CHAPTER XVII.

Albert Langly found a new and absorbing interest in life. This interest was friendship, the pleasures of which the organist had never before experienced during his lonely and studious existence. He became a constant visitor at Braunt’s rooms and began teaching Jessie the rudiments of music, finding her a willing and apt pupil as well as a very silent one. Her gaunt face and large sorrowful eyes haunted him wherever he went, while she looked upon him with an awe such as she would have bestowed upon a being from another world; which perhaps he was, for he had certainly little relationship with this eager, money-seeking planet. Joe Braunt was quite content to sit in his armchair and smoke. However small the money is for the housekeeping, a workingman will generally contrive to provide himself with tobacco.

As often as not, Braunt was absent when his daughter had her music lesson, for Mrs. Grundy has little to say about the domestic arrangements of the extreme poor. The entire absence of all world-wisdom in the young man would have made it difficult for any one to explain to him why two people who loved music should not be together as often as opportunity offered, had there been any one who took interest enough in him or in her to attempt such an explanation. The girl, who had even more than her father’s worship of harmony, was fascinated by the organist’s marvellous skill upon the instrument to which he had devoted his life, before her solemn eyes had lured his musical soul into their mystic influence. The two were lovers without either of them suspecting it.

Once Langly persuaded Braunt and his daughter to go to the empty church with him and hear the grand organ. The workman and the girl sat together in the wilderness of vacant pews, and listened entranced while the sombre rhythm of theDead Marchfilled the deserted edifice. Langly played one selection after another, for the love of the music and the love of his audience. It was a concert such as the mad king of Bavaria might have hearkened to in lonely state, but heard now by a man without a penny in his pocket and hardly a crust to eat in his squalid rooms. Whether the deft fingers of the Bavarian player soothed for the moment the demon that tortured the king, as the skill of David lulled the disquiet of Saul, who can say?—but the enchanted touch of the solitary organist on the ivory keys transported his listeners into a world where hunger was unknown.

The stillness of the great church, untroubled by outside sounds; the reverberation of harmony from the dim, lofty, vaulted roof; the awaking of unexpected echoes lurking in dark corners, added to the solemnity of the music,—gave the hearers and performer a sense of being cut adrift from the babel beyond. The church for the time being was an oasis of peace in a vast desert of turmoil.

Never again could Langly persuade Braunt to accompany him to the church. Some memories are too precious to be molested, and he who risks the repetition of an experience of perfect bliss prepares for himself a possible disillusion.

“Nay, my lad,” he said, “we’ll let that rest. Some day, maybe, if I’m ever like beginning to forget what I’ve heard, I’ll go back, but not now. I would go stark music-mad if I often heard playing like yon; in fact, I think sometimes I’m half daft already.”

But Jessie often accompanied the organist to the quiet church, neither of them thinking of propriety or impropriety; and luckily they were unseen by either the sexton or his wife, who would have raised a to-do in the sacred interests of fitting and proper conduct. Sometimes the girl sat with him in the organ loft, watching him as he played, but more often she occupied one of the pews, the better to hear the instrument in correct perspective. Jessie had inherited from her father the taciturnity which characterized him, and her natural reticence was augmented by her shyness. There was seldom any conversation between the two in the church; each appeared abundantly satisfied by the fact that the other was there. They might almost have been mute lovers, for any use spoken language was to them.

Once, on coming down the narrow stair which led from the organ-loft, Langly thought she had gone, so strangely deserted did the church seem. Even in the daytime the gas had to be lighted when service was held; for the windows were of stained glass, and the church was closely surrounded by tall buildings. The atmosphere in that grim quarter was rarely clear, and the interior of the church was always dim. Langly peered short-sightedly through the gloom, but could not descry her. A feeling of vague alarm took possession of him, until, hurrying up the aisle, he saw she was in her place, with her head resting on the hymn-book board of the pew, apparently asleep. He touched her gently on the shoulder, and, when she slowly raised her head, saw that she had been silently weeping.

“What is the matter, dear?” he whispered, bending over her.

“I feel afraid—afraid of something—I don’t know what. The church grew black dark suddenly, and the music faded away. I thought I was sinking, sinking down, and no one to save me.” She shuddered as she spoke, and rose uncertainly to her feet, tottering slightly on stepping into the aisle. “It was like a bad dream,” she added, with long-drawn, quivering breath.

He slipped his arm about her waist, supporting her as they walked down the aisle together.

“It’s the darkness of the church,” he said, “and perhaps the sadness of the music. I’ll play something more cheerful next time you come. I play too much in minor keys.”

At the door she asked him to stop a moment before going out. She dried her eyes, but ineffectually; for, leaning against the stone wall, she began to cry again in a despondent, helpless way that wrung the young man’s heart within him.

“Jessie, Jessie,” he faltered, not knowing what to do or say.

“I feel ill and weak,” she sobbed. “I shall be all right again presently.”

“Come, and we will have tea somewhere. That will cheer you up.”

They went away together, and he took her to a place where tea was to be had. She sat there, dejectedly leaning her head on her hand, while the refreshments were being brought; he opposite her, in melancholy silence. She took some sips of the tea, but could not drink it, shaking her head when he offered her the buttered bread.

“I must get home,” she said at last. “I can’t eat. I shall be better there.”

They walked slowly to Rose Garden Court, and at No. 3 he helped her up the sordid stair; she clinging breathlessly to the shaky railing at every step or two, he thankful there was but one flight to climb. Braunt sat in his armchair, an angry cloud on his brow. He was in his gruffest mood, looking at them when they entered with surly displeasure, but he said nothing. It was the evening after the men, with their small majority, had resolved to continue the strike, and Braunt’s pipe was cold. Not another scrap of tobacco could he gather, although he had turned out every pocket in hope of finding a crumb or two. Jessie sank into a chair, her white face turning appealingly, alternately from her father to her friend, evidently fearing that something harsh might be said, for she knew her father was rough-spoken when ill-pleased.

“Jessie is not well,” said the organist.

Braunt did not answer him, but crossed over to his daughter, and, smoothing her hair, said more gently than she had expected:

“What’s wrong, lassie? Art hungry?”

“No, no,” murmured the girl, eagerly. “We had tea before we came in. I’m not hungry.”

Langly, slow as he was to comprehend, saw that Braunt, at least, had been without food, perhaps for long. He had several times offered him money from his own scanty store, but it had always been refused, sometimes in a manner not altogether friendly. The organist went quietly out, leaving father and daughter alone together.

“Would you like me to get some one to come in—some woman?” said Braunt, anxiously. “We don’t know our neighbours, but one of the women would come in if she knew you were ill.”

The girl shook her head.

“I want none—naught but just to rest a little. It will all pass away soon. I need but rest.”

The father returned to his chair, and they sat silent in the gathering darkness.

Presently the door was pushed open, and Langly entered with parcels in his arms. He placed a loaf on the table, with the rest of his burdens, and put on the empty hearth the newspaper that held a pennyworth of coals.

Braunt glared at him, speechless for a moment; then cried out, indignantly:

“I’ll ha’ none o’ thy charity, my lad, d——d if I will!”

Before Langly could reply, Jessie rose tremblingly to her feet.

“Don’t, father, don’t!” she wailed; then, swaying as she attempted to walk towards him, she fell suddenly in a heap on the floor.

Langly sprang forward, but Braunt brushed him roughly aside, and, stooping over his daughter, lifted her slight form in his arms, speaking soothingly and caressingly to her. He carried her to the bed, and placed her lovingly upon it.

“Run!” he cried to Langly. “Run for a doctor. There’s one down Light Street. There’s something main wrong here, I’m feared.”

The young man needed no second telling. The doctor objected to go to Rose Garden Court; he had his own patients to attend to, he said. He knew there was little to be got out of the court.

“I am organist at St. Martyrs,” replied the messenger, eagerly. “I will see you paid.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” said the doctor. “Who generally attends people in the court? There must be some one.”

“I don’t know,” answered Langly, “and I have no time to find out. The case is urgent. Come!”

So the doctor, grumbling—for this kind of practice was out of his line—went with him.

They found Braunt anxiously chafing the hands of the girl.

“You’ve been long about it,” he cried, as they entered.

Neither answered, and the doctor went quickly to the bed, with the seemingly callous indifference of a man to whom such scenes are matters of hourly routine. He placed his fingers upon her wrist, bent his ear down to her breast, then put his hand on her smooth white brow.

“Has she been long ill?” he asked, sharply.

“Jessie was always weakly,” answered her father, “and latterly has not been at all well, poor girl.”

“Who has attended her?”

“No one.”

“Oh, well, you know, I can’t grant a death certificate under these circumstances. There will most likely be an inquest.”

“Good God!” shrieked Braunt. “An inquest! You don’t mean to say—you can’t mean it!—Jessie is not dead?”

“Yes, she is dead. I can do no good here. I’ll let the coroner know, and he can do as he pleases. I have no doubt it is all right, but we are bound to act according to the law, you know. Good-night!”

Braunt threw himself upon the bed in a storm of grief; Langly stood by the side of the dead girl, stunned. He took her limp, thin hand in his, and gazed down upon her, dazed and tearless. Her father rose and paced the room, alternately pleading with fate and cursing it. Suddenly he turned on Langly like a madman.

“What are you doing here?” he roared. “It was your interference that caused her last words to be troubled. Get you gone, and leave us alone!”

Langly turned from the bed and walked slowly to the door without a word, Braunt following him with his lowering, bloodshot eyes. The young man paused irresolutely at the door, leaned his arm against it, and bowed his head in hopeless anguish.

“Heaven help me!” he said, despairingly, “I loved her too.”

Braunt looked at him a moment, not comprehending at first. Gradually the anger faded from his face.

“Did you so, lad?” he said gently, at last. “I didn’t know—I didn’t know. Forgive me my brutish temper. God knows it should be broken by this time. I’m crazy, lad, and know not what I say. I have not a penny-piece in the world, nor where to go to get aught. My lassie shall not have a pauper’s funeral in this heartless town. No, not if I have to take her in my arms, as I ha’ oft done, and trudge wi’ her to the North, sleeping under the hedges by the way. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. We’ll be tramping to theDead Marchthen. It will keep us company. We’ll rest at night in the green fields under the trees, away from the smoke and din, alone together. Ah, God! I’ll begin the journey now and tramp all night to be quit o’ this Babylon ere the morning.”

“No, no!” cried Langly, catching his arm. “You mustn’t do that. You must hear what the coroner says.”

“What has the coroner or any one else to do with me or her?”

“It is the law: you must obey it.”

“What care I for the law? What’s it done for either me or Jessie? I’ll have no pauper funeral, law or no law.”

“There won’t be a pauper funeral. There are kind hearts in London, as well as in the North. Promise me you’ll do nothing until I see if I can get the money.”

“I promise,” said Braunt, sinking into his chair. “I doubt if I could walk far to-night, even if I tried. But leave me now, lad, and come back again later. I want to be alone and think.”

Langly left the room, and on the landing met Marsten, whom he did not know, but who he saw was about to enter.

“Don’t go in,” he whispered. “He wants to be alone.”

“Is there anything wrong?” asked Marsten, alarmed at the tone of the other.

“Yes, his daughter is dead.”

“Dead! Good God! How? An accident?”

“No. She has been ill for weeks, but no one thought of this. Jessie died about an hour since—unexpectedly. Are you a friend of his?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must help me—tell me what to do. Come down into the court where we can talk.”

The two young men descended the stair.

“Braunt has no money, and he will not have his daughter buried by the Parish. We must get money. I have promised it, but I have very little myself, although I will willingly give all I have. If it was more I would not ask help from any one.”

“I have only a few shillings,” said Marsten, “but we must get more somehow. None of the men has any, or they would give it. Yesterday I could have gone to Sartwell; but to-day, unfortunately, I have quarrelled with him, bitterly and irretrievably, I fear. Although he said nothing to me, I can’t go to him. But there is Barnard Hope. Yes, he’s the man. He helped Braunt when there was trouble with the police. I don’t like to go to Barnard Hope—for certain reasons I don’t care to be indebted to him. Would you mind going? He lives in Chelsea.”

“No. I will do anything I can. I have promised.”

“Then I would go to-night if I were you. Tomorrow is his ‘At Home’ day, and there will be a lot of people there. It will be difficult to see him then, and we can’t wait until the day after. His address is Craigenputtoch House, Chelsea. If you fail, I will see his father, so one or other of us is sure to get the money.”

“I will go at once,” said Langly.

It was a long journey to Chelsea, and when the tired organist reached the place he found Barney had a theatre party on, with a dance to follow, and would not likely be home that night. It was uncertain when he would return in the morning, but he would be sure to be back at three o’clock, as his ‘At Home’ friends would begin to gather at that hour, so Barney’s servant said. The wearied man tramped back, and reached Rose Garden Court about midnight. He rapped at Braunt’s door, and, receiving no answer, pushed it open after a moment’s hesitation. He feared the headstrong, impatient man might, after all, have carried out his resolution, and left with his burden for the North, but he found nothing changed. Braunt sat there with his head in his hands, and gave him no greeting.

“I am to have the money to-morrow,” Langly said, feeling sure it would not be refused.

Braunt made no answer, and, taking one look at the silent figure on the bed, whose face seemed now like that of a little child, the young man departed as quietly as he had entered.

Mrs. Scimmins met him on the stair. She wanted to know all about it. She said that the women of the court, when they heard of the death, had offered their help, but Braunt had acted like a brute, and had driven them away with fearful oaths. She was sure something was wrong. The coroner had been there, and thought so too. There was to be an inquest at the Vestry Hall in the morning. A summons had been left for Langly to attend and give his evidence.

“But I’m going to Chelsea in the morning,” cried the young man, aghast. “I know nothing, except that Jessie has been ill.”

“You saw her die, they say. Braunt admitted that. You will have to attend the inquest, or they will send a policeman after you.”

Langly did not sleep that night, and was gaunt and haggard in the morning. The coroner’s jury trooped up the stair, and, after looking at the dead girl, adjourned to the Vestry Hall. Langly gave his evidence, and, leaving the room at once, hovered about the door, waiting for Braunt, who remained in the Vestry Hall. At last he came out, with white face, staring straight ahead of him.

“What did they say?” asked Langly; but the other did not answer, striding through the curious crowd as if he saw nothing.

“What was the verdict?” inquired a bystander of one of the jurymen as he came out.

“Starved to death,” replied the man.

On the day after Marsten’s failure to win a majority of the men to his side in the strike controversy, the young man went to Wimbledon, hoping to find consolation for his defeat in the company of the girl he loved. He felt that he was perhaps taking a rather unfair advantage of Sartwell in thus making a clandestine appointment with his daughter, but he justified himself, as lovers have always justified themselves, by claiming that a man was a fool to lose a trick when he had the card in his hand to take it. It was evident that Sartwell had no objection to the visits of Barnard Hope, and that he would be quite willing to have his daughter marry the son of his employer. If Marsten had known this the day before, he would not have been so self-denying as to refuse to see Edna Sartwell, and now that fate had interposed in his behalf, giving him the knowledge that he had a rival, he was not going to be idiot enough to throw away his chance.

He entered the vacant plot surrounding the empty house, and looked anxiously along the glass-topped wall for the signal that Edna had promised, under compulsion, to display. It was not in sight. He wondered if, after all, the girl had told her father of his visit. Let Sartwell get but the slightest inkling of it, and Marsten was certain the whole particulars would soon be within the manager’s knowledge.

He wandered up and down the wrong side of the wall disconsolately, not knowing what to do. Once he paused near where he had, on the previous day, jumped over. He thought he heard a slight cough on the other side. It might be a warning, or an invitation: the question was, which? She must know that he would be there, waiting for her signal; or perhaps—the thought was bitter—she might have forgotten all about him.

At the further end of the garden was a park fence, lower than the forbidding stone wall, which it joined at right angles. As anything is better than suspense, the young man resolved to take the risk of reconnoitering. He mounted the park fence and peered over the wall, but the trees and shrubbery were so thick that he could not see whether any one was in Sart-well’s garden or not; even the house was hidden from his view. Faint heart never climbed a stone wall: Marsten hesitated but a moment, seized a branch of an overhanging tree, pulled himself up to the top, chancing the glass, and leaped down among the shrubbery on the other side. He listened intently for a while, but there was no sound; then he moved cautiously through the bushes to the open space under the trees where he had talked with her the day before. No one was there, but he caught his breath as he saw a red-silk scarf hanging over the back of one of the chairs. She had at least thought of him, for that was undoubtedly the unused signal.

He was now in a greater quandary than he had been on the other side of the wall. She had apparently intended to throw the scarf over the broken glass, otherwise why had she brought it to their rendezvous; but, as she had not given the signal agreed upon, might there not be a danger that her father was at home? The young man knit his brows as he pondered on what explanation he would give Sartwell if he were discovered standing under the trees.

Marsten had half made up his mind to return by the way he came, when he saw Edna approaching from the house. The girl held out her hand to him with a smile that went to his heart, but her words were not so reassuring.

“I was watching for you,” she said, “hoping you would not come.”

“Hoping I would not come?” echoed Marsten, with a suggestion of dismay in his tone.

“At least hoping you would not come, except by the gate. I don’t like this. It seems secret and mean—as if we were doing something we were ashamed of. Now, we may not accomplish much good, talking about the strike, but we are certainly not doing anything either of us would fear to have the whole world know. There is no reason, now that your plans of yesterday have failed, why you should not have come to the front door like any other visitor, is there?”

“I suppose not.”

“Of course not,” cried the girl, eagerly, “and so I intend to tell my father all about this visit, even if I could not mention yesterday’s.”

“Oh, but you must not do anything of the kind,” pleaded Marsten, thoroughly alarmed. “You will promise me, won’t you, that you will not say a word of my being here to-day?”

The girl laughed and shook her head.

“I’ll not make another promise so foolish as yesterday’s. You see, my promise did no good.”

“What! Did you tell Mr. Sartwell I had been here?”

“No. I said I wouldn’t, and I didn’t; but it made me feel wretchedly guilty when there was no occasion for it. What I mean is, that your plans did not succeed in putting an end to the strike, and so it would have made no difference after all, if I had told my father. Don’t you see that? No, I won’t make another such promise in a hurry again.”

“Miss Sartwell,” said Marsten, seriously, “you don’t understand all the circumstances; there are reasons why your father must not know I have been here. Although negotiations have failed for the moment, they will come on again shortly. If Mr. Sartwell knew I was here yesterday——”

“Oh, I intend to keep my promise about yesterday. I shall not say a word about that visit: it is of to-day’s I shall tell him.”

“But don’t you see? Yesterday’s visit led to this one. They are inseparably joined: you cannot mention one without leading to the other. Please promise you will say nothing about to-day’s either.”

“I won’t make any more promises. When my father came home late last night, he told me all that happened—what you had tried to do, and everything. I felt so guilty at having to keep anything from him, that I resolved to make no more promises to any one unless he knew of them and there was no need to feel guilty. I am sure he would have been glad to know we had talked about the strike, and were trying to help him; yet all because of that foolish promise I dared not say a word. I think, if you knew what I suffered, you would not ask me to keep anything from him.”

“Dear Miss Sartwell,” cried Marsten, with more of his affection for the girl in his voice than he was aware of, “I would not cause you suffering for anything in the world!”

Edna looked at him with wide-open eyes, surprised at his vehemence; then she laughed merrily.

“Why, how serious you are! After all, I shall soon forget about it; and although I won’t make rash promises again, I’ll think it all over, and if——but then, what is the use of ‘ifs’? I shall say to my father tonight that you came to see him, and that I talked with you about the strike.”

“That wouldn’t be true, Miss Sartwell. I didn’t come to see him; I came to see you.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, and you would have to tell him I climbed the wall. You can’t go in for half-truths, you know, and we haven’t talked much about the strike, have we?”

“Ah, but you came for that, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Oh, yes, of course. Nothing else; but you see it wouldn’t do to say anything about this visit to your father unless you told him everything. He would want to know why I came over the wall.”

“And why did you? Iam sure you might just as well have come through the gate. It would have been much easier.”

“I will next time I come. But you know the wall is there, and I came over it; so, without making any promise, I beg of you to say nothing about it to Mr. Sartwell, for he will want all sorts of explanations that I don’t quite see how I can give.”

“Well, then, I won’t. Oh, dear! that’s a promise, isn’t it? And I protested I wouldn’t. I suppose you’ll think that it is just like a woman. But I’ll never make you another promise—never.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Miss Sartwell. I would promise you anything.”

“Very well. Promise me you will tell my father you were here.”

The girl laughed as she saw his discomfiture when she so promptly took him at his word.

“There,” she cried, gleefully, “you see, you didn’t mean what you said. I really believe you are afraid of my father.”

“I am.”

“That’s very funny. I should like to tell him that. I can’t imagine any one being afraid of him.”

“Perhaps you have never seen him when he is angry.”

“Oh, yes, I have; but I just sit quiet and say nothing. He is never violent, when angry, as some men are, but his eyes half close, and his lips are set tight, and he doesn’t care to be spoken to just then; so that’s why I don’t speak. He was angry with you that night, was he not?”

“What night, Miss Sartwell?” asked Marsten, almost holding his breath. .

“The night at the office when I came in. The first time you ever spoke to me. Don’t you remember?”

“I shall never forget it,” Marsten said, in a hushed voice.

“Oh, you take things too much to heart, I can see that. You shouldn’t mind a little disappointment, nor think my father hard because he refused you. I spoke up for you at the time, as I told you yesterday, and I’m afraid I didn’t further your interests by doing so, for father thinks women shouldn’t interfere in business.”

They were seated opposite one another, the girl bending forward in friendly confidential attitude, the young man unable to take his eyes from her, listening, like one in a dream, to the entrancing murmur of her speech.

“You spoke up for me?” he repeated, as if soliloquizing.

“Yes, and father said——”

The girl paused, embarrassed, remembering that what had been said had not been complimentary to her listener.

“What did he say?” asked Marsten, breathlessly.

“Well, you know, he thought you too young and inexperienced for a responsible position, and you are not very old, are you? But by and by, when you have more experience, I am sure he will listen to you. The great thing is to gain his confidence,—at least that is what I should try to do.”

“Yes, I should like to win his confidence,” said Marsten, dolefully.

“Oh, it’s not difficult. All that is required is to do your duty. I think it’s nothing against a young man that he is ambitious. That ought to be in his favour, especially with a man like my father, because he has always been very ambitious himself: and I think the great drawback with workingmen is that they do not seem to care whether they better their positions or not. You can’t do anything for a man who won’t help himself: and you are ambitious, aren’t you?”

“Very. Too much so, I sometimes think.”

“Oh, one cannot be too ambitious, unless one is a man like Napoleon and thoroughly base and wicked. Then it’s wrong, of course. Now, if you want my advice—but perhaps you think I know nothing about these things?”

“Miss Sartwell, I would rather have your advice than any one else’s in the world, and I will follow it to the letter.”

“Youdotake things too seriously. What a weight of responsibility you would place upon my shoulders! No, you must hear the advice first, and then judge whether it is best to follow it or not. I think you should work along quietly for a year or two, doing your very best and saying as little as possible. Father likes a man who does things, rather than one who says things. He doesn’t believe much in talk. Then, when you see he trusts you implicitly, perhaps by that time he will offer you the situation; but if he doesn’t, you let me know, and I will speak to him about it. Oh, I shall approach the subject very diplomatically. I shall begin by asking how you are getting on at the works, and if he speaks well of you, I will suggest that you be given a better position than the one you are in. How do you like my plan?”

“It is an admirable one, but—but——”

“But what? Where is the objection to it?”

“There is no objection, except that I may get rather discouraged as time goes on.”

“Oh, that is nonsense. You are interested in your work, are you not?”

“Very much so, but if I could see you now and again, I—well—wouldn’t become hopeless or despondent, you see. If that could be managed——”

Edna sat back in her chair, and looked straight at him with clear, wide eyes that seemed puzzled, trying to see beyond what was plainly in view. Marsten, burdened by the consciousness that he was not dealing honestly with her, yet afraid to awaken her too prematurely to the realities of the situation, was as confused as most single-minded persons are when placed in a false position from which there is no escape without risking disaster. For a moment there arose in his fast-beating heart an heroic determination to cast all caution to the winds, and cry out, “I love you, my girl, I love you; I am poor, and your father has forbidden me to see you;” but he feared a repulse from the girl, more fatal to his hopes than the check he had received from her father. He bent his gaze upon the ground and curbed his impatience. He realized that honesty had not been the best policy when he had inopportunely confessed his affection for the girl to her father, although he thought at the time he had taken a manly and straightforward course. Had he been less impulsive, and tried to win still farther the confidence of Sartwell, he might perhaps have ultimately gained a footing in his chief’s house, and then who knows what would have happened! He had drawn upon the bank of confidence, and his cheque had been dishonored: he could not risk a second mistake of that kind.

“I don’t like your word ‘managed,’” said Edna at last, a little wrinkle of displeasure on her fair brow. “Your visits here do not need to be managed. You can come as any other friend of my father comes, and we shall have plenty of opportunities for talk. You persist in thinking that my father has some feeling against you, when I assure you such is not the case.”

Before Marsten could answer, the silence was sharply broken by the emphatic click of the gate, and the young man was dumbfounded by seeing Sartwell enter, stride up the path leading to the house, stop, turn his head toward the spot where they sat, then cross the lawn directly to them. Marsten sprang to his feet; the girl arose more slowly, a roguish twinkle in her eye. Here was the solution of the problem right to her hand, at precisely the proper moment. The expression of the three faces would have interested a student in physiognomy. Anger, delight, confusion, were reflected from the countenances of Sartwell, Edna, and Marsten, respectively; but the elder man was the first to control his emotion, and, as he approached, his face became an impassive mask, revealing nothing of the passion within. He cast a brief quick glance at Marsten, who stood there pale, in the attitude of one who has been trapped, and who sees no avenue of escape. A longer, more searching look at his daughter showed him at once that she had nothing to conceal. Her evident undisguised pleasure at his coming was too palpable to be misunderstood. He drew a deep breath of relief, but recognized instinctively that the situation required very delicate handling if the girl’s ignorance was to be maintained. Here the fates fought on his side, for each man, from directly opposite motives, desired the same thing: neither wished to have a conflict in Edna’s presence; neither could run the risk of full knowledge coming to her at that time. Luckily Edna’s eyes were all for her father, and she gave no look to the young man, in whose face and attitude were undeniably stamped both guilt and discomfiture. She was the first to speak.

“Oh, father, I am so glad you came; we were just speaking of you.”

“Yes, Edna, there are one or two adages bearing on the subject: complimentary and the reverse.”

Edna laughed brightly.

“We have been trying to settle the strike, and Mr. Marsten thought you would be angry if you knew he had been here—thought you might call it interference. I told him that was all nonsense, but I could see he was not convinced; so you come at the proper moment to solve the problem finally.”

“I see I came just in time. I am only too glad to have assistance in unravelling this perplexing tangle, and I welcome help from any quarter.”

“There!” cried the girl triumphantly, turning to her lover, who had by this time partially recovered his composure. “Isn’t that just what I said?”

“Mr. Hope told me an hour ago, Marsten, that you had visited him yesterday, and had done me the honour to call at Wimbledon afterwards; so I came home, fearing I might miss a second visit. Mr. Hope spoke very highly of you, and I do not wish to be less cordial than he in expressing my own opinion of your most disinterested devotion to the welfare of your fellow-workmen.”

Marsten moistened his dry lips, but made no attempt at reply. Timorous little Mr. Hope had not kept faith with him, then, and, after counseling him to silence, had blurted out all the particulars as soon as he came again under the influence of his masterful servant, and thus had precipitated this deplorable encounter. Edna looked from one to the other, a slight shade of apprehension on her face. The words of her father were all that she could ask, their tone was unexceptionable, and yet—and yet—there was frost in the air. She spoke with less buoyancy than before, still with confidence that all was as it should be.

“That was one of the very points which troubled us. Mr. Hope asked Mr. Marsten to say nothing about the Surbiton visit, while I felt sure you wouldn’t mind.”

“You did quite right, Marsten, in saying nothing about it when Mr. Hope asked you not to mention it, but Edna is right also in stating that it would have made no difference to me.”

“Now,” said Edna to the young man, “you see how groundless all your fears were, and how a few simple words of explanation clear away all difficulties. I hope you will visit us whenever you want to talk to my father—you would be pleased to have him come, wouldn’t you, father? Mr. Marsten has done his best to settle the strike, even though he failed.”

“I quite appreciate that, Marsten, and my house is always open to you.”

Edna glanced with a smile at Marsten; his eyes were fixed intently on Sartwell, who continued suavely:

“However, it is only right that I should let you know there will be no more need to discuss the strike. I have been played with long enough. It is now my turn to strike. On Monday the works will be going again. I have on file four times as many applications for work as I have vacancies to fill. My clerks are at this moment writing out some hundreds of telegrams, asking the receivers to report for duty on Monday morning. I shall have no more traffic with the Union.”

“Oh!” cried the girl, in dismay.

“Won’t you give me another chance with the men?” asked Marsten, speaking for the first time.

“There were only a few votes against us at the last meeting.”

“You have from now until Friday night. I give you up to the latest moment, and that is why I pay six times as much and use the telegraph rather than the post. Letters would do quite as well mailed on Friday. The works open on Monday, with or without you, so you see you have little time to lose.”

“I shall go at once to London and call a meeting of the men. May I see you at your office to-morrow?”

“Certainly. My office is always open: but remember, it is an unconditional surrender now. I’ll have no more parleying.”

“Good-by,” said Marsten briefly, turning on his heel and hurrying to the gate, father and daughter watching him until he disappeared. Sartwell sank down in one of the chairs, murmuring as he did so:

“Thank God!”

“Why do you say that, father?”

“Say what? Oh! Because a certain tension has been relaxed. I have seen Hope and Monkton off together for Germany this morning, and they will be gone for at least a fortnight. This leaves me a clear field, and I will crush this strike as I would an eggshell.”

Sartwell nervously clenched his right hand, as if the egg-shell were within it.

“I am sorry for the men, father.”

“So am I, my dear, if they stand out; but it will be their own fault. Experience is said to teach a specified class of individuals, and they are preparing for themselves a bitter dose of it.”

“Will you’ not take him back, even if they hold out?”

“Him? Whom? Oh! Marsten. If they do not come back in a body, I will never allow another Union man to set foot in the works again. But never mind the men; I want to talk about yourself.”

“About me?”

“Yes About the situation here at home. It is not exactly what I wish it to be, and I intend to try an experiment.”

“Do you mean what happened yesterday between mother and me?”

“I mean the whole situation. What happened yesterday was merely an indication of the tendency—I don’t know just how to put it, but it isn’t satisfactory.”

“I was at fault, father, as I said last night; I was worried and anxious—that is no excuse, of course—and then I said things I shouldn’t have said. I was sorry at once, but I am more sorry now when I see I have troubled you. It won’t happen again. I shall be very careful in future, and I am sure if you think no more about it I shall do better.”

“My dear Edna, I am not blaming you in the least, nor do I think you were at fault; that is, not entirely. I am not censuring any one; we are as God made us, and there are differences of temperament which sometimes cause friction. You are not having a fair chance just now. I care very little about your mother’s friends, and I have few friends myself; thus you have no companions of your own age whom you can have here, and whose visits you can return, as is right and proper. You are thrown too much on your mother and me for your friendship, and I am not sure that either of us is suitable. You are at an impressionable time of life, and I want to do my best for you; so I think I shall send you to some school where you will meet nice girls and form friendships that you will enjoy. Then you have a decided talent for music, which will be developed, and—there are many reasons for such a step.”

“Do you mean that I shall have to leave home?” asked Edna, with a tremour in her voice.

“I think that will be best. In a year or two you will look upon life with perhaps more philosophy.”

“A year or two!” cried Edna, as if she spoke of eternity.

Her father smiled.

“The time will pass very quickly,” he said. “In a year or two, when you come home, both your mother and you will be glad to meet each other. We sometimes grow to think kindly of the absent.”

The girl buried her face in her hands.

“Tut, tut, Edna, my own little girl!” cried her father, placing his chair beside hers and taking her almost in his arms. “One would think you were being sent off to Africa. I imagined you would be glad.”

“It isn’t that,” she sobbed. “It shows how dreadfully wicked you must think me when you are compelled to send me away.”

“Nonsense, Edna! It shows nothing of the kind. I can’t send your step-mother to boarding-school, can I? Well, then! I don’t think you wicked at all. I have not the slightest doubt but you said just what you were provoked to saying. There now; see what a hopeless admission that is to make to a rebellious daughter. No, no. I am not blaming you in the least. As I said before, I am blaming nobody. We are driven by circumstances, that is all.”

“And am I never to see you except when I come home?”

“My darling girl, that is the delightful part of it. You will see me, and I will see you, practically more often than we do now. What do you think of that? I shall select some excellent school, situated in a bracing spot near the sea. I believe it will be cheaper for me to take a season ticket on the railway there, I shall go so often. We will take long walks on the downs entirely alone, and talk of everything. We will have delightful little dinners at the wayside inns we discover, and now and then a grand luncheon, at some very expensive place with a window that looks over the Channel. Edna, it will be the rejuvenating of your old father. He rarely gets a sniff of ozone as things are now, but then——”

Edna, with a cry of joy, flung her arms around his neck.

“Oh, father,” she cried, “that is too good to be true! When can I go?”

“This very week, I hope. You see now how everything depends on the point of view.”

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