X

The girls walked to the station with Escott. A fleecy evening, with the clouds growing pale towards the sea, the sun like fire in the elms, and the woods showing upon a purple tinge.

“How delightful!” exclaimed Frank. “How charming this is—this old English green, the horse pond at one end, the various houses, the inn, the grocery business, the linen drying in that yard, the smith, and the wheelwright. I don't like that modern Queen Anne school-house, and I wish I could remove the dead level of the embankment and see the sea. The green is better from this side with the view of the Downs—those lines waving against the sky, where the gorse grows and the sheep feed, and inclining to the road all the fields pale green and deep green. But what game are those men playing—what game do you call that?”

“Bat and trap.”

“I have passed the green twenty times before, and I never really saw it till now. It is charming—so thoroughly English. I should like to live here for a month—for two months. How nice it would be to breakfast in the morning looking out on the green, to see the cocks and hens and all the children and all this English life! How different from Pump Court! I am sick of Pump Court—dirt and smoke, a horrid servant, stale eggs. I suppose you can always get fresh eggs and new bread here? I would give anything to spend a month on the green.”

“Well, you can!” cried Sally. “I wish you would, and you could come and play tennis with us every afternoon. Mrs. Heald has some rooms to let; why it was only last week I heard that she hadn't let her rooms this season, and was most anxious to do so.”

“There's no use my coming here until I begin to write my novel. I am painting now, and I must see if I can get my picture finished for one of the autumn exhibitions.”

“I knew you would find some excuse.”

“No, I assure you, but I can't do anything without a studio, and I'm not likely to find a studio on Southwick Green.”

“I don't suppose Mrs. Heald has a room large enough for a studio,” said Maggie; “but I don't see why you shouldn't find a place where you can paint.”

“Where? Not in that eighteenth-century house where the two old ladies are standing! Supposing I were to go and ask them if they would let me have their drawing-room to paint in! That is the only house on the green, all the rest are cottages.”

“I suppose you are not very particular where you paint,” said Maggie reflectively. “You don't mind appearances, I suppose? I wonder if you could manage to fit up a farm building.”

“There is the famous barn where Charles the First hid himself, I don't suppose the authorities would allow me to turn that into a studio.”

“No, probably not; but I think you might find a house that would do.”

“What nonsense, Maggie,” said Sally, who began to grow jealous of her sister.

“Why is it nonsense? I see no reason why Frank shouldn't come to some arrangement with the smith, and turn his house into a studio.”

“Which is the smith's house? I'll tell you in a moment if it could be turned into a studio.”

“That house standing quite by itself in the corner of the green.”

“That tall narrow house with the bit of broken wall and the elder bushes?”

“Yes.”

“I daresay I could rig up a very nice studio out of that place, indeed it looks quite picturesque amid its elder bushes. There is the stile, and there is the cornfield. But I couldn't live there.”

“No, you would live at Mrs. Heald's, and you could walk over every morning to the studio.”

“Yes, I could do that. I prefer to live with my work. There is nothing like walking from the breakfast table across the room to the easel.”

“Of course you can find fault with everything; nothing is perfect.”

“There goes the train!” cried Sally. “No use in running now, you've missed it.”

“How very provoking; the next isn't till half-past seven—just an hour to wait.”

“Well,” said Maggie, “if you have missed the train we may as well go at once and ask Mrs. Heald if she has let her rooms.”

They walked towards a block of cottages—at one end the “Cricketer's Arms,” at the other the grocery business; and the cottage that joined the grocery business was remarkable for a bit of green paling and wooden balcony, now covered with Virginia creeper. Frank thought at once of new-laid eggs, and the sunlight glancing through a great mass of greenery, and he resolved if a sacrifice were necessary to live at Southwick, he would put his picture aside and begin his novel. The people in the house pleased him, and he ran on in his way thinking how English and trustworthy they seemed, liking the green parrot that rubbed its head affectionately against the grey ringlets of a very ladylike old person; and Mrs. Heald, brisk as a bee, notwithstanding her lame leg, who led the way up the ladder-like cottage staircase.

“How nice and clean everything is; books and engravings along the passages. How unlike Ireland!”

But the sitting-room was full of horsehair sofas and chairs. These displeased Frank, but some handsome china—an entire tea service in Crown Derby—reconciled him to the room. In the bedroom they found a huge four-poster of old time, with a lengthy bolster and imposing pillows, and they were shown into another and a similar room. One looked out on the green, the other on the fields that lay between the green and the Manor House.

“If that elm were cut down you could see my window,” said Sally.

“Which room do you like the best?” said Maggie.

“It is hard to say. The other room looks on the green, but here there is a nice large wardrobe, and I don't see how I can get on without a wardrobe.”

“If you like the other room best, sir, I can turn out the chest of drawers.”

“Oh, that would be very nice if you can manage it, the room will do very well. I can have a bath every morning?”

“Yes, sir; there will be no difficulty about that.”

Maggie had taken off her hat and was settling her hair before the glass. Sally opened the wardrobe, revealing various petticoats and skirts, but she thought of it as full of Frank's light overcoats, the scarves he wore round his throat when he went out in evening clothes, the patent leather shoes in the corner. Suddenly the conversation dropped, and after a pause Frank said: “I think these rooms suit me very well, but I can do nothing; it is impossible for me to say if I can take them until I find out if there is any place in the immediate neighbourhood that I could convert into a studio. Do you know of any such place?”

“No, I do not, sir.”

“Mr. Escott was thinking of seeing the smith about his house. I wonder if Town would let it to Mr. Escott for a consideration,” said Maggie.

“Of course, I should have to get leave to make what alterations I pleased.”

“I don't suppose the house belongs to Town, sir; I don't think he is more than a weekly tenant.”

“If that's the case, we must see the landlord. Do you know who is the landlord?”

“I can't say I do, sir.”

“Well, Mrs. Heald, I will let you know in a day or two if I can take your rooms—you can give me a day or two?”

“Yes, sir, but I should like to know as soon as possible; several people have been asking after my rooms.”

“I'll let you know in a day or two.”

“If Town is only a weekly tenant, you'll be able to get his house by paying a little more for it,” said Maggie, as they walked down the green towards the smith's forge.

“That would be hardly fair; I should like to act squarely by the smith. What is his name?”

“Town.”

Town was cutting out the hoof of a shaggy grey cart horse when his visitors entered the cindery blackness.

“Town, this gentleman would like to speak to you,” said Maggie, raising her voice above the wheezy bellows. He threw the hoof out of his apron, and, drawing his blackened arm across his forehead, he came forward.

“Town, I am anxious to find a place on the green that I could convert into a studio; I think your house would suit my purpose very well. Do you think we could come to some arrangement? Of course I would give you a reasonable compensation.”

“Well, I really hardly know, sir; I dunno that I hardly understand. You want my house to turn into a—”

“A studio—a place where I can paint pictures.”

“I don't see how I can do without my 'ouse.”

“But I will compensate you—make it worth your while.”

“You see it is so near my work. Was I to go and live at Ada Terrace, I should, you see, be out of the way. If people want a job done they always knows where to find me.”

“Yes, but if I compensate you?”

Seeing that Frank was exciting the smith with too wild hopes of wealth, Sally thought fit to interpose. “Mr. Escott would require permission to make any alterations in the building he thought proper—you couldn't give him permission; he would in any case have to see your landlord. Who is your landlord?”

“I don't see how I can give up my 'ouse to be turned into a painting place; it wouldn't suit me at all.”

“If I make you sufficient compensation—”

Again the smith was reduced to silence. He scratched his head, and Frank watched the sparks fly, and heard the rhythmical sledge. “I wish he wouldn't talk so much about compensation,” thought Sally. “I don't know what the man won't be asking if Frank doesn't shut up.”

“Do you think we shall be able to come to an understanding? I want to know.”

“Well, you see, sir, my wife is delicate, and I'm that afraid she wouldn't like to give up her 'ome. But I'll speak to 'er if you like to-night, sir.”

“Mr. Escott will have to see your landlord; he will have to arrange with him about the alterations.”

“There will be no difficulty about the alterations.”

“Very probably; but you are only a weekly tenant. It is a question your landlord must decide. If he agrees to allow Mr. Escott to make the alterations, Mr. Escott will no doubt compensate you for disturbance.”

“It is all very well to talk about compensation. How do I know what your compensation will be? How do I know you will make it worth my while? I don't want no compensation. I want my 'ouse. Cheek I calls it, to come down here wanting to muck me out of my house.”

“Now, sir, we want no impertinence. I shall do exactly as I please in the matter. Your landlord is the person I should have spoken to.”

“Spoken to! Who are you, I should like to know, coming round here interfering in my business?”

All Frank's discussions ended in angry words, and he never came to terms with any one without threatening blows. Town returned to the forge; Frank and the young ladies made their way across the green. At the corner of Southdown Road they found the General, the schoolmaster, and a retired farmer ardently gossiping; Mrs. Horlock, prim in her black gown and poke bonnet, waited with admirable patience, and Angel, the blind pug, in horrible corpulence, waddled and sniffed the grass. The story of Town's impertinence was told. The General was shocked—it was surprising. What are we coming to? The retired farmer said that Town was a hot-tempered man, but not a bad sort when you knew how to take him, and all, except Mrs. Horlock, agreed that the landlord was the person who should be consulted.

“I really don't see why you should turn the poor man out of his house if he doesn't want to go. How would you like some one to come and turn you out of your house?” she said, turning to her husband.

The General laughed. “My dear Lucy, whatever you say must be right. So you are coming to live at Southwick. Very glad to hear it. You know where to find us, the gate's always open; lunch at half-past one, dinner at eight—old Indians, you know; come in when you like. Pretty place I have here, everything I want—stables and horses, and (the General looked to see if Lucy was out of hearing) plenty of dogs, you know—a few too many; but my wife, you know—” The rest was lost in a burst of good-natured laughter.

They bade the Horlocks good-night and walked up the Southdown Road, looking with its line of trees along the pavement like a little mock boulevard. Frank was particularly severe in his remarks on the trim privet hedges and the little bronze sphinxes standing before the portico of yellow glass; he declared that a man must be born to put up such things, and he clearly thought this sneer a very happy one, for he repeated it, fearing that Sally had not understood. The grocer who had placed a bas-relief of himself over his door was greatly wondered at, and Sally told an amusing anecdote regarding the invitations he sent out for the first dinner party. The conversation turned on the Measons. Jack's ship had gone to China, and he was not expected back much before Christmas.

“That's very sad, Sally. How will you be able to live through so many months?”

“I don't care for him. I don't care if I never saw him again—it was Fanny who was my friend. Some nice people have come to live in that corner house—a young man, who is learning farming. Mr. Berkins insists on father not allowing us to visit any one in the Southdown Road, and Mr. Berkins can turn father round his finger, he is so much richer. I'm not allowed to see Fanny at the Manor House. As for Jack, I daresay you won't believe me, but I shouldn't care if I never saw him again.”

Maggie shrugged her shoulders. The gesture exasperated Sally, and she turned on her sister.

“You needn't shrug your shoulders at me, miss; I never flirted with him; you did, and then you set father against me.”

“Well, for goodness' sake don't quarrel; what does it matter? The idea of Berkins telling your father whom he should visit; and the idea of your father permitting it merely because he makes two or three thousand a year more! He surely doesn't object to your visiting Mrs. Horlock?”

“No, he couldn't do that.”

Still engaged in discussion, they entered the gates of the Manor House, and Mr. Brookes was told that Frank would stay at Southwick a few days longer, so that he might arrange about a studio. The news was not at first wholly pleasing to the old gentleman, but he remembered the anecdotes he should hear concerning his favourite painters, and was consoled. The evening passed away in the security and calm of habit, sweetened by the intimacy of familiar thoughts and customs. There was the usual expensive dinner; Mr. Brookes lit a cigar, handed the box to Frank, and said, puffing lustily, “That's a good picture, paid a lot of money for it, too much money, mustn't do it again. You were a pupil of Bouguereau; great painter; you have seen him paint; you would know his touch amid a thousand, I suppose?”

About ten o'clock steps in the passage, then the squeak-squeak of the cork; then the goggle-guggle of the water, and the young ladies came in with their grog. They kissed their father and brother, shook hands with Frank, and went to bed. Further anecdotes concerning the painters were told; further condemnations of the Southdown Road were pronounced; the house was locked up; Mr. Brookes retired, and the young men continued the conversation in their rooms. Willy told Frank all about his shop, Frank told Willy all about his studio, and they went to sleep delighted with each other and at peace with the world.

Mr. Brookes had gone when the young men came down next morning. Willy was down first, and when Frank finished breakfast he found him busy in the garden making purchases for his shop.

“How much am I to charge for these peaches, sir?” said the gardener.

“I intend to pay the market price for everything. I don't know what peaches are selling at in Covent Garden. I will look it up and let you know. I am taking two dozen.”

“Yes, sir, there are only very few more ripe.”

“It is a pity I can't have them all,” Willy whispered to Frank. “There is a tremendous profit to be made on peaches. Now, I want some new potatoes. How many can you let me have?”

“Really, sir, we are very short; you see it is so early in the year. We have only a few, none too many for the house.”

“I must have some, if it is only a sample. How much are potatoes selling at now?”

“Well, sir, I hardly know. Last year we bought some off Hooper at—”

“These are the things I have to contend with. How am I to keep my books right if I don't know exactly the price things are selling for? I may be paying more for his potatoes than they are selling in Brighton for. My father gets more out of the shop than any one, and he isn't satisfied.”

The woes of this suburban Lear amused Frank. No sooner was the arch enemy Meason on the high seas, and the Southdown Road had quieted down, than another demon had risen up against him; his garden was ravished of its fairest fruits and vegetables, his carriages were turned into market carts, and all, as he said, for the sake of practising an elaborate system of book-keeping. Maggie, who had finished her house-keeping, came into the garden, and she went with Frank down the town in search of the landlord of the tall house amid the elder bushes. For a small increase in the rent, and a promise to undo all alterations before leaving, putting the house back in the same arrangement of rooms as it at present stood, the landlord agreed to allow Frank to do his will with the place. For twenty pounds the smith was silenced, and Frank explained to the local builder that the house was to be thrown into one room, and the ceilings of the upper rooms were to be removed. He had thought of having the rafters painted, but at the builder's suggestion he decided to have them lined with fresh timber and stained. This would look very handsome. A large window, some six feet by eight, would have to be put in the north wall. Of course, all the doors, windows, etc., would have to be taken away and replaced by new. He would have a book-case in stained wood. An estimate was drawn up. It came to a good deal more than he had intended to lay out, and Frank dreaded the expense. But he must live somewhere, he was sick of Pump Court, and his friends and this little south-coast village were now ardent in his mind; why not live here? True that the country was in no way beautiful and offered no temptations to a landscape painter, but he seldom painted landscapes, and if he wanted a bit of woodland he would find it over the Downs. Then there was the sea, and that was always interesting. Perhaps Mount Rorke would let him have the money. The old fellow had never refused him an extra hundred when he asked for it. Yes, he would risk it. So the order was given, and all the delays and broken promises of a builder began to be experienced and endured. Frank, who now lodged at Mrs. Heald's, hung around the workmen, counting each brick, and commenting on every piece of woodwork. He at once took to grumbling at their slowness, and he soon declared that all hopes of his being able to finish his picture for the Academy were at an end, and he paraded his misfortunes at the Manor House, at Mrs. Horlock's, and, indeed, at all the houses he went to for tea or tennis parties. The painters especially annoyed him, and he even went so far as to threaten them with an action.

Long before they had finished his pictures had arrived from London, and several pieces of furniture from Brighton. The ideas of this young man were now in full revolt against oriental draperies and things from Japan. The furniture was, therefore, to consist of large cane sofas with pillows covered with a yellow chintz pattern which pleased him much. The selection of a carpet was a matter of great moment. He received with scornful smiles his upholsterer's suggestions of Persian rugs. Turkey, Smyrna, and Axminster were proposed and rejected, he even thought of an Aubusson—no one knew anything about Aubusson at Southwick, and the vivid blues and yellows and symmetrical design would have at least the merit of disturbing if not of wrecking the artistic opinions of his friends. He discovered one of these carpets in a back street in Brighton, and with some cleaning and mending he felt sure it could be made to look quite well. But no, if you have an Aubusson carpet you must have Louis XIV. furniture in the room, and Louis XIV. in Southwick would be too absurd. Clearly the Aubusson scheme must be abandoned—he would have a rich grey carpet, soft and woolly, and there should be a round table covered with a dark blue cloth, set off with a yellow margin, and the chairs drawn about the table should be covered with dark blue and painted yellow. A grand piano was indispensable in Frank's surroundings, both for its appearance in the studio and the relaxation it afforded in the various interludes. Several journeys to London were made before the lamps to be used were determined on (a modern design was essential), and the brass fittings to hang candles from the rafters required still more delicate and cautious consideration; at last it was decided to have none.

All this while Willy was busy with his shop. He had taken a whole house, and at first he had thought of letting a room, but for many reasons this scheme had to be abandoned. He did not know who might take the room. “Who knows—perhaps one of my own friends, a member of my club, for instance?” Then it would give the missus a lot of bother and worry, and she had all she could do in looking after the shop. To make a thing a success you must think of nothing else. It was a pity, but it wasn't to be thought of. Otherwise he seemed fairly well satisfied. There was a back door leading on to a back lane, in turn leading on to a back street, so with his latch-key he could pop in and out unobserved. All his books and papers in the drawing-room, the ledger, the day-book, the cash-book all ready, all to hand, so that after dinner, when he had smoked his pipe, he could go to work. Frank alone was in the secret. And how the young men enjoyed going to Brighton together. Frank worried Willy, who ran up and down stairs collecting his brown paper parcels, calling upon him to make haste. They set forth, Willy firm and methodical, his shoulders set well back: Frank loose and swaggering, over-dressed. How to get to the shop was a matter of anxious consideration. Willy was fearful of detection, and all sorts of stratagems were resorted to. Sometimes they would walk down to the Old Steyne, and suddenly double and get back through a medley of obscure streets, or else they would publicly walk up and down the King's Road, and when they thought no one was looking, hurry up one of the by-streets, and so gain their haven, the lane. Once they were in the lane they slackened speed, all danger was then over, and they laughed consumedly at their escapes, and delighted in telling each other how So-and-so and his daughter had been successfully avoided. Willy always had his latch-key ready; in a moment they were inside, and Frank would rush upstairs and throw himself into the armchair, crying: “Here we are!” One day they were at the window, when, to their amazement, the Manor House carriage pulled up before the shop, and they had only just time to dodge behind the curtain and escape Sally's eyes. Never before had the carriage arrived later than five o'clock, and now it was nearly six. What could be the meaning of this? Begging of Frank not to move, Willy went out on the landing and listened to his sisters talking to his wife. The girls—who were, of course, ignorant of their relationship to the shop-woman—liked Mrs. Brookes very much, and were fond of a chat with her; and, looking through the blinds, Frank saw the footman in all the splendour of six feet and grey livery carrying a small pot of flowers worth sixpence from the carriage to the shop.

On ordinary days the shop was shut at eight, but when Willy and Frank dined there it was closed an hour earlier. Frank enjoyed his evenings there; he enjoyed it all—the homeliness and the quiet. He enjoyed seeing Willy nurse the missus after dinner, and he found no difficulty in pretending a certain interest in the book-keeping, and an admiration for the lines of figures all carefully formed, and the beautifully ruled lines. Cissy adored him. He took her on his knee, and she leaned her hollow cheek against his handsome face. She would have probably rushed to death to serve him. His height, his brightness, his rings, his spotted neckties—all seemed so perfect, so beautiful, to her; and when he brought his fiddle she would sit and look at him, her little hands clasped with an intensity of love that was strange and pitiful. Swaying from side to side, he ran on from tune to tune—waltzes, reminiscences from operas, fragments of overtures, delightful snatches from Schubert; and when he introduced Willy to one tune—a tune in which all hismight-have-beenwas bound—the dry man seemed to grow drier: perhaps it brought a glow of pleasure to his heart: but be this as it may, he only sat and puffed more emphatically at his pipe.

For Frank this pleasant English village was now a happyfeteof summer joys and occupations. Oh! the hill prospects and the shady gardens around the coasts. And when he went inland he would return by choice across the Downs, and in the patriarchal valleys where nothing is heard but the bell-wether he would stand in the great, lonely darkness, and see the lights of Brighton brighten the sky above the ridges, and climbing up the ridges, he gazed on the vague sea, and the long string of coast towns were like a golden necklace.

His days went like dreams. The morning hours—bachelor hours—were full of intimacy and joy. The joy of waking alone with a strange and secret self that, like a shy bird, is all the day chased out of sight and hearing, but is with you when you awake in sweet health in the morning; that of waking alone with the sunlight in the curtains, that of being alone with your body as well as your mind, and no presence to jar the communion. There is a dear privacy in morning hours of single life.

But although the desire to exchange these for the joys of wedlock was germinating in Frank, although it was inherent in him to understand the husband's happiness when he puts his arm round a dear wife's neck and draws her to him with marital kisses and affectionate words, he was certainly conscious that each hour seemed to bring its special pleasure. His room was airy and pleasant, the window full of the colour of the green and its aspects; the little water-course with its brick bridge, the trees along the embankment, the rigging of the ships in the harbour, the linen drying in the yard. Of these views Frank seemed never to grow tired; he noted them as he brushed his brown curls over his forehead, and when he sat at breakfast eating fresh eggs and marmalade. After breakfast he lay on the sofa, and read society papers and smoked cigarettes. He could not drag himself to the studio. “A man should live at his studio, impossible to settle down to work, if he doesn't,” he thought, and he watched Mrs. Horlock coming up the green accompanied by the chemist's wife and the pugs.

“Dear old lady, how nice she looks in her black dress and poke bonnet! And there goes the General—he is giving all his coppers to the children.”

Frank took up a volume of Browning, turned over the leaves, and laid the book down to watch a drove of horses that had suddenly been turned out on the green to feed, and he laughed to see the children throwing stones, making them gallop frantically. Very often the thunder of the hoofs alarmed Triss, and he stood on his hind legs and barked. “What is it, old dog? What is it? Like to have a go at the horses? Shall we go out and play with the pugs?” At the mention of going out Triss cocked his ears and barked. “I suppose I must make a move. I wonder what the time is—half-past eleven. Good Heavens! The post will be here at twelve. I had better wait for it.” On waking his first thoughts were for his letters, and almost before he had finished reading them he had begun to think of what the mid-day delivery would bring him. To see the boy pass and so have ocular proof that there was nothing for him seemed to lighten his disappointment. He saw him waste his time with the doctor's horse and then with the maid-servant, and if the old ladies were not about he would stand talking many minutes with their servants. Then he visited the short line of cottages, passed sometimes round the yard or open space at the back of the wheelwright's, where the linen hung on poles between the elms, and once Frank saw the provoking boy hide behind the cricketers' tent and remain watching the match. For half an hour the question—letters or no letters—hung in suspense, and when the loiterer came, stopping every minute to see where the ball was hit to, the joy, heightened by anticipation, was great in receiving a packet of newspapers and various correspondence. Frank often went to meet him. True, he might have nothing for him, he might be going to deliver at the grocer's shop, or at the “Cricketer's Arms.”

“Any letters for me, to-day?”

“Yes, sir, two postcards and a newspaper.”

It was disappointing not to get a letter—postcards meant nothing. He only exchanged a few words with Mrs. Horlock, and passed on to the General, who, at the corner of the Southdown Road where the gossipers met, was discussing a local candidature.

“So you are off to paint. You must come and see the model my wife has done of a horse I once had. I mustn't say much about him, though—it is a sore subject. After winning over a thousand with him I lost it all, and five hundred with it. She never would paint his picture for me; but yesterday was my birthday—I suppose she thought she would give me a treat, she began to model him from memory—wonderful likeness—she knows every bone and sinew in a horse—clever woman, never seen any one like her. Come in to-night, dinner always at eight—old Indians. She'll show it to you.”

“Thanks, not to-night, General; to-morrow night, if you like.”

“Very well, to-morrow night at eight. What a terrible dog that is of yours! You need fear nobody while you have him with you. You must ask my wife to paint him for you, but I forgot, I beg your pardon—you are a painter; you should paint him yourself.”

“I don't paint animals. I shall be very glad if Mrs. Horlock will paint him; there is some beautiful drawing about him—those fore-legs.”

Probably attracted by the dog, Mrs. Horlock came walking towards them. Triss went sidling after Rose, and when Mrs. Horlock called him, he growled.

“I beg of you, Mrs. Horlock, do not touch him; he isn't safe, I assure you. He once bit a man's nose off who was trying to train him to do something or other. I will not be answerable.”

“All nonsense! No dog ever bit me, they know I love them. 'Come to me, sir.' No dog ever bit me but once, and he was a poor mongrel that had been hunted by a lot of horrid men. I was dressing to go to a ball at the Government House, and I heard him under my bed. He had taken refuge under my bed, poor thing. He was frightened to death; he couldn't see me, and he bit me through the wrist. I went to the ball all the same. A dog died of hydrophobia in my arms. He died like a child, licking my hands and face. 'Come here, sir. Come to me.'”

“I wish you wouldn't do it, Mrs. Horlock. I am afraid to call him, for fear he should think I intended to set him at you.”

Triss showed a terrible set of teeth, and his nose seemed to curl back almost into his eyes; but stooping down Mrs. Horlock extended her hands to him. She looked so like herself in the poke bonnet and the black dress, and the kind, intelligent eyes softened the dog's humour, and he came to her.

“You see—what did I tell you? Dogs know so well those that love them. No animal ever did bite me except that poor frightened creature, and he didn't mean it. We kept him for ten years after that, and how he did love me!”

“Wonderful woman, my wife; she can do what she likes with animals. I was telling Mr. Escott that he must come in and see the model you are making of Snap-dragon.”

“Only an amateur, I never had a lesson in my life. Mr. Escott would think nothing of it, I am sure. But I wish he'd come in and dine with us.”

“He promised to come to-morrow, Lucy; but stay, isn't that the day we are going to have the Bath people in to dine?”

“Never mind—Mr. Escott won't mind, I'm sure. They are very nice, good people, indeed. I'm sure you'll think so. They are all snobs about this place. I never heard of such snobbery in my life. Mrs. So-and-so—over there—once said to me, 'I believe you know all the people who live in those little houses.' She said she wouldn't allow her children even to walk across the green. Did you ever hear of such snobbery?”

“Well, Mrs. Horlock, as I have always said, your position is made; you have your friends who will like you and value you just the same no matter whom you may walk about the green with. Every Viceroy that ever went to India called on you; your position is made.”

“There are a lot of snobs about here; but I mustn't keep Angel waiting, he is never well unless he gets a little exercise. We shall see you then at eight.”

“The cleverest woman I ever knew. I don't say the cleverest that you ever knew. But we have got too many animals; I often wish I could get rid of the brutes,” and the General laughed as he stumped along. “Five horses when two would be sufficient—five horses eating their heads off; then the Circassian goats that the neighbours complain of, and the parrots and the squirrels. There are a few too many, there's no doubt. But once an animal comes into the place she will cherish it for ever. I try to keep Prince out of the drawing-room as much as possible, she says she can't smell him. If that little beast Angel would only die!”

“Why don't you poison him?”

“I would if I dared; but just think, if my wife heard of it she would go out of her mind. I don't think she'd have me in the house.” The General laughed.

“We all have our troubles, General. Good-bye, I'm off to work.”

“Lucky man to have something to do. If I had a little something—just a little something to bring me out, I should be perfectly happy. Then at eight. Good-bye.”

“Half-past twelve! Half the day gone, I really must make an effort to get to the studio earlier. It is, as I said, useless to hope to get through work unless you wake up where your work is. A man doesn't get a chance. I wonder if I could build a bedroom out at the back? I have let Mount Rorke in for three hundred extra this year; he would turn rusty if I spent any more. I must give him a rest; besides, I don't want to have the workmen in again. I wish I could get ivy to grow over those walls, they do look precious shabby.”

He looked at the tall dilapidated walls showing above the dark green of the elder bushes, and lingered, for it was a soft blue summer's day with just a breeze stirring, and the corn waved yellow, and the dim expanses of the Downs extended in faint lines and dim tints.

When he entered his studio his colour scheme pleased him, and looking at the rafters he thought that the stained wood was handsome and appropriate. The grey carpet was soft under foot, and the lustre and form of a grand piano suggested Chopin and Schubert. His studio seemed to him a symbol of his own refinement, and being moved, perhaps, by the silence and the quiet of the north light, he took his violin, and turning from time to time to look on himself on the glass or his picture on the easel, he played Stradella's “Chanson d'Eglise.”

Then seeing, or rather thinking he saw, how he could improve his landscape, he took up his palette, and in a desultory and uncertain fashion he painted till five o'clock. “It is no use,” he thought, “I can do nothing with it until I get a model, but the devil of it is, there are no models in Brighton—at least, I don't know where to go and look for one, and it is no use asking Sally or Maggie to sit. They'll sit for five minutes, and then say they have some work to do at home, and must be off. You must have a professional model, a girl you pay a shilling an hour—I might sling the hammock from there to here—I wonder where I could get a girl who would do. I can't have a girl off the street; she must be more or less respectable—I wonder whom I can get. That girl in the bar-room at the station would do.” Putting his palette away with a lazy gesture, he thought for a few minutes of Lizzie Baker. What had become of her? And why had she disappeared?

It was nearly a year and a half ago now. What a jolly day up the river! All the beauty of the flowing water, the crowning woods and whispering rushes filled his mind, and yielding to the moment's emotion he took some verses out of an escritoire and altered several lines. Another abandoning the search for a suitable rhyme he turned to a portrait of Maggie which he had begun a few days before. She stood in a pose that was habitual to her—her hands linked behind her, the head leaned on one side, the little black eyes—but not ugly eyes—fixed in a sweet subtle and enquiring look. The thinness, and, indeed, the angularity of her figure was almost powerfully indicated with broad lines of paint and charcoal. It was Frank's most successful effort. He knew this, and he said to himself, “Not half bad, very like her, quite the character; the drawing is right, if I could only go on with it; if I could only model the face. I see very well where I shall get into trouble—that shadow about the neck, the jawbone, the cheekbone, and then all that rich colour about the eyes.” Then he thought he would walk over to the Manor House, and he must hasten, for it was half-past five, and tea was always ready in the verandah.

He stayed for dinner; he talked to Mr. Brookes about painters in the billiard-room; he strayed through the shadows and the perfumes of leaves and flowers through the gentle moonlight with his arms about the girls. And as they walked it seemed to Frank that his life was so mingled with theirs that he could not think of one sister apart from the other. The dusk gathered; the sky became a decoration in blue and gold; the scent of the sea came over the embankment, filling the garden. Day followed day, without anything happening to stay or check the gentle tide of their mutual affections; neither was jealous of her sister, for their desires were set upon others. Frank was but an ideal, a repose, a pious aspiration which joined their hands and hearts leaving them free of any stress of passion, Maggie claiming him a little more than Sally, and Sally yielding her claim to her without knowing that she was yielding it.

It is only natures that are never gross—calm and tepid livers—that are really incapable of ideality, of real and adequate aspiration; nature works by flux and reflux; and if we waive the rough temper and the coarse edge of passion due to youth, it will not be impossible to conceive another picture of these girls. Sally, good-hearted and true, full of sturdy, homely sense, willing to take care of a man's money, and make him a straightforward wife; Maggie, gentle and sinuating—always a little false, but always attractive, the enchantment of a man's home. Frank, notwithstanding his genuine admiration of all that was young and sweet and pure, was of poor and separating fibre, and it is clear that it will take all the strength of society to support him and save him from sinking of his own weight.

One day, as he was coming through the station from the post-office, he met Maggie with a young man. He was introduced, and they returned to the Manor House to play tennis. Instead of playing they talked, and the set fell through, and after tea they disappeared, and Sally proposed not to disturb them, for they had gone, she said, to sit in the shade at the end of the garden. The marked mystery of the new flirtation piqued Frank's curiosity, and, striving to veil his question, he asked Sally who the young man was, and if her father knew he was coming to the Manor House.

“He! Don't you know? That's the fellow we often speak of—the only fellow Maggie ever really cared for. He has just come back from America. He is going to begin business in London.”

A sickening pain rose from his heart to his eyes, and he longed to place his hand on his heart.

“So that is the man she is engaged to,” he said, after a pause. “I remember, now, you have spoken to me of him.”

“She is not exactly engaged to him. Father would never hear of it; he hasn't a cent, and I believe he lost the little he had in America—now mind you must take care not to let out to father that he has been here; there would be the deuce of a row, and I promised Maggie not to tell any one; she has been nice to me lately, and I want to play fair with her if she will play fair with me.”

“Oh, I won't tell any one; I won't even let Maggie know that I know it was he.”

“It doesn't matter about Maggie, she will tell you herself, no doubt; she doesn't mind your knowing. What do you think of him? Isn't he nice-looking?”

“I confess I should never have thought of calling him handsome—would you? And do you think he is quite a gentleman?”

“He seems to me to be all right.”

“All right, yes, but isn't there a something? You can see he is in trade—all the trading people look alike, at least so I think.”

“But we are in trade, and I think he is quite as good as we are. But you seem quite put out. Would you like to take his place? I didn't know you were in love with Maggie.”

“I don't know that I am in love with her. I like her very much; but, love or no love, I don't think it is right for her to walk round the garden alone with that fellow the whole afternoon. I don't think it is very polite to me, and she knows her father does not like—”

“But you mustn't say anything to father; mind you have promised me.”

“Oh, I shan't say anything about it.”

Frank longed to get up from the tea-table and rush after Maggie. His heart ached to see her. He trembled lest she loved the man she was with, and rejoiced and took courage from the knowledge that she had not formally pledged herself to him. Frank was the romantic husband, not the lover; he found neither charm nor excitement in change; his heart demanded one single, avowed, and binding faith. He could take a woman who had sinned to his heart, and admit her to all his trust, for stolen kisses and illicit love were unfelt and imperfectly understood by him, and were considered as shadows and thin fancies, and not as facts full of mental consequences. He answered Sally in monosyllables, and on the first opportunity he pleaded letters to write, and withdrew. The gladness he felt that Maggie was truly not engaged to this fellow quickened and dominated his regret that the girls were inclined to behave so indiscreetly. The moment Mr. Brookes turned his back it began—that perpetual going and coming of men—it really wasn't right. Sally was a coarser nature, but Maggie! He might speak to Mr. Brookes; no, that wouldn't do. He might speak to Willy; but Willy didn't care—he was absorbed in his wife and his speculations.

His little dinner at Mrs. Heald's passed in irritation and discomfort, and after dinner he stood at the window, his brain full of Maggie—her graces, her fascinating cunning, and all her picturesqueness. He knew nothing yet of his passion, nor did he think he could not bear to lose her until he went from the stuffy cottage towards his studio thinking of his portrait of her. He wanted to muse on the little eyes as he had rendered them. He saw the faults in the drawing hardly at all, and his pain softened and almost ceased when he took up the violin, but when he put it down the flow of subjective emotion ceased, and he stared on the concrete and realistic image of his thought—Maggie passing through the shade with the young stranger.

Who was he? By whose authority was he there? Was he one of those men whose only pleasure is to tempt girls, to corrupt them? Had he thought of this before his duty would have been to interpose; and he saw himself striding down the garden and telling Maggie that he insisted on her coming back to the verandah to her sister. It did not matter if he had no right, he was prepared to answer for his conduct to her father and brother. Did that man look like one of those men who are always sitting with girls in far corners out of sight? Ah, if he were sure that he was one of those dastardly ruffians he would seek him out, force him to speak his intentions. If a girl's father and brother will not look after her, a friend must say “I will.” Yes, he would have to thrash him, kill him, if it were necessary. She might hate him for it at first, but in the end she would recognise him as her saviour.

It was too late now, the man was in Brighton. To-morrow? Elated with what he deemed “duty,” with what he deemed “for the sake of the girl,” he strode about, thinking of “the ruffian”; no thought came to him of how much of the sin, if sin there was, had originated in Maggie; he saw her merely as a poor little thing, led like a lamb. Following the idea of saving came the idea of possession. When she clung to the husband she would tremble at the danger she had escaped. Their home, their table, their fireside; protection from evil, now all wild winds might rage—they would be safe. The vision was constitutional and characteristic of his soul. He was out of thought of all but himself, his dream evolved in pure idea, removed from and independent of all limitations—out of concern of the world's favour—Mount Rorke, Mr. Brookes, or even the girl's grace. As this temper passed, as reality again interposed, and as he saw the garden with Maggie leaving him for another, he viewed her conduct suddenly in relation to himself. What did she mean by treating him so, and for whom? One day he would be Lord Mount Rorke! The Brookes knew nobody. He had only met a lot of cads at their house; they did not know any one but cads. The Brookes were cads! The father was a vulgar old City man, who talked about money and bought ridiculous pictures. The girls, too, were vulgar and coarse. God only knew how many lovers they had not had. Willy was the best of the bunch, but he was a fool. His miserliness and his vegetable shop—hateful! The whole place was hateful; he wished he had never come there; since he had been there he had never been treated even as a gentleman. The Brookes had treated him shamefully.

The skeleton of Frank's soul is easy to trace in this mental crisis—his quixotism, his wish to sally forth and save women, his yearning for a pretty little wife, who would sit on his knee and kiss him, saying, “Poor old boy, you are tired now;” therefore an emotional and distorted apprehension of things, a tendency to think himself a wronged and persecuted person, and under much bravado and swagger the cringe that is so inveterate in the Celt.

Next morning he thought of her lightly, without bitterness and almost without desire; but after breakfast his heart began to ache again. He strove to read, he went to his studio, he went to Brighton; but he saw Maggie in all things. She was with him—a sort of vague pain that kept him strangely conscious of life.

Once convinced he was a lover he became the man with a mission; his heart swelled with mysterious promptings, and felt the spur of duty. No longer was delay admissible. A day, an hour might involve the loss of all. Should he go round to the Manor House and tell Maggie of the message he had received to love her and save her? She would now be watering her flowers in the green-houses. But that other fellow might be there—he had heard something about an appointment. No, he had better write. If he wrote at once, absolutely at once, he would be in time for the six o'clock delivery. Snatching a sheet of paper he wrote:—

“DEAREST MAGGIE,—I have loved you a long while, I remember many things that make me think that I have always loved you; but to-day I have learnt that you are the one great and absorbing influence—that without you my life would be stupid and meaningless, whereas with you it shall be a joy, an achievement.

“I have frittered away much time; my efforts in painting and poetry have been lacking in strength and persistency. I have vacillated and wandered, and I did not know why; but now I know why—because you were not by me to encourage me, to help me by your presence and beauty. I will not speak of the position I offer you—I know it is unworthy of you. I would like to give you a throne; but, alas, I can but promise you a coronet.”

His hand stopped and he raised his eyes from the paper. He recollected the day he saw her a child, the day they went blackberrying over the hills. He saw her again, she was older and prettier, and she wore a tailor-cut cloth dress. How pretty she looked that day, and also when she wore that summer dress, those blue ribbons. All the colour, innocence, and mirth of his childhood came upon him sweetly, like an odour that passes and recalls. He sighed, and he murmured, “She is mine by right, all this could not have been if she were not for me.” Ah! how he longed to sit with her, even at her feet, and tell her how his life would be but worship of her. He regretted that he was not poor, for to unite himself more closely to her he would have liked to win her clothes and food by his labour; and hearing himself speaking of love and seeing her as a maiden with the May time about her, his dreams drifted until the ticking of the clock forced him to remember that he could tell her nothing now of all his romance, so with pain and despair at heart he wrote,

“Never before did I so ardently feel the necessity of seeing you, of sharing my soul with you, and yet now is the moment when I say, I must end. But let this end be the beginning of our life of love, devotion, and trust. I will come to-night to see you; I will not go into the billiard-room, but will walk straight to the drawing-room. Do be there. Dearest Maggie, I am yours and yours only.”

He seized his hat and rushed to the post. He was in time, and now that the step had been taken, he walked back looking more than usually handsome and tall, pleased to see the children run out of school and roll on the grass, pleased to linger with the General.

“Where are you going, sir?” said the old man.

“I'm going to my studio to play the fiddle. Will you come? I'll give you a glass of sherry, and—”

“Never touch anything, except at meals. I used to when I was as young as you, but not now. But I will go and hear a little music.”

Glad to have a companion, Frank took out the violin, and he played all the melodies he knew; and his mind ran chiefly on Schubert and Gounod. The “Soir,” the “Printemps,” and “La Chanson du Printemps” carried his soul away, nor could he forbear to sing when he came to the phrase, “La Neige des Pommiers.” When musical emotion ran dry he tried painting, but with poor result. During dinner he grew fevered and eager to see Maggie, and mad to tell her that he loved her, and could love none but her. At half-past eight the torture of suspense was more than he could endure, and he decided that he would go to the Manor House. He passed round the block of cottages, and got into the path that between the palings led through the meadows. It was a soft summer evening—moonlight and sunset played in gentle antagonism, and in a garden hat he saw Maggie coming towards him. He noticed the pink shawl about her shoulders, and the thought struck him, “had she come to ask him to elope.” She stopped, and she hesitated as if she were going to turn back again.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” she said, speaking with difficulty, “but I wanted you to get this before nine.”

“Never mind, darling,” he answered, smiling; “you can tell me all about it—it will be sweeter to hear you talk. Which way shall we go?”

“I really don't think I can now; father doesn't know I am out. This letter will—”

“No, no; I cannot bear to part with you. How pretty you look in that hat! Come.”

“No, Frank, I cannot now, and you had better leave me. I cannot walk with you to-night. Read this letter.”

“Then am I—is it really so?” said Frank, growing suddenly pale. “You will not have me?”

“You must read this letter, it will tell you all. I am truly sorry, but I did not know you cared for me—at least not like that. I don't think I could, I really don't. But I don't know what I am saying. How unfortunate it was meeting you. I but thought to run round and leave the letter, it would have explained all better than I could. We have known you so long. You will forgive me?”

She stood with the letter in her hand. He snatched it a little theatrically and tore it open. She watched, striving to read the effect of her words in his face. They dealt in regrets. There was an exasperating allusion to engaged affections. There was a long and neatly-worded conclusion suggesting friendship. She had taken a great deal of trouble with the composition, and was very fearful as to the result. She felt she could not marry him—at least, not just at present, she didn't know why. Altogether Frank's proposal had puzzled and distressed her. She felt she must see her flirtation out with Charlie, but at the same time she did not want to utterly lose Frank, or worse still, perhaps, to hand him over to Sally. She was determined that Sally should not be Lady Mount Rorke, and she thrilled a little when she saw he would not give her up easily, and her heart sank when she thought of the difficulty of continuing her intrigue without prejudicing her future. If Frank would only leave Southwick for a little while.

“Is this all? The meaning is clear enough; it means that you love the man I saw yesterday at the Manor House. But he shall not have you; I will save you from him. Listen to me—I swear he shall not have you; I will strive to outwit him by every means in my power. If I don't get you, none shall. I will shoot the man rather than he should get you.”

“O Frank, you wouldn't commit murder!”

“I would, for you; but it will not be necessary. I can challenge him to fight a duel, and if he is cowardly enough to refuse, I will horsewhip him before your face, and I don't suppose you will marry him after that.”

Maggie struggled with feelings of laughter, fear, and delight; delight overpowered laughter, for Frank was young and handsome, and full of what he said. It was quite romantic to be talked to like that. She would like to see the men threaten each other. But then—the scandal—father might never get over it. And if he married again? Speaking slowly, and in an undertone so as not to betray herself, she said: “O Frank, I'm sure you would not do anything that would injure me.”

“My darling, I love you better than the whole world. My whole life, if you will, shall be spent in striving to make you happy.”

“You are very good.” She took his hand and squeezed it; he returned the pressure with rapturous look and motion. She drew from him a little, for there were some people coming towards them, and she said: “Take care.” When the fisher folk had passed, she looked at him stealthily. She had always liked him in that necktie, and those cloth shoes were perfect. Had she never known Charlie, or if she had not gone so far with him!—There was something in Frank that was very nice—she could like the two. What a pity the two were not one! “If he were always as nice as he is now, and not lecture me!” Then she remembered she must return home. “I must really go home; I can't go any farther—”

“No, no, I cannot leave you. I must see and hear you now. If you knew what I have endured waiting for you, you would not be so cruel. Come and let us sit on the beach.”

“I couldn't. I must go back; father will miss me. Besides, what have we to say? If I were only free and could tell you that I loved you, it would be different.”

“Free! then you regret; if a woman wills it she can always free herself.”

“No, it is harder than you think for a girl to get out of an engagement she has entered into, even if no absolute promise has been given.”

“What do you mean? If you have entered into no formal engagement you are surely free.”

“I don't know. Do you think so? I am afraid men think that a promise may be broken after marriage as well as before.”

“You are wrong. Women who are jealous, who are old, tell girls that men are always unfaithful, but I'm sure that if I loved a girl I could never think of another. Do you really think I could think of any girl but you?”

“I don't know. I wonder if all you say is true.”

“Do you think me different from other men?”

“Yes, but I cannot go on the beach; some other evening I will walk there with you.”

“No, now, now—I want to tell you how and when I began to love. Do you remember when I used to spend part of my holidays at the Manor House when I was only so high, and you were all in short frocks? Come, there is much I want to say to you; I cannot part with you. Come, and let us sit on the shingle. Oh, the beautiful evening!”

She could love him a little when she looked at him, but when he talked she lost interest in him. She had allowed him to take her hand, he had bent towards her, and she had let him kiss her; and then they talked of love—she of its bitterness and disappointments; he of its aspirations, and gradually their souls approached like shadows in the twilight, paused for a few vague moments, seemed as if lost in dreams.

“I shall never forget this night! O my love, tell me one day you will be mine!”

“I cannot promise, you must not ask me.”

“We are meant for each other. It was not blind fate that cast us together. Does no voice tell you this? I hear it in my heart.”

The abandonment, the mystery of the gathering dusk, touched Maggie's fancy. They were alone in the twilight, and it was full of the romance of a rising tide.

“Never did I know such happiness; I am supremely happy, alone with you beneath this sky, listening to the vague, wild voice of the sea. It would be bitter sweet to die in such a triumphant hour. Supposing wewere to lie here and allow the sea to take us away.”

“No, I don't want to die. I want to live and enjoy my life.”

The answer fell a little chillingly on Frank's rapture. Then after a pause, Maggie said: “I think I have read of that somewhere—in anovel—lovers caught by the tide.”

“Yes, I daresay you have. I was thinking of two lovers who were so overcome with happiness that they decided that they would not trust themselves again to the waves and storms of life, but would let the calm, slow tide of death take them away with all their happiness unassoiled.”

Maggie did not answer. The double fear had come upon her—first, that the tide might rise higher than usual and cut off their retreat. Secondly, that Frank—he was a poet—might insist on remaining there and being drowned. Getting up, she said: “I do not know what father will say when I get home, really it is quite dark. Come, Frank.”

“Death is better than a life of abomination—loss of innocence, and of delight in simple things. I ask you,” he said, stopping her suddenly.

“Yes, no doubt it is so; but I want to get home. Do go on, Frank.”

“I will save you from a life of abomination—in other words I will save you from him; he shall not get you. I have sworn it; you did notknow that when you were lying down on the beach—you had ceased speaking, and in the silence my life seemed stirred to its very essence; and I knew that I must struggle against him, and conquer. I want to know this: Have you ever thought of what your life would be with him? Have you ever thought what he is?”

“But you don't know him, Frank. You have never spoken to him. I am sure you misjudge him.”

“Do you think I cannot see what he is? He is one of those men whose one ambition is to make themselves friendly in a house where there are women to wheedle. If the wife is young he will strive to wheedle her, and though he may not succeed he must degrade her. Or, if she have daughters, he will never cease to appeal to, to work upon, to excite latent feelings which, had it not been for him, would never have been developed into base and abnormal desire. I know what the foul-minded beast is. Such men as he ought to be killed; we don't want them in our society. I want to save you, I want to give you a noble, a pure life, full of the charms of a husband's influence, a home where there would be love of natural things. You are capable of all this, Maggie, your nature is a pure one, but your life is unwholesome and devoid of purity.”

“Frank, how can you speak so? You have no right to say such things about us. I am sure you have always been well treated—”

“You do not understand me, I will explain what I mean. Your life is rich and luxurious, but you are not happy, no one is happy in idleness; above all no woman is happy without love. A woman's mission in life is to love, she must have her home, her husband, and her children. These are the things that make a woman happy; and these are the things I want to give you—that I will give you; for, listen to me, I swear you shall not have that adventurer. He would degrade you with pleasure at first, and afterwards with neglect. You are too good for this, Maggie—it must not be, it shall not be. As I said before, death would be better.” They stood in front of the canal locks and Maggie looked with a beating heart on the deep water that a ray from a crescent moon faintly indicated. “A woman is helpless until she finds her lord, he who shall save, the saviour who shall bring her home safe to the fold. He exists! and all are in danger till they find him. Some miss him—they wander into misery and ruin; those that find him are led to happiness and content. I am yours. I would tell you how I became convinced that I am the one appointed by God to lead you to Him.”

“I thought you didn't believe in God.”

“Not as we have been taught to understand Him but I believe in a presiding power—call it luck, fate, or destiny that—that exists and wills; that is to say, watches over—rules out that this man is for that woman, and ordains that he shall protect her from danger, shall save her from those that seek her destruction. Much has happened to prove that I was intended for you. We have known each other since we were children. Do you not remember when I kissed you in the verandah as I was going to school? I was the first man who kissed you; you were the first woman who kissed me—have you never felt that we were for each other? Nor can I forget that when I thought we had drifted for ever apart, that I was brought back. Do you think it was accident—blind chance? I don't. Now I see this man striving to win you, and whether it be for your money, whether it be for yourself, or for both, it is my duty to say: No, this must not be.”

“I think you are mistaken about Charlie. I admit that a man is often a better judge than a girl; and as for you, Frank, I am sure I am very fond of you. It is very good of you to take such interest in me—but we must get home. I don't know what father will think.”

“No, before you go a step further you must promise me not to see that man again. I cannot tell you how, but I know no good can come of it. He is one of those creatures who cannot love, and only care for women for the excitement they afford. I know what sort of brute he is. It is more depraving to walk alone with him, than to be the mistress of a man who loved you.”

“He is leaving Brighton in a few days.”

“So much the better for all of us. But you must promise me. I would sooner see you lying drowned in that lock than his wife.”

Maggie trembled. It was ridiculous to think of such a thing. Surely he did not mean to drown her if she refused to promise. Charlie was going to London in a few days; he would be away for three or four months. Heaven only knows what would happen in that time. She didn't see what right Frank had to bully her—to extort promises from her by night on the edge of a dangerous lock. But a promise wasn't much, and a promise given in such circumstances was not a promise at all.

“If you are really in earnest—if you think it is for my good, I'll promise you not to see him again.”

“O Maggie, if you only knew what a load of trouble you have taken off my mind! Thank you—give me your hand, and let me thank you. I know I am right. And now, tell me, can you love me? Will you marry me?”

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