It was the next day, and quite an ideal one for late September, though that is perhaps the least capricious month of all the year. Still Mrs Poynter hardly knew what to do with her guests. When one has been playing tennis steadily from the 1st of May to the 19th of September, even that best of games begins to pall a little. And people came so early in September—at half-past three some of them, because the daylight faded so soon. It was quite a relief to her when Dicky suggested the houses. But, unfortunately, the suggestion fell flat. Just a few went, but the majority remained.
Mrs. Greatorex, indeed, was too comfortable to stir, and Elfrida was too amused. She had Lord Ambert leaning over her on the left, and she had enticed the curate into an argument on her right. She felt perfectly happy. She was never happier than when she was annoying Ambert, who was to be her husband in a month or so.
As for Mr. Browne, though he had suggested the grapes, he made no movement in their direction. He, too, was quite in his element. He was teasing the children with all his might.
Mrs. Poynter, if she were ever jealous of other people's possessions, at all events had no occasion to be jealous with them about their children. Her own were perfect—little creatures of delight! Their manners, however, were not their strong point.
Vera, the youngest, sat on Mr. Browne's right knee, and Henry on his left. They held a book in their hands. It contained the poems of Dr. Watts. Their mother, who was one of the most thoughtless people in the world, was evidently determined thattheyshould think, with a vengeance.
Dicky could see, however, that the little maiden on his knee hated the book.
"Go on, read us something," said Henry.
"Don't," said Vera, "it's a pig of a book."
"Hold your tongue, Vera," said Henry, whose education was not altogether completed. He nudged Dicky. "Go on," said he, and Dicky began:—
"Let dogs delight to bark and bite, For God hath made them so—-"
"I don't believe it," said Vera, who was on for battle; "God wouldn't."
"Yes, He would. He's made lots of things that fight. Lions and tigers and Pappy."
Captain Poynter was a soldier, and had served with some distinction in the Egyptian War.
"WellIdon't want to fight," said Vera, shaking her blonde head. She wriggled down off Dicky's lap, and ran to Agatha, who was close to her, and unfortunately very close to every one else, too. "I want to love peoples. Don't you, Aggie? Doyoulove peoples, Aggie?"
"I do indeed—lots of peoples," said Agatha, drawing the child on to her knee. "I love you for one."
"Oh, me!" It was plain to the public that Miss Vera thought it would be a poor person indeed who did not bow the knee to her.
"But not all the other peoples?"
"Yes, I love all the other peoples, too."
"That's not true, for mammy says that you're beastly unkind to—-"
"Vera!" cried a shocked mamma.
Mrs. Poynter rose and came forward, but Miss Vera was evidently not afraid of her mammy. She kicked out her pretty silk-clad legs, and went on quite calmly:
"She says you're very nasty to Dr. Darkham, but that youdolove Dr. Dillwyn."
The little, sweet, shrill voice carried very far—too far. Mrs. Greatorex looked up.
As for Mrs. Poynter, she was crimson. She was afraid to look at Agatha, who felt as if her heart was going to stop beating. She bent over Vera—who was playing with her bangles, all unconscious of the bombshell she had just discharged—to hide her face. Mrs. Poynter was speaking to the child: "Vera, how naughty! You are a very bold child."
"'Be bolde, be bolde, and everywhere be bolde,'" quoted Mr. Browne promptly. He picked up the small sinner from Agatha's lap and perched her on his shoulder. "I say let's go down and see what they are doing on the courts."
Agatha eagerly rose and went with him. When they had reached the courts the children ran away, and Agatha turned a very distressed face to him.
"Wasn't it unfortunate?" she said. "I am sure Aunt Hilda heard her. Why should the child have said just the wrong thing?"
"Give him a hint. Tell him to be sensible for once in his life, and keep out of her way."
"If I could do that."
"Well, why can't you? When is he coming?"
"He said he would be here at half-past four, and that he"—here she grew prettily shamefaced and very red—"would meet me in the little alley behind the rhododendrons over there. You know there is a gateway in there from the road."
"We've got ten minutes," said Mr. Browne, after a brief consultation with his watch. "Let us go and sit in the alley and circumvent Aunt Hilda."
It was quite easy to skirt around the players and enter the pretty secluded walk that led to nowhere but the high road—a mere cul-de-sac that made it unpopular with most young people. But Agatha liked the high road, for that good white winding ribbon would bring her her Jack.
"Now let us talk about it," said he comfortably.
"There's nothing to talk about," said Agatha mournfully. "Aunt Hilda is determined I shall marry Dr. Darkham, and I am determined that I shan't. That is all."
"Far from it. There is the other side of the question to be considered also," said Mr. Browne, assuming a magisterial air.
"Aunt Hilda is determined that you shan't marry Dr. Dillwyn, and you are determined that you will. What price the winner? I back you."
"Well, I shall not give in," said she with a smile. She looked very sad, however. "I wish I were not under such obligations to her."
"What nonsense! As if she were not under obligations to you! I expect it must have been a real treat to her when you got under her roof."
"Oh no. I have only been a burden."
"Modesty can go too far. I can tell you that the very fact of your having saved her from loneliness repays all your debt to her. Don't be down-hearted about your obligations in that direction."
"Still—-"
"You've got too much conscience," said Mr. Browne. "You're over-ballasted; I'd throw a little overboard if I were you. And I'd keep clear of Darkham, anyway. He's got a nasty turn of jaw."
"He's nasty every way," said Agatha, sighing. "But, then, what am I to do? Aunt Hilda is so angry, and poor Jack is—-"
"Poor!It's a conundrum," said Mr. Browne thoughtfully. "But there must be ways of solving it."
Here he turned and caught sight of something—some one— between the branches of the rhododendrons. Dicky knew him at once. It was the tall young doctor standing at the gate. Why did he not come on? Dicky in a moment guessed that conundrum, at all events. Dillwyn had come there to meet Agatha alone, and was waiting for him to go away. Mr. Browne felt, with a distinct acceleration of spirit, that Dillwyn did not know who Agatha's companion was at the moment. It is sometimes hard to distinguish people through swaying branches.
It was perhaps a little unfortunate that Nature had endowed Dicky at his birth with the spirit of mischief. It is so difficult to strangle Nature's gifts.
"We must wait, I suppose," said Agatha.
Mr. Browne cast a backward glance toward the little gate.
"Hemust wait anyway," said he sadly.
"We must both wait."
"Oh, not both!"—with a sidelong glance towards the silent figure half seen through the branches. "It is you who are keepinghimwaiting."
"You are wrong, indeed, Dicky," said the girl earnestly. "We shall wait together. I don't mind that."
"Hemight, however; especially as you arenottogether." A slight movement in the hawthorn bush that stood beside the gate emphasised this remark.
"That makes no difference," said Agatha sweetly. "We are content to wait apart."
"Yet Dillwyn doesn't strike me as being a modern Job," said Mr. Browne, who could see Dillwyn marching up and down before the gate in a distinctly impatient style. He had not yet recognised Dicky, and he knew Agatha had by agreement come there to meet him, and was probably doing all in her power to get rid of her troublesome companion. There was a "Will he never go away?" sort of air about him that unhappily amused Dicky.
"I told you you did not understand him—did not sympathise with him," said Agatha reproachfully.
"I do! I do!" Dicky's voice grew tearful. "Waiting for the beloved one is melancholy work; it demands all one's sympathies. I can at this moment,"—here Dicky grew almost tragic—"enter into all his feelings. I feel with him. It may seem painful to you, Agatha, but I assure you I can actuallyseehim as he waits."
"How kind, how good you are, Dicky!"
"But you," said Mr. Browne frantically, "areyougood or kind? Is it not cruel of you to keep him waiting as you do?" Again his eye peered through the bushes, and again he saw Dillwyn pacing to and fro.
"But what can I do?"—tearfully.
"Go to him!"—nobly.
"Oh, Dicky! How can I go?"
"My dear girl, the road is open before you."
"That shows," said she, sighing faintly, "how little you know about it. No, we must wait."
"Wait! It's been a good long wait already," said Mr. Browne, who really ought to have been ashamed of himself, "How much longer is it to go on?"
"I don't know," dejectedly.
"Already, I expect, he is beginning to think it a century."
"Poor dear Jack!" said she.
"He's getting jolly tired, you know."
At this Agatha flushed and looked at him. There was indignation in her glance.
"Youdon'tknow," said she. "You know nothing at all about it. And he isnotgetting tired. You shouldn't talk about things of which you know nothing—absolutely nothing."
"Of course you ought to know more about it than I do. I accept the back seat. I am not your other self—that's how he puts it, isn't it? But for all that"—with a stealing glance to the rear —"it seems to me that he is growing impatient."
"Oh, Dicky, I think you shouldn't say such things as that." Tears rose to her eyes.
"What elsecanI say?"
"To hint that he is impatient—-"
"So he is."
"That sounds as if he were discontented."
"So he is."
"He isnot"—angrily.
"Well, my dear girl, when one sees a fellow lifting first one leg and then the other, and craning his neck over a gate until one fears for the vertebrae of it, one naturally does accuse him of impatience."
"He? Who?" Agatha started, and sprang to her feet and looked round.
"Why Dillwyn. I'm certainhefeels as if he had been waiting a century. I'll swear thatheis growing impatient. He,"—with a gentle wave of his arm towards the gateway—"has been dancing apas seulthere for the last ten minutes!"
Agatha looked at him for a moment only. Then she turned aside.
"I think you might have told me!" said she, her voice quick with anger.
"I might—I might," said Mr. Browne, with truly noble acquiescence. "But you said, dear Agatha, that he was not to be here for ten minutes, and I thought it might be bad for you to see him too soon."
She was not listening to him, however. She had gone towards the gate.
Dicky with a resigned smile lit a cigarette, and started for "fresh fields and pastures new."
"At last you are alone," said Dillwyn, advancing to meet her. "I thought that fellow would never go. I could only see the top of his head, and I longed for a pea-shooter."
"It was Dicky Browne. And at all events he saw you. And fancy— he wouldn't tell me you were there, just to tease me!"
"Or perhaps to keep you a little longer to himself," said Dillwyn, who was too thorough a lover not to be jealous of every one.
"What a fancy!" said Agatha, laughing. "You must have a brilliant wit to imagine Dicky in love." She stopped laughing and grew very grave. "Such an unfortunate thing has happened," said she; and she told him of little Vera's mistake.
"What does it matter," said he. "The sooner every one learns that we belong to each other the better. Where is Mrs. Greatorex? If I could see her, even a word would explain matters."
"Jack, I entreat you not to speak to her, here, before all these people." She grew very pale. "She is quite sure to say something dreadful to you. Ibegyou to wait."
"But for how long?"—impatiently.
"Until to-morrow, at all events. And if you wait for even longer than that—- Well, well"—seeing his expression—"until to-morrow. Do you know, Jack, I came here just now only to ask you to go away, and so avoid seeing Aunt Hilda at all."
"That I won't do," said Dillwyn firmly. "You are mine, and I claim you. You yourself, of your own free-will have given yourself to me, and do you think I shall make little of that gift? No, no; come back with me to the grounds, and let all the world see how it is with us."
She slipped her hand through his arm, and turned to go back to the tennis-grounds. It was a most satisfactory answer. Half-way down the alley, however, a sound behind them made them turn. There stood the unhappy Edwy, waving his long arms and gesticulating frantically. He must have followed Dillwyn (for whom he had a great affection) through the little gate. He was evidently in a frightful state of excitement. His face was livid, his eyes staring. He was looking through an interstice in the rhododendron hedge, and his hands, extended, were grasping the air convulsively.
"Oh poor Edwy!" said Agatha. "Something is troubling him. Let us go back."
"He has been growing much worse of late," said Dillwyn, studying the unfortunate idiot attentively. "His mother's death seems to have preyed upon him a good deal. Poor boy! I suppose she was his sole comfort. He has grown more violent and unreasonable, and the form his increasing mania has taken is a hatred of his father. Every one is remarking that. He cannot see him without going into a frightful state of excitement."
"What is it, my poor fellow?" said Dillwyn gently, who always spoke to him as though he could hear.
He tried to release his hand from Agatha's arm. There was a difficulty about doing this, the idiot being strong; but Dillwyn had a strange influence over him. He made a slight gesture, and at once the boy turned to him, letting Agatha go.
"Sho! Sho!" he growled in his unnatural voice—a voice full of living anguish, however—pointing through the hole in the rhododendrons.
Dillwyn and Agatha followed his gaze, and saw Darkham far away over there, talking to Mrs. Greatorex, who had evidently come down to the courts.
The idiot pointed again to his father, and lifted his hands and shook them violently. There was horror and an awful hatred in his wild black eyes that were so like Darkham's.
"Sho! Sho!" shouted Edwy again, not knowing that he shouted; and then he turned to Agatha, staring at her, as if to compel her attention, and pointed again to his father, and suddenly drew a handkerchief from his pocket.
He folded it, clumsily, it is true, and then, with a weird movement, laid it across his mouth and nostrils, and pressed his hands upon it. With all hismighthe pressed.
She grew deadly pale. Had he—had that man murdered his wife? Oh no! Ohno!It was impossible.
The boy was still pressing his hands against his mouth, and pinching his nostrils to keep out his breath. He was growing livid. Dillwyn went to him and tore down his hands. The idiot gasped, and then laughed in that horribly foolish way so distressing in those whose minds are affected.
"Sho! Sho!" cried the poor creature again in heartrending accents. It was as though the mere sight of his father roused all his passions within him. He kept pointing frantically to where Darkham stood, and presently his cry rose into a fierce scream— the scream of a wounded animal.
Dillwyn laid his hand upon his arm and drew him gently away from the opening in the hedge through which his father could be seen. Dillwyn's own face was very pale. For the first time a suspicion that Mrs. Darkham had been foully murdered entered into his brain.
He drew back Edwy with a certain force, and the boy fell to the ground in short but fierce convulsions.
Dillwyn loosened his collar, and soon it was all over. Edwy rose, looked strangely round him, and with a queer twitching of the features rushed past Dillwyn before he could prevent him, and disappeared into the wood.
"Poor fellow!" said Dillwyn sadly.
Agatha struggled with herself, and then burst into tears.
"My darling! What is it?Agatha!" The hideous thought that had come to himself he would not have revealed to her for all the world, and now a fear that she, too, had entertained it horrified him. He held her to him, her head pressed against his breast.
"Oh, I knew it! I knew it all through: Ifeltit," sobbed she violently. Words of Darkham's that day in the wood came back to her. 'For the sake of the heaven I have lost!'Howhad he lost it? "Jack, he killed her! He murdered her!"
"Agatha, my beloved! Why have such a thought as that? You must remember that that poor boy—-"
"Oh, no, no! It is true. He"—trembling—"he smothered her! Didn't you see how Edwy pressed that handkerchief across his own nose and mouth, as if toshowsomething? And you tell me the poor boy has shown hatred to his father of late. It is plain. It is quite,quiteplain. Oh, poor boy! Jack"—in a nervous whisper; she was now shaking from head to foot—"he must have seen it!Seenhis father kill his mother!" She cowered as if in terror.
"Agatha, I entreat you to compose yourself. All this is mere supposition."
"It is not. It is all the awful terrible truth! And what frightens me is, that he will killyoutoo, if he can. You laughed at me last night. You made light of my fears, but I tell you to beware of him." She burst into bitter weeping again. "I amsurehe will try to kill you, and you—you will do nothing to save yourself—not even for my sake. And yet you say you love me."
"Love seems a poor word," said Dillwyn. "My dear,deargirl, have pity on me, if not upon yourself. Don't cry like that. I'll do anything you like—anything, if you will only try and be happy again. Why, look here now, Agatha; it isn't altogether so easy a matter to murder a person without being found out as you seem to imagine."
"You, too, then"—eagerly—"think that—-"
"It is impossible to know what to think," said he, with some emotion. He paced to and fro upon the path, his head down-bent, pondering. Suddenly he lifted it. "Look here, this has got nothing to do with us in any way," he said. "Why spoil this hour because of it?"
"It has something to do with me, at all events," said the girl, who was now deadly pale.
"I have a weight on my heart, Jack! Imusttell you about it." She drew her breath sharply, but with a great courage went on. "I think now—I hardly understood it then—but I think that before his wife died he—wished to marry me."
"Well!" Dillwyn's face was hard and cold. But he caught her to him, and pressed her face down against him. It would be easier for her to speak like that, where her face could not be seen. His poor, poor darling! What she had gone through!
"Well"—miserably—"I think now that but for me—he— might not have killed her!Oh, Jack!"
Jack lifted her face and kissed her.
"Think something else," said he. "That you are my own brave girl, and that morbid thoughts are unworthy of you. Even if what you say was the case, Agatha, still it leaves your soul as white as heaven. There now, beloved! Will you grieve me? Think one thing more, Agatha. Think of me and of my love for you—my undying love. If that will not help you, then"—with a tender smile—
"I shall be afraid you do not care for it."
She clung to him.
"I'm afraid, after all, you will have your own way, and that I shall not be able to speak to Mrs. Greatorex to-day," said he presently. "Your eyes are sad tell-tales. Come with me into the wood, and down to the river. There we can bathe them."
They were bathed. And as a fact it took Agatha and Jack Dillwyn quite an hour to get back to the others. The first two they met were Elfrida and Mr. Blount sittingtête-à-têteon an innocent garden-chair.
It struck Agatha as a little peculiar that Elfrida, who usually hailed her appearance with rapture, now let her go by with the kindliest, the friendliest of nods. The thought struck her that Elfrida, knew that she loved Jack, and would for that reason not detain her, but afterwards it came to her that she merely wanted to be alone with Mr. Blount.
But Elfrida was superior to criticism. As Agatha went by she turned to her companion.
"I do love Agatha. Don't you?"
"I like her," said the curate.
"Oh, that!—one likes so many. Why don't you love her?"
"Because I can only love one," said he.
"It would be indiscreet, of course, to ask about the 'one,'" said she. "No one, not even a stupid person like me, could go so far as that."
Blount by this time had recovered himself. He showed her quite a brave front. He was the saddest man on earth at that moment, I believe, yet he told himself he would die rather than let her know it.
"Your life!" said he. "Surely it is more valuable than all that comes to. A question addressed to me by you could hardly endanger your existence."
Perhaps she was a little chagrined at this sudden strength—at his calm taking of her question. Certainly her face changed.
"How can I tell?" said she petulantly. "One never knows what one's life is worth." She turned aside and stood with a frowning brow, as if thinking. Suddenly she turned to him again. The frown had gone. The smile was back again. The coquette was once more herself.
"What isyourlife worth?" asked she. Her face was radiant now; her eyes were fixed on his; her little slender figure seemed quite filled anew with hopeless frivolity.
"Nothing!" said Blount. He spoke the word quite evenly—with a smile, indeed; but in spite of his effort a terrible sadness underlay and dominated his intonation. What was life without love? And love was a thing the Fates refused him. Whom could he love, indeed, having once seen her?
To-day she seemed sweeter than ever to him—now when he knew that she was pledged to Ambert.
And in truth there was great character in the small face; great gaiety, too, some humour, an immense wilfulness, and, alas! too much ambition.
"Ah! you underrate yourself," said she. She shrugged her dainty shoulders. "Every one's life is worth something. And one should prove it. That is the principal thing—to prove one's life worth something."
"How are you going to prove yours worthy?" Blount asked this question slowly, deliberately. She flushed crimson.
"Oh! To be rude is not to be argumentative," said she, and turned abruptly away from him, and crossed to where Mrs. Poynter stood, surrounded by a bevy of friends.
Blount stood still. He did not attempt to follow her. Why should he?
Every one was saying good-bye now; Mrs. Greatorex had beamed her sweetest on Mrs. Poynter, and had accepted Dr. Darkham's arm to the fly. How Agatha hated that fly! It was full of nothing but lectures, and scandals, and frowns—if one left out the moths and the must.
The poor child felt now there was electricity in the air, as, avoiding Darkham's hand, she sprang into the dingy vehicle, and seated herself beside Mrs. Greatorex. She had been quite aware that Dr. Darkham had spent the last half-hour with Mrs. Greatorex, and she felt certain that a catalogue of all her crimes during last night had been played upon her aunt's mind, with variations.
She sat looking as usual as possible until the entrance gate was passed, and then, by a sudden movement of Mrs. Greatorex's figure, she knew that wrath was about to descend upon her.
"What am I to understand by this, Agatha?"
"By what, Aunt Hilda?" It was the old way of gaining time.
"You heard that child, I presume. Such anexposé. All children are odious, but that child of Mrs. Poynter's—However, I have nothing to do with her. It is with you, Agatha, I have to do. Am I to understand that you are determined to take your own way— to try your will against mine?"
"Why should you talk to me like that?" cried the girl with great agitation. "Do I not know what you have done for me—how you have saved me from starvation? But, Aunt Hilda, what can I do? Would you have me marry a man I hate?"
"A man, however, whom you will marry," said Mrs. Greatorex with cold decision. "The marriage is arranged, Agatha. Dr. Darkham and I have been talking it over, and we have arranged that the marriage is to take place next April."
"The marriage will never take place," said Agatha.
"You are a mere child, and do not know what is good for you," said Mrs. Greatorex. "You have insane fancies that can never come to anything. I really believe you think yourself in love with that young man whom Reginald Greatorex has foisted on us, and who has not so much as done you the honour to ask you in marriage."
"You are wrong there," said Agatha, in a low tone, but such a triumphant one. "Dr. Dillwynhasasked me to marry him."
"He has!" Mrs. Greatorex turned upon her, her light brown eyes flashing. "And you never told me. Is this your return to me for all my goodness?"
"How could I speak?" Agatha was white to her lips. "How could I? You would have been so angry—you would not listen—you—-"
She would have tried to go on and explain, but Mrs. Greatorex broke into her disjointed, terrified speech in a sort of fury.
"So it is true, then? I didn't believe it of you. But Dr. Darkham told me of your disgraceful conduct last night. That you so far forgot yourself as to receive him, alone in the arbour, up to half-past eight without a soul near you?"
"He did not know your were to be away at first. It was I who told him. He wanted to see you very much."
"And I want to see him very much." Her voice struck cold to the girl's heart. "I am so desirous of seeing him that I have sent a note to him"—she frowned, her brow darkened—"commanding his presence at my house to-morrow at twelve o'clock, to inquire into his flirtation with my niece."
"I hope you have not done that," said the girl, turning very pale.
"Certainly, I have done it. And I wish you to be in, Agatha, at that time."
"I shall be in," said Agatha. "But to summon him like that—to insult him—in my presence." Her voice was unsteady, she was trembling. "It will do no good!" said she despairingly.
"I think it will. At all events I shall try it. This silly intrigue must be brought to an end at once, and after that you shall marry Dr. Darkham."
"I shall not do that, Aunt Hilda," said Agatha, in a low but determined voice.
Dillwyn had received Mrs. Greatorex's note with joy. Here was the meeting he had hoped to gain by a manoeuvre actually given him by the enemy. He reached the villa next morning so much before the appointed hour that he had to stroll up and down the road until his watch told him he might march to the attack. It struck twelve by Mrs. Greatorex's tiny hall clock as he walked into her house.
She was in the drawing-room awaiting him. She gave him her hand, certainly, but a very unpleasant glance with it. She looked cold, calm, determined. The young man regarding her could have laughed aloud, only that he felt so sad. What was the good of it all? He knew himself, and he knew the girl he loved, and—who could part them?
Over there in the window was the girl he loved, standing up bravely, with a little troubled smile upon her lips—but still a smile—and all for him. What a stout heart she had, his dear, pretty girl!
"I am glad you have come, Dr. Dillwyn," said Mrs. Greatorex.
"Agatha refused me her confidence, but I have heard from other sources of your—you must forgive me if I call them presumptuous—attentions to my niece. Of course, considering your position in life, I do not take them seriously; but such as they are, they rather prejudice her chances of making an excellent marriage."
"I am afraid you will have to take my attentions seriously," said Dillwyn, looking at her very quietly, but with purpose on his brow. "Indeed I am sure of it. I love Miss Nesbitt, and she—-" He hesitated, and Agatha, seeing his uncertainty, stepped bravely into the breach.
"Loves you!" said she, in a low, frightened, but very clear tone.
Mrs. Greatorex looked at her.
"Were all my words in vain? Have you not yet learned the meaning of modesty? Stand back, Agatha, whilst I speak."
The girl retreated a little, more from habit than anything else, and Mrs. Greatorex once more addressed Dillwyn.
"I want just an answer to one question," said she. "If you were to marry my niece, could you support her—in even such small comfort as she has been accustomed to?"
"Not now, perhaps. But we have both time before us, and we can wait a little while"; he looked at her intently. "I shall conquer in the end. I know that."
"It is probable," said Mrs. Greatorex, in quite a liberal sort of spirit. "But in the meantime you condemn the girl you profess to love to certain privations!"
"I don't believe in marriages where love is left out," said he.
"But you do believe in love where a girl delicately nurtured is exposed to absolute poverty! So you think that to wilfully destroy a girl's chance in life means love?"
"A girl's chance! There is but one chance for any soul living, man or woman," said Dillwyn; "and that is to follow the straight road—the dictates of his or her own conscience. Why should Agatha diverge from it? Why should she sell all that is most dear to her—herself—her mind—all—for mere dross?"
"I am to believe, then," said Mrs. Greatorex, "that you have made up your mind to drag Agatha down with you into the abyss of poverty. Have you thought of the selfishness of that?"
"I hope it will not be poverty," said Dillwyn slowly.
Mrs. Greatorex's brow grew dark.
"Agatha, come here!" said she, in a tone of extreme anger. But Agatha did not stir. She was evidently very comfortable were she was, and her sweet proximity strengthened Dillwyn.
"She is is mine," said he; "I claim her. Mrs. Greatorex, why would you part us?"
"For her good—and especially now. You refuse to consider how you are injuring her. An advantage has fallen into her life, and you must wilfully deprive her of it."
"An advantage! Darkham do you mean? As for that," said Dillwyn,
"I am not depriving her of an advantage. I am saving her from"— he paused—"misery. Agatha!" He laid his hands on her shoulders and held her back from him, and studied her a moment. It was a sweet study. "You believe me?"
"I believe you always!"
She clung closer to him, and looked with a strange sort of sad defiance over her shoulder at Mrs. Greatorex.
"The matter is not ended yet," said the latter. "I beg, Dr. Dillwyn, that you will leave me. And you, Agatha,—you—-"
"Oh, do not be so angry with me," cried the girl, thrusting Dillwyn from her, and running to the woman who had befriended her so long, and catching her in her strong young arms, and holding her. She was mistaken—wrong. She would hurry her into a marriage that meant death to her—but she did not know. Agatha at that moment assured herself that Mrs. Greatorexcouldnot know. "Aunt Hilda, think—think—-"
"Of what?"
"Of how much nicer Jack is than Dr. Darkham," said she.
"I never spend my thoughts on absurdities," said Mrs. Greatorex.
She disengaged herself finally from Agatha and turned to Dillwyn.
"You, of course, understand that your visits here are at an end," said she; "and your acquaintance with my niece also." Dillwyn bowed.
"My visits shall be at an end, of course; but my acquaintance with Miss Nesbitt—-"
"What, sir! After all I have said—after representing to you that you are damaging her fortune—you refuse to withdraw your—-"
"Claim!" He suggested the word. "Yes; I refuse."
"You are aware that she will not have a penny from me on her marriage with you orever?"
"How could the consideration of money attach itself to her?" said he, with a tender smile—his eyes were now on Agatha. "Surely she herself—How could one think of money?" said he.
He went forward and drew Agatha into his arms and kissed her. It was the simplest action. He then bowed to Mrs. Greatorex and left the room.
"What a heavenly spot!" said Mrs. Poynter.
She looked up through the overhanging trees to the blue expanse of the sky beyond.
Lord Ambert had chosen this place for his tea with most consummate care and a very artistic eye. Elfrida told him so on her arrival—which was late; she was, in fact, the very last to appear upon the scene.
She was very delightful to everybody during tea, however, and quite subjugated two young men from the barracks in the next town. If she was cold to Ambert, it was in such a careful manner that no one understood it but himself.
After tea the party broke up. Here and there by twos and threes they disappeared into the wood. When Ambert looked round for Elfrida, he found she, too, had gone away somewhere with one of the young soldiers. Certainly she had not waited for him—forhim,the man she had promised to marry!
With a heart soured and enraged he turned away, and, plunging through a brake, came out into a level bit of ground beyond. He stood there, thinking a moment. The knowledge that there was no one near him, that he was quite alone, forsaken, in a certain sense, and that she was enjoying herself elsewhere, heightened the sense of vicious anger within his heart.
There was a little rustling among the brambles on his left. Hah! He looked towards the sound, slunk behind a tree, and waited. Fellows after rabbits, of course. He waited quite three minutes, and then a little boy came out, looked eagerly around him, and then whistled softly.
He was quite a little lad, and delicate-looking; he was whistling to a companion, whom he supposed to be some yards away, to come and help him to gather the nuts from some wonderful tree he had seen just now. The companion, however, had probably seen Ambert, who was a terror in the neighbourhood, and had taken to his heels.
But to Ambert just now the boy's guilt seemed sure. And certainly of late the Ambert woods had been poached persistently for rabbits. Well, he could teach the decoy something.
He sprang forward and caught the child by the arm and dragged him into the open. The boy struggled a moment, and then grew very white. Ambert was well known among his tenantry. The smaller members were always sure of one thing from him—a kick, a curse, or a cuff.
He grasped the collar of the boy's coat, and lifted the cane he held. Down it came, and down and down again—a heavy shower of blows on the little fellow's thin shoulders. The boy cried and moaned and wriggled, and every cry and moan gave Ambert joy. It was delightful to him in his present mood to be able to torture somebody; for choice he would have made it Elfrida, but as that could not be, the boy was most convenient.
At length, as the blows grew and grew, the poor little shoulders grew redder and sorer. The boy's cries at last rose into a wild shriek. It was at this moment that Tom Blount, who often made this part of the wood a short-cut to the village when on his rounds amongst his parishioners, came into view.
He stopped for a second as if stricken dumb with amazement; then he ran forward. He knew the boy well—little George Robins! He was indeed very fond of the delicate child. He had a desperately warm heart—poor Blount!
"What are you doing?" cried he in an infuriated voice. It maddened him to hear the child's cries. He crashed through some underwood that lay before him, and, coming up to Ambert, dragged the boy away from him, and flung him behind him. Such a careful flinging—holding the boy until he was steady on his feet, then letting him go.
Ambert turned upon the curate furiously.
"What the devil are you doing here, sir, in my wood? What brought you here to-day? Sneaking, eh?"
"Run home, George," said the curate to the boy, who was standing trembling behind him.
"How dare you interfere!" said Ambert. "That boy shall not go. I have not done with him yet."
"You have done with him! I'll see that you don't touch him again. Why, you've nearly done for him for ever," said he, looking at the boy, who was shaking nervously, and down whose face the blood was streaming from a last cut of Ambert's cane. "To attack a child like that!" cried Blount, fuming—the blood was sickening him. "What do you mean by it,you brute?" Blount had now indeed completely lost his temper.
They were both so enraged that neither of them saw Elfrida as she came slowly from between the bushes. She was accompanied by Dicky Browne, Agatha, and John Dillwyn. This little party stood silent, astonished at what was going on. They were behind the two men, and, standing amongst the tall bracken, could hardly be seen, even had they been in front. Ambert and Blount were very plain to them, and the little trembling child too, with the blood running down his face.
It was here that Ambert, who was a big man, made a movement to push Blount aside, but the curate, though spare, knew a thing or two about boxing. He did something or other to Ambert, and then looked back at the boy.
"Run away, George. Go home; you're all right."
The frightened child, who had been rather stunned at first, now understood him, and, turning, rushed for his home as swift as a hound let loose from his leash.
"You think you have got the better of me," said Ambert, white with rage. His anger raised his voice, and every sound went clearly to where Elfrida was standing. "But I'll be even with you yet. I'll have you up, sir, for trespass. What are you doing on my wood?"
"You seem to know a great deal," said Tom Blount, who was trying to control himself. "But there is one thing youdon'tknow— and that is how to behave yourself as a gentleman."
"Do you think you are qualified to lecture on that subject?" said Ambert, whose rage was now at white heat. "Do you think I don't see through you, you beggar? Do you think I haven't noticed how you laid siege to Miss Robinson, with a view to making yourself comfortable on her fortune?"
"If I weren't a clergyman," said Blount, who was now as white as death, and whose nostrils were dilated, "I'd thrash you within an inch of your life for that speech."
Ambert laughed insultingly.
"It is easy to shield oneself behind one's cloth," said he. Now, this was a little rash of him, but, then, he didn't know it.
"And, of course, I can allow for a little chagrin on your part. Miss Robinson—-"
"Don't bring her into this," said Blount. He drew nearer, and if Ambert hadn't been a fool as well as a coward, he might have seen that the man was dangerous. "Look here—-" He struggled for words to express his rage, but they didn't come.
"And why not?" said Ambert, who was a cur of the first water, and now thought to derive some fun out of the curate. "Of course, I know it is a sore subject. She played with you, didn't she?"— he grinned into the other's face—"as a cat would play with a mouse. But, after all, she wasn't going to throw herself away on" —he paused with the plain design of making his insult worse— "on a common fellow like you!"
He knew Blount was of good family, and he thus purposely affronted him.
"Confound you, sir!" roared the curate. "Say that again, and I'll knock every one of your damned teeth down your throat!"
Ambert laughed in his usual slow, sneering way. He did not believe that Blount would make his word good, he had been so patient up to this—all through his (Ambert's) courtship of Elfrida. "Are you desirous of hearing it again?" said he. He laughed. "After all, what is there to be offended at? Youarea common fellow, aren't you?"
Blount took one step forward, and caught him by the collar. Then he wrenched the cane out of his hand, and—well, he enjoyed himself thoroughly for fully five minutes. At the end of that time Ambert was lying on the ground cursing but cowed, and the curate was standing over him. It had been a great five minutes.
"There, get up!" said Blount.
And Ambert rose slowly, sullenly, to his feet.
"You'll hear more of this, sir," said he; but his attempt at dignity was sadly spoiled by the fact that he was covered with dust, and that he had evidently a very strongly-developed desire to keep out of range of Blount.
"Oh, go home!" said the curate contemptuously.
Ambert took his advice. He limped quietly through the trees beyond to where he knew of a side-walk that would take him to his house in ten minutes. He cursed and whimpered as he went. Who was going to explain his absence to his guests? He found a ray of comfort in the thought that Elfrida—that nobody but the curate knew: and he was a big man and the curate nobody; and, of course, as there were no witnesses, the big man's story would be believed.
Of course, if Elfrida had really wished to interfere, it would have been the simplest thing in the world for her to call aloud to Ambert; that would have checked the fracas before it came to any serious proportions; but, oddly enough, after her one protest to Mr. Browne, she had stood looking on, as if spellbound. She had heard everything—seen everything. She had not even shown anger when Dicky went into silent hysterics over Ambert's appearance as he rose from the ground covered with dust and his coat considerably the worse for wear.
As Ambert slunk away between the trees, Mr. Browne darted forward and up to Blount and wrapped him in a warm embrace.
"Blount, how I love you!" cried he sentimentally. "Oh, Tom, what a treat you've given me! You couldn't do it all over again, could you?"
"What the deuce am I to say to the bishop?" said he. He looked quite limp now. The light of battle had died from his eyes.
"Nothing—not a word!" said Dicky. "Do you think that beggar won't be glad to keep his skinning quiet?"
"After all, I shouldn't have thrashed him, Browne. It—it was unclerical—unchristian, you know."
"It was the most Christian act of your life," said Mr. Browne.
"It was an act of martyrdom. Because if you hadn't done it, somebody else would, and so you've saved the soul of another. See?"
"I don't," said Blount. "I ought to have argued with him—borne with him."
"And been trampled under foot by him. Not a bit of it. Come along with me. Elfrida is in here, and she—-"
"Miss Firs-Robinson!" The curate grew crimson. "She—she didn't—-"
"Yes, she did. And a good thing too. Come and speak to her."
"Are youmad?" said Blount. He gathered up his hat and a few other things that had come off during the skirmish—and fled for his life.