MARSTEN made no move to communicate with Sart-well. If the manager expected the young man to propose a compromise, he was disappointed; and when he heard Marsten had been elected secretary of the Union, he smiled grimly, but made no comment. It was to be war to the knife, and Sartwell always admired an able antagonist. He made no motion against the Union, although at that time he could probably have forced seventy-five per cent of his employees to withdraw from it, had he been so minded. Marsten gave him due credit for declining to use the weapon of coercion against the men, knowing Sartwell too well to believe that the thought had not occurred to him. Yet there was little of the spirit of Christian forgiveness about the manager, as his wife had with truth often pointed out to him: he pursued an enemy to the bitter end. Gibbons metaphorically prostrated himself before Sartwell, and begged for the place in the works from which Marsten had been ejected. He was starving, he said. Sartwell replied that he was glad to hear it, and hoped Gibbons would now appreciate the sufferings of the men he had so jauntily led astray; so Gibbons had again humiliated himself for nothing.
To do Sartwell justice, however, it must be admitted that the attempted management of Marsten had slipped out of his hands in a way he had never anticipated. He did not dislike the young man; in truth, quite the opposite: still, he had higher ambitions for his only daughter than to see her marry one of his own workmen. The incident of finding Marsten with Edna in the garden had disturbed him more than he cared to admit, even to himself. If this persistent young fellow managed, when half starved, in the turmoil of the strike, to attend so successfully to his love affair, what might not happen when he was at peace with the world and had money in his pocket? Sartwell could have forbidden his daughter to see Marsten, and doubtless she would have obeyed; but he was loath to pique her curiosity regarding the reason for the prohibition, and he could not baldly tell her the young man craved permission to pay his addresses to her: that might set her fancy afire, with disastrous results to her father’s hopes. Sartwell only half expected Marsten would appeal to him against his discharge; but he knew that before the young fellow got another situation he must refer his new masters to his old manager, and, when that time came, or if Marsten made a move on his own account, Sartwell stood ready to make terms with him. If Marsten promised not to see the girl for two years, the manager would reinstate him, or would help him to secure another place.
All these plans went to pieces when the men unexpectedly chose Marsten as secretary of their Union. It was a contingency the manager had not counted upon, but he faced the new position of affairs without a murmur against fate.
Marsten thought his dismissal harsh and unjust, but he felt that it freed him from all consideration towards Sartwell. He now determined to meet the girl whenever and wherever he could; so, with this purpose strong in his heart, he went to Wimbledon, boldly presented himself at the front door, and asked to see Miss Sartwell. He knew her father did not dare tell her the true state of the case, and, if it came to that, permission to visit the house had already been given in Edna’s own presence,—a permission which her father had probably not withdrawn when Marsten left them together in the garden, as such withdrawal would necessitate explanations which Sartwell would not believe it wise to make. Therefore, the young man resolved to see the girl, tell her frankly why he came, and plead his cause with her. Even if she refused to listen to him, he would at least cause her to think of him, and that of itself was worth risking something for.
The servant, on opening the door, recognized Mar-sten as the young man who on a former occasion did not know his own mind, and she promptly said to him: “Mr. Sartwell is not at home.”
“I wish to see Miss Sartwell.”
“The young lady is not at home either.”
“Will she return soon?”
“I don’t know. Miss Edna’s gone away.”
“Gone away?” echoed Marsten, visibly perturbed at this unexpected check in his advance.
The servant saw she was face to face with another case of mental indecision; so she promptly grappled with the situation by calling Mrs. Sartwell, who was in the dining-room: then, turning the embarrassed young man over to her mistress, she closed the door and returned to the more important work which Mars-ten’s knock had interrupted.
“You wished to see Miss Sartwell?” began the lady, icily. “Why?”
It was not an easy question to answer, when suddenly asked by an utter stranger.
“Well, I can scarcely tell you, Mrs. Sartwell,” stammered the young man, extremely ill at ease. “It is entirely a personal matter. I wished to have a few words with Miss Sartwell; that is all.”
The lady sat bolt upright, with a look of great severity on her face. There was mystery here which she resolved to unravel before she allowed the unfortunate young man to depart. He speedily came to the conclusion that he had in the lady before him an implacable enemy, more to be feared, perhaps, than Sartwell himself. Each question shot at him led him deeper and deeper into the tangle.
“You are her lover, I suppose?”
“No. That is—I really can’t explain, Mrs. Sart-well.”
“Very well; I shall ask my husband when he returns to-night. He knows nothing of this, of course?”
“Yes, he does.”
“He knows you are here?”
“He doesn’t know I am here to-day. He knows I love his daughter.”
“I thought you said you were not her lover. Young man, whatever else you do, speak the truth. All our earthly troubles come from shunning the truth, and from overweening pride. Avoid pride, and avoid falsehood. What did you mean when you told me just now that you were not Miss Sartwell’s lover? I beseech you to speak the truth.”
“I’m trying to, but you see it is rather difficult to talk about this with a third person, and——”
“I am not a third person. I am her step-mother, and responsible to a higher power for what I do regarding Edna. I must have full knowledge, and then trust to the guiding light from above. We are ever prone to err when we rely on our own puny efforts. Does Edna Sartwell know you love her?”
“No.”
“And her father does?”
“Yes. I told him.”
“Then I wonder he did not forbid you to see her.”
“He did.”
“Are you one of his workmen?”
“Yes. At least I was.”
“Are you not now?”
“No.”
“He has discharged you?”
“I have been discharged.”
The stern look faded from Mrs. Sartwell’s face. She drew a deep breath—a prolonged “Ah,” with what might be taken as a quiver of profound satisfaction in it—and, for the first time during the conference, leaned back comfortably in her chair.
“My poor boy!” she said at last, gazing compassionately at him. “Do you mean to say, then, that you would risk your whole future for a girl to whom you have never spoken?”
“Oh, I have spoken with her, Mrs. Sartwell. I said I had never spoken about—that she doesn’t know I care anything for her.”
“But you know absolutely nothing about her disposition—her temper.”
“I’d chance it.”
Mrs. Sartwell shook her head mournfully.
“How well you reflect the spirit of this scoffing age! People chance everything. Nothing is so important to a man as the solemn, prayerful choice of a wife, for on that choice rests the misery or the happiness of this life. A woman’s great duty—at least it seems so to my poor judgment—is to bring light, comfort, and joy, to her husband’s home. Do you think Edna Sartwell is fitted by temperament or education for this noble task?”
“She’d make me happy, if that’s what you mean.”
“How little, how little you know her! But then, you know her father, and she’s very like him. Of course, he will never permit you to marry her, if he can prevent it. You are a workingman, and he has no thought or sympathy for those from whose ranks he sprang. He has higher ideas for his daughter; I have long seen that. It is pride, pride, pride! Oh, it will have a terrible fall some day, and perhaps you, poor lad, who talk of chance, are the humble instrument selected by an overruling Providence to bring about the humbling of his pride, without which none of us can enter the Kingdom! I see it all now. I see why he sent Edna to school at Eastbourne, although he said it was because we could not get on together. How little prevarication avails! The deceiver shall himself be deceived! In your seemingly chance meeting with me I see the Hand pointing towards truth. Still,” continued Mrs. Sartwell reflectively, as though speaking more to herself than to her hearer, “there is no doubt that, if you took Edna’s fancy, she would marry you in spite of her father or any one else. I have long warned her father that such a time is coming; but alas! my words are unheeded in this house, and the time has come sooner than I expected. I have wondered for some weeks past what was in Edna’s mind. I thought that perhaps she was thinking of Barnard Hope, but I see now I was mistaken. No, she was very likely thinking of you, and her father, discovering it, has packed her off to High Cliff School at Eastbourne, where he probably hopes you cannot visit her. She is a wayward, obstinate child, impulsive, and difficult to manage. She thinks her father is perfection, so you may form your own opinion of how defective her judgment is. Yes, I should not be at all surprised if, when you tell her you love her, she would at once propose to run away with you. Nothing Edna Sartwell would do or say could surprise me.”
Marsten, who had been very uneasy while a forced listener to this exposition of the girl’s character, now rose abruptly, and said he must leave; he had already, he said, taken up too much of Mrs. Sartwell’s time.
“Our time is given us,” replied the good woman, also rising, “to make the best use of, and if we remember that we must give an account of every moment allotted to us, we will not count that time ill-spent which is devoted to the welfare of others. I sincerely trust that what I have said will sink deeply into your mind, and that you will profit by it.”
“I shall not fail to do so.”
“You will understand why I cannot give you any information about Miss Sartwell, or arrange for any meeting between you. It would not be right. If she were now in the house, I could not permit you to see her, since I know you come without her father’s permission. I hope you do not think me harsh in saying this.”
“Oh, not at all.”
“And whatever comes of your infatuation for her, will you do me the justice to remember that my last words to you were to implore you to cast all thought of her from your mind?”
“I shall remember it,” said Marsten.
“If you attempt to meet her, you know you will be doing so against my strict wish and command.”
“You certainly will not be to blame for anything that happens, Mrs. Sartwell.”
“Ah, if I could only be sure of that!” said the patient woman, mournfully shaking her head. “But blame is so easily bestowed, and it shifts responsibility from shoulders certainly more fitted to bear it, and perhaps more deserving. No later ago than yesterday, Mr. Barnard Hope came here, and was surprised to find Edna gone. He told me he came to see me, but he could not help noticing how still and peaceful the house was. When he asked where Edna was, I replied to him as I reply to you. Her father is the proper person to answer that question. Yet Mr. Hope is the son of my best friend, a noble woman, whose benefactions shower blessings far and near. Well, good-by, and I’m sorry not to be able to assist you; but I shall remember you in my petitions, and will trust that your feet may be guided aright.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sartwell, and good-by.”
As the young man walked away he kept repeating to himself, “High Cliff School, Eastbourne”; and when he got a sufficient distance from the house he wrote the name down on a slip of paper.
On reaching the railway station Marsten’s first regret was that he had not taken all the money offered him on the day of his discharge. He had no idea that his quest would lead him to a fashionable and expensive sea-side resort. Prudence proposed to him that he should defer his visit to Eastbourne until he had more money; but, he said to himself, if he did not go at once, Sartwell would be certain to learn from his wife of the visit to Wimbledon, and there might be increased difficulties in getting to see Edna at Eastbourne. As it was, he had no idea how the meeting he wished for was to be brought about, for doubtless Sartwell, when sending his daughter to the school, had given the lady into whose care Edna was entrusted, a hint of his object in placing her there. Marsten stepped out of the South Western carriage at Clapham Junction, and found he had but half an hour to wait for the Eastbourne train. He smiled when he remembered the care and thought he was giving to the Union, after having so frequently asserted that he was willing to devote his life to the work. It was a blessing that all the Union needed at the moment was to be let alone.
When he arrived at Eastbourne, he immediately set out in search of High Cliff School, thinking it well to reconnoitre the situation, hoping the sight of it might suggest some plan that was practical. He would have one thing in his favour, which was that Sartwell would not have warned his daughter against seeing him, fearing to arouse her curiosity or suspicions. If, then, he got one word with Edna alone, he had no fear but that he could arrange for a longer interview. He found High Cliff to be a large house, situated in extensive grounds, with a view of the sea, but with a wall that was even more discouraging than the glass-topped barrier at Wimbledon.
Marsten saw there was going to be more difficulty in getting an interview with his sweetheart than he had at first imagined. He thought for a moment of applying boldly at the front door for permission to see the young student, but quickly dismissed the plan as impracticable. He was certain that so shrewd a man as Sartwell would have more foresight than to leave arrangements at such loose ends that the first person who called to see his daughter would be admitted, even if the ordinary rules of the school allowed such a thing, which was most improbable. He realized that the place was not to be taken by assault, but rather by slow and patient siege; so, wandering down by the shore, he sat on the shingle, within sound of the soothing waves, and gave his whole attention to the problem.
If a man whose ambition it was to emancipate the worker, and change the whole relationship between capital and labour, was going to be baffled in seeking half an hour’s talk with a young girl, not immured in a prison or a convent, but merely residing in an ordinary English school, then were his chances of solving the larger question remote and shadowy. Thus he came to bind the two enterprises together, saying to himself that success in the one would indicate success in the other. The first thing to do, then, was to secure some cheap lodging—if such a thing was to be found in this fashionable resort—and so hoard his money and bide his time, for he was convinced he would make haste only by going slowly. It was a case in which undue precipitancy would make ultimate victory impossible. He knew that some time during the day the pupils would walk, though guarded doubtless by vigilant governesses. It might be possible to pass this interesting procession, and, while doing so, to slip a note into Edna’s hand; but even as Marsten thought of this plan, he dismissed it as impracticable, for Edna would be so surprised at such an inexplicable proceeding on his part that she would not have the presence of mind necessary to conceal the missive promptly enough to escape detection. He left the shore, still ruminating on the problem, and, searching in the back part of the town, found lodgings that suited his requirements and his purse. When this was done, he strolled on the promenade, still giving the great problem his whole attention.
Suddenly he received a staggering blow on the back which almost thrust him forward on his face. Recovering himself, he turned round breathless, alarmed and angry, to see before him the huge form and smiling face of Barney Hope, who genially presented the hand that had smitten him.
“Hello, old fellow!” cried Barney, laughing aloud at the other’s resentful glare. “What are you doing down here? Has the strike taken it out of you so that you had to have sea air to recuperate?”
“No strike ever took it out of me like the blow you struck just now.”
Barney threw back his head and roared; then, linking arms with Marsten in the most friendly manner, he said:
“No, my paw isn’t light, as all my friends say, and it has got me into trouble before now. I had to thrash a fellow in Paris once, merely because I could not convince him that the gentle tap I gave him was in fun. He admitted afterwards that there was a difference, and that he would rather have my open palm on his back than my closed fist in his face,—but what can you expect? The French have no sense of humour, and yet they can’t box well. It should occur to them, as a nation, that they ought either to know how to take a joke, or else how to put up their dukes, if they are going to take things seriously. But my slap on the back is nothing to my hand-shake when I’m feeling cordial towards a fellow-creature. Let’s see, have we shaken hands this go?”
“Yes, thanks,” said Marsten, with such eagerness that the other laughed again.
“Well, I’m delighted to meet you so unexpectedly, don’t you know. Your name’s Langton, if I remember rightly?”
“My name is Marsten.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I’m the stupidest fool in the kingdom about names, and it’s an awfully bad failing. People seem to get offended if you can’t remember their names. I’m sure I can’t tell why. I wouldn’t care tuppence what I was called, so long as you don’t say I’m no painter. Then I’m ready to fight. A man who won’t fight for his art oughtn’t to have an art. And, talking about art, I remember now that Langton was the fellow you sent me who can play the piano as if he were a Rubinhoff—that Russian player, don’t you know. Well, I’m thundering glad to see you; I was just hoping to meet some fellow I knew. I’m dying for some one to talk to. It’s a beastly dull hole, Eastbourne, don’t you know.”
“I was never here before. It seems to me a very nice place.”
“Yes, it looks that way at first, but wait till you’ve been here a day or two. It’s so wretchedly respectable!—that’s what I object to in it. Respectability’s bad enough on its native heath, but sea air seems to accentuate it, don’t you know. I can’t tell you why it is, but it’s so; and respectability that you can put up with in London becomes unbearable down by the sea. Haven’t you noticed that? And it’s all on such a slender basis too: the third-class fare to Brighton is four shillings and tuppence-ha’penny, while to Eastbourne it’s four shillings and elevenpence, so all this swagger is on a beggarly foundation of eightpence-ha’penny. You see what I mean? I wouldn’t give a week in Brighton for a day in Eastbourne, although I should hate to be condemned to either, for that matter. London is the only town that’s exactly my size, don’t you know.”
“Then why do you stop at Eastbourne?”
“Ah, now you come to the point; now you place your finger right on the spot. Why, indeed? Can’t you guess? I can tell in a moment why you are here.”
“Why?” asked Marsten, in some alarm.
“Oh, simply because some fool of a doctor, who didn’t know any better, sent you down. You’re here for the air, my boy: you don’t come for the society, so it must be the air—that’s the only other thing Eastbourne’s got. You were told it would brace you up in a week, and it will, if your reason holds out for so long. I’d be a madman, sane as I am, if I were compelled to live in this place a fortnight; I would, on my honour! No, you don’t catch me in Eastbourne for either air or the society, and yet, in a way, it is the society, too, only it doesn’t seem to come off; and here I am stranded, don’t you know, with a coachman and a groom, not to mention a valet, two horses, and one of the smartest carts that ever left London. That’s my turn-out, there. I drive tandem, of course; it’s the only Christian way to drive. Not that I care about the style of it,—I hope I’m above all that sort of thing,—and I’m not to be blamed because so many other fellows do it, don’t you know; I love a tandem for itself alone. Ever drive tandem?”
“I never did,” said Marsten, looking at Barney’s handsome equipage, which was being slowly driven up and down the road by a man in livery. He had noticed it before, but now he gazed at it with renewed interest, as Barney modestly proclaimed himself the owner.
“Well, it isn’t as easy as it looks. It’s not every fool can drive a tandem, although I am said to be one of the first tandem-drivers in London, don’t you know. I don’t say so, of course; but there are those who do, and they are judges, too. But it’s no fun driving about alone: to enjoy tandem-driving you need to have a pretty girl beside you.”
“And are there no pretty girls in Eastbourne?”
“There are, my boy, and that’s just what I want to talk with you about. Let’s sit down here in this shelter, because I want your whole attention. Now, I did you a favour one day, even though it was for another fellow, didn’t I?”
“Yes. You have done me at least two favours.”
“Well, that’s all right. I may be able to do you a third or a fourth,—who knows?—and I mention it because I’m about to ask you to do me a great one now. That’s what made me so glad to see you, don’t you know, as well, of course, as the pleasure of talking with you again in this dismal hole. I was just thinking about it, and wondering whom I could get, when I looked up, and there you were. Providence always helps me when I’m in a pinch—always, don’t you know. I never knew it to fail, and yet I’m not what you’d call a devout man myself. You’ve got nothing particular to do down here I suppose?”
“Nothing but my own pleasure.”
“Quite so. And, as there isn’t any pleasure to be had here, you may just as well turn round and help me; it will be a great lark. You see, I want a man of intelligence, and I don’t suppose one is to be found in Eastbourne,—for if he was intelligent he wouldn’t stay. Then, too, he must be a man not known in the town—you see what I mean? Also, he must know something about the labouring classes and their ways; so you see, my boy, Providence has sent the very man I want, don’t you know. Now promise that you will help me.”
“If I can, I will.”
“Right you are! You’re just the individual who can, and no one else can do it half so well. Now, in the first place, have you ever seen Sartwell’s daughter? He’s only got one.”
“Have I ever seen her?”
“Yes. She was at my reception the day you were there. I don’t suppose you noticed her among so many; but she was the handsomest girl in the room, far and away.”
“Yes, I have seen Miss Sartwell. She used to call for her father at his office quite frequently.”
“Good again! That’s a fourth qualification needed by the person who is to help me, so you see you are the man of all men for this job. Now it happens that this charming girl is at school in Eastbourne, which is, in a word, the reason I am here. I want to get a message taken to Miss Sartwell at the school, and I want you to take it.”
“Oh, I don’t think I should care to go on a mission of that sort, Mr. Hope. If Mr. Sartwell were to find out that I——”
“My dear fellow,” interrupted Barney, placing his hand confidentially on Marsten’s shoulder, “it’s all right, I assure you. There is really nothing surreptitious about it. Heavens and earth, Langton, you don’t think I’m that kind of a man, I trust! Oh, no! I’ve the parental consent all right enough.”
“Then why don’t you go to the school and see her?”
“Because, dear boy, the case is just a trifle complicated, don’t you know. I can always get the parental consent; that’s the money, you know. As a general thing the girls like me, and I won’t say the money has all to do with that: no, I flatter myself, personal attractions, a fair amount of brains, and a certain artistic reputation come in there; but money tells with the older people. Now Sartwell and I understand each other. Not to put too fine a point upon it, you know, he says practically: ‘Barney, you’re an ass, but you’re rich, and I don’t suppose you’re a bigger fool than the average young man of the present day, so I give you a fair field; go in, my boy, and win.’ I say to Sartwell: ‘You’re a grumpy old curmudgeon, with no more artistic perception than the Shot Tower; but your daughter is an angel, and I’ve got money enough for the two of us.’ You see, I never did care for money except to get what I want. So there we stand. Sart-well was coming down here with me; but, after I started, he telegraphed to my studio that there was so much to do in the shops, with all the men newly back, that he would like me to postpone my visit for a week. Well, I had to get the horses and trap down here; so I drove, and I left London a day earlier than I expected to. Hence the present complication. I called at the school, asked to see Miss Sartwell, saying I was a friend of her father’s; but the lady in charge looked on me with suspicion,—she did indeed, my boy, difficult to believe as the statement is. The lady said she could not allow Miss Sartwell to see any person unless that person was accompanied by her father. She would take no message to the girl—and there I was. I wrote to Miss Sartwell from my hotel here, but the letter was opened by the dragon, who returned it to me, asking me not to attempt to communicate with any of the young ladies under her charge. So here is this stylish tandem, and there is that lovely girl, while I am wasting in the desert air, longing to take her out for a drive. That’s the situation in a nut shell, don’t you know, and I want you to help me by taking a message to Miss Edna.”
“I don’t see how I can do it. If you, with her father’s permission, could not get a word with her, how can I hope to?”
“Oh, I have that all arranged. I thought first of getting some young man in as a carpenter or plumber; but, so far as I can learn, the pipes and the woodwork of the school are all right. Then an inspiration came to me,—‘I am subject to inspirations. The man who looks after the garden lives in the town, and he is quite willing to assist me; in fact I have made it worth his while, don’t you know. The trouble is that all his assistants are rather clodhoppers, and would be sure to bungle a diplomatic affair like this; however, I was going to chance it with one to-morrow when I saw you, and said to myself: ‘Here is the very man!’ When Providence sends the right man I always recognize him. That is the whole secret of a successful life, don’t you know,—to be able to recognize the gifts Providence sends at the moment they are sent. Where most people go wrong, don’t you know, is by not appreciating the providential interposition until afterwards. You will put on a gardener’s smock, take a clumsy and unwieldy broom in your hand, and go to High Cliff School to sweep the walks, and that sort of thing, don’t you know. Then, as the girls are walking about, seize the psychological moment and tell Miss Edna I am waiting down here with the tandem. The young ladies are allowed to walk out three at a time. Two of them can sit back to back with us, and Edna will sit with me. Tell her to choose two friends whom she can trust, and we will all go for a jolly drive together. If she hesitates, tell her I am down here with her father’s permission, but don’t say that unless as a last resort. I would much rather have her come of her own accord, don’t you know.”
“What I fail to understand about your plan is why—if you really have Mr. Sartwell’s permission,—no, no, I’m not doubting your word,—I should have put it, as you have her father’s permission,—why do you not telegraph him, saying you are here, and get him to send a wire to the mistress of the school, asking her to allow Miss Sartwell to go with you for a drive, with a proper chaperon, of course?”
“My dear Langton——”
“Marsten, if you please.”
“Oh, yes, of course. My dear Marsten, what you suggest is delightfully simple, and is precisely what would present itself to the well-regulated mind, It would be the sane thing to do and would be so charmingly proper. But you see, Marsten, my boy, I understand a thing or two about women, which you may not yet have had experience enough to learn. I don’t want too much parental sanction about this affair, because a young girl delights in an innocent little escapade on her own account,—don’t you see what I mean? Of course, if the villain of the piece is baffled, he will ultimately appeal to the proper authority; but you know I have already seen a good deal of the young lady under the parental wing—if I may so state the fact; and although she is pleasant enough and all that, I don’t seem to be making as much progress with her as I would like, don’t you know. Now a little flavour of—well, you understand what I mean—thingumbob—you know—romance, and that sort of thing—is worth all the cut-and-dried ‘Bless-you-my-children’ in the market. You’ll know all about that, as you grow older, my boy.”
“Mr. Hope——”
“Look here, my boy, call me Barney. Few of my friends say ‘Mr. Hope,’ and when any one does say it, I always think he is referring to my father, who is at this moment giddily enjoying his precious self at Dresden, or thereabouts. You were about to——”
“I was about to say I would very much like to oblige you, but I have scruples about doing what you ask of me.”
“Marsten—you’ll forgive me, won’t you?—but I’m afraid you’re very much like the rest of the world. Fellows always want to oblige you, but they don’t want to do the particular obligement that you happen to want—if I make myself clear. If you want to borrow a fiver, they will do any mortal thing you wish but lend it. Now it happens that, so far from wanting a fiver, I’ll give you one—or a ten-pound note, for that matter—if you will do this, don’t you know.”
“Oh, if I did it at all, I wouldn’t take money for doing it.”
“But I don’t want a fellow to work for love, don’t you know. I don’t believe in that. If I sell a picture I want my money for it—yes, by Jove, I do!”
“If I did this, it would be entirely for love and for no other consideration. But I don’t think I would be acting fairly and honourably if I did it. I can’t explain to you why I think this; my whole wish is to do what you ask me, and yet I feel sure, if I were thoroughly honest, as I would like to be, I should at once say ‘No.’”
“My dear fellow, I honour your scruples; but I assure you they are misplaced in this instance. They are, really. Besides, I have your promise, and I’m going to hold you to it. It isn’t as though I were going to run away with the girl, and marry her against her own wish and the wishes of her combined relatives. If I wanted to see the girl against her father’s will—well, then there might be something to urge in opposition to my project; but I’m not,—and don’t you see that fact makes all the difference in the world? Of course you do. Why, a man ought to do anything for the girl he loves, and he’s a poltroon if he doesn’t. That’s why I’m taking all this trouble and staying in this town of the forlorn. If a girl doesn’t find you taking some little trouble in order to see her, why she is not going to think very much or often about you; take my word for that.”
“I believe you are right. I’ll go.”
“You’re a brick, Marsten! yes, my boy, a brick!” cried Barney, enthusiastically, slapping his comrade on the shoulder.
“A brick of very common clay, I’m afraid, Mr. Hope. I suppose you believe in the saying, ‘All’s fair in love’?”
“Of course I do, dear boy; it is the maxim on which I regulate my daily life.”
“Very well. I will not take a verbal message, for I may not have an opportunity to deliver it; besides, I might forget something, or give it a misleading twist. If you will write exactly what you want Miss Sartwell to know, and give it to me as a letter, I will deliver it if there is the slightest chance of my doing so.”
“Right you are, old man! Now come with me, and I’ll introduce you to the gardener person, and see if he has a blouse that will fit you.”
In the morning Barney took Marsten to the house of the friendly gardener, whose good will had been secured through the corrupting influences of wealth, and there the young man donned the blouse that was supposed to give him that horticultural air necessary for the part he had to play. Marsten was very serious about it; but Barney seemed to enjoy the masquerade to the utmost, and wanted to take the amateur gardener to be photographed, so that there might be a picture as a memento of the occasion.
At last Marsten got away, with the broom on his shoulder, and, presenting himself at High Cliff grounds, was admitted without question. He made no attempt to conceal from himself the fact that he did not like the fraud he was about to practise, but when his conscience upbraided him, he asked of it what better plan it had to propose, and to this there was no reply.
The grounds were empty when he reached them, and with his natural shrewdness he applied himself first to the walks that were in public view; so that, when the young girls came out, he might be in the more secluded portion of the plantation, where he was sure the rules of the school would require them to take the air. His surmise proved correct, and the young man felt more embarrassed than he had even suspected he would be, when he suddenly found himself in the midst of a fluttering bevy of girls, all chattering, but happily none paying the least attention to him. He had not counted on the presence of any of the teachers; but three of them were there, who, however, sat on a garden seat and did not seem overburdened with anxiety about the pupils under their care.
Edna Sartwell had a book in her hand, with a finger between the pages, but she walked up and down with another girl, talking in a low tone. Marsten hoped the book was an interesting one, and wished the girl would go into some secluded corner to read it; for he began to see that his enterprise was not going to be so easy of accomplishment as he expected, even though he had gained admittance to the grounds, which at first had seemed the most difficult move in the game. The book at last gave him the opportunity he sought: Edna and her companion stood together for a moment after their walk, then each went her separate way.
In a corner of the grounds was a secluded summerhouse, screened from the view of the school by a wilderness of trees and shrubs, almost out of hearing of the lively chatter that made the air merry elsewhere; and to this quiet spot Edna betook herself, reading the book as she walked, for the paths thither were evidently familiar to her. Marsten followed, slowly at first, then more quickly as the chances of observation lessened, his heart beating faster than the exertion he was making warranted. The girl was seated in the littlechâletwhen Marsten’s figure darkened the entrance.
“Miss Sartwell,” was all he could say.
Edna sprang to her feet, letting the book fall to the floor, and looked at him with startled eyes that had no recognition in them.
“I see you don’t know me, and no wonder; for I did not wear gardener’s clothes when I stood last in your garden.”
A bright flush of pleasure overspread the girl’s face, and laughter came first to her eyes, then to her lips.
“How you frightened me!” she said, seeming anything but frightened, and quite unable to restrain her merriment, as her glance flashed up and down his uncouth apparel. “Have you become gardener here, then, or did you come over the wall?”
“The walls here are too high, or I might have attempted them. I am gardener for the day only, and merely to get a word with you.”
“With me? I thought the strike had happily ended. Haven’t you gone back to work? How did you get away?”
“Oh, there was no difficulty about that! I can always get a day off when I want it. Yes, I went back to work and have been busy ever since. I came here yesterday in the hope of seeing you. It was very important—for me, at least.”
“Has the desired promotion come so soon, then, or do you think I must speak to my father about your position when I next see him? I expected him here before this, but he writes that there is so much to be done, now the men are back, that he will be unable to come for perhaps a week or more.”
“I have not come here to beg for your father’s favour, but for yours. I love you, Edna, and I have loved you ever since I first saw you! Don’t imagine I am so—so conceited—that I have even a hope that you—you—care for me, for of course you don’t and can’t; but I wanted you to know. I wanted to tell you, and that is why I am here. I am poor,—I don’t deny that,—but your father was also poor once, and he has got on in the world. I will get on; I will work night and day. Whoever my master is, I will serve him faithfully,—my God! I will serve him on my knees, if that will convince him of my earnestness to win confidence and a place of trust,—and all the time cheerfully and hopefully, with your picture in my mind, as it has been in my mind—for so long—from the first. You see, I have no chance to win you as another might. You are in this school for the very purpose of keeping me from meeting you as I might meet you if I were rich. I have no fair chance—none at all, except what I steal for myself, as I have done to-day. It means so much to me—everything!—that I did not dare to take the risk. I know I have spoken too soon—too abruptly—but I dared not set my face at what is before me unless you knew. Some one might win you while I was working for you—there will be plenty to try. I don’t want you to say a word—I want neither hope nor discouragement—no promise—nothing! You know, and that is enough for me now. But I would like you to remember—sometimes—that there is no man striving as I shall strive. Think of that—when others speak. My darling—my darling—no man ever felt as I feel since the beginning of the world!”
Whatever diffidence Marsten hitherto experienced in Edna’s presence melted in the fervent heat of his passion when he began to speak. The words rushed forth, treading on the heels of those gone before, in jumbled, breathless procession; his face was aflame, and his nether lip trembled when he ceased to speak. At first he seemed to be running a race against time—they might be interrupted at any moment; but he soon forgot his competitor, and, so far as he was concerned, no one existed in the world but himself and the trembling, confused girl before him.
She, after her first look of amazed incredulity, felt backward with her hand for the support of the wall, and then gradually sank upon the seat, an expression, partly fear, overspreading her now colourless face. As Marsten went impetuously on, her head dropped upon her hands, and thus she remained while he spoke.
A pause ensued, so deep and silent that Marsten, as he leaned his hand against the door-post, afraid to move forward or retreat, heard the distant girlish laughter, free from any thought of problems other than those of the schoolroom. He knew he should remember every trivial detail of the place all his life,—the broom that lay at his feet; the book which had fallen open-leaved upon the floor; even the title glittering in gold on the side, which sent no meaning to his mind except one word that caught his attention,—“Courtship” (“The Courtship of Miles Standish” was the whole phrase), and he wondered vaguely if the courtship had prospered. Rapidly as his wondering eye gathered up the accessories of the scene, it always returned to the bowed and silent figure before him, and something in the outlines of her drooping shoulders told him intuitively of a change—elusive, but real. His mind had been too much occupied with the hard realities of life to indulge in speculative analysis of any sort, but now it was uplifted, touched by the magic wand of love, and endowed with: a subtle perception unknown to him before. He saw that the girl, who, as a child, welcomed him, would, as a woman, bid him farewell.
At last she slowly shook her head.
“It cannot be—it cannot be!” she murmured.
“Not now. I know that—I don’t ask that!” he cried, eagerly. “But—some time—some time?”
The girl did not look up.
“It can never be—never!” she said.
“All I want is a chance—a fair chance. Don’t—oh, please don’t say ‘No’ or ‘Yes’ now! Your father is prejudiced against me, I know; not against me personally, I think, but because I am poor: it is only another expression of his great love for you. He knows what poverty is, and he wants to shield you from it. He is right, and if I am as poor two years from now, or four years, I shall not ask—”
“Does my father know?”
“Yes. I told him that night—the night you first spoke to me. That is why he is angry.”
“Then that is why you—that is the reason—when you were in the garden——”
“Yes, that is why I was afraid to have him find me there.”
Again there was a long silence between them. The thoughts of the girl ranged back over her past life, from the time her father forbade her to come to the office until the present moment, flashing like a searchlight upon events hitherto misunderstood, making them stand out in their true proportions. All her father’s actions, his words, had to be reconsidered. She saw meanings in former phrases that had been hidden from her: she had now the key that unlocked the room illumined by knowledge; and although her heart yearned towards her father, sympathizing with him when confronted by an unexpected problem, and fully condoning his apparent lack of trust in keeping her ignorant of a situation so closely concerning herself, feeling that she ought to stand by him and repel the stranger who had so daringly come between them with his preposterous claim upon her affection, yet from no part of her being could she call to her aid that emotion of just resentment against Marsten which she knew ought to be at her command.
“I am very, very sorry,” she said at last, speaking slowly. “I like you, of course—I think you are a noble, earnest man, and that you will do good and overcome many difficulties; but I don’t care for you in the way you wish, and it would not be right to be dishonest with you. I should like to see you get on in the world, and I am sure you will. Some day you will write to me and tell me of your victories, and I shall be glad. It will make me happy then to know you have forgotten—this. Now you must go. Good-by!”
She rose, holding out her hand to him, and he saw her eyes were wet.
“Good-by!” he said, turning away.
Edna sat down, but did not pick up her book. With her hands listless in her lap, she gazed out at the blue sky, thinking. Presently, to her surprise, Marsten returned.
“You have forgotten your broom,” she said, with a wavering smile trembling on her lips.
“I had forgotten more than that,” he said, “I had forgotten my mission.”
“Your mission?”
“Yes; my false pretences do not stop at climbing walls. I am really a traitorous messenger; for the device by which I came here was arranged by another, who wished me to take a letter to you. He is in Eastbourne, and had written to you, but his letter was returned to him. He has written another—here it is.”
“Of whom are you speaking?”
“Mr. Barnard Hope.”
“Oh!”
She took the letter. Marsten lifted his broom and went away. He wanted to leave the place and get back to London; but the gardener had cautioned him not to return until the sweeping was finished, while Barney himself impressed upon him the necessity of allowing no suspicion to arise, as it might be needful to despatch another messenger on a similar errand. So he kept on sweeping thedébrisinto little heaps by the side of the path. The schoolgirls disappeared into the house by twos and threes, until he found himself once more alone, and yet he did not see Edna come from the summer-house. He moved nearer and nearer with his work to the place where they had met, hoping to catch a parting glimpse of her as she walked towards the house. At last she came out; but instead of taking the direct path to the house she came towards him, with the thin volume she had been reading in her hand. There was a slight increase of the usual colour in her cheeks, but with that exception she had succeeded in suppressing all trace of her emotion. She looked at him with what seemed, at first, all her former straightforwardness; but, as he met her gaze, he saw it was not quite the same: a misty shadow of difference veiled her honest eyes, so like her father’s, but so much kindlier.
“I have brought you this book,” she said, holding it out to him, “and I want you to keep it. It is the story of a messenger who was true to the trust of the one who sent him, and yet who failed.”
“But you have not read the book yourself?” he replied, taking the volume, nevertheless.
“Oh, yes, I have. I was reading it for the second time to-day.”
As he hastily concealed the book under his blouse, he looked anxiously about him, fearing they might be observed, unwilling to compromise her in the least. The craft of a man is rarely equal to that of a woman, no matter how young she may be. Edna smiled as she noticed his perturbation.
“There is no one to see us,” she said, “and if there were, it would not matter. They would merely think I was giving improving literature and good advice to an under-gardener—which, indeed, is exactly what I am doing when I tell him to work hard, and—forget!”
As Edna said this she opened her hand and allowed to flutter upon the heap at his feet the minute fragments of a letter, which floated down through the air like a miniature snowfall, and she was gone before he could say “Good-by” for the second time.
Marsten stood there looking down at the bits of torn paper scattered over the heap, the remnants, undoubtedly, of the letter he had brought; and although he had had no word of encouragement—which, in spite of his disclaimer, he had yearned to hear—each separate piece of white paper reflected upwards to him a ray of hope.