Alfred Damberton.
"You may alter your face," said Mrs. Belswin maliciously, "but you can't very well alter your handwriting. And now I look at you, I really don't think there is much alteration. A beard when there used to be only a moustache, more wrinkles, less smiles. Oh, I think any one will recognise this for you."
Dombrain made a snatch at the photograph, but she was too quick for him.
"Not quite. This is my evidence against you. I heard in America, through my useful detectives, that you were lawyer to my husband; so, thinking I might require your help, and knowing I shouldn't get it without some difficulty, I took the trouble of writing to New Zealand for a full report of your very interesting case. You've cost me a good deal of money, my dear sir; but they pay well on the opera-stage, so I don't mind. I have all the papers telling your little story. I have this photograph with your own signature, proving the identity of Damberton with Dombrain; so taking all things into consideration, I think you had better do what I ask."
She had so completely got the better of Mr. Dombrain that she had reduced him to a kind of moral pulp, and he leaned back in his chair utterly crushed.
"What do you want?" he asked feebly.
"I want the situation of chaperon to Miss Kaituna Pethram.
"If I give it to you, as I can, will you hold your tongue about--about--my past life?"
"Yes, certainly; provided that you never disclose that the divorced Mrs. Pethram has anything to do with the respectable Mrs. Belswin."
"I agree to all you say."
"You will give me the situation?"
"Yes."
"I am engaged, then?"
"You are."
"As chaperon to Miss Pethram?"
"Yes; as chaperon to Miss Pethram."
Mrs. Belswin arose with a smile of triumph and took her leave.
"Beaten all along the line, I see. Let this be a lesson to you, my dear friend, never to put your thick head against a woman's wits!"
"Oh, what becomes of our prodigal sonsWhen worried by troublesome debts and duns.When fatherly loving is quite worn out,And how to exist is a matter of doubt?Well, some go writing in London town,A few rise up and a lot fall down,Many as squatters go south of the lineAnd 'tend to their sheep instead of their swine,Dozens in African jungles now rest,Numbers ranch in the far wild west;But have they full or an empty purse,Have they lived decently or the reverse,Married or single, wherever they roamOur prodigal sons in the end come home."
"Oh, what becomes of our prodigal sonsWhen worried by troublesome debts and duns.When fatherly loving is quite worn out,And how to exist is a matter of doubt?Well, some go writing in London town,A few rise up and a lot fall down,Many as squatters go south of the lineAnd 'tend to their sheep instead of their swine,Dozens in African jungles now rest,Numbers ranch in the far wild west;But have they full or an empty purse,Have they lived decently or the reverse,Married or single, wherever they roamOur prodigal sons in the end come home."
When Mr. Clendon, Vicar of Deswarth, preached on the parable of "The Prodigal Son" he little thought that it would one day be applicable to his own offspring. Yet such was the case, for Tobias Clendon--called after that celebrated character in the Apocrypha--came home from Oxford, where he was supposed to be studying for the Church, and resolutely refused to become a curate, with the chance of a possible bishopric somewhere about the forties. The fact is, the young man had contracted the fatal habit of scribbling, and having had a few articles on dogcarts, poetry, Saint Simonism--such was the wideness of his range--accepted by friendly editors, had resolved to devote his energies to literature. He had not ambition enough to become a great writer, nor enough modesty to sink to the level of a literary hack; but seeing a chance of earning his bread and butter in an easy fashion, he determined to take advantage of it and get through life as happily as possible. Having, therefore, made up his mind to be a scribbler of ephemeral essays, verse, stories--anything that paid, in fact--he had also made up his mind to tell his respected parent, but, having a wholesome dread of said parent, was afraid to do so.
Chance--meddlesome goddess--helped him.
He was rusticated for an amusing escapade arising from a misuse of spirits--animal spirits and--and--other spirits. Unfortunately, the college authorities did not look at the affair precisely in Toby's way, so they banished him from Alma Mater, whom Toby henceforward regarded as an unjust step-mother.
Being thus summarily treated, he went home to Deswarth, and was received by his respectable parent with as strong language as his position as vicar allowed him to use.
Clendonpèrewas a dry-as-dust old gentleman, who was always grubbing among antique folios, and he had sketched out his son's life in black and white. Clendonfils--this is the parental prophecy--was to be a curate, a vicar, edit a Greek play--something of Æschylus for choice--blossom into a full-blown bishop, keep a holy but watchful eye on any possible vacancy in the sees of York or Canterbury, and die as high up in the Church as he could get. It was truly a beautiful vision, and Bookworm Clendon, burrowing in out-of-way libraries, looked upon this vision as a thing which was to be.
But then that terriblecacoeihes scribendi, which spoils so many promising Bishops, Lord Chancellors, Prime Ministers, had infected the wholesome blood of Toby, and, in obedience to the itch, he scribbled--he scribbled--oh, Father Apollo, how he did scribble! Having scribbled, he published; having published he showed his printed compositions to his father; but that gentleman, despising modern print, modern paper, modern everything, would not look at his son's effusions.
This narrow-mindedness grieved Toby, as he had hoped to break the matter gently to his reverend sire; but as this could not be done, instead of shivering on the brink like a timid bather, he plunged in.
In plain English, he told his father that he wished to be a Shakespeare, a Dickens, a Tennyson, a--a--well select the most famous writers in the range of literature, and you have the people whom Toby wished to emulate in a nineteenth century sense.
After this the deluge.
No prophet likes to have his prophecies proved false, and Mr. Clendon was no exception to the rule. Having settled Toby's career in life, he was terribly angry that Toby should presume to unsettle it in any way. Not be a curate, not be a vicar, not be a bishop--what did the boy expect to be?
The boy, with all humility, stated that he expected to be a Dickens, a George Eliot.
"George Eliot, sir, was a woman."
Well, then, a Walter Scott. Had his father any objections?
The reverend bookworm had several.
First objection.--Literature has no prizes. Money? Yes. Fame? Yes. But no official prizes. If you go into the law, you may hope some day to sit on the woolsack, which is stately but uncomfortable. If you prefer the Church, you may attain the dignity of a bishop--even of an archbishop. In medicine you may become physician to the court, and physic royalty, which entails large fees and a chance of populating the royal vaults in Westminster Abbey. Even in painting, the presidentship of the Royal Academy is not beyond the reach of a conventional painter who does not startle his generation with too much genius. All these things are worth striving for, because they smack of officialism. But literature--oh, shade of Richard Savage, what prize is there in literature?
Suggestion by Toby.--The Poet Laureateship.
Which has no salary worth speaking of attached to it; and rhymes to order are seldom rhymes in order. No, the Laureateship is out of the question; therefore literature has no prizes.
Second objection.--Literature is a good stick, but a bad crutch,--a remark of Walter Scott, which was uttered in the primeval times of scribbling. Still, according to Mr. Clendon, who knew nothing past that period, it held good to-day. If Toby went in for literature, how did he expect to live till the fame period, seeing that he could earn but little, and the paternal purse-strings were to be closed tightly? Poetry. It doesn't pay.
VerseIs a curse;Doesn't fill the purse.
VerseIs a curse;Doesn't fill the purse.
Rhyme and reason both, according to Clendonpère. Novels! Pshaw, the field is overrun by three volume rubbish by talented lady scribblers. Essays! No one wants essays when Lamb and Addison can be bought cheaply. Altogether, literature has no money in it.
Third objection, and strongest.--You were intended for the Church; and you must carry out my plans, even if against your own judgment.
Having thus stated his objections, Clendonpèreordered Toby to take holy orders at once, and think no more of the draggle-tailed muse and all her tribe.
Toby refused.
His father used clerical bad language.
Toby left the room.
His father cut him off with a shilling, and bade him leave the paternal roof, which he did.
Here endeth the first Book of Tobias.
In London Toby had a hard time. He went through the mill, and did not like it. He sounded the depths of the London ocean, which contains all kinds of disagreeable things which appear not on the surface--fireless grates, abusive landladies, obdurate editors, well-worn clothing. Oh, it was certainly an unpleasant experience, but Toby sank to rise, and never forgot, when wandering amid this submarine wreckage of London, that he was a gentleman and had one definite object in view.
If a man keep these two things in mind, they are bladders which will float him to the surface among successful crafts.
Therefore Tobias Clendon rose--slowly at first, then rapidly.
He wrote articles about the wreckage amid which he wandered, and had them accepted by editors, who paid him as little as they could. Afterwards he scribbled comic songs for opulent music-hall artistes, which contained the latest ideas of the day and a superfluity of slang. These efforts brought him into contact with the theatrical profession, which is renowned for its modesty, and he put new wine into old bottles by patching up old burlesques. In this cobbling he was very successful, and what with one thing and another, he got on capitally. From burlesques he advanced to little curtain raisers; he wrote short abusive stories for charitably-minded society papers, scathing articles on books by celebrated writers, in which he proved conclusively that they did not know their business as novelists, and altogether became a sort of literary Autolycus, being a picker-up of unconsidered trifles in the literary line. This brought him in a good income, and in a few years he actually could face his bankers without blushing. Then he took a holiday, and during such holiday went to Marsh-on-the-Sea, where he met Miss Valpy, who reminded him about his father, and then----
"I am," said Toby, sententiously, "a prodigal son. I have lived in a far country, and eaten husks with London swine. Unlike the young man, however, I have risen above the profession of swineherd. I have become friends with Dives, and he has bidden me to feasts where I have fared sumptuously. The prodigal son began with money and ended with swine. I began with swine and end now with money. This is a distinct improvement on the old parable; but now 'I will arise and go to my father.' I'm afraid he won't kill the fatted calf, but I don't particularly mind as I detest veal; it's indigestible. He won't fall on my neck because he's not a demonstrative old gentleman, but still I'll go, especially as there is no dear brother to make things unpleasant. My Lares and Penates I will collect, and the country of my fathers will see me once more."
With this idea in his mind, Toby, who had left home in a third-class carriage, returned in a first-class, and was puffed up accordingly. With all such pomposity, however, he took a common sense view of things with regard to the reception committee, and walked to the vicarage with a becoming air of humility. He had left his father grubbing among relics of Fust and Caxton, and on his return found him still grubbing--a little older looking, a little dryer--but still stranded among rare folios of the middle ages. Toby saluted this paternal ghoul, and was received kindly, the ghoul having a heart concealed somewhere in his anatomy.
"I am glad to see you again, Tobias," said Clendonpère, with marked cordiality. "I am a clergyman, and you offended me by not making the profession hereditary. However, I am also a father, and I have missed you very much, my boy--very much indeed--shake hands."
Which Toby did, and actually surprised a tear on the parchment cheek of his father, which touch of nature making them both akin, had a marked effect on the soft heart of the young man, and he fell into the arms of his sire.
Thus far the parable was excellently interpreted.
But the fatted calf.
Ah! it was truly an excellent beast, that same calf, for it consisted of several courses, and the wine was undeniable. Clendonpèrelooked after his cellar as well as his folios, and after a good dinner father and son clasped hands once more under the influence of '47 port, which made them both sentimental.
"You will stay with me, Tobias, and comfort my declining years?"
"Certainly, father; but you will let me go to London occasionally?"
"Oh, yes, Tobias; you must attend to your business. By the way, what is your business?"
"That of a scribbler."
"Ah! Richard Savage and Grub Street. Never mind, my boy, I've got money enough for us both."
"No, not Grub Street. Nous avons change tout cela, eh, father! I make about five hundred a year."
"What!--what, at scribbling?"
"Yes."
"Dear me," remarked Clendonpère, eyeing his port, "what a lot of money there must be in the world."
"My dear father, literature has improved since the Caxton period."
"But printing has not, Tobias. No, no! Nowadays they use flimsy paper, bad type----"
"But the matter, father; the contents of a book."
"I never read a modern book. Pish! You can't teach an old dog new tricks. I don't believe in your cheap literature."
"It's a good thing for me, at any rate, father."
"Of course. It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good."
"Well, this wind has blown me to you with five hundred a year."
"Good, good! Yes, folios make one narrow. You shall expand my mind, Tobias. You shall bring me into contact with the nineteenth century. But I won't read any books but your own."
"I don't write books."
"No? Well, I'm thankful for small mercies. How long are you going to stay with me?"
"Till you grow tired of me."
"Then, Tobias, you are settled here for the rest of your life."
"My dear father. By the way, I want to ask a friend of mine down here."
"Not a woman?"
"No; I haven't got that far yet. A fellow called Archie Maxwell. He used to go to school with me, and we're great chums.
"Tobias, no slang. You mean you are a David and Jonathan?"
"I do. That's about the size of it."
"Eheu, hinc illæ lachrymæ. I like not the nineteenth century talk. It grates on the ear."
"I beg your pardon, father; but can I have Archie Maxwell down?"
"Certainly. Is he also in Grub Street?"
"Oh, no! He's an engineer."
"On the railway?"
"No; a civil engineer--builds bridges."
"Well, well, let the young man come; but he'll find it dull here."
"Oh no, he won't, because you see, father, there's a lady."
"Eh!"
"Miss Kaituna Pethram, whom he loves."
"Ho, ho! I know the young lady. She is a parishioner of mine. Her father came into the title a year ago, and has gone out to New Zealand again, leaving his daughter in charge of Mrs. Belswin."
"Mrs. Belswin?"
"Yes! a very charming lady who acts as chaperon."
"Poor Archie."
"What, are you afraid of the dragon who guards the golden apples?" said the bookworm with great good humour. "Pooh! pooh! in my time young men were not such faint-hearted lovers. If he really adores this nymph of the ocean--she comes from New Zealand I believe--he'll soon propitiate the dragon."
"Is it an amiable dragon?"
"Humph! I'm afraid not! Your Hercules must be stout-hearted."
"What a pity Mrs. Valpy and her daughter are not the chaperons still."
"Eh! why I think Miss Valpy requires a chaperon herself, but perchance no Hercules eyes that golden fruit."
Silence on the part of Tobias, and a blush on his cheek.
"Tobias! Tobias," said his father, with uplifted finger, "you've been looking over the garden wall of the Hesperides, and the golden fruit of the Valpys tempts you. Eh! my son, you also are in love--with Miss Valpy."
"Yes."
"And your friend is in love with Miss Pethram."
"Yes."
"And you both intend to stay with me for a time, so as to be near your inamoratas."
"If you please, father."
Mr. Clendon smiled grimly and finished his glass of port, which he really felt he needed.
"Cupid! Cupid! what have I done that thus I should be Sir Pandarus of Troy in my old age. Tobias, go to bed."
"Good-night, father;" and he vanished.
Sir Pandarus groaned.
"Farewell, oh, lovely peace! I dwell no more under the shade of thy desirable olive. Four lovers in one parish, and I the vicar thereof. Alas! Alas! The Prodigal Son I sent abroad with curses has returned, and he hath brought back his curse with him. Eheu infelici."
"An elderly dragon with cold grey eyes,Tongue that gibes at a lover rash,Ears quite deaf to pathetic sighsUttered by men who are scant of cash."But when a millionaire comes to woo,The dragon inspires him not with fear.Her sole idea of love that is trueIs measured by so many pounds a year."
"An elderly dragon with cold grey eyes,Tongue that gibes at a lover rash,Ears quite deaf to pathetic sighsUttered by men who are scant of cash.
"But when a millionaire comes to woo,The dragon inspires him not with fear.Her sole idea of love that is trueIs measured by so many pounds a year."
Thornstream Manor, the residence of the Pethrams for many generations, was a quaint old house, surrounded by pleasant grounds. A grey weather-beaten structure of two stories, built on a slight rise, on which were wide terraces down to the green lawns below, which were girt some distance away by a circle of ancient trees. The house itself was a long, low, embattlemented place between two sharply pointed gables, beneath which were diamond-paned oriel windows. Along the front other wide low windows, and a massive door set in a heavy stone porch. The roofs above of deep-red tiles, with twisted chimneys here and there, and the whole house covered with a clinging garment of dark green ivy, as if to shelter it from the cold winds blowing across the park. Seen at the end of the drive as it emerged from the trees, the white terraced rise topped by the grey ivy-covered house, with the tint of red afforded by the roof, looked singularly peaceful and pleasant. The goddess with the olive branch had established herself in this pleasant domain, and a brooding air of Sunday quiet pervaded the place, as if it were indeed that delightful Castle of Indolence whereof one James Thomson discourseth so pleasantly.
The grounds were also charming--wide stretches of green lawn, flower-beds filled with homely cottage flowers, still stone-rimmed ponds, where broad-leaved water-lilies kept the sun from grilling the hoary carp in the depths below. An antique dial with its warning motto, and on the verge of the lush glass, heavily foliaged trees making pleasant shades for the timid deer browsing round their gnarled boles. White pigeons flashed in the blue sky round the grey walls of Thornstream, or nestled among the trees with gentle cooings, while a glimpse could be obtained every now and then of lazy cows in distant meadows, chewing the cud of contentment. It was one of those scenes of intense quiet which are only to be seen in full perfection in the pleasant lands of pastoral England, a home, a veritable home, which one engaged in the turmoil of the world would remember with regretful longing. Peace, absolute peace, that most desirable of all blessings was here. Peace, which youth scorns but which age prizes, brooded over the homestead, and the Sleeping Beauty herself might have dreamed away her hundred years in this happy English mansion without being disturbed in any way.
"And on an English home--grey twilight poured,On dewy pastures, dewy trees,Softer than sleep--all things in order stored,A haunt of ancient Peace."
"And on an English home--grey twilight poured,On dewy pastures, dewy trees,Softer than sleep--all things in order stored,A haunt of ancient Peace."
"I never understood those lines of Tennyson until I saw Thornstream."
It was Kaituna who was speaking--Kaituna arrayed in a cool white dress, standing on the terrace in the early morning looking over the peaceful scene spread out before her. The birds were singing joyously in the trees, the cool dew was lying on the grass, and this young girl, reared in a far-distant country, was now viewing with dreamy eyes the pleasant land of England.
Beside her was Mrs. Belswin, in a simple dress of black serge, with all her splendid hair smoothed firmly back, and a pensive look in her fierce eyes--eyes which had now lost in a great measure their savage expression, and which filled with soft maternal love when they rested on the straight slim form of her daughter. In the sordid lodging in Bloomsbury, in a gaudy dress, with her real nature unrestrained in any way, she had looked like a savage; but now, with all her feelings well under control, her sombre dress, and her demure look, she appeared quite civilized. The savage was there, however, all the same, and should occasion arise to excite her in any way, a keen observer could easily see that the thin veneer of civilization would vanish, and the true instinct of the uncivilized being would flash forth, with a force all the greater for suppression. Her voice also had altered, as it was no longer strident or harsh in its tones, and in replying to Kaituna's remark anent Tennyson, it was as soft and sweet as that of a Quakeress.
"It is very beautiful in a mild way," she said quietly; "but I'm afraid I should grow weary of this everlasting tranquillity."
"Oh, Mrs. Belswin, I'm sure that truer happiness can be found here than in the world."
"I dare say you are right, Kaituna; but the sentiment sounds curious, coming from one so young."
"It's the fault of my colonial training," replied Kaituna, with a smile. "Life in New Zealand is very quiet, you know. When I came home with papa I was quite bewildered by the noise and turmoil of London--every one rushing here and there--restless crowds in the streets, chattering women in the houses--no rest, no pause, no quiet. Oh, it was terrible."
"And down here?"
"Down here it is charming. One can dream dreams in this delicious old place, and take life easily, not at the railroad speed of London folk."
"You are too young for a hermit, Kaituna."
"Oh, but I'm not a hermit, I assure you. I'm fond of gaiety. I adore balls and garden-parties. I'm never tired of riding and tennis-playing, but I can get all those in the country, and can live slowly, which I like. The hurry-skurry of town life would kill me."
"You like England, then?"
"Oh, very much, very much indeed! It's a wonderful country; but my home has my dearest love. Life there is so pleasant, so steady-going. You can take pleasure at your own time, if you want to. Here in England it is all fever and excitement. When I stayed in London I felt as if it were a nightmare with the gas and glare and endless streets, with their endless crowds rushing on--on, without rest or pause. Ah, if you saw New Zealand I am sure you would like it. Do you know New Zealand?"
"No," answered Mrs. Belswin, quietly. "I do not know New Zealand; but I have been in Melbourne."
"Ah, that's too much like London."
"Say rather San Francisco. Melbourne is wonderfully like 'Frisco."
"Are you an American, Mrs. Belswin?"
"Yes; I was born in New Orleans."
"Then you are----"
"A Creole," finished Mrs. Belswin, quickly. "Yes, you can tell that from my appearance. I have black blood in my veins. In America it is thought a crime. Here it doesn't matter."
"I've got black blood in my veins also," said Kaituna, with a flush in her olive-tinted cheek; "that is Maori blood. My mother was the granddaughter of a chief."
Mrs. Belswin moved a few steps away, as she could not trust herself to speak, so tumultuous were the feelings raging in her bosom. Her child--her own child, and yet she dare not take her to her bosom and tell her the truth. The girl's innocent words wounded her to the quick, and it needed all the stoical resignation of her savage nature to enable her to preserve a calm demeanour.
"I don't remember my mother at all," went on Kaituna, idly leaning her arms on the terrace. "She died when I was a child; but I often picture her to myself."
"And the picture?" asked Mrs. Belswin, unsteadily, her face turned away.
"Oh, a tall, beautiful woman, with dark eyes and haughty bearing. Proud to all, but loving to me. I once saw a picture of Pocahontas, and I always fancied my mother a woman like that--wild and free and majestic. Ah, it was a great sorrow to me that she died. I should have loved her so. I used to envy other girls when I saw them with their mothers, because I have none. Oh, it must be very, very beautiful to have a mother to take care of you--to whom you can appeal for comfort and sympathy; but--but--Mrs. Belswin, why, you are crying!"
She was crying--crying bitterly, and the tears ran down her dark cheeks in great drops that showed how much she was moved by the girl's idle words--tears that were caused by the terrible agony of carrying on the part she was playing. Kaituna, in great wonder, approached her; but at the light touch of the girl's fingers the woman shrank back with a low cry of fear.
"Don't touch me!--don't touch me, child!"
Kaituna paused with a puzzled look on her face, upon which Mrs. Belswin dried her eyes hurriedly, and took the girl's hand.
"I beg your pardon, Kaituna," she said, with forced composure, "but you must not mind me, my dear. I am not very well at present. My nerves are out of order."
"I hope I have said nothing to vex you?"
"No, dear, no! But I--I had a little child of my own once, and--and--and she died."
"Oh, I am so sorry!" cried Kaituna, touched to the heart by this pathetic confession. "I should not have spoken as I did."
"You did not know, my dear. It was not your fault. I lost my little girl many years ago, but the wound is quite fresh, and it bleeds on occasions. I am all right now, Kaituna--don't look so dismayed. We have all our skeletons, you know. Mine--mine is a little child!"
"Dear Mrs. Belswin," said Kaituna, touching her with tender fingers, "I have only known you a fortnight, it is true, but there is something about you that draws me to you. I don't know what it is, as I don't make friends easily, but with you, why, I feel as if I had known you all my life."
"My dearest!" replied Mrs. Belswin, taking the girl in her arms with fierce affection, "you do not know how happy your words have made me. If my daughter had lived, she would have been just like you now--just like you. Let me give you my love, dear--my dead love that has starved for so many years."
She pressed the girl to her breast, but Kaituna hesitated. As she had said, she was not ready in making new friends, but there was something in the tones of Mrs. Belswin's voice, something about the look in her eyes, in the pressure of her arms, that sent a thrill through her, and, hardly knowing what she did, with sudden impulse she kissed the woman on the mouth, upon which Mrs. Belswin, with an inarticulate cry, leant her face on the girl's shoulder and burst into tears.
Was it Nature that was working here to bring mother and daughter together?--Nature, that has her secret springs, her mysterious instincts, which enable those of one flesh to recognise one another by some hidden impulse. Who can tell? Science dissects the body, analyses the brain, gives hard and fast reasons for the emotions, but there is something that escapes her prying eyes, something that no one can describe, that no one has seen--a something which, obeying the laws of being, recognises its affinity in another body, and flies forth to meet it. We boasted scientists of the nineteenth century have discovered a great deal about that wonderful being--man, but there is one secret which is hidden from all save God Himself, and that is the secret of maternal instinct.
Suddenly they were disturbed by the sound of the gong, and hastily drying their tears--for Kaituna had been crying as much as Mrs. Belswin--they went in to breakfast.
Such a pleasant room, with bright, cheerful paper chintz-covered furniture, and the white cloth of the table covered with hearty country fare. Mrs. Belswin took her seat at the head of the table to pour out the coffee, and Kaituna sat at the side, looking over the bunch of homely flowers, brilliant among the dishes, out on to the fair country beyond. By the side of her plate Kaituna found a letter with the New Zealand postmark on it, and, knowing it came from her father, opened it at once.
"Papa will be back in three months," she said, when she had finished reading it. "His business will not take him so long as he expected."
"What is the business, dear?" asked Mrs. Belswin, with her face bent over her plate.
"Selling land. You know, my mother brought him a good deal of property, and he is now going to sell it."
"Going to sell it!" reiterated Mrs. Belswin, in angry surprise. "Why is he going to do that?"
Kaituna was rather astonished at her tone, on seeing which Mrs. Belswin hastened to excuse herself.
"I beg your pardon, my dear," she said apologetically, "but I thought land in the colony was so very valuable?"
"So it is; but papa desires to establish himself in England altogether now that he has come in for the title, so he wishes to sell his New Zealand property and invest the money in some other way; besides the value of property in the colony has decreased of late years."
"You seem to be well up in the subject, Kaituna."
"I could hardly help being so! Papa was always talking about the Government and their dealings with the land. You see, Mrs. Belswin, politics with us are more domestic than here. In England they deal with kings and governments, but there we attend to the welfare of the people--the parcelling out of the land, and all those kinds of things. I'm afraid I've got but a hazy idea of the true facts of the case, but you understand what I mean."
"Oh, I understand," replied Mrs. Belswin, composedly--and so she did, a deal better than Kaituna herself. "So your papa is coming home in three months. I suppose you will be very pleased to see him?"
"Oh, yes. I am very fond of my father. We are more like brother and sister than anything else. People say that papa is supercilious and haughty, but I never saw it myself."
"He could hardly be so to you."
"No! he is all that is good and kind. I try to make him as happy as possible, for it was a heavy blow to him when he lost my mother."
Mrs. Belswin turned away her head to conceal a sneer.
"So I try to supply my mother's place as much as possible."
"I'm sure you succeed," said Mrs. Belswin warmly; "he can hardly miss your mother when he has you beside him."
"That's what he says, but of course I know he says it only to please me. A daughter cannot supply the place of a wife."
"In this case it seems she can," said the lady caustically; "but what will he do when you marry?"
Kaituna blushed and cast down her eyes.
"Well, I--I have not thought of marriage yet."
"Oh, Kaituna!"
"No, really," said the girl, raising her clear eyes to Mrs. Belswin's face. "I should not think of marrying without gaining papa's consent."
"Then you have not seen the prince yet?"
"The prince?"
"Yes, the fairy prince who is to awake the sleeping beauty."
Kaituna blushed again, and laughed in rather an embarrassed manner.
"Dear Mrs. Belswin, what curious things you say," she replied evasively. "I have not seen any one in New Zealand I cared about, and since my arrival in England I have lived so quietly that I can hardly have met the fairy prince you speak of."
"When the hour arrives the fairy prince comes with it," said Mrs. Belswin, oracularly. "My dear, you are too charming to remain with your father all your life, as I am sure he must acknowledge himself. Have the young men of to-day no eyes or no hearts that they can see my Kaituna without falling in love with her?"
"I'm sure I don't know. No one has spoken to me of love yet."
"Ah! it's not the speaking alone, dear! You are a woman, and the instinct of a woman can tell what a man means without him using his tongue."
"But you see I am not versed in love lore."
"My dear, you are a delightful girl in the first days of innocence. I am glad to see that the bloom of maidenhood is not rubbed off you by premature wisdom in love-affairs. A girl who flirts from her teens upwards, loses that delightful unconsciousness which is the great charm of a maiden. You have lived secluded in New Zealand. You are living secluded in England, and the world has passed you by. But the fairy prince will arrive, my dear, and his kiss will awaken you from the sleep of girlhood into the real life of womanly existence."
"I thought such things only happened in novels."
"No, dear, no. They happen around us every day. When you see a girl with a blushing face and a dreaming eye, or hear a young fellow singing gaily for very joy of life, you will know that love has come to them both, and they are telling each other the beautiful story, in the full belief that such story is quite original, though Adam told it to Eve in the garden of Eden."
"It sounds delightful," sighed the girl, pensively. "I suppose you are telling me your experience."
"My experience," echoed Mrs. Belswin, flushing acutely. "No, child, no. I have had my romance, like all women, but it ended sadly."
"I understand," said Kaituna quietly; "you are thinking of your lost child."
Mrs. Belswin was about to make some passionate rejoinder, but checked herself suddenly, and went on eating her breakfast with forced composure.
Kaituna also became silent, thinking over what had been said, and there was no further conversation until the butler entered and handed the girl a letter.
"From the vicarage, miss," he said ceremoniously, and retired.
The letter proved to be from Toby Clendon, being a few lines announcing the fact that Mr. Maxwell was staying with him, and that they would both come on that afternoon to Thornstream to renew the acquaintance so pleasantly begun at Marsh-on-the Sea.
"What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Belswin, staring in some astonishment at the rosy face and bright eyes of the girl. "Nothing is wrong, I hope?"
"No! no! I'm sure I don't look as if anything were wrong. It's this letter from Mr. Clendon."
"Mr. Clendon?" repeated Mrs. Belswin, taking the letter handed to her by Kaituna. "Is that the charming young fellow we met the other day?"
"Yes!"
"Oh, I see he has a friend staying with him, and they are going to call this afternoon. Kaituna, I am a sorceress--a witch, my dear, I should have been burnt in the middle ages as a practitioner of the black art. Give me your hand."
"What for," asked Kaituna in some confusion, as Mrs. Belswin took her by the wrist.
"For a magical ceremony! There! Now tell me. Is Mr. Clendon the prince?"
"No! No! No!"
"That's very emphatic. I mistrust emphasis in a girl. Well, we will dismiss Mr. Clendon, though he is very delightful. What about Mr. Maxwell? Ah! Now I know! Your pulse leaped at the name. Your face is rosy, your eyes are bright. By the white witchcraft I practise I interpret these signs. You are in love, my dear."
"No!"
"And with Mr. Maxwell."
Kaituna snatched away her hands with a little laugh and covered her burning face.
"You the sleeping beauty," said Mrs. Belswin, with mock severity. "My dear, your sleep is over. The true prince has arrived and the hundred years are at an end."
The girl made no reply, but between her fingers one bright eye looked forth at her chaperon.
"I will talk to Mr. Maxwell this afternoon, and see if he is a man worthy of you."
"Oh, I'm sure he is."
"Ah! you have betrayed yourself. It is the prince after all. But what about your father?"
"My father will not cross me in this."
"Of course not, provided your prince is rich."
"Rich or poor; it doesn't matter. Papa will deny me nothing. He is the kindest man in the world."
"Humph!" muttered Mrs. Belswin under her breath. "He has altered since my time, then."
"In a garden fair you met me,And I told you all my woes.Then, in case you might forget me,I bestowed on you a rose."Love had captive to you brought me,For I felt his arrow's smart;So in mercy quick you sought me,And bestowed on me a heart."
"In a garden fair you met me,And I told you all my woes.Then, in case you might forget me,I bestowed on you a rose.
"Love had captive to you brought me,For I felt his arrow's smart;So in mercy quick you sought me,And bestowed on me a heart."
Oh, wonderful! wonderful! and thrice wonderful was the soul of Vicar Clendon seeing that in this mummified body, battered by the assaults of sixty years, it still kept itself fresh and green in the very heyday of perennial youth. In spite of his grubbing among dusty books; in spite of the hardening process of continually celebrating marriages; in spite of the pessimistic ideas which come with old age, he could still feel sympathetic thrills when he heard the sighings of two lone lovers. He should have frowned and looked askance on such youthful foolery; he should have forgotten the days when Plancus was consul, and he wooed Amaryllis with bashful courtesy; he should have preached sermons a mile long on the sin of going to the temple of Venus, but, strange to tell, he did not. This withered old husk encased a fresh young soul, and the venerable clergyman felt a boyish pleasure in the courting of these young men. Is the age of miracles past, when such things can happen--when sober age can sympathize with frolic youth without pointing out the follies of the world, as seen telescopically from a distance of sixty years? No! oh, no! in spite of cynicism, and pessimism, and various other isms, all belonging to the same detestable class, there are still those among us whose souls bloom freshly, though cased in antique frames.
"Your father," said Archie Maxwell, after making the acquaintance of the bookworm, "your father, Toby, is a brick."
"My father," stated Toby solemnly, "is not a brick, for a brick is hard, and the pater is anything but that. On the contrary, he is as soft as butter. If you wish to express approval of my progenitor, O quoter of slang, say that he is the ninth wonder of the world--which he is."
"And why, O utterer of dark sayings?"
"Because he is an old man who can see his son in love without calling him a fool."
This was true, and Toby appreciated the novelty of possessing such a father; demonstrating such appreciation by being a most attentive son, which exhilarated the old gentleman to such a degree that he became younger every day in appearance: thereby proving this saying of a forgotten sage to be true--
"The body takes its complexion from the soul, not the soul from the body."
Archie Maxwell, having at the cost of many lies postponed his trip to Buenos Ayres, has duly arrived, and, strange to say, the vicar takes a great fancy to him. After living for so many years with no other company than a rusty housekeeper and a library of rustier books, he is quite delighted at the presence of two young men in the house, and actually foregoes his after-dinner sleep in order to talk with them while they smoke their pipes. Archie tells him all his history, of his travels, his struggles, his income, his aspirations, his love-affairs--in fact, everything about himself, and the old man's heart warms towards this handsome, graceless youth, who he sees has the makings of a fine man about him. He listens sympathetically to the endless catalogue of Kaituna's charms, to the hopes and fears and heart-burnings which are part of the disease of love, and then undergoes the same thing in duplicate from Toby. Indeed, so genial is he that both the young men wax eloquent on the merits of their respective Dulcineas, and spare him no detail, however small, of their perfections.
As to Toby's suit, Mr. Clendon thinks it will prosper if Thomasina is that way inclined, as Mrs. Valpy is a widow and would be only too glad to see her daughter in the safe keeping of such an excellent young man; but when questioned about Archie's wooing, the sage is doubtful. He has seen Sir Rupert and thinks him haughty and supercilious--not at all the kind of man to bestow his daughter on a pauper engineer, however good his prospects. The best thing he can do is to bid Archie wait and hope. If Kaituna loves him, parental opposition may be overcome; but the course of true love never did run smooth, and Archie must be prepared for trouble. But as gold is refined by passing through fire, so both these young lovers, if frizzled up in the furnace of affection, may benefit by the ordeal, and prove their mutual passions to be strong and enduring, whereas at present it may merely be the effect of juxtaposition and a desire to pass the time.
Archie is horrified at this flippant view of the case being taken by venerable age, and vows by the stars, the moon--yea--by the heart of his sweet mistress, that the love he bears her is not of to-day or to-morrow, but of all time, and that nothing shall prevent him marrying the object of his passion, even if he should have to adopt that last resource of young Lochinvar--a runaway marriage.
So things stand at present, and Toby sends a note over to Kaituna, asking permission to renew their acquaintance with her; then, without waiting for such permission to be granted--the note being a mere matter of form--sets off Thornstream-wards with his friend Archibald.
Before they start on this errand of charity on the part of Toby, and wooing on the part of Archibald, the sage discourseth.
"You are going to seek the Garden of Hesperides, but there you will find no golden fruit. No; the dragons are better employed. They watch two beautiful maidens, and eye jealously wandering knights, such as yourselves, who would steal them. I am speaking not of the dragons, but of the maidens. Nevertheless, from this quest I know not how you will return. The dragon who guards the princess of Tobias is amenable to reason, and if the son succeeds in gaining the love of the princess the father may gain the consent of the dragon. But the other dragon, Mr. Maxwell, is a fire-breathing beast, and even if you succeed in overcoming this first danger your princess is still beyond your reach, because of her father. True, at present he is away, but when he returns, young man--oh, when he returns!"
"When he does it will be too late; for I shall have gained the heart of his daughter."
"True. When the steed is stolen it is useless to shut the stable-door. Go, Mr. Maxwell, I see you have all the egotism and confidence of youth necessary to enable you to achieve this quest successfully."
So they went.
It was a bright summer day, and the sun shone brightly in a blue sky dappled with fleecy clouds. Gently blew the wind through the trees, rustling their foliage, wherein sang the joyous birds. Thrush and black-bird and ouzel and redcap piped gaily on the swaying boughs in very gladness of heart. At intervals there sounded the mellow voice of the cuckoo, and from the blue sky rained the song of the lark, invisible from the verdant earth. In the quaint gardens of Thornstream Manor bloomed the flowers--roses, roses everywhere in rich profusion, from pale cold buds to deeply crimsoned blossoms. A sudden flame of scarlet geraniums burns along the foot of the garden wall, and among their cool green leaves flash the orange circles of the marigolds. Rosemary dark and sombre,old man, with its thin leaves like grey-green seaweed, form beds of reposeful tint, overlaid by brilliant coloured flowers, scarlet and blue and yellow; but the prevailing tint is white. Foxgloves with delicate white bells round which hum the noisy bees--scattered clusters of pale flushed roses, other flowers with white petals all streaked and dappled and spotted with innumerable tints. A beautiful garden, truly, and the thievish wind stealing odours from the profusion of sweets carried them on languid wings to Mrs. Belswin and Kaituna, sitting on the terrace.
They had erected a great Japanese umbrella at one end, and were sitting beneath it in basket chairs. Between them stood a small table, on which lay some feminine work and a yellow-backed novel, but neither the work nor the novel were in requisition, for both ladies were chatting to Toby and Archie, as they lounged near in their cool-looking gray suits. Both gentlemen, by kind permission of the feminine half of the party, were smoking cigarettes, and Mrs. Belswin, knowing how it would shock Kaituna, bravely suppressed a desire to have one also.
Very handsome she looked in her dark dress, with a bunch of crimson poppies at her breast, but handsomer still looked Kaituna, her pale olive face delicately flushed as she toyed with a heap of pale white blossoms, and talked gaily to Archibald.
"I think instead of spoiling those flowers you might make me a button-hole," said the audacious Archie in a small voice.
Kaituna looked doubtful.
"You have a button-hole."
"One of my own gathering," he said, throwing it away. "No man can arrange flowers; now you being a woman----"
"Can arrange them charmingly. Don't pay me any more compliments, Mr. Maxwell."
"Well, I won't, if you give me a button-hole."
"I have nothing here worth making up," said Miss Pethram, rising suddenly and letting all the flowers fall on the terrace. "Come down with me to the garden. Mrs. Belswin, Mr. Maxwell and I are going to pick flowers."
"Very well, dear," replied Mrs. Belswin, languidly, "I do not mind so long as I am not expected to come also."
"Two's company," muttered Toby softly.
"What did you say?" asked the chaperon quickly.
"Oh, nothing.
"We'll leave you two here to talk," said Kaituna, gaily. "Come, Mr. Maxwell, you shall choose your own flowers."
They descended the steps into the garden.
"I'd rather you did so."
"I--oh, I should not know which to choose."
"Then, suppose I suggest something. A red rose, which means love, and a white rose, which means silence."
"And the red and white roses together?"
"Mean silent love."
"Oh! I see you are versed in the language of flowers. Does it form part of the education of an engineer?"
"No, but it does of every young man. Thank you, Miss Pethram. Two red roses and no white one, that means double love. The love of a girl for a boy, two buds; of a woman for a man, full blown blossoms."
"Why do you not say the love of a man for a woman?"
"Eh! ah, well you know, ladies first always. Let me ask you to put these two red rosebuds in my coat."
Kaituna hesitated a moment, and looked down at the green grass, seeking for some excuse. None feasible enough came into her mind, so, still with downcast eyes, she took the flowers from his outstretched hand and placed them in his coat. He was taller than she, and could just espy her face flushing under the broad-brimmed straw hat, and she must have felt the devouring passion of his eyes instinctively, for her hands busied with the flowers trembled.
"You have given me no white rose, I see," said Archie, in an unsteady voice, "so I am not compelled to keep silence. May I speak?"
"No--no--oh, no!"
She had finished fastening those obstinate flowers with a pin, and they had revenged themselves by wounding her finger with a thorn.
"Oh! Oh!"
"Miss Pethram, what's the matter? Oh, have you hurt your finger?"
"Yes, but it's not very sore."
"Why, it's bleeding," he cried in alarm, taking her hand; "let me bind my handkerchief round it."
"Oh, no!"
"Oh, yes! You must obey your doctor. There! that's better."
He still held her hand, and before she was aware of what he was doing, bent down suddenly and kissed it.
"Oh!" she cried, blushing, "you must not do that."
"Kaituna!"
"Mr. Maxwell! If you say another word I'll go back to my chaperon."
"But----"
"I won't hear another word! So there!"
Archie looked down disconsolately, not knowing what to say, when suddenly he heard a gay laugh in the distance, and on raising his head saw a white figure flitting away across the lawn towards the sun-dial. He hesitated a moment, and then laughed softly.
"Faint heart never won fair lady."
Certainly nobody could accuse Archie Maxwell of being faint-hearted, for he ran after his sweet enemy with the utmost courage. When he reached her she was standing by the sun-dial, and the two spectators on the terrace saw the two actors suddenly appear on the stage. One spectator--a woman--frowned; the other--a man--laughed.
"Don't go, Mrs. Belswin," said Toby, seeing she was about to rise. "We are having such a jolly conversation."
"That's a very artful remark, but it doesn't deceive me."
"Artful! I assure you, Mrs. Belswin, I am the most unsophisticated of men--a perfect child!"
"So I should judge from your description of London life," said Mrs. Belswin, drily, leaning back in her chair. "But perhaps you are not aware, Mr. Clendon, that I am Miss Pethram's chaperon?"
"Happy Miss Pethram. I wish you were mine."
"I'm afraid the task of keeping you in order would be beyond my powers."
"Do you think so?" observed Toby, sentimentally. He was a young man who would have flirted with his grandmother in default of any one better, and Mrs. Belswin being a handsome woman, this fickle youth improved the shining hours. Mrs. Belswin, however, saw through him with ease, not having gone through the world without learning something of the male sex, so she laughed gaily, and turned the conversation with feminine tact.
"You are a good friend, Mr. Clendon."
"I am! I am everything that is good!"
"Your trumpeter is dead, I see."
"Yes, poor soul! He died from overwork."
Mrs. Belswin laughed again at Toby's verbal dexterity, and then began to talk about Maxwell, which was the subject nearest her heart. The lady wished to know all about Archie's position, so as to see if he was a suitable lover for Kaituna, and the man being a firm friend of the love-lorn swain, lied calmly, with that great ease which only comes from long experience.
"Mr. Maxwell is a great friend of yours, isn't he?"
"Oh, yes! We were boys together,"
"You're not much more now. What is his profession?"
"He's an engineer! Awfully clever. He'd have invented the steam-engine if Stephenson hadn't been before him."
"Would he indeed? What a pity he wasn't born before the age of steam. By the way, how is he getting on in his profession?"
"Splendidly! He's been in China, building railways, and at the end of the year he's going out to Buenos Ayres to build a bridge."
"He's got no money, I suppose?"
"Well, no! He's not rich; but he's got great expectations."
"Has he? But you can't marry on great expectations."
"No; I can't, but Archie can."
"Indeed! You forget there are always two people to a bargain of marriage."
"There's double the number in this case."
"How so?"
"There's Archie, Miss Pethram, Mrs. Belswin, and Sir Rupert Pethram."
There was a pause after this, as the lady was pondering over the situation. Toby had his eyes fastened on the two figures at the dial, and he smiled. Mrs. Belswin, looking up suddenly, caught him smiling, and spoke sharply--
"Mr. Clendon! I believe you to be a sensible man. If my belief is correct, stop laughing and listen to me."
Toby became as serious as a judge at once.
"I am not blind," continued Mrs. Belswin, looking at him, "and I can see plainly what is going on. As you know, I am responsible to Sir Rupert Pethram for his daughter's well-being, and this sort of thing won't do."
"What sort of thing?" asked Toby, innocently.
"Oh, you know well enough. Mr. Maxwell making love to my charge is ridiculous. Sir Rupert would never consent to his daughter marrying a poor engineer, and I'm not going to have Kaituna's happiness marred for a foolish love-affair."
"But what can I do?"
"Discontinue your visits here, and tell your friend to do the same."
"He won't do what I ask him."
"Then I'll take Kaituna away."
"It's no use. He'll follow. Archie's the most obstinate fellow in the world, and he's too much in love with Miss Pethram to give her up without a struggle. Why, do you know, Mrs. Belswin, he gave up a good billet at Buenos Ayres because it would have taken him away from her."
"I thought you said he was going out there at the end of the year?"
"So he is. But it's not half such a good billet. The one he has given up is worth two hundred pounds a year more."
"And he gave it up for the sake of Kaituna?"
"Yes! He's madly in love with her."
"He was very foolish to jeopardise his success in life because of a love-affair, particularly when nothing can come of it."
"But why shouldn't anything come of it? I'm sure you will be a friend to these lovers."
"These lovers," repeated Mrs. Belswin jealously. "Do you think Kaituna loves him."
"I'm sure of it."
"You seem very learned in love, Mr. Clendon; perhaps you are in love yourself."
A blush that had been absent for years crept into the bronze of Toby's cheeks.
"Perhaps I am. I may as well tell the truth and shame the----
"Mr. Clendon!"
"Oh, you understand. I am in love, so is Archie. He loves your charge; I love another girl. Be a kind, good friend, Mrs. Belswin, and help Archie to make Miss Pethram Mrs. Maxwell."
"What about Sir Rupert?"
"Oh, you can persuade him, I'm sure."
Mrs. Belswin frowned.
"I have no influence with Sir Rupert," she said shortly, and rose to her feet. "Come with me, Mr. Clendon, and we will go to Kaituna."
"You won't help them?"
"I can't, I tell you," she replied impatiently. "From all I can see, your friend seems a true-hearted man, but I shall have to know him a long time before I can say he is fit for my--for Miss Pethram. But even if I approve it is of no use. Sir Rupert is the person to give his consent."
"Well?"
"And he'll never give it."
Toby felt depressed at this, and followed Mrs. Belswin meekly to the couple at the sun-dial. The said couple, both nervous and flushed, to all appearances having been talking--Chinese metaphysics.
"Kaituna, don't you think these gentlemen would like some afternoon tea?" said Mrs. Belswin sweetly.
"I dare say they would," replied Kaituna with great composure. "What do you say, Mr. Clendon?"
She did not address herself to Archie, who stood sulkily by the dial following the figures with his finger. Toby glanced from one to the other, saw they were both embarrassed, and promptly made up his mind how to act.
"I'm afraid we won't have time, Miss Pethram," he, replied, glancing at his watch. "It's nearly four, and we have some distance to walk."
"Well, if you won't have tea you will take a glass of wine," said Mrs. Belswin, looking at Archie; then, without waiting for a reply, she made him follow her, and walked towards the house.
Toby followed with Kaituna, and surely never were maid or man more unsuited to each other. He was bold, she was shy. He talked, she remained silent, till they were in the drawing-room, and then the feminine element broke forth.
"Mr. Clendon," she said, in a whisper.
"Yes! speak low if you speak love."
"What do you mean?"
"It's not mine. It's Shakespeare's. By the way, you wanted to say something."
"I do! Tell him I didn't mean it."
She flitted away and Toby gasped.
"Tell who? Didn't mean what? Things are getting mixed. Thank you, I'll take a glass of sherry."
How we all act in this world. Here were four people, each with individual ideas regarding the situation, and yet they chatted about the weather, the crops, the country--about everything except what they were thinking about. Mrs. Belswin and Toby did most of the talking, but Kaituna and Archie put in a word every now and then for the sake of appearances.
At last the young men took their departure, and when left alone with Kaituna, Mrs. Belswin drew her caressingly to her breast.
"I like your prince, my dear."
"I don't."
"Oh, Kaituna, you've been quarrelling."
"I haven't! He has! He doesn't understand me."
"Does a man ever understand a woman?"
"Of course! If he loves her."
"Then in this case there ought to be no misunderstanding, for I am sure he loves you."
"Oh, do you think so? Do you really think so?"
"My dear," said Mrs. Belswin, as the girl hid her face on the breast of the chaperon, "I am quick at judging a man. All women are. It's instinct. I think Mr. Maxwell an honourable young fellow, and very charming. He would make you a good husband, but your father will never consent to your marrying a poor man."
"Oh, you don't know papa."
"Don't I?" said Mrs. Belswin grimly, and closed the discussion.
This was one side of the question--and the other?
"We have," said Archie, in deep despair, "been to the Garden of Hesperides, and the dragon has beaten us?"
"Have you quarrelled with your mash?" asked Toby, leaving allegory for common sense.
"My mash! Toby, you are growing vulgar. I did not quarrel with Kaituna, but we had words."
"Several hundred, I should think. What was the row?"
"How coarse you are!" said the refined Archie. "There was no row. I spoke of myself in the third person."
"When there are only two people, and those are of the opposite sex, you shouldn't introduce a third person. Well, what did you say?"
"I asked her whether she would accept a poor man if he proposed to her."
"And she said?"
"She said 'no.'"
Archie's face was tragic in its deep gloom, so Toby comforted him.
"Old boy!"
"Yes," said the despairing lover.
"She said she didn't mean it."
"What! Did she say that to you?"
"Yes."
"Toby," cried Archie, with great fervour, "I love that girl!"
"So you've said a hundred times."
"And I'll marry her!"
"Oh, will you?" said Toby, grinning. "I can paint your future: a little cottage, a nice income, a charming girl----"
"Yes, yes!"
"Don't you wish you may get it?"
"Oh, Toby, if you only knew----"
"I do know. I know all about it, so don't rhapsodise. And I know another thing; I'm hungry, so hurry up."