers' or the office. The assertion, however, being untested, passed, and everyone allowed that young Mingley's detailed account of poor Roberts' last words to Dale Bannister, before he fired, were perfect in verisimilitude, which, under the regrettable circumstance of Mingley's absence, and of no such words having been uttered, was all that could be expected. Mingley was puffed up, demanded a rise of salary, got it, and married Polly Shipwright, the young lady at the "Delane Arms." So the ill wind blew Mingley good. Yet the editor of theChroniclewas not satisfied, and as a further result of Mingley's activity, he inserted an article the following week, in which he referred, with some parade of mystery, to the romantic character of the affair. It was not only in fiction, he remarked, that love had opportunities for displaying itself in heroism, nor, it was to be earnestly hoped, only in the brains of imaginative writers that affection and gratitude found themselves working together toward a joyful consummation. Denborough knew and admired its gifted fellow-townsman, and Denborough had been a witness of the grace and charm of the young lady who had shed such luster on her sex. Accordingly, Denborough waited the result with some confidence. Into this personal side of the matter theStandarddid not try to follow its rival. Mr. Delane controlledtheStandard, and he forbade any such attempt, on grounds of careful generality. But the article in theChroniclewas quite enough; it expressed what everyone had been thinking, and very soon the whole town was expecting to hear, simultaneously, that Nellie was out of danger, and that she had given her hand to Dale Bannister. The theory was so strongly and unhesitatingly accepted that the two or three who, mainly out of a love of paradox, put their heads on one side and asked how Miss Delane came to be out in the garden with Dale Bannister, were pooh-poohed and told that they merely showed their ignorance of the usages of society; whereupon they went home and grumbled to their wives, but were heard no more in public places.Dale Bannister flung theChronicledown on the table with a muttered oath, asking the eternally-asked, never-to-be-answered question, why people could not mind their own business—an unjust query in this case, for it is a reporter's business to mind other people's business. He had just come down from his first interview with Nellie. She was mending rapidly, and was now conscious, although any reference to the events of the fatal night was sternly forbidden; he was not even allowed to thank the friend who, happily, had only risked, not lost, her life for him. He had whispered his joy at finding her doing well, and she had pressed his hand in answer; more than that vigilant attendants prevented. Then he had come downstairs, picked up theChroniclein the hall,read the article, and gone into the smoking room, where he had found Arthur Angell sitting by the fire, his hands deep in his pockets and his shoulders up to his ears, a picture of woe."What infernal nonsense!" said Dale, with a vexed laugh. "Do you see how this fellow disposes of us, Arthur?""Yes, I saw," said Arthur gloomily."I suppose they're bound to say that. The public loves romance.""I think it's very natural they should say it. Why did she follow you? Why did she risk her life? Why did she ask after you the first moment she was conscious?""No one but me was being murdered," suggested Dale, with a rather uneasy smile."We left her here. Why did she go out at all? But it's too plain. I saw it before I had been here a day.""Saw what, man?" asked Dale, passing by Arthur's questionable assertion."Why, that Nellie—you know. I don't know what you feel, but I know what she feels. It's rough on me having me down——""I never thought of such a thing," said Dale quickly."Oh, I suppose not; though how you didn't—— I say, now, before you came to Denborough, didn't you?""I—I don't think so. We were great friends."Arthur shook his head, and Dale poked the little bit of fire in an impatient way."How damned crooked things go!" he said.Arthur rose and said in a decided tone:"Well, I'm out of it. She saved your life, and she's in love with you. It seems to me your duty's pretty plain. You must drop your other fancy.""My other fancy?" exclaimed Dale in horror. Lived there a man who could call his love for Janet a "fancy"?"You'd break her heart," said Arthur, who thought of no one but his lady-love in his unselfish devotion.It crossed Dale's mind to say that the situation seemed to involve the breaking of one heart at least, if Arthur were right; but he thought he had no right to speak of Janet's feelings, well as he knew them. He threw the poker down with a clang."Take care—you'll disturb her."This annoyed Dale."My good fellow," he remarked, "we're not all, except you, entirely indifferent whether she lives or dies. I might throw pokers about all day—and I feel inclined to—without her hearing me in the blue room.""Oh, I beg pardon," said Arthur, turning to the window and looking out.He saw a stout man coming up the hill. It was the Mayor of Denborough, and he was evidently making for Littlehill. When he was ushered into the smoking room, he explained that he had come to ask after Miss Fane's progress."The town, Mr. Bannister, sir," he said, "is takin' a great interest in the young lady.""I am glad to say she has, we think, turned the corner," said Dale."That's happy news for all—and you first of all, sir."The Mayor might merely have meant that Dale's feelings would be most acute, as Nellie had received her wound in his service; but there was a disconcerting twinkle in the Mayor's eye."Mrs. Roberts," the Mayor continued, "is doin' first rate. After all, it's a riddance for her, sir. Have you any news from the Grange?""I hear there is no change in Miss Delane. She still suffers from the shock.""Poor young lady! I hear the Captain's back at the Warren, sir.""What?""Captain Ripley, sir. Back at home.""Oh!"The Mayor was bursting with suppressed gossip on this point also, but the atmosphere was most repressive. He looked round in despair for another opening, and his eye fell on Arthur Angell."Seen theChronicle, sir?" he asked. "That Mingley's a sharp young chap. Still I don't 'old—hold with all that talk about people. Did you say you'd seen it, sir?""Yes, I've seen it. It's mostly lies.""He, he!" chuckled the Mayor. "You're right, sir."A long pause ensued before the Mayor very reluctantly took his hat."I hope we shall see Miss Fane about soon, sir?" he said."Oh, I hope so. I think so, if nothing goes wrong.""She must be proud and happy, that young lady, sir. As I said to my daughters, says I: 'Now, girls, which of you is goin' to save your young man's life?' And my wife, Mrs. Hedger, sir, she put in: 'None of you, I'll be bound, if you don't——'"The anecdote was lost, for Dale interrupted:"Let me see you as far as the gate," and pushed the Mayor's walking-stick into his hand.Having got rid of the Mayor, Dale did not hasten to return to Arthur Angell. At this moment, exasperated as he was, everything about his friend annoyed him—his devotion, his unselfishness, his readiness to accept defeat himself, his indiscreet zeal on behalf of his mistress. His despair for himself, and his exhortation to Dale, joined in manifesting that he neither possessed himself nor could understand in another what a real passion was. If he did or could, he would never have used that word "fancy." How could people speak of friendship or gratitude, or both together, as if they were, or were in themselves likely to lead to, love? You did not love a woman because you esteemed her. If you loved her, you might esteem her—or you might not; anyhow, you worshiped her. Yet these peddling Denboroughfolk were mapping out his course for him. And Arthur Angell croaked about broken hearts.Suddenly a happy thought struck him, a thought which went far to restore his equanimity. These people, even that excellent Arthur, spoke in ignorance. At the most, they—those who knew anything—supposed that he had a "fancy" for Janet. They had no idea that his love had been offered and accepted, that he was plighted to her by all the bonds of honor and fidelity. This exacting gratitude they harped upon might demand a change of nascent inclinations; it would not require, nor even justify, broken promises, and the flinging back of what a man had asked for and received. Dale's step grew more elastic and his face brighter as he realized that, in reality, on a sane view of the position, duty and pleasure went hand in hand, both pointing to the desired goal, uniting to free him from any such self-sacrifice as Arthur Angell had indicated. If Arthur were right about Nellie's feelings, and if he had been a free man, he might have felt some obligation on him, or at least have chosen, to make the child happy, but as it was——"I must be just before I'm generous," he said to himself, and added, with a shamefaced laugh, "and I happen to like justice best."At this moment a servant in the Grange livery rode up, touching his hat, and handed him a note. It was from Janet, though her writing was so tremulous as to be scarcely recognizable. He tore it open and read:You can never wish to see me again, but come once more. It was not quite as bad as it seemed. J.In bewilderment he turned to the man."Miss Delane sent this?""Yes, sir.""Say I'll come over to the Grange to-morrow morning."The man rode off, and Dale stood, fingering and staring at his note."What does the dear girl mean?" he asked. "What wasn't so bad? Why don't I wish to see her again? Has that ruffian driven her out of her senses?"When Dr. Spink came that evening, Dale seized the opportunity of sounding him. The Doctor laughed at the idea of any serious mental derangement."Miss Delane's very much upset, of course, very much, but her mind is as right as yours or mine.""She's got no delusions?""Oh, dear, no. She's nervous and over-strained, that's all. She'll be all right in a few days.""Then," said Dale to himself, as the Doctor bustled off, "all I can say is that I don't understand women."
The Fitness of Things.
If anything could have consoled Market Denborough for the certain postponement and possible loss of the Duke of Mercia's visit, it would have been the cause of these calamities. Its citizens were not more hard-hearted than other people, and they bestowed much sympathy on Nellie Fane, who, out of the competitors, was easily elected the heroine of the incident; but neither were they more impervious to the charms of excitement, of gossip, and of notoriety. The reporters and the artists who had been told off to describe and depict the scene of the royal visit did not abandon their journey, but substituted sketches of the fatal spot, of the Grange, of Littlehill, and of the actors in the tragedy; while interviews with the Mayor, and anybody else who knew, or knew someone who knew about the circumstances, or professed to do either, amply supplied the place which the pageant and the speeches had been destined to fill. And if the occurrence excited such interest in the great London papers, the broadsheets and columns of the local journals were a sight to behold. The circulation of theStandardwent up by morethan a hundred; while theChronicleannounced, it must be admitted to a somewhat skeptical world, that its weekly issue had exhausted three editions, and could no longer be obtained at the booksellers' or the office. The assertion, however, being untested, passed, and everyone allowed that young Mingley's detailed account of poor Roberts' last words to Dale Bannister, before he fired, were perfect in verisimilitude, which, under the regrettable circumstance of Mingley's absence, and of no such words having been uttered, was all that could be expected. Mingley was puffed up, demanded a rise of salary, got it, and married Polly Shipwright, the young lady at the "Delane Arms." So the ill wind blew Mingley good. Yet the editor of theChroniclewas not satisfied, and as a further result of Mingley's activity, he inserted an article the following week, in which he referred, with some parade of mystery, to the romantic character of the affair. It was not only in fiction, he remarked, that love had opportunities for displaying itself in heroism, nor, it was to be earnestly hoped, only in the brains of imaginative writers that affection and gratitude found themselves working together toward a joyful consummation. Denborough knew and admired its gifted fellow-townsman, and Denborough had been a witness of the grace and charm of the young lady who had shed such luster on her sex. Accordingly, Denborough waited the result with some confidence. Into this personal side of the matter theStandarddid not try to follow its rival. Mr. Delane controlledtheStandard, and he forbade any such attempt, on grounds of careful generality. But the article in theChroniclewas quite enough; it expressed what everyone had been thinking, and very soon the whole town was expecting to hear, simultaneously, that Nellie was out of danger, and that she had given her hand to Dale Bannister. The theory was so strongly and unhesitatingly accepted that the two or three who, mainly out of a love of paradox, put their heads on one side and asked how Miss Delane came to be out in the garden with Dale Bannister, were pooh-poohed and told that they merely showed their ignorance of the usages of society; whereupon they went home and grumbled to their wives, but were heard no more in public places.
Dale Bannister flung theChronicledown on the table with a muttered oath, asking the eternally-asked, never-to-be-answered question, why people could not mind their own business—an unjust query in this case, for it is a reporter's business to mind other people's business. He had just come down from his first interview with Nellie. She was mending rapidly, and was now conscious, although any reference to the events of the fatal night was sternly forbidden; he was not even allowed to thank the friend who, happily, had only risked, not lost, her life for him. He had whispered his joy at finding her doing well, and she had pressed his hand in answer; more than that vigilant attendants prevented. Then he had come downstairs, picked up theChroniclein the hall,read the article, and gone into the smoking room, where he had found Arthur Angell sitting by the fire, his hands deep in his pockets and his shoulders up to his ears, a picture of woe.
"What infernal nonsense!" said Dale, with a vexed laugh. "Do you see how this fellow disposes of us, Arthur?"
"Yes, I saw," said Arthur gloomily.
"I suppose they're bound to say that. The public loves romance."
"I think it's very natural they should say it. Why did she follow you? Why did she risk her life? Why did she ask after you the first moment she was conscious?"
"No one but me was being murdered," suggested Dale, with a rather uneasy smile.
"We left her here. Why did she go out at all? But it's too plain. I saw it before I had been here a day."
"Saw what, man?" asked Dale, passing by Arthur's questionable assertion.
"Why, that Nellie—you know. I don't know what you feel, but I know what she feels. It's rough on me having me down——"
"I never thought of such a thing," said Dale quickly.
"Oh, I suppose not; though how you didn't—— I say, now, before you came to Denborough, didn't you?"
"I—I don't think so. We were great friends."
Arthur shook his head, and Dale poked the little bit of fire in an impatient way.
"How damned crooked things go!" he said.
Arthur rose and said in a decided tone:
"Well, I'm out of it. She saved your life, and she's in love with you. It seems to me your duty's pretty plain. You must drop your other fancy."
"My other fancy?" exclaimed Dale in horror. Lived there a man who could call his love for Janet a "fancy"?
"You'd break her heart," said Arthur, who thought of no one but his lady-love in his unselfish devotion.
It crossed Dale's mind to say that the situation seemed to involve the breaking of one heart at least, if Arthur were right; but he thought he had no right to speak of Janet's feelings, well as he knew them. He threw the poker down with a clang.
"Take care—you'll disturb her."
This annoyed Dale.
"My good fellow," he remarked, "we're not all, except you, entirely indifferent whether she lives or dies. I might throw pokers about all day—and I feel inclined to—without her hearing me in the blue room."
"Oh, I beg pardon," said Arthur, turning to the window and looking out.
He saw a stout man coming up the hill. It was the Mayor of Denborough, and he was evidently making for Littlehill. When he was ushered into the smoking room, he explained that he had come to ask after Miss Fane's progress.
"The town, Mr. Bannister, sir," he said, "is takin' a great interest in the young lady."
"I am glad to say she has, we think, turned the corner," said Dale.
"That's happy news for all—and you first of all, sir."
The Mayor might merely have meant that Dale's feelings would be most acute, as Nellie had received her wound in his service; but there was a disconcerting twinkle in the Mayor's eye.
"Mrs. Roberts," the Mayor continued, "is doin' first rate. After all, it's a riddance for her, sir. Have you any news from the Grange?"
"I hear there is no change in Miss Delane. She still suffers from the shock."
"Poor young lady! I hear the Captain's back at the Warren, sir."
"What?"
"Captain Ripley, sir. Back at home."
"Oh!"
The Mayor was bursting with suppressed gossip on this point also, but the atmosphere was most repressive. He looked round in despair for another opening, and his eye fell on Arthur Angell.
"Seen theChronicle, sir?" he asked. "That Mingley's a sharp young chap. Still I don't 'old—hold with all that talk about people. Did you say you'd seen it, sir?"
"Yes, I've seen it. It's mostly lies."
"He, he!" chuckled the Mayor. "You're right, sir."
A long pause ensued before the Mayor very reluctantly took his hat.
"I hope we shall see Miss Fane about soon, sir?" he said.
"Oh, I hope so. I think so, if nothing goes wrong."
"She must be proud and happy, that young lady, sir. As I said to my daughters, says I: 'Now, girls, which of you is goin' to save your young man's life?' And my wife, Mrs. Hedger, sir, she put in: 'None of you, I'll be bound, if you don't——'"
The anecdote was lost, for Dale interrupted:
"Let me see you as far as the gate," and pushed the Mayor's walking-stick into his hand.
Having got rid of the Mayor, Dale did not hasten to return to Arthur Angell. At this moment, exasperated as he was, everything about his friend annoyed him—his devotion, his unselfishness, his readiness to accept defeat himself, his indiscreet zeal on behalf of his mistress. His despair for himself, and his exhortation to Dale, joined in manifesting that he neither possessed himself nor could understand in another what a real passion was. If he did or could, he would never have used that word "fancy." How could people speak of friendship or gratitude, or both together, as if they were, or were in themselves likely to lead to, love? You did not love a woman because you esteemed her. If you loved her, you might esteem her—or you might not; anyhow, you worshiped her. Yet these peddling Denboroughfolk were mapping out his course for him. And Arthur Angell croaked about broken hearts.
Suddenly a happy thought struck him, a thought which went far to restore his equanimity. These people, even that excellent Arthur, spoke in ignorance. At the most, they—those who knew anything—supposed that he had a "fancy" for Janet. They had no idea that his love had been offered and accepted, that he was plighted to her by all the bonds of honor and fidelity. This exacting gratitude they harped upon might demand a change of nascent inclinations; it would not require, nor even justify, broken promises, and the flinging back of what a man had asked for and received. Dale's step grew more elastic and his face brighter as he realized that, in reality, on a sane view of the position, duty and pleasure went hand in hand, both pointing to the desired goal, uniting to free him from any such self-sacrifice as Arthur Angell had indicated. If Arthur were right about Nellie's feelings, and if he had been a free man, he might have felt some obligation on him, or at least have chosen, to make the child happy, but as it was——
"I must be just before I'm generous," he said to himself, and added, with a shamefaced laugh, "and I happen to like justice best."
At this moment a servant in the Grange livery rode up, touching his hat, and handed him a note. It was from Janet, though her writing was so tremulous as to be scarcely recognizable. He tore it open and read:
You can never wish to see me again, but come once more. It was not quite as bad as it seemed. J.
In bewilderment he turned to the man.
"Miss Delane sent this?"
"Yes, sir."
"Say I'll come over to the Grange to-morrow morning."
The man rode off, and Dale stood, fingering and staring at his note.
"What does the dear girl mean?" he asked. "What wasn't so bad? Why don't I wish to see her again? Has that ruffian driven her out of her senses?"
When Dr. Spink came that evening, Dale seized the opportunity of sounding him. The Doctor laughed at the idea of any serious mental derangement.
"Miss Delane's very much upset, of course, very much, but her mind is as right as yours or mine."
"She's got no delusions?"
"Oh, dear, no. She's nervous and over-strained, that's all. She'll be all right in a few days."
"Then," said Dale to himself, as the Doctor bustled off, "all I can say is that I don't understand women."
CHAPTER XXIII.A Morbid Scruple.Mrs. Delane had ceased to struggle against the inevitable, and she hailed her daughter's desire to see Dale Bannister as an encouraging sign of a return to a normal state of mind. Strange as Janet's demeanor had been since that fearful evening, there could not be anything seriously wrong with her when her wishes and impulses ran in so natural a channel. Mrs. Delane received Dale with an approach to enthusiasm, and sent him up to the little boudoir where Janet was with an affectionate haste which in itself almost amounted to a recognition of his position."You must be gentle with her, please, Mr. Bannister," she said. "She wanted so much to see for herself that you were really alive that we could not refuse to allow her, but the Doctor is most strict in ordering that she should not be excited."Dale promised to be careful, and went upstairs without a word about the strange note he had received; that was a matter between Janet and himself.Janet was sitting, propped up with cushions,on a low chair, and she waved Dale to a seat near her. When, before sitting down, he came to her and kissed her, she did not repel his caress, but received it silently, again motioning him to the chair. Dale knelt down on the floor beside her."How pale you are, poor dear!" he said. "And why do you write me such dreadful things?""I wanted," she began in a low voice, "to tell you, Dale, that I did try, that I really did try, to call out. I did not forsake you without trying.""What do you mean, darling? How have you forsaken me?""When he caught hold of me, there was plenty of time to call out. I might have warned you—I might have warned you. I might have done what she did. But I couldn't. I tried, but I couldn't. I was afraid. He said he would blow my head to bits. I was afraid, and I left her to save you.""My dearest girl," he said, taking her hand, "you did the only thing. If you had cried out, he would have murdered you first and me afterward; all the chambers of the revolver were loaded. I would have died a thousand times sooner than have one of your dear hairs roughened; but, as it was, your death wouldn't have saved me."She had looked at him for a moment as if with sudden hope, but, as he finished, she shook her head and said:"I didn't think anything about that. I wasjust afraid, and I should have let you be killed.""My sweet, who ever expected you to condemn yourself to certain death on the chance of saving me? It would be monstrous!""She did it," said Janet in low tones.Dale paused for a minute."She was not in his clutches," he said. "He might have missed her.""Ah, no, no!" she broke out suddenly. "You run down what she did to spare me! That's worst of all.""Why, Jan, I don't say a word against her; but there was a difference.""She thought of no difference. She only thought of you. I thought of my own life.""Thank God if you did, dearest!""I'm glad you came. I wanted to tell you I had tried.""I need nothing to make me love you more, my beauty and delight," he said, pressing her to him.She looked at him with a sort of amazement, making a faint effort to push him away."It was so lucky," he went on, "that I didn't see you, or I should have rushed at him, and he would most likely have killed you. As it was——" He paused, for it seemed impossible to speak of poor Nellie's hurt as a happy outcome."Come," he resumed, "let's think no more about it. The wretched man is dead and Nellie Fane is getting better, and we—why, we, Jan, have one another."With sudden impatience she rose, unlacing his arms from about her."Who is she?" she cried. "Who is she? Why should she give her life for you? I loved you, and I was afraid. She wasn't afraid."Dale thought that he began to understand a little better. Jealousy was a feeling he had read about, and seen, and written about. If Jan were jealous, he could undertake to reassure her."She's a very old and good friend of mine," he said, "and it was just like her brave, unselfish way to——""What had you done to make her love you so?""My sweetest Jan, surely you can't think I——""Oh, no, no, no! I don't mean that. I'm not so mean as that."Dale wondered whether this passionate disclaimer of jealousy did not come in part from self-delusion, though he saw that Janet made it in all genuineness."You have made her love you—oh, of course you have! Why did she follow you? why did she come between you and the shot? I loved you, too, Dale. Ah! how I loved—how I thought I loved you! But her love was greater than mine.""Come, Jan, come; you exaggerate. You must be calm, dearest. Nellie and I are very fond of one another, but——""You know she loves you—you know she loves you to death.""My darling, I don't know anything of the sort. But supposing she did—well, I am very sorry, very deeply grieved if she is unhappy; but I don't love her—or any other woman in the world but you, Jan. If she had saved my life a thousand times, it would make no difference. You, Jan, you are the breath of my life and the pulse of my blood."He spoke with passion, for he was roused to combat this strange idea that threatened all his joy. As she stood before him, in her fairness and distress, he forgot his searchings of heart, his tenderness for Nellie, everything, except that she, and she alone, was the woman to be his, and neither another nor she herself should prevent it.Looking at him, she read this, or some of it, in his eyes, for she shrank back from him, and, clasping her hands, moaned:"Don't, don't! You must go to her—you belong to her. She saved you, not I. You are hers, not mine.""Jan, this is madness! She is nothing to me; you are all the world.""You must despise me," she said in a wondering way, "and yet you say that!""If I did despise you, still it would be true. But I worship you.""I must not! I must not! You must go to her. She saved you. Leave me, Dale, and go back. You must not come again."He burst out in wrath:"Now, by God, I will not leave you or let you go! Mine you are, and mine you shallbe!" and he seized her by the wrist. She gave a startled cry that recalled him to gentleness."Did I frighten you, my beauty? But it is so, and it must be. It is sweet of you to offer—to make much of what she did, and little of yourself. I love you more for it. But we have done with that now. Come to me, Jan.""I can't! I can't! She would always be between us; I should always see her between us. O Dale, how can you leave her?""I have never loved her. I have never promised her," he replied sternly. "It is all a mere delusion. A man's love is not to be turned by folly like this."She answered nothing, and sank back in her chair again."If it's jealousy," he went on, "it is unworthy of you, and an insult to me. And if it's not jealousy, it's mere madness.""Can't you understand?" she murmured. "How can I take what is hers?""I can take what is mine, and I will. You gave yourself to me, and I will not let you go."Still she said nothing, and he tried gentleness once more."Come, Jan, sweetest, you have made your offering—your sweet, Quixotic self-sacrifice—and it is not accepted! Say that's my want of moral altitude, if you like. So be it. I won't sacrifice myself.""It's for her to take, not for you. I offer it to her, not to you.""But I don't offer it to her. Would she care for such an offer? She may love me or not—I don't know; but if she does, she will not take my hand without my heart.""You must love her. If you could love me, how much more must you love her?""You are mad!" he answered, almost roughly, "mad to say such a thing! I know you love me, and I will not listen to it. Do you hear? I shall come back and see you again, and I will not listen to this."She heard his imperious words with no sign but a little shiver."There," he went on, "you are still ill. I'll come back.""No use," she murmured. "I can't, Dale.""But you will, and you shall!" he cried. "You shall see——"The door opened, and the nurse came in to forbid his further lingering. With a distant good-by, he left Janet motionless and pale, and, hastening downstairs, went to the Squire's room."I have come," he said abruptly, "to ask your sanction to my engagement with your daughter."The Squire laid down his book."I'm not much surprised," he said, smiling. "What does Jan say?"Dale launched out into a history of the sweet things Janet had said, and of the strange, wild things she said now. The Squire heard of the latter with raised eyebrows."Very odd," he commented. "But it seems,my dear fellow, that, for good reasons or bad, at present she says No.""She said Yes; she can't say No now," declared Dale. "Do you consent, Mr. Delane?""If she does, my dear fellow. But I can't help you in this matter.""I want no help. She is not in her senses now. I shall make an end of this folly. I will not have it."He went out as abruptly as he had rushed in, leaving the Squire in some perplexity."A man of decision," he commented; "and, altogether, a couple of rather volcanic young people. They must settle it between themselves."
A Morbid Scruple.
Mrs. Delane had ceased to struggle against the inevitable, and she hailed her daughter's desire to see Dale Bannister as an encouraging sign of a return to a normal state of mind. Strange as Janet's demeanor had been since that fearful evening, there could not be anything seriously wrong with her when her wishes and impulses ran in so natural a channel. Mrs. Delane received Dale with an approach to enthusiasm, and sent him up to the little boudoir where Janet was with an affectionate haste which in itself almost amounted to a recognition of his position.
"You must be gentle with her, please, Mr. Bannister," she said. "She wanted so much to see for herself that you were really alive that we could not refuse to allow her, but the Doctor is most strict in ordering that she should not be excited."
Dale promised to be careful, and went upstairs without a word about the strange note he had received; that was a matter between Janet and himself.
Janet was sitting, propped up with cushions,on a low chair, and she waved Dale to a seat near her. When, before sitting down, he came to her and kissed her, she did not repel his caress, but received it silently, again motioning him to the chair. Dale knelt down on the floor beside her.
"How pale you are, poor dear!" he said. "And why do you write me such dreadful things?"
"I wanted," she began in a low voice, "to tell you, Dale, that I did try, that I really did try, to call out. I did not forsake you without trying."
"What do you mean, darling? How have you forsaken me?"
"When he caught hold of me, there was plenty of time to call out. I might have warned you—I might have warned you. I might have done what she did. But I couldn't. I tried, but I couldn't. I was afraid. He said he would blow my head to bits. I was afraid, and I left her to save you."
"My dearest girl," he said, taking her hand, "you did the only thing. If you had cried out, he would have murdered you first and me afterward; all the chambers of the revolver were loaded. I would have died a thousand times sooner than have one of your dear hairs roughened; but, as it was, your death wouldn't have saved me."
She had looked at him for a moment as if with sudden hope, but, as he finished, she shook her head and said:
"I didn't think anything about that. I wasjust afraid, and I should have let you be killed."
"My sweet, who ever expected you to condemn yourself to certain death on the chance of saving me? It would be monstrous!"
"She did it," said Janet in low tones.
Dale paused for a minute.
"She was not in his clutches," he said. "He might have missed her."
"Ah, no, no!" she broke out suddenly. "You run down what she did to spare me! That's worst of all."
"Why, Jan, I don't say a word against her; but there was a difference."
"She thought of no difference. She only thought of you. I thought of my own life."
"Thank God if you did, dearest!"
"I'm glad you came. I wanted to tell you I had tried."
"I need nothing to make me love you more, my beauty and delight," he said, pressing her to him.
She looked at him with a sort of amazement, making a faint effort to push him away.
"It was so lucky," he went on, "that I didn't see you, or I should have rushed at him, and he would most likely have killed you. As it was——" He paused, for it seemed impossible to speak of poor Nellie's hurt as a happy outcome.
"Come," he resumed, "let's think no more about it. The wretched man is dead and Nellie Fane is getting better, and we—why, we, Jan, have one another."
With sudden impatience she rose, unlacing his arms from about her.
"Who is she?" she cried. "Who is she? Why should she give her life for you? I loved you, and I was afraid. She wasn't afraid."
Dale thought that he began to understand a little better. Jealousy was a feeling he had read about, and seen, and written about. If Jan were jealous, he could undertake to reassure her.
"She's a very old and good friend of mine," he said, "and it was just like her brave, unselfish way to——"
"What had you done to make her love you so?"
"My sweetest Jan, surely you can't think I——"
"Oh, no, no, no! I don't mean that. I'm not so mean as that."
Dale wondered whether this passionate disclaimer of jealousy did not come in part from self-delusion, though he saw that Janet made it in all genuineness.
"You have made her love you—oh, of course you have! Why did she follow you? why did she come between you and the shot? I loved you, too, Dale. Ah! how I loved—how I thought I loved you! But her love was greater than mine."
"Come, Jan, come; you exaggerate. You must be calm, dearest. Nellie and I are very fond of one another, but——"
"You know she loves you—you know she loves you to death."
"My darling, I don't know anything of the sort. But supposing she did—well, I am very sorry, very deeply grieved if she is unhappy; but I don't love her—or any other woman in the world but you, Jan. If she had saved my life a thousand times, it would make no difference. You, Jan, you are the breath of my life and the pulse of my blood."
He spoke with passion, for he was roused to combat this strange idea that threatened all his joy. As she stood before him, in her fairness and distress, he forgot his searchings of heart, his tenderness for Nellie, everything, except that she, and she alone, was the woman to be his, and neither another nor she herself should prevent it.
Looking at him, she read this, or some of it, in his eyes, for she shrank back from him, and, clasping her hands, moaned:
"Don't, don't! You must go to her—you belong to her. She saved you, not I. You are hers, not mine."
"Jan, this is madness! She is nothing to me; you are all the world."
"You must despise me," she said in a wondering way, "and yet you say that!"
"If I did despise you, still it would be true. But I worship you."
"I must not! I must not! You must go to her. She saved you. Leave me, Dale, and go back. You must not come again."
He burst out in wrath:
"Now, by God, I will not leave you or let you go! Mine you are, and mine you shallbe!" and he seized her by the wrist. She gave a startled cry that recalled him to gentleness.
"Did I frighten you, my beauty? But it is so, and it must be. It is sweet of you to offer—to make much of what she did, and little of yourself. I love you more for it. But we have done with that now. Come to me, Jan."
"I can't! I can't! She would always be between us; I should always see her between us. O Dale, how can you leave her?"
"I have never loved her. I have never promised her," he replied sternly. "It is all a mere delusion. A man's love is not to be turned by folly like this."
She answered nothing, and sank back in her chair again.
"If it's jealousy," he went on, "it is unworthy of you, and an insult to me. And if it's not jealousy, it's mere madness."
"Can't you understand?" she murmured. "How can I take what is hers?"
"I can take what is mine, and I will. You gave yourself to me, and I will not let you go."
Still she said nothing, and he tried gentleness once more.
"Come, Jan, sweetest, you have made your offering—your sweet, Quixotic self-sacrifice—and it is not accepted! Say that's my want of moral altitude, if you like. So be it. I won't sacrifice myself."
"It's for her to take, not for you. I offer it to her, not to you."
"But I don't offer it to her. Would she care for such an offer? She may love me or not—I don't know; but if she does, she will not take my hand without my heart."
"You must love her. If you could love me, how much more must you love her?"
"You are mad!" he answered, almost roughly, "mad to say such a thing! I know you love me, and I will not listen to it. Do you hear? I shall come back and see you again, and I will not listen to this."
She heard his imperious words with no sign but a little shiver.
"There," he went on, "you are still ill. I'll come back."
"No use," she murmured. "I can't, Dale."
"But you will, and you shall!" he cried. "You shall see——"
The door opened, and the nurse came in to forbid his further lingering. With a distant good-by, he left Janet motionless and pale, and, hastening downstairs, went to the Squire's room.
"I have come," he said abruptly, "to ask your sanction to my engagement with your daughter."
The Squire laid down his book.
"I'm not much surprised," he said, smiling. "What does Jan say?"
Dale launched out into a history of the sweet things Janet had said, and of the strange, wild things she said now. The Squire heard of the latter with raised eyebrows.
"Very odd," he commented. "But it seems,my dear fellow, that, for good reasons or bad, at present she says No."
"She said Yes; she can't say No now," declared Dale. "Do you consent, Mr. Delane?"
"If she does, my dear fellow. But I can't help you in this matter."
"I want no help. She is not in her senses now. I shall make an end of this folly. I will not have it."
He went out as abruptly as he had rushed in, leaving the Squire in some perplexity.
"A man of decision," he commented; "and, altogether, a couple of rather volcanic young people. They must settle it between themselves."
CHAPTER XXIV.The Heroine of the Incident.After Dale's visit to the Grange a few days elapsed in a quiet that was far from peaceful. Dale had gone to the Grange the next day, and the day after that: the sight of Janet had been denied to him. He was told that his visit had left her very agitated and upset, and the doctor was peremptory in forbidding any repetition of it. He had sent her a note, and she had returned a verbal message by her mother that she did not feel equal to writing. Was it possible that she meant to abide by her insane resolve to break off their engagement?At Littlehill things were hardly more happy. Nellie was recovering, but very slowly, and she also remained invisible. Arthur Angell manifested all the symptoms of resentment and disappointed love, and only Philip Hume's usual placid cheerfulness redeemed the house from an atmosphere of intolerable depression. Philip had discovered a fund of amusement in the study of Mrs. Hodge. As soon as that good lady's first apprehensions were soothed, she was seized with an immense and exuberant pride in her daughter, which found expression both inher words and her bearing. Though ignorant of the historical precedent, she assumed the demeanor of a mother of the Gracchi, and pointed out to all who would listen to her—and Philip never thought of refusing her this kindness—small incidents and traits of character which had marked out Nellie from her very cradle as one of heroic mold and dauntless courage."I should be astonished, if I did not know her mother," said Philip politely."Ah, you must be chaffing, of course. But it's not me she takes it from. My heart goes pit-a-pat at a mouse.""Oh, then it's Mr. Hodge.""You couldn't," said Mrs. Hodge with emphasis, "catch Hodge at a loss. He was ready for anything. He'd have been proud to see Nellie to-day. Look what the papers are saying of her!""I'm sure she deserves it all.""Aye, that she does: she deserves all Dale Bannister can do for her."Philip scented danger in this topic, and changed the subject."When are we to see her?" he asked."In a day or two, I expect. She's much better this morning. She's asked to see the papers, and I'm going to take her theChronicle.""How delightful to read of one's heroic actions! I have never enjoyed the sensation.""Nor ever will, young man, if you spend all your time loafing," said Mrs. Hodge incisively."Well, there must be some ordinary people," protested Philip. "Therôleis unappreciated, so it's the more creditable in me to stick to it.""A parcel of nonsense! Where's that paper?"She took it, went upstairs, and gave it to Nellie."There, read that. See what they say about you, my dearie. I'm going to see little Roberts, and I shall be back in an hour. You've got the bell by you, and the nurse'll hear you."Nellie, left alone, began to read theChronicle. She read the whole account from beginning to end, the article in praise of her, and, in the later edition, the editor's romantic forecast. Then she put the papers aside, exclaiming: "Oh, if it could be true!" and lay back with closed eyes.A few days later she made her first appearance in the drawing room, where she held a little court. Her mother hung over all, anticipating far more wants than the patient was likely to feel, and by constant anxious questions almost producing the fatigue she wished to guard against. Tora Smith was there, in a state of gleeful adoration; and Arthur Angell, his sorrows temporarily laid aside, ready with a mock heroic ode; and Philip Hume, new come from Mrs. Roberts' with good news and a high eulogy on Dr. Spink's most marked and assiduous attention."I really believe," he said, with a laugh, "that Mrs. Roberts will have another chance of being a Denborough doctor's wife, if she likes.""That would be an ideal ending," said Tora."Therefore it will not happen," Arthur remarked."Poets are allowed to be pessimistic," rejoined Tora. "But you're wrong, Mr. Angell. Ideal things do happen.""To Sir Harry Fulmer, for instance," put in Philip."Nonsense, Mr. Hume! I wasn't thinking of that. Don't you agree with me, Nellie?""Nellie has made an ideal thing happen," said Philip, and Nellie blushed."Thanks, Phil," said Dale. "It's complimentary to describe the prolongation of my poor existence in that way.""The deed is good, however unworthy the object, Dale."Dale took Nellie's hand and patted it gently."Good child," he said, and Nellie flushed again with an almost strange intensity of embarrassment. Tora rose abruptly, and, in spite of opposition, insisted on departure. Dale escorted her to her carriage."I have asked Nellie to come and stay with me," said she, "as soon as she is well enough to move.""She will like that. I hope she is going?""She said," Tora went on, speaking with emphasis, "that she would ask you."Dale made a little gesture of protest, partly against Nellie's reported saying, more against the reporter's inquiring gaze. He began to be astonished at the interest he was so unfortunate as to inspire in his affairs."I shall advise her to go," he said. "I think a change will be good for her.""I incline to think so too," said Tora with sudden coldness; "but I thought you might not like to part with her.""Mount Pleasant is not inaccessible," responded Dale with equal coldness. Returning to the house, he found Nellie gone, the company dispersed, and Mrs. Hodge in his smoking room, apparently expecting him."Well, mother," he said,—he had used to call her "mother" when he was always running in and out of her house in London,—"Nellie looks quite blooming.""She's mending nicely.""I hear she's to go to the Smiths'.""Well, I thought of taking her to Brighton.""Oh, it will be more amusing at the Smiths'; unless, of course, she needs the sea.""She thought, or I thought rather, that you might like to come with us for a while?" said Mrs. Hodge in a tentative tone."I can't get away," answered Dale decisively. Nothing would have taken him away from the Grange gates.Mrs. Hodge took her courage in both hands."Look here, Dale," she said. "You know I'm not one of those women that lay hold of a man if he as much as looks at a girl, and asks him what he means by it. That's not my way. Hodge used to say girls could take care of themselves mostly—p'r'aps he wasn't far out. But Nellie's not that sort, and her father'sgone, good man, and——" and the excellent lady came to a full stop.Dale loved this honest old woman for long acquaintance' sake and much kindness. He laid his hand on her shoulder and said:"It's a sad world, mother.""The child's fond of you, Dale. She's shown that.""I'm a crossed lover too, mother. We can only weep together.""What, you mean that Grange girl?" asked Mrs. Hodge, her love for her own making her tone tart."Yes, that Grange girl," answered Dale, with a rueful smile. "And just at present that Grange girl won't have anything to say to me."Mrs. Hodge pressed his hand and whispered:"Don't you tell Nellie what I say, but let her go, dearie, and take my girl. She's sick for you, Dale, though she'd kill me if she heard me say it.""Aye, but I'm sick for the Grange girl, mother.""You don't take it ill of me, Dale? But there! a kind word from you is more than the doctors to her. She'd say nothing of what she's done, and I say nothing, but she's a good girl, and a pretty girl.""That she is, and she deserves a better man than I am.""Well, there it is! Talking mends no holes," said Mrs. Hodge, with a heavy sigh. Then she added, in an outburst of impatience:"Why did you ever come to this miserable little place?"Dale raised inquiring hands to heaven and shrugged his shoulders."What they call fate, mother," said he. "Come, cheer up. She'll get over this little idea. She'll be all right.""Please God," said Mrs. Hodge. "It's time for her beef-tea."The phrase Please God is as a rule expressive of the speaker's desire, but not of his expectation. So it was with Mrs. Hodge, but Dale could not bring himself to take so gloomy a view. A man's own passion assumes a most imposing appearance of permanence, but he finds it easy to look with incredulity on a like assumption in the feelings of others. He had keen sympathy for Nellie in the moment or the period of pain which seemed to lie before her, but experience told him that all probabilities were in favor of her escaping from it at no distant time. Love like his for Janet—and, till this unhappy day, he would have added, Janet's for him—was exceptional; change, recovery, oblivion—these were the rule, the happy rule whose operation smoothed love's rough ways.Nevertheless, be this wide philosophical view as just as it might, the present position came nigh to being intolerable, and it was hard to blame him if he looked forward to Nellie's departure with relief. Her presence accused him of cruelty, for it seems cruel to refuse what would give happiness, and it increased every day it continued the misunderstanding whichalready existed as to their future relations. Even now, in spite of Janet's protest, Dale was convinced he had detected an undercurrent of jealousy, flowing in to re-enforce the stream of that higher, but stranger and wilder, feeling which had made her drive him away. If she heard that Nellie remained at his house, and what conclusion was universally drawn from the fact, he was afraid that, when restored health carried away the morbid idea which was now most prominent, the jealousy might remain, and, if it did, Janet's proud nature was ground on which it would bear fruit bitter for him to taste.He could not and did not for a moment blame Mrs. Hodge for her action. It was the natural outcome of her love, and she had performed her difficult task, as it seemed to him, with a perfect observance of all the essential marks of good breeding, however homely her method had been. But she could not understand even his love for Janet, much less another feeling in him, which aided to make her intercession vain. For he did not deny now that, besides the joy he had in Janet as a woman merely, there was also the satisfaction he derived from the fact that she was Miss Delane of Dirkham Grange. Fools and would-be cynics might dismiss this as snobbery; but Dale told himself that he was right and wise in clinging to the place in this new world which his sojourn at Denborough had opened to him, and which a marriage with Janet would secure for him in perpetuity. Setting aside altogether questionsof sentiment, he felt it useless not to recognize that, if he married Nellie Fane, he would drift back into his old world, the gates would close again, and the fresh realms of life and experience, which had delighted his taste and stimulated his genius, would be his to wander in no more. He had grown to love this world, this old world so new to him; and he loved Janet not least because all about her, her face, her speech, her motions, her every air, were redolent to him of its assured distinction and unboastful pride. Nay, even these fantastic scruples of hers were but a distortion of a noble instinct born in her blood, and witnessed to a nature and qualities that he could look for only in the shade of some such place as Dirkham Grange. He felt as if he too belonged to her race, and had been all his life an exile from his native land, whither at last a happy chance had led back his wandering feet. What would dear old Mother Hodge understand of all that? What even would Nellie herself, for all her ready sympathies? It was a feeling that, not vulgar in itself, seemed to become vulgar in the telling; and, after all, he had no need of other justification than his love and his pledged word.He looked out of the window and saw Arthur Angell walking moodily up and down. Putting on his hat, he joined him, passing his arm through his. Arthur turned to him with a petulant look."A lot of miserables we are, old boy," said Dale, pressing the arm he held. "I am often tempted to regret, Arthur, that the state hasnot charged itself with the control of marriages. It would relieve us all of a large amount of trouble, and I really don't see that it would hurt anyone except novelists. I am feeling badly in need of a benevolent despotism.""I'm going back to town," Arthur announced abruptly."I'm very sorry. But I don't know that it's any use asking you to stay. Nellie goes to the Smiths' in a day or two——""It makes no difference to me where she goes," interrupted the unhappy young man. "I—I mean——""I know what you mean."Philip came up, and glanced keenly at Arthur. Then he smiled good-humoredly and said:"Shall I prophesy unto you?""No," said Arthur. "I know you're going to say it'll be all the same six months hence.""I was. I can't deny it, Arthur. You forget that I have seen you like this many times before. We may have a tragedy or we may not, Arthur, but I shall take leave to eliminate you from the cast.""I'm going to pack," said Arthur angrily, and he went into the house."When there are real troubles about," said Philip, "it is well to clear the ground. There's not much the matter with him.""I think he feels it rather, you know.""Oh, yes; it's worth a set of verses.""I'm glad to hear it's no worse; for, to tell you the truth, Phil, there's enough to worryabout without Arthur. I'm glad our party is breaking up.""Why?""We know too much about one another to live together comfortably.""True. Shall I go?""No," said Dale, with a smile; "you may stay and keep watch over the razors."
The Heroine of the Incident.
After Dale's visit to the Grange a few days elapsed in a quiet that was far from peaceful. Dale had gone to the Grange the next day, and the day after that: the sight of Janet had been denied to him. He was told that his visit had left her very agitated and upset, and the doctor was peremptory in forbidding any repetition of it. He had sent her a note, and she had returned a verbal message by her mother that she did not feel equal to writing. Was it possible that she meant to abide by her insane resolve to break off their engagement?
At Littlehill things were hardly more happy. Nellie was recovering, but very slowly, and she also remained invisible. Arthur Angell manifested all the symptoms of resentment and disappointed love, and only Philip Hume's usual placid cheerfulness redeemed the house from an atmosphere of intolerable depression. Philip had discovered a fund of amusement in the study of Mrs. Hodge. As soon as that good lady's first apprehensions were soothed, she was seized with an immense and exuberant pride in her daughter, which found expression both inher words and her bearing. Though ignorant of the historical precedent, she assumed the demeanor of a mother of the Gracchi, and pointed out to all who would listen to her—and Philip never thought of refusing her this kindness—small incidents and traits of character which had marked out Nellie from her very cradle as one of heroic mold and dauntless courage.
"I should be astonished, if I did not know her mother," said Philip politely.
"Ah, you must be chaffing, of course. But it's not me she takes it from. My heart goes pit-a-pat at a mouse."
"Oh, then it's Mr. Hodge."
"You couldn't," said Mrs. Hodge with emphasis, "catch Hodge at a loss. He was ready for anything. He'd have been proud to see Nellie to-day. Look what the papers are saying of her!"
"I'm sure she deserves it all."
"Aye, that she does: she deserves all Dale Bannister can do for her."
Philip scented danger in this topic, and changed the subject.
"When are we to see her?" he asked.
"In a day or two, I expect. She's much better this morning. She's asked to see the papers, and I'm going to take her theChronicle."
"How delightful to read of one's heroic actions! I have never enjoyed the sensation."
"Nor ever will, young man, if you spend all your time loafing," said Mrs. Hodge incisively.
"Well, there must be some ordinary people," protested Philip. "Therôleis unappreciated, so it's the more creditable in me to stick to it."
"A parcel of nonsense! Where's that paper?"
She took it, went upstairs, and gave it to Nellie.
"There, read that. See what they say about you, my dearie. I'm going to see little Roberts, and I shall be back in an hour. You've got the bell by you, and the nurse'll hear you."
Nellie, left alone, began to read theChronicle. She read the whole account from beginning to end, the article in praise of her, and, in the later edition, the editor's romantic forecast. Then she put the papers aside, exclaiming: "Oh, if it could be true!" and lay back with closed eyes.
A few days later she made her first appearance in the drawing room, where she held a little court. Her mother hung over all, anticipating far more wants than the patient was likely to feel, and by constant anxious questions almost producing the fatigue she wished to guard against. Tora Smith was there, in a state of gleeful adoration; and Arthur Angell, his sorrows temporarily laid aside, ready with a mock heroic ode; and Philip Hume, new come from Mrs. Roberts' with good news and a high eulogy on Dr. Spink's most marked and assiduous attention.
"I really believe," he said, with a laugh, "that Mrs. Roberts will have another chance of being a Denborough doctor's wife, if she likes."
"That would be an ideal ending," said Tora.
"Therefore it will not happen," Arthur remarked.
"Poets are allowed to be pessimistic," rejoined Tora. "But you're wrong, Mr. Angell. Ideal things do happen."
"To Sir Harry Fulmer, for instance," put in Philip.
"Nonsense, Mr. Hume! I wasn't thinking of that. Don't you agree with me, Nellie?"
"Nellie has made an ideal thing happen," said Philip, and Nellie blushed.
"Thanks, Phil," said Dale. "It's complimentary to describe the prolongation of my poor existence in that way."
"The deed is good, however unworthy the object, Dale."
Dale took Nellie's hand and patted it gently.
"Good child," he said, and Nellie flushed again with an almost strange intensity of embarrassment. Tora rose abruptly, and, in spite of opposition, insisted on departure. Dale escorted her to her carriage.
"I have asked Nellie to come and stay with me," said she, "as soon as she is well enough to move."
"She will like that. I hope she is going?"
"She said," Tora went on, speaking with emphasis, "that she would ask you."
Dale made a little gesture of protest, partly against Nellie's reported saying, more against the reporter's inquiring gaze. He began to be astonished at the interest he was so unfortunate as to inspire in his affairs.
"I shall advise her to go," he said. "I think a change will be good for her."
"I incline to think so too," said Tora with sudden coldness; "but I thought you might not like to part with her."
"Mount Pleasant is not inaccessible," responded Dale with equal coldness. Returning to the house, he found Nellie gone, the company dispersed, and Mrs. Hodge in his smoking room, apparently expecting him.
"Well, mother," he said,—he had used to call her "mother" when he was always running in and out of her house in London,—"Nellie looks quite blooming."
"She's mending nicely."
"I hear she's to go to the Smiths'."
"Well, I thought of taking her to Brighton."
"Oh, it will be more amusing at the Smiths'; unless, of course, she needs the sea."
"She thought, or I thought rather, that you might like to come with us for a while?" said Mrs. Hodge in a tentative tone.
"I can't get away," answered Dale decisively. Nothing would have taken him away from the Grange gates.
Mrs. Hodge took her courage in both hands.
"Look here, Dale," she said. "You know I'm not one of those women that lay hold of a man if he as much as looks at a girl, and asks him what he means by it. That's not my way. Hodge used to say girls could take care of themselves mostly—p'r'aps he wasn't far out. But Nellie's not that sort, and her father'sgone, good man, and——" and the excellent lady came to a full stop.
Dale loved this honest old woman for long acquaintance' sake and much kindness. He laid his hand on her shoulder and said:
"It's a sad world, mother."
"The child's fond of you, Dale. She's shown that."
"I'm a crossed lover too, mother. We can only weep together."
"What, you mean that Grange girl?" asked Mrs. Hodge, her love for her own making her tone tart.
"Yes, that Grange girl," answered Dale, with a rueful smile. "And just at present that Grange girl won't have anything to say to me."
Mrs. Hodge pressed his hand and whispered:
"Don't you tell Nellie what I say, but let her go, dearie, and take my girl. She's sick for you, Dale, though she'd kill me if she heard me say it."
"Aye, but I'm sick for the Grange girl, mother."
"You don't take it ill of me, Dale? But there! a kind word from you is more than the doctors to her. She'd say nothing of what she's done, and I say nothing, but she's a good girl, and a pretty girl."
"That she is, and she deserves a better man than I am."
"Well, there it is! Talking mends no holes," said Mrs. Hodge, with a heavy sigh. Then she added, in an outburst of impatience:
"Why did you ever come to this miserable little place?"
Dale raised inquiring hands to heaven and shrugged his shoulders.
"What they call fate, mother," said he. "Come, cheer up. She'll get over this little idea. She'll be all right."
"Please God," said Mrs. Hodge. "It's time for her beef-tea."
The phrase Please God is as a rule expressive of the speaker's desire, but not of his expectation. So it was with Mrs. Hodge, but Dale could not bring himself to take so gloomy a view. A man's own passion assumes a most imposing appearance of permanence, but he finds it easy to look with incredulity on a like assumption in the feelings of others. He had keen sympathy for Nellie in the moment or the period of pain which seemed to lie before her, but experience told him that all probabilities were in favor of her escaping from it at no distant time. Love like his for Janet—and, till this unhappy day, he would have added, Janet's for him—was exceptional; change, recovery, oblivion—these were the rule, the happy rule whose operation smoothed love's rough ways.
Nevertheless, be this wide philosophical view as just as it might, the present position came nigh to being intolerable, and it was hard to blame him if he looked forward to Nellie's departure with relief. Her presence accused him of cruelty, for it seems cruel to refuse what would give happiness, and it increased every day it continued the misunderstanding whichalready existed as to their future relations. Even now, in spite of Janet's protest, Dale was convinced he had detected an undercurrent of jealousy, flowing in to re-enforce the stream of that higher, but stranger and wilder, feeling which had made her drive him away. If she heard that Nellie remained at his house, and what conclusion was universally drawn from the fact, he was afraid that, when restored health carried away the morbid idea which was now most prominent, the jealousy might remain, and, if it did, Janet's proud nature was ground on which it would bear fruit bitter for him to taste.
He could not and did not for a moment blame Mrs. Hodge for her action. It was the natural outcome of her love, and she had performed her difficult task, as it seemed to him, with a perfect observance of all the essential marks of good breeding, however homely her method had been. But she could not understand even his love for Janet, much less another feeling in him, which aided to make her intercession vain. For he did not deny now that, besides the joy he had in Janet as a woman merely, there was also the satisfaction he derived from the fact that she was Miss Delane of Dirkham Grange. Fools and would-be cynics might dismiss this as snobbery; but Dale told himself that he was right and wise in clinging to the place in this new world which his sojourn at Denborough had opened to him, and which a marriage with Janet would secure for him in perpetuity. Setting aside altogether questionsof sentiment, he felt it useless not to recognize that, if he married Nellie Fane, he would drift back into his old world, the gates would close again, and the fresh realms of life and experience, which had delighted his taste and stimulated his genius, would be his to wander in no more. He had grown to love this world, this old world so new to him; and he loved Janet not least because all about her, her face, her speech, her motions, her every air, were redolent to him of its assured distinction and unboastful pride. Nay, even these fantastic scruples of hers were but a distortion of a noble instinct born in her blood, and witnessed to a nature and qualities that he could look for only in the shade of some such place as Dirkham Grange. He felt as if he too belonged to her race, and had been all his life an exile from his native land, whither at last a happy chance had led back his wandering feet. What would dear old Mother Hodge understand of all that? What even would Nellie herself, for all her ready sympathies? It was a feeling that, not vulgar in itself, seemed to become vulgar in the telling; and, after all, he had no need of other justification than his love and his pledged word.
He looked out of the window and saw Arthur Angell walking moodily up and down. Putting on his hat, he joined him, passing his arm through his. Arthur turned to him with a petulant look.
"A lot of miserables we are, old boy," said Dale, pressing the arm he held. "I am often tempted to regret, Arthur, that the state hasnot charged itself with the control of marriages. It would relieve us all of a large amount of trouble, and I really don't see that it would hurt anyone except novelists. I am feeling badly in need of a benevolent despotism."
"I'm going back to town," Arthur announced abruptly.
"I'm very sorry. But I don't know that it's any use asking you to stay. Nellie goes to the Smiths' in a day or two——"
"It makes no difference to me where she goes," interrupted the unhappy young man. "I—I mean——"
"I know what you mean."
Philip came up, and glanced keenly at Arthur. Then he smiled good-humoredly and said:
"Shall I prophesy unto you?"
"No," said Arthur. "I know you're going to say it'll be all the same six months hence."
"I was. I can't deny it, Arthur. You forget that I have seen you like this many times before. We may have a tragedy or we may not, Arthur, but I shall take leave to eliminate you from the cast."
"I'm going to pack," said Arthur angrily, and he went into the house.
"When there are real troubles about," said Philip, "it is well to clear the ground. There's not much the matter with him."
"I think he feels it rather, you know."
"Oh, yes; it's worth a set of verses."
"I'm glad to hear it's no worse; for, to tell you the truth, Phil, there's enough to worryabout without Arthur. I'm glad our party is breaking up."
"Why?"
"We know too much about one another to live together comfortably."
"True. Shall I go?"
"No," said Dale, with a smile; "you may stay and keep watch over the razors."
CHAPTER XXV.The Scene of the Outrage.The excitement and bustle which attended and followed on the attempted murder, the suicide, the inquest, the illnesses, and the true and false reports concerning each and all of these incidents, had hardly subsided before the Mayor of Market Denborough, with the perseverance that distinguished him, began once more to give his attention to the royal visit. For reasons which will be apparent to all who study the manner in which one man becomes a knight while another remains unhonored, the Mayor was particularly anxious that the Institute should not lose theéclatwhich the Duke of Mercia had promised to bestow on its opening, and that its opening should take place during his mayoralty.The finger of fame pointed at Mr. Maggs the horse-dealer as Mr. Hedger's successor, and the idea of the waters of the fountain of honor flowing on to the head of Maggs, instead of on to his own, spurred the Mayor to keen exertion. He had interviews with the Squire, he wrote to the Lord Lieutenant, he promoted a petition from the burgesses, and he carried a resolution in the Town Council. Mr. Delane was prevailedupon to use his influence with the Lord Lieutenant; the Lord Lieutenant could not, in view of Mr. Delane's urgent appeal, refuse to lay the question before his Royal Highness; and his Royal Highness was graciously pleased to say that he could not deny himself the pleasure of obliging Lord Cransford, knowing not that he was in fact and in truth, if it may be spoken withoutlèse-majesté, merely an instrument in the clever fingers of a gentleman who, when the Prince was writing his reply, was rolling pills in the parlor behind his shop in the town of Market Denborough.Now, Colonel Smith had never concealed his opinion that, however much evil that unhappy man James Roberts had to answer for, yet he deserved a scrap of grateful memory, inasmuch as he had by his action averted the calamity that was threatening the town, and, furthermore, robbed Dale Bannister of the chance of prostituting his genius. Accordingly, when it was announced in theStandard, three or four weeks after James Roberts had shot at Dale Bannister and wounded Nellie Fane, that the Duke had given a conditional promise to pay his deferred visit in June, the Colonel laid down the paper and said to the rest of the breakfast party at Mount Pleasant—and the Colonel must bear the responsibility for the terms he thought proper to employ:"That old fool Cransford has nobbled the whippersnapper again! We're to have him after all! Good Lord!"Tora at once appreciated his meaning."Papa means the Prince is coming, Nellie!" cried she. "How splendid!""Bannister will have a chance of blacking his boots now," pursued the Colonel, trying to impose a malignant sneer on his obstinately kindly countenance."You are not to say such things," said Nellie emphatically. "You know you don't mean them.""Not mean them?" exclaimed the Colonel."No. You're not horrid, and it's no use trying to make yourself horrid. Is it, Tora?"Tora's thoughts were far away."In June," she said meditatively. "I hope it won't be the first week, or we shall have to come back early."The Colonel's face expressed concentrated scorn."You would cut short your honeymoon in order to come back?""Of course, dear. I wouldn't miss it. Oh, and, Nellie, I shall go in next after Lady Cransford!"This was too much for the Colonel; he said nothing himself, but his joy was great when Sir Harry pointed out that Mrs. Hedger would have official precedence over the new Lady Fulmer. The Colonel chuckled, and Tora pretended that she had remembered about Mrs. Hedger all the time."Johnstone will probably take you in, Tora," said Sir Harry, who had lately found himself able to treat Tora with less fearful respect."I don't care. I shall talk to the Prince. Now, Nellie, you must come down for it."Nellie would not give any promise, and Tora forbore to press her, for she confessed to herself and to Sir Harry that she did not quite understand the position of affairs. Janet Delane remained in strict seclusion; doctor's orders were alleged, but Tora was inclined to be skeptical, for she had seen Janet out driving, and reported that she looked strong and well. Dale was at Littlehill, and he was there alone, Philip having gone back to London with Arthur Angell. He often came over to Mount Pleasant, to see Nellie, no doubt; and when he came, he was most attentive and kind to her. Yet he resolutely refused to stay in the house, always returning in an hour or two to his solitary life at Littlehill. He seemed never to see Janet, and to know not much more about her than the rest of the world did. He never referred to her unquestioned, and when he spoke of Nellie's share in the scene in the garden, he appeared pointedly to avoid discussing Janet's. Tora concluded that there was some break in his relations with Janet, and, led on by her sympathies, had small difficulty in persuading herself that he was by degrees being induced by affection and gratitude to feel toward Nellie as everybody expected and wished him to feel. Only, if so, it was hard to see why Nellie's pleasure in his visits seemed mingled with a nervousness which the increased brightness of her prospects did not allay. Evidently she also was puzzled by Janet's conduct; and it wasequally clear that she did not yet feel confident that Dale had renounced his fancy for Janet and given his heart to her.In after-days Dale was wont to declare that the fortnight he passed alone at Littlehill was the most miserable in his life, and people given to improving the occasion would then tell him that he had no experience of what real misery was. Yet he was very miserable. He was sore to the heart at Janet's treatment of him; she would neither see him, nor, till he absolutely insisted, write to him, and then she sent three words: "It's no use." In face of this incredible delusion of hers he felt himself helpless; and the Squire, with all the good will in the world to him, could only shrug his shoulders and say that Jan was a strange girl; while Mrs. Delane, knowing nothing of the cause of her daughter's refusal to see Dale, had once again begun to revive her old hopes, and allowed herself to hint at them to her favorite Gerard Ripley. Of course this latter fact was not known to Dale, but he was aware that Captain Ripley had called two or three times at the Grange, and had seen Janet once. The "doctor's orders" applied, it seemed, to him alone; and his bitterness of heart increased, mingling with growing impatience and resentment. Nellie could never have acted like this: she was too kind and gentle; love was real in her, a mastering power, and not itself the plaything of fantastic scruples—unless a worse thing were true, unless the scruples themselves were the screen of some unlooked-for and sudden infidelityof heart. The thought was treason, but he could not stifle it. Yet, even while it possessed him, while he told himself that he had now full right to transfer his allegiance, that no one could blame him, that every motive urged him, all the while in his inmost mind he never lost the knowledge that it was Janet he wanted; and when he came to see Nellie, he was unable, even if he had been willing—and he told himself he was—to say anything but words of friendship and thanks, unable to frame a sentence distantly approaching the phrases of love he knew she longed to hear.Matters were in this very unsatisfactory condition when Philip Hume returned to Littlehill, and straightway became the unwilling recipient of Dale's troubled confidences. A fortnight's solitude had been too much for Dale, and he poured out his perplexities, saying, with an apologetic laugh:"I'm bound to tell someone. I believe, if you hadn't come, I should have made a clean breast of it to the Mayor.""You might do worse. The Mayor is a man of sagacity. This young woman seems very unreasonable.""What young woman?""Why, Miss Delane.""Well, Phil, you must allow for the delicacy of her——""You called it infernal nonsense yourself just now.""I wish, Phil, you'd call at the Grange and see her, and tell me what you think about her.""I can't do any good, but I'll go, if you like."Accordingly he went, and did, as he expected, no good at all. Janet had resumed her ordinary manner, with an additional touch or two of vivacity and loquaciousness, which betrayed the uneasiness they were meant to hide. The only subjects she discussed were the last new novel and Tora Smith's wedding, and Philip took his leave, entirely unenlightened. The Squire offered to walk part of the way with him and they set out together.The Squire stopped at the scene of the disaster. Pointing with his toe to a spot by the side of the drive:"That's where that mad wretch stood, holding my poor girl," he said.Philip nodded."And where was Dale?" he asked, for it was his first visit to the spot.The Squire was delighted to becicerone."He was standing with his back to that tree yonder, about fifteen yards off, looking due north, toward the house, thinking of a poem or some nonsense, I suppose.""I shouldn't wonder.""Well, then," pursued the Squire, "you see he was almost in a straight line with Roberts—Roberts' barrel must have pointed straight toward Denborough church spire. After the first shot Bannister sprang forward—the gravel was soft, and we saw every footprint—to where Miss Fane fell, and——""Where did she fall?"The Squire's toe indicated a spot about three yards from the tree."She was running up from behind Bannister, you know, and had just got across the line of fire when the bullet caught her. She fell forward on her face,—she was bound to, Spink said, from the way she was hit,—and Bannister just got his arm under her, to break her fall.""She was running toward him, I suppose, to warn him?""To get between him and Roberts, like the noble girl she is, no doubt; but she seemed to have turned round on hearing the shot, because, to judge from the way she was lying, she was, at the moment she fell, heading almost south.""What, toward the house?""Yes, in a slanting line, from the tree toward the house.""That's away from Bannister?""Yes, and from Roberts too. You see, she must have turned. It was a fine thing. Well, I must get back; I'm busy with all the preparations for this affair. Good-day, Mr. Hume. Very kind of you to come and see us.""I'm so glad to find Miss Delane better.""Yes, she's better, thanks, but not herself yet, by any means. Good-day."Philip went home, lit a pipe, and drew a neat little plan of the scene which had just been so carefully described to him. By the time the drawing was made the pipe was finished, and he was obliged to light another, which he consumed while he sat gazing at his handiwork.He was still pondering over it when Dale came in, and flung himself into an armchair with a restless sigh."What's up now?" asked Philip."Only that I'm the most miserable dog alive. I tell you what, Phil, I'm going to settle this affair one way or the other. I won't be played with any more. I shall go up to the Grange to-morrow.""You can't—it's Fulmer's wedding.""Hang his wedding! Well, then, next day—and get a definite answer from Janet. It's too bad of her. Did you have any talk with her to-day?""Only general conversation. She gave me no chance.""I don't understand her, but I'll have it settled. I've been at Mount Pleasant, and—by God, Phil, I can't stand the sort of anxious, beseeching way Nellie looks. I know it sounds absurd to hear a man talk like that, but it's a fact.""Then why do you go?""Well, considering what she's done, I don't see how I can very well stay away.""Oh! No, I suppose not," said Philip, touching up his plan; "but if I were you, Dale, I should wait a bit before I bothered Miss Delane again. Give her time, man.""No, I won't. She's not treating me fairly.""What's that got to do with it? You want to marry her, don't you?""Of course I do.""Then give her time. Give her a week at allevents. You can sound her at the wedding to-morrow, but don't present your ultimatum."And Dale agreed, on much persuasion, to give her a week."That's more sensible. And, Dale, may I ask Arthur Angell down for a day or two?""Of course, but I don't know whether he'll come.""Oh, he'll come, fast enough.""What do you want him for?""To consult him about a little work of mine," answered Philip, regarding his sketch critically."Going to publish something?""I don't know. That depends.""On the publishers?Ça va sans dire.But how can Arthur help you?""He was there.""Where?""Now, Dale, I can understand your impatience—but you must wait. If I publish it, you shall see it.""Is it my sort? Shall I like it?""I think your feelings would be mixed," said Philip, delicately filling in Nellie Fane's figure on the ground.
The Scene of the Outrage.
The excitement and bustle which attended and followed on the attempted murder, the suicide, the inquest, the illnesses, and the true and false reports concerning each and all of these incidents, had hardly subsided before the Mayor of Market Denborough, with the perseverance that distinguished him, began once more to give his attention to the royal visit. For reasons which will be apparent to all who study the manner in which one man becomes a knight while another remains unhonored, the Mayor was particularly anxious that the Institute should not lose theéclatwhich the Duke of Mercia had promised to bestow on its opening, and that its opening should take place during his mayoralty.
The finger of fame pointed at Mr. Maggs the horse-dealer as Mr. Hedger's successor, and the idea of the waters of the fountain of honor flowing on to the head of Maggs, instead of on to his own, spurred the Mayor to keen exertion. He had interviews with the Squire, he wrote to the Lord Lieutenant, he promoted a petition from the burgesses, and he carried a resolution in the Town Council. Mr. Delane was prevailedupon to use his influence with the Lord Lieutenant; the Lord Lieutenant could not, in view of Mr. Delane's urgent appeal, refuse to lay the question before his Royal Highness; and his Royal Highness was graciously pleased to say that he could not deny himself the pleasure of obliging Lord Cransford, knowing not that he was in fact and in truth, if it may be spoken withoutlèse-majesté, merely an instrument in the clever fingers of a gentleman who, when the Prince was writing his reply, was rolling pills in the parlor behind his shop in the town of Market Denborough.
Now, Colonel Smith had never concealed his opinion that, however much evil that unhappy man James Roberts had to answer for, yet he deserved a scrap of grateful memory, inasmuch as he had by his action averted the calamity that was threatening the town, and, furthermore, robbed Dale Bannister of the chance of prostituting his genius. Accordingly, when it was announced in theStandard, three or four weeks after James Roberts had shot at Dale Bannister and wounded Nellie Fane, that the Duke had given a conditional promise to pay his deferred visit in June, the Colonel laid down the paper and said to the rest of the breakfast party at Mount Pleasant—and the Colonel must bear the responsibility for the terms he thought proper to employ:
"That old fool Cransford has nobbled the whippersnapper again! We're to have him after all! Good Lord!"
Tora at once appreciated his meaning.
"Papa means the Prince is coming, Nellie!" cried she. "How splendid!"
"Bannister will have a chance of blacking his boots now," pursued the Colonel, trying to impose a malignant sneer on his obstinately kindly countenance.
"You are not to say such things," said Nellie emphatically. "You know you don't mean them."
"Not mean them?" exclaimed the Colonel.
"No. You're not horrid, and it's no use trying to make yourself horrid. Is it, Tora?"
Tora's thoughts were far away.
"In June," she said meditatively. "I hope it won't be the first week, or we shall have to come back early."
The Colonel's face expressed concentrated scorn.
"You would cut short your honeymoon in order to come back?"
"Of course, dear. I wouldn't miss it. Oh, and, Nellie, I shall go in next after Lady Cransford!"
This was too much for the Colonel; he said nothing himself, but his joy was great when Sir Harry pointed out that Mrs. Hedger would have official precedence over the new Lady Fulmer. The Colonel chuckled, and Tora pretended that she had remembered about Mrs. Hedger all the time.
"Johnstone will probably take you in, Tora," said Sir Harry, who had lately found himself able to treat Tora with less fearful respect.
"I don't care. I shall talk to the Prince. Now, Nellie, you must come down for it."
Nellie would not give any promise, and Tora forbore to press her, for she confessed to herself and to Sir Harry that she did not quite understand the position of affairs. Janet Delane remained in strict seclusion; doctor's orders were alleged, but Tora was inclined to be skeptical, for she had seen Janet out driving, and reported that she looked strong and well. Dale was at Littlehill, and he was there alone, Philip having gone back to London with Arthur Angell. He often came over to Mount Pleasant, to see Nellie, no doubt; and when he came, he was most attentive and kind to her. Yet he resolutely refused to stay in the house, always returning in an hour or two to his solitary life at Littlehill. He seemed never to see Janet, and to know not much more about her than the rest of the world did. He never referred to her unquestioned, and when he spoke of Nellie's share in the scene in the garden, he appeared pointedly to avoid discussing Janet's. Tora concluded that there was some break in his relations with Janet, and, led on by her sympathies, had small difficulty in persuading herself that he was by degrees being induced by affection and gratitude to feel toward Nellie as everybody expected and wished him to feel. Only, if so, it was hard to see why Nellie's pleasure in his visits seemed mingled with a nervousness which the increased brightness of her prospects did not allay. Evidently she also was puzzled by Janet's conduct; and it wasequally clear that she did not yet feel confident that Dale had renounced his fancy for Janet and given his heart to her.
In after-days Dale was wont to declare that the fortnight he passed alone at Littlehill was the most miserable in his life, and people given to improving the occasion would then tell him that he had no experience of what real misery was. Yet he was very miserable. He was sore to the heart at Janet's treatment of him; she would neither see him, nor, till he absolutely insisted, write to him, and then she sent three words: "It's no use." In face of this incredible delusion of hers he felt himself helpless; and the Squire, with all the good will in the world to him, could only shrug his shoulders and say that Jan was a strange girl; while Mrs. Delane, knowing nothing of the cause of her daughter's refusal to see Dale, had once again begun to revive her old hopes, and allowed herself to hint at them to her favorite Gerard Ripley. Of course this latter fact was not known to Dale, but he was aware that Captain Ripley had called two or three times at the Grange, and had seen Janet once. The "doctor's orders" applied, it seemed, to him alone; and his bitterness of heart increased, mingling with growing impatience and resentment. Nellie could never have acted like this: she was too kind and gentle; love was real in her, a mastering power, and not itself the plaything of fantastic scruples—unless a worse thing were true, unless the scruples themselves were the screen of some unlooked-for and sudden infidelityof heart. The thought was treason, but he could not stifle it. Yet, even while it possessed him, while he told himself that he had now full right to transfer his allegiance, that no one could blame him, that every motive urged him, all the while in his inmost mind he never lost the knowledge that it was Janet he wanted; and when he came to see Nellie, he was unable, even if he had been willing—and he told himself he was—to say anything but words of friendship and thanks, unable to frame a sentence distantly approaching the phrases of love he knew she longed to hear.
Matters were in this very unsatisfactory condition when Philip Hume returned to Littlehill, and straightway became the unwilling recipient of Dale's troubled confidences. A fortnight's solitude had been too much for Dale, and he poured out his perplexities, saying, with an apologetic laugh:
"I'm bound to tell someone. I believe, if you hadn't come, I should have made a clean breast of it to the Mayor."
"You might do worse. The Mayor is a man of sagacity. This young woman seems very unreasonable."
"What young woman?"
"Why, Miss Delane."
"Well, Phil, you must allow for the delicacy of her——"
"You called it infernal nonsense yourself just now."
"I wish, Phil, you'd call at the Grange and see her, and tell me what you think about her."
"I can't do any good, but I'll go, if you like."
Accordingly he went, and did, as he expected, no good at all. Janet had resumed her ordinary manner, with an additional touch or two of vivacity and loquaciousness, which betrayed the uneasiness they were meant to hide. The only subjects she discussed were the last new novel and Tora Smith's wedding, and Philip took his leave, entirely unenlightened. The Squire offered to walk part of the way with him and they set out together.
The Squire stopped at the scene of the disaster. Pointing with his toe to a spot by the side of the drive:
"That's where that mad wretch stood, holding my poor girl," he said.
Philip nodded.
"And where was Dale?" he asked, for it was his first visit to the spot.
The Squire was delighted to becicerone.
"He was standing with his back to that tree yonder, about fifteen yards off, looking due north, toward the house, thinking of a poem or some nonsense, I suppose."
"I shouldn't wonder."
"Well, then," pursued the Squire, "you see he was almost in a straight line with Roberts—Roberts' barrel must have pointed straight toward Denborough church spire. After the first shot Bannister sprang forward—the gravel was soft, and we saw every footprint—to where Miss Fane fell, and——"
"Where did she fall?"
The Squire's toe indicated a spot about three yards from the tree.
"She was running up from behind Bannister, you know, and had just got across the line of fire when the bullet caught her. She fell forward on her face,—she was bound to, Spink said, from the way she was hit,—and Bannister just got his arm under her, to break her fall."
"She was running toward him, I suppose, to warn him?"
"To get between him and Roberts, like the noble girl she is, no doubt; but she seemed to have turned round on hearing the shot, because, to judge from the way she was lying, she was, at the moment she fell, heading almost south."
"What, toward the house?"
"Yes, in a slanting line, from the tree toward the house."
"That's away from Bannister?"
"Yes, and from Roberts too. You see, she must have turned. It was a fine thing. Well, I must get back; I'm busy with all the preparations for this affair. Good-day, Mr. Hume. Very kind of you to come and see us."
"I'm so glad to find Miss Delane better."
"Yes, she's better, thanks, but not herself yet, by any means. Good-day."
Philip went home, lit a pipe, and drew a neat little plan of the scene which had just been so carefully described to him. By the time the drawing was made the pipe was finished, and he was obliged to light another, which he consumed while he sat gazing at his handiwork.He was still pondering over it when Dale came in, and flung himself into an armchair with a restless sigh.
"What's up now?" asked Philip.
"Only that I'm the most miserable dog alive. I tell you what, Phil, I'm going to settle this affair one way or the other. I won't be played with any more. I shall go up to the Grange to-morrow."
"You can't—it's Fulmer's wedding."
"Hang his wedding! Well, then, next day—and get a definite answer from Janet. It's too bad of her. Did you have any talk with her to-day?"
"Only general conversation. She gave me no chance."
"I don't understand her, but I'll have it settled. I've been at Mount Pleasant, and—by God, Phil, I can't stand the sort of anxious, beseeching way Nellie looks. I know it sounds absurd to hear a man talk like that, but it's a fact."
"Then why do you go?"
"Well, considering what she's done, I don't see how I can very well stay away."
"Oh! No, I suppose not," said Philip, touching up his plan; "but if I were you, Dale, I should wait a bit before I bothered Miss Delane again. Give her time, man."
"No, I won't. She's not treating me fairly."
"What's that got to do with it? You want to marry her, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"Then give her time. Give her a week at allevents. You can sound her at the wedding to-morrow, but don't present your ultimatum."
And Dale agreed, on much persuasion, to give her a week.
"That's more sensible. And, Dale, may I ask Arthur Angell down for a day or two?"
"Of course, but I don't know whether he'll come."
"Oh, he'll come, fast enough."
"What do you want him for?"
"To consult him about a little work of mine," answered Philip, regarding his sketch critically.
"Going to publish something?"
"I don't know. That depends."
"On the publishers?Ça va sans dire.But how can Arthur help you?"
"He was there."
"Where?"
"Now, Dale, I can understand your impatience—but you must wait. If I publish it, you shall see it."
"Is it my sort? Shall I like it?"
"I think your feelings would be mixed," said Philip, delicately filling in Nellie Fane's figure on the ground.