An Unsocial Socialist / Shaw, George Bernard, 1856-1950

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Title: An Unsocial Socialist

Author: George Bernard Shaw

Release Date: February 21, 2006 [EBook #1654]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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Produced by Dianne Bean and David Widger





AN UNSOCIAL SOCIALIST


by George Bernard Shaw




CHAPTER I

In the dusk of an October evening, a sensible looking woman of forty
came out through an oaken door to a broad landing on the first floor of
an old English country-house. A braid of her hair had fallen forward as
if she had been stooping over book or pen; and she stood for a moment
to smooth it, and to gaze contemplatively--not in the least
sentimentally--through the tall, narrow window. The sun was setting, but
its glories were at the other side of the house; for this window
looked eastward, where the landscape of sheepwalks and pasture land was
sobering at the approach of darkness.

The lady, like one to whom silence and quiet were luxuries, lingered
on the landing for some time. Then she turned towards another door, on
which was inscribed, in white letters, Class Room No. 6. Arrested by a
whispering above, she paused in the doorway, and looked up the stairs
along a broad smooth handrail that swept round in an unbroken curve at
each landing, forming an inclined plane from the top to the bottom of
the house.

A young voice, apparently mimicking someone, now came from above,
saying,

"We will take the Etudes de la Velocite next, if you please, ladies."

Immediately a girl in a holland dress shot down through space; whirled
round the curve with a fearless centrifugal toss of her ankle; and
vanished into the darkness beneath. She was followed by a stately girl
in green, intently holding her breath as she flew; and also by a large
young woman in black, with her lower lip grasped between her teeth, and
her fine brown eyes protruding with excitement. Her passage created a
miniature tempest which disarranged anew the hair of the lady on the
landing, who waited in breathless alarm until two light shocks and a
thump announced that the aerial voyagers had landed safely in the hall.

"Oh law!" exclaimed the voice that had spoken before. "Here's Susan."

"It's a mercy your neck ain't broken," replied some palpitating female.
"I'll tell of you this time, Miss Wylie; indeed I will. And you, too,
Miss Carpenter: I wonder at you not to have more sense at your age and
with your size! Miss Wilson can't help hearing when you come down with a
thump like that. You shake the whole house."

"Oh bother!" said Miss Wylie. "The Lady Abbess takes good care to shut
out all the noise we make. Let us--"

"Girls," said the lady above, calling down quietly, but with ominous
distinctness.

Silence and utter confusion ensued. Then came a reply, in a tone of
honeyed sweetness, from Miss Wylie:

"Did you call us, DEAR Miss Wilson?"

"Yes. Come up here, if you please, all three."

There was some hesitation among them, each offering the other
precedence. At last they went up slowly, in the order, though not at all
in the manner, of their flying descent; followed Miss Wilson into the
class-room; and stood in a row before her, illumined through three
western windows with a glow of ruddy orange light. Miss Carpenter, the
largest of the three, was red and confused. Her arms hung by her sides,
her fingers twisting the folds of her dress. Miss Gertrude Lindsay, in
pale sea-green, had a small head, delicate complexion, and pearly teeth.
She stood erect, with an expression of cold distaste for reproof of any
sort. The holland dress of the third offender had changed from yellow to
white as she passed from the gray eastern twilight on the staircase into
the warm western glow in the room. Her face had a bright olive tone, and
seemed to have a golden mica in its composition. Her eyes and hair were
hazel-nut color; and her teeth, the upper row of which she displayed
freely, were like fine Portland stone, and sloped outward enough to have
spoilt her mouth, had they not been supported by a rich under lip, and
a finely curved, impudent chin. Her half cajoling, half mocking air,
and her ready smile, were difficult to confront with severity; and Miss
Wilson knew it; for she would not look at her even when attracted by
a convulsive start and an angry side glance from Miss Lindsay, who had
just been indented between the ribs by a finger tip.

"You are aware that you have broken the rules," said Miss Wilson
quietly.

"We didn't intend to. We really did not," said the girl in holland,
coaxingly.

"Pray what was your intention then, Miss Wylie?"

Miss Wylie unexpectedly treated this as a smart repartee instead of a
rebuke. She sent up a strange little scream, which exploded in a cascade
of laughter.

"Pray be silent, Agatha," said Miss Wilson severely. Agatha looked
contrite. Miss Wilson turned hastily to the eldest of the three, and
continued:

"I am especially surprised at you, Miss Carpenter. Since you have no
desire to keep faith with me by upholding the rules, of which you are
quite old enough to understand the necessity, I shall not trouble you
with reproaches, or appeals to which I am now convinced that you would
not respond," (here Miss Carpenter, with an inarticulate protest, burst
into tears); "but you should at least think of the danger into which
your juniors are led by your childishness. How should you feel if Agatha
had broken her neck?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Agatha, putting her hand quickly to her neck.

"I didn't think there was any danger," said Miss Carpenter, struggling
with her tears. "Agatha has done it so oft--oh dear! you have torn me."
Miss Wylie had pulled at her schoolfellow's skirt, and pulled too hard.

"Miss Wylie," said Miss Wilson, flushing slightly, "I must ask you to
leave the room."

"Oh, no," exclaimed Agatha, clasping her hands in distress. "Please
don't, dear Miss Wilson. I am so sorry. I beg your pardon."

"Since you will not do what I ask, I must go myself," said Miss Wilson
sternly. "Come with me to my study," she added to the two other
girls. "If you attempt to follow, Miss Wylie, I shall regard it as an
intrusion."

"But I will go away if you wish it. I didn't mean to diso--"

"I shall not trouble you now. Come, girls."

The three went out; and Miss Wylie, left behind in disgrace, made a
surpassing grimace at Miss Lindsay, who glanced back at her. When she
was alone, her vivacity subsided. She went slowly to the window, and
gazed disparagingly at the landscape. Once, when a sound of voices above
reached her, her eyes brightened, and her ready lip moved; but the
next silent moment she relapsed into moody indifference, which was not
relieved until her two companions, looking very serious, re-entered.

"Well," she said gaily, "has moral force been applied? Are you going to
the Recording Angel?"

"Hush, Agatha," said Miss Carpenter. "You ought to be ashamed of
yourself."

"No, but you ought, you goose. A nice row you have got me into!"

"It was your own fault. You tore my dress."

"Yes, when you were blurting out that I sometimes slide down the
banisters."

"Oh!" said Miss Carpenter slowly, as if this reason had not occurred to
her before. "Was that why you pulled me?"

"Dear me! It has actually dawned upon you. You are a most awfully silly
girl, Jane. What did the Lady Abbess say?"

Miss Carpenter again gave her tears way, and could not reply.

"She is disgusted with us, and no wonder," said Miss Lindsay.

"She said it was all your fault," sobbed Miss Carpenter.

"Well, never mind, dear," said Agatha soothingly. "Put it in the
Recording Angel."

"I won't write a word in the Recording Angel unless you do so first,"
said Miss Lindsay angrily. "You are more in fault than we are."

"Certainly, my dear," replied Agatha. "A whole page, if you wish."

"I b-believe you LIKE writing in the Recording Angel," said Miss
Carpenter spitefully.

"Yes, Jane. It is the best fun the place affords."

"It may be fun to you," said Miss Lindsay sharply; "but it is not very
creditable to me, as Miss Wilson said just now, to take a prize in moral
science and then have to write down that I don't know how to behave
myself. Besides, I do not like to be told that I am ill-bred!"

Agatha laughed. "What a deep old thing she is! She knows all our
weaknesses, and stabs at us through them. Catch her telling me, or Jane
there, that we are ill-bred!"

"I don't understand you," said Miss Lindsay, haughtily.

"Of course not. That's because you don't know as much moral science as
I, though I never took a prize in it."

"You never took a prize in anything," said Miss Carpenter.

"And I hope I never shall," said Agatha. "I would as soon scramble for
hot pennies in the snow, like the street boys, as scramble to see who
can answer most questions. Dr. Watts is enough moral science for me. Now
for the Recording Angel."

She went to a shelf and took down a heavy quarto, bound in black
leather, and inscribed, in red letters, MY FAULTS. This she threw
irreverently on a desk, and tossed its pages over until she came to one
only partly covered with manuscript confessions.

"For a wonder," she said, "here are two entries that are not mine. Sarah
Gerram! What has she been confessing?"

"Don't read it," said Miss Lindsay quickly. "You know that it is the
most dishonorable thing any of us can do."

"Poch! Our little sins are not worth making such a fuss about. I always
like to have my entries read: it makes me feel like an author; and so in
Christian duty I always read other people's. Listen to poor Sarah's tale
of guilt. '1st October. I am very sorry that I slapped Miss Chambers in
the lavatory this morning, and knocked out one of her teeth. This was
very wicked; but it was coming out by itself; and she has forgiven me
because a new one will come in its place; and she was only pretending
when she said she swallowed it. Sarah Gerram."'

"Little fool!" said Miss Lindsay. "The idea of our having to record in
the same book with brats like that!"

"Here is a touching revelation. '4th October. Helen Plantagenet is
deeply grieved to have to confess that I took the first place in algebra
yesterday unfairly. Miss Lindsay prompted me;' and--"

"Oh!" exclaimed Miss Lindsay, reddening. "That is how she thanks me for
prompting her, is it? How dare she confess my faults in the Recording
Angel?"

"Serves you right for prompting her," said Miss Carpenter. "She was
always a double-faced cat; and you ought to have known better."

"Oh, I assure you it was not for her sake that I did it," replied Miss
Lindsay. "It was to prevent that Jackson girl from getting first place.
I don't like Helen Plantagenet; but at least she is a lady.'

"Stuff, Gertrude," said Agatha, with a touch of earnestness. "One would
think, to hear you talk, that your grandmother was a cook. Don't be such
a snob."

"Miss Wylie," said Gertrude, becoming scarlet: "you are very--oh! oh!
Stop Ag--oh! I will tell Miss--oh!" Agatha had inserted a steely finger
between her ribs, and was tickling her unendurably.

"Sh-sh-sh," whispered Miss Carpenter anxiously. "The door is open."

"Am I Miss Wylie?" demanded Agatha, relentlessly continuing the torture.
"Am I very--whatever you were going to say? Am I? am I? am I?"

"No, no," gasped Gertrude, shrinking into a chair, almost in hysterics.
"You are very unkind, Agatha. You have hurt me."

"You deserve it. If you ever get sulky with me again, or call me Miss
Wylie, I will kill you. I will tickle the soles of your feet with a
feather," (Miss Lindsay shuddered, and hid her feet beneath the chair)
"until your hair turns white. And now, if you are truly repentant, come
and record."

"You must record first. It was all your fault."

"But I am the youngest," said Agatha.

"Well, then," said Gertrude, afraid to press the point, but determined
not to record first, "let Jane Carpenter begin. She is the eldest."

"Oh, of course," said Jane, with whimpering irony. "Let Jane do all the
nasty things first. I think it's very hard. You fancy that Jane is a
fool; but she isn't."

"You are certainly not such a fool as you look, Jane," said Agatha
gravely. "But I will record first, if you like."

"No, you shan't," cried Jane, snatching the pen from her. "I arm the
eldest; and I won't be put out of my place."

She dipped the pen in the ink resolutely, and prepared to write.
Then she paused; considered; looked bewildered; and at last appealed
piteously to Agatha.

"What shall I write?" she said. "You know how to write things down; and
I don't."

"First put the date," said Agatha.

"To be sure," said Jane, writing it quickly. "I forgot that. Well?"

"Now write, 'I am very sorry that Miss Wilson saw me when I slid down
the banisters this evening. Jane Carpenter.'"

"Is that all?"

"That's all: unless you wish to add something of your own composition."

"I hope it's all right," said Jane, looking suspiciously at Agatha.
"However, there can't be any harm in it; for it's the simple truth.
Anyhow, if you are playing one of your jokes on me, you are a nasty mean
thing, and I don't care. Now, Gertrude, it's your turn. Please look at
mine, and see whether the spelling is right."

"It is not my business to teach you to spell," said Gertrude, taking the
pen. And, while Jane was murmuring at her churlishness, she wrote in a
bold hand:

"I have broken the rules by sliding down the banisters to-day with Miss
Carpenter and Miss Wylie. Miss Wylie went first."

"You wretch!" exclaimed Agatha, reading over her shoulder. "And your
father is an admiral!"

"I think it is only fair," said Miss Lindsay, quailing, but assuming the
tone of a moralist. "It is perfectly true."

"All my money was made in trade," said Agatha; "but I should be ashamed
to save myself by shifting blame to your aristocratic shoulders. You
pitiful thing! Here: give me the pen."

"I will strike it out if you wish; but I think--"

"No: it shall stay there to witness against you. How see how I confess
my faults." And she wrote, in a fine, rapid hand:

"This evening Gertrude Lindsay and Jane Carpenter met me at the top of
the stairs, and said they wanted to slide down the banisters and would
do it if I went first. I told them that it was against the rules,
but they said that did not matter; and as they are older than I am, I
allowed myself to be persuaded, and did."

"What do you think of that?" said Agatha, displaying the page.

They read it, and protested clamorously.

"It is perfectly true," said Agatha, solemnly.

"It's beastly mean," said Jane energetically. "The idea of your finding
fault with Gertrude, and then going and being twice as bad yourself! I
never heard of such a thing in my life."

"'Thus bad begins; but worse remains behind,' as the Standard
Elocutionist says," said Agatha, adding another sentence to her
confession.

"But it was all my fault. Also I was rude to Miss Wilson, and refused
to leave the room when she bade me. I was not wilfully wrong except in
sliding down the banisters. I am so fond of a slide that I could not
resist the temptation."

"Be warned by me, Agatha," said Jane impressively. "If you write cheeky
things in that book, you will be expelled."

"Indeed!" replied Agatha significantly. "Wait until Miss Wilson sees
what you have written."

"Gertrude," cried Jane, with sudden misgiving, "has she made me write
anything improper? Agatha, do tell me if--"

Here a gong sounded; and the three girls simultaneously exclaimed
"Grub!" and rushed from the room.



CHAPTER II

One sunny afternoon, a hansom drove at great speed along Belsize Avenue,
St. John's Wood, and stopped before a large mansion. A young lady sprang
out; ran up the steps, and rang the bell impatiently. She was of the
olive complexion, with a sharp profile: dark eyes with long lashes;
narrow mouth with delicately sensuous lips; small head, feet, and hands,
with long taper fingers; lithe and very slender figure moving with
serpent-like grace. Oriental taste was displayed in the colors of her
costume, which consisted of a white dress, close-fitting, and printed
with an elaborate china blue pattern; a yellow straw hat covered with
artificial hawthorn and scarlet berries; and tan-colored gloves reaching
beyond the elbow, and decorated with a profusion of gold bangles.

The door not being opened immediately, she rang again, violently, and
w as presently admitted by a maid, who seemed surprised to see her.
Without making any inquiry, she darted upstairs into a drawing-room,
where a matron of good presence, with features of the finest Jewish
type, sat reading. With her was a handsome boy in black velvet, who
said:

"Mamma, here's Henrietta!"

"Arthur," said the young lady excitedly, "leave the room this instant;
and don't dare to come back until you get leave."

The boy's countenance fell, and he sulkily went out without a word.

"Is anything wrong?" said the matron, putting away her book with the
unconcerned resignation of an experienced person who foresees a storm in
a teacup. "Where is Sidney?"

"Gone! Gone! Deserted me! I--" The young lady's utterance failed, and
she threw herself upon an ottoman, sobbing with passionate spite.

"Nonsense! I thought Sidney had more sense. There, Henrietta, don't be
silly. I suppose you have quarrelled."

"No! No!! No!!!" cried Henrietta, stamping on the carpet. "We had not a
word. I have not lost my temper since we were married, mamma; I solemnly
swear I have not. I will kill myself; there is no other way. There's a
curse on me. I am marked out to be miserable. He--"

"Tut, tut! What has happened, Henrietta? As you have been married now
nearly six weeks, you can hardly be surprised at a little tiff arising.
You are so excitable! You cannot expect the sky to be always cloudless.
Most likely you are to blame; for Sidney is far more reasonable than
you. Stop crying, and behave like a woman of sense, and I will go to
Sidney and make everything right."

"But he's gone, and I can't find out where. Oh, what shall I do?"

"What has happened?"

Henrietta writhed with impatience. Then, forcing herself to tell her
story, she answered:

"We arranged on Monday that I should spend two days with Aunt Judith
instead of going with him to Birmingham to that horrid Trade Congress.
We parted on the best of terms. He couldn't have been more affectionate.
I will kill myself; I don't care about anything or anybody. And when
I came back on Wednesday he was gone, and there was this letter." She
produced a letter, and wept more bitterly than before.

"Let me see it."

Henrietta hesitated, but her mother took the letter from her, sat down
near the window, and composed herself to read without the least regard
to her daughter's vehement distress. The letter ran thus:

"Monday night.

"My Dearest: I am off--surfeited with endearment--to live my own life
and do my own work. I could only have prepared you for this by coldness
or neglect, which are wholly impossible to me when the spell of your
presence is upon me. I find that I must fly if I am to save myself.

"I am afraid that I cannot give you satisfactory and intelligible
reasons for this step. You are a beautiful and luxurious creature: life
is to you full and complete only when it is a carnival of love. My case
is just the reverse. Before three soft speeches have escaped me I rebuke
myself for folly and insincerity. Before a caress has had time to cool,
a strenuous revulsion seizes me: I long to return to my old lonely
ascetic hermit life; to my dry books; my Socialist propagandism; my
voyage of discovery through the wilderness of thought. I married in an
insane fit of belief that I had a share of the natural affection
which carries other men through lifetimes of matrimony. Already I am
undeceived. You are to me the loveliest woman in the world. Well, for
five weeks I have walked and tallied and dallied with the loveliest
woman in the world, and the upshot is that I am flying from her, and am
for a hermit's cave until I die. Love cannot keep possession of me: all
my strongest powers rise up against it and will not endure it. Forgive
me for writing nonsense that you won't understand, and do not think too
hardly of me. I have been as good to you as my selfish nature allowed.
Do not seek to disturb me in the obscurity which I desire and deserve.
My solicitor will call on your father to arrange business matters, and
you shall be as happy as wealth and liberty can make you. We shall meet
again--some day.

"Adieu, my last love,

"Sidney Trefusis."

"Well?" cried Mrs. Trefusis, observing through her tears that her mother
had read the letter and was contemplating it in a daze.

"Well, certainly!" said Mrs. Jansenius, with emphasis. "Do you think
he is quite sane, Henrietta? Or have you been plaguing him for too much
attention? Men are not willing to give up their whole existence to their
wives, even during the honeymoon."

"He pretended that he was never happy out of my presence," sobbed
Henrietta. "There never was anything so cruel. I often wanted to be by
myself for a change, but I was afraid to hurt his feelings by saying
so. And now he has no feelings. But he must come back to me. Mustn't he,
mamma?"

"He ought to. I suppose he has not gone away with anyone?"

Henrietta sprang up, her cheeks vivid scarlet. "If I thought that I
would pursue him to the end of the earth, and murder her. But no; he is
not like anybody else. He hates me! Everybody hates me! You don't care
whether I am deserted or not, nor papa, nor anyone in this house."

Mrs. Jansenius, still indifferent to her daughter's agitation,
considered a moment, and then said placidly:

"You can do nothing until we hear from the solicitor. In the meantime
you may stay with us, if you wish. I did not expect a visit from you so
soon; but your room has not been used since you went away."

Mrs. Trefusis ceased crying, chilled by this first intimation that her
father's house was no longer her home. A more real sense of desolation
came upon her. Under its cold influence she began to collect herself,
and to feel her pride rising like a barrier between her and her mother.

"I won't stay long," she said. "If his solicitor will not tell me where
he is, I will hunt through England for him. I am sorry to trouble you."

"Oh, you will be no greater trouble than you have always been," said
Mrs. Jansenius calmly, not displeased to see that her daughter had taken
the hint. "You had better go and wash your face. People may call, and
I presume you don't wish to receive them in that plight. If you meet
Arthur on the stairs, please tell him he may come in."

Henrietta screwed her lips into a curious pout and withdrew. Arthur then
came in and stood at the window in sullen silence, brooding over his
recent expulsion. Suddenly he exclaimed: "Here's papa, and it's not five
o'clock yet!" whereupon his mother sent him away again.

Mr. Jansenius was a man of imposing presence, not yet in his fiftieth
year, but not far from it. He moved with dignity, bearing himself as if
the contents of his massive brow were precious. His handsome aquiline
nose and keen dark eyes proclaimed his Jewish origin, of which he was
ashamed. Those who did not know this naturally believed that he was
proud of it, and were at a loss to account for his permitting his
children to be educated as Christians. Well instructed in business,
and subject to no emotion outside the love of family, respectability,
comfort, and money, he had maintained the capital inherited from his
father, and made it breed new capital in the usual way. He was a banker,
and his object as such was to intercept and appropriate the immense
saving which the banking system effects, and so, as far as possible, to
leave the rest of the world working just as hard as before banking was
introduced. But as the world would not on these terms have banked at
all, he had to give them some of the saving as an inducement. So they
profited by the saving as well as he, and he had the satisfaction
of being at once a wealthy citizen and a public benefactor, rich in
comforts and easy in conscience.

He entered the room quickly, and his wife saw that something had vexed
him.

"Do you know what has happened, Ruth?" he said.

"Yes. She is upstairs."

Mr. Jansenius stared. "Do you mean to say that she has left already?" he
said. "What business has she to come here?"

"It is natural enough. Where else should she have gone?"

Mr. Jansenius, who mistrusted his own judgment when it differed from
that of his wife, replied slowly, "Why did she not go to her mother?"

Mrs. Jansenius, puzzled in her turn, looked at him with cool wonder, and
remarked, "I am her mother, am I not?"

"I was not aware of it. I am surprised to hear it, Ruth. Have you had a
letter too. I have seen the letter. But what do you mean by telling
me that you do not know I am Henrietta's mother? Are you trying to be
funny?"

"Henrietta! Is she here? Is this some fresh trouble?"

"I don't know. What are you talking about?"

"I am talking about Agatha Wylie."

"Oh! I was talking about Henrietta."

"Well, what about Henrietta?"

"What about Agatha Wylie?"

At this Mr. Jansenius became exasperated, and he deemed it best to
relate what Henrietta had told her. When she gave him Trefusis's letter,
he said, more calmly: "Misfortunes never come singly. Read that," and
handed her another letter, so that they both began reading at the same
time.

Mrs. Jansenius read as follows:

"Alton College, Lyvern.

"To Mrs. Wylie, Acacia Lodge, Chiswick.

"Dear Madam: I write with great regret to request that you will at once
withdraw Miss Wylie from Alton College. In an establishment like
this, where restraint upon the liberty of the students is reduced to a
minimum, it is necessary that the small degree of subordination which
is absolutely indispensable be acquiesced in by all without complaint
or delay. Miss Wylie has failed to comply with this condition. She has
declared her wish to leave, and has assumed an attitude towards myself
and my colleagues which we cannot, consistently with our duty to
ourselves and her fellow students, pass over. If Miss Wylie has any
cause to complain of her treatment here, or of the step which she has
compelled us to take, she will doubtless make it known to you.

"Perhaps you will be so good as to communicate with Miss Wylie's
guardian, Mr. Jansenius, with whom I shall be happy to make an equitable
arrangement respecting the fees which have been paid in advance for the
current term.

"I am, dear madam,

"Yours faithfully,

"Maria Wilson."

"A nice young lady, that!" said Mrs. Jansenius.

"I do not understand this," said Mr. Jansenius, reddening as he took in
the purport of his son-in-law's letter. "I will not submit to it. What
does it mean, Ruth?"

"I don't know. Sidney is mad, I think; and his honeymoon has brought
his madness out. But you must not let him throw Henrietta on my hands
again."

"Mad! Does he think he can shirk his responsibility to his wife because
she is my daughter? Does he think, because his mother's father was a
baronet, that he can put Henrietta aside the moment her society palls on
him?"

"Oh, it's nothing of that sort. He never thought of us. But I will
make him think of us," said Mr. Jansenius, raising his voice in great
agitation. "He shall answer for it."

Just then Henrietta returned, and saw her father moving excitedly to
and fro, repeating, "He shall answer to me for this. He shall answer for
it."

Mrs. Jansenius frowned at her daughter to remain silent, and said
soothingly, "Don't lose your temper, John."

"But I will lose my temper. Insolent hound! Damned scoundrel!"

"He is not," whimpered Henrietta, sitting down and taking out her
handkerchief.

"Oh, come, come!" said Mrs. Jansenius peremptorily, "we have had enough
crying. Let us have no more of it."

Henrietta sprang up in a passion. "I will say and do as I please," she
exclaimed. "I am a married woman, and I will receive no orders. And I
will have my husband back again, no matter what he does to hide himself.
Papa, won't you make him come back to me? I am dying. Promise that you
will make him come back."

And, throwing herself upon her father's bosom, she postponed further
discussion by going into hysterics, and startling the household by her
screams.



CHAPTER III

One of the professors at Alton College was a Mrs. Miller, an
old-fashioned schoolmistress who did not believe in Miss Wilson's system
of government by moral force, and carried it out under protest. Though
not ill-natured, she was narrow-minded enough to be in some degree
contemptible, and was consequently prone to suspect others of despising
her. She suspected Agatha in particular, and treated her with disdainful
curtness in such intercourse as they had--it was fortunately little.
Agatha was not hurt by this, for Mrs. Miller was an unsympathetic woman,
who made no friends among the girls, and satisfied her affectionate
impulses by petting a large cat named Gracchus, but generally called
Bacchus by an endearing modification of the harsh initial consonant.

One evening Mrs. Miller, seated with Miss Wilson in the study,
correcting examination papers, heard in the distance a cry like that
of a cat in distress. She ran to the door and listened. Presently there
arose a prolonged wail, slurring up through two octaves, and subsiding
again. It was a true feline screech, impossible to localize; but it
was interrupted by a sob, a snarl, a fierce spitting, and a scuffling,
coming unmistakably from a room on the floor beneath, in which, at that
hour, the older girls assembled for study.

"My poor Gracchy!" exclaimed Mrs. Miller, running downstairs as fast as
she could. She found the room unusually quiet. Every girl was deep in
study except Miss Carpenter, who, pretending to pick up a fallen
book, was purple with suppressed laughter and the congestion caused by
stooping.

"Where is Miss Ward?" demanded Mrs. Miller.

"Miss Ward has gone for some astronomical diagrams in which we are
interested," said Agatha, looking up gravely. Just then Miss Ward,
diagrams in hand, entered.

"Has that cat been in here?" she said, not seeing Mrs. Miller, and
speaking in a tone expressive of antipathy to Gracchus.

Agatha started and drew up her ankles, as if fearful of having them
bitten. Then, looking apprehensively under the desk, she replied, "There
is no cat here, Miss Ward."

"There is one somewhere; I heard it," said Miss Ward carelessly,
unrolling her diagrams, which she began to explain without further
parley. Mrs. Miller, anxious for her pet, hastened to seek it elsewhere.
In the hall she met one of the housemaids.

"Susan," she said, "have you seen Gracchus?"

"He's asleep on the hearthrug in your room, ma'am. But I heard him
crying down here a moment ago. I feel sure that another cat has got in,
and that they are fighting."

Susan smiled compassionately. "Lor' bless you, ma'am," she said, "that
was Miss Wylie. It's a sort of play-acting that she goes through. There
is the bee on the window-pane, and the soldier up the chimley, and the
cat under the dresser. She does them all like life."

"The soldier in the chimney!" repeated Mrs. Miller, shocked.

"Yes, ma'am. Like as it were a follower that had hid there when he heard
the mistress coming."

Mrs. Miller's face set determinedly. She returned to the study and
related what had just occurred, adding some sarcastic comments on the
efficacy of moral force in maintaining collegiate discipline. Miss
Wilson looked grave; considered for some time; and at last said: "I must
think over this. Would you mind leaving it in my hands for the present?"

Mrs. Miller said that she did not care in whose hands it remained
provided her own were washed of it, and resumed her work at the papers.
Miss Wilson then, wishing to be alone, went into the empty classroom at
the other side of the landing. She took the Fault Book from its shelf
and sat down before it. Its record closed with the announcement, in
Agatha's handwriting:

"Miss Wilson has called me impertinent, and has written to my uncle that
I have refused to obey the rules. I was not impertinent; and I never
refused to obey the rules. So much for Moral Force!"

Miss Wilson rose vigorously, exclaiming: "I will soon let her
know whether--" She checked herself, and looked round hastily,
superstitiously fancying that Agatha might have stolen into the room
unobserved. Reassured that she was alone, she examined her conscience as
to whether she had done wrong in calling Agatha impertinent, justifying
herself by the reflection that Agatha had, in fact, been impertinent.
Yet she recollected that she had refused to admit this plea on a recent
occasion when Jane Carpenter had advanced it in extenuation of having
called a fellow-student a liar. Had she then been unjust to Jane, or
inconsiderate to Agatha?

Her casuistry was interrupted by some one softly whistling a theme from
the overture to Masaniello, popular at the college in the form of an
arrangement for six pianofortes and twelve hands. There was only one
student unladylike and musical enough to whistle; and Miss Wilson was
ashamed to find herself growing nervous at the prospect of an encounter
with Agatha, who entered whistling sweetly, but with a lugubrious
countenance. When she saw in whose presence she stood, she begged pardon
politely, and was about to withdraw, when Miss Wilson, summoning all her
Judgment and tact, and hoping that they would--contrary to their custom
in emergencies--respond to the summons, said:

"Agatha, come here. I want to speak to you."

Agatha closed her lips, drew in a long breath through her nostrils, and
marched to within a few feet of Miss Wilson, where she halted with her
hands clasped before her.

"Sit down."

Agatha sat down with a single movement, like a doll.

"I don't understand that, Agatha," said Miss Wilson, pointing to the
entry in the Recording Angel. "What does it mean?"

"I am unfairly treated," said Agatha, with signs of agitation.

"In what way?"

"In every way. I am expected to be something more than mortal. Everyone
else is encouraged to complain, and to be weak and silly. But I must
have no feeling. I must be always in the right. Everyone else may be
home-sick, or huffed, or in low spirits. I must have no nerves, and must
keep others laughing all day long. Everyone else may sulk when a word
of reproach is addressed to them, and may make the professors afraid to
find fault with them. I have to bear with the insults of teachers who
have less self-control than I, a girl of seventeen! and must coax
them out of the difficulties they make for themselves by their own ill
temper."

"But, Agatha--"

"Oh, I know I am talking nonsense, Miss Wilson; but can you expect me to
be always sensible--to be infallible?"

"Yes, Agatha; I do not think it is too much to expect you to be always
sensible; and--"

"Then you have neither sense nor sympathy yourself," said Agatha.

There was an awful pause. Neither could have told how long it lasted.
Then Agatha, feeling that she must do or say something desperate, or
else fly, made a distracted gesture and ran out of the room.

She rejoined her companions in the great hall of the mansion, where
they were assembled after study for "recreation," a noisy process which
always set in spontaneously when the professors withdrew. She usually
sat with her two favorite associates on a high window seat near the
hearth. That place was now occupied by a little girl with flaxen hair,
whom Agatha, regardless of moral force, lifted by the shoulders and
deposited on the floor. Then she sat down and said:

"Oh, such a piece of news!"

Miss Carpenter opened her eyes eagerly. Gertrude Lindsay affected
indifference.

"Someone is going to be expelled," said Agatha.

"Expelled! Who?"

"You will know soon enough, Jane," replied Agatha, suddenly grave. "It
is someone who made an impudent entry in the Recording Angel."

Fear stole upon Jane, and she became very red. "Agatha," she said, "it
was you who told me what to write. You know you did, and you can't deny
it."

"I can't deny it, can't I? I am ready to swear that I never dictated a
word to you in my life."

"Gertrude knows you did," exclaimed Jane, appalled, and almost in tears.

"There," said Agatha, petting her as if she were a vast baby. "It shall
not be expelled, so it shan't. Have you seen the Recording Angel lately,
either of you?"

"Not since our last entry," said Gertrude.

"Chips," said Agatha, calling to the flaxen-haired child, "go upstairs
to No. 6, and, if Miss Wilson isn't there, fetch me the Recording
Angel."

The little girl grumbled inarticulately and did not stir.

"Chips," resumed Agatha, "did you ever wish that you had never been
born?"

"Why don't you go yourself?" said the child pettishly, but evidently
alarmed.

"Because," continued Agatha, ignoring the question, "you shall wish
yourself dead and buried under the blackest flag in the coal cellar if
you don't bring me the book before I count sixteen. One--two--"

"Go at once and do as you are told, you disagreeable little thing," said
Gertrude sharply. "How dare you be so disobliging?"

"--nine--ten--eleven--" pursued Agatha.

The child quailed, went out, and presently returned, hugging the
Recording Angel in her arms.

"You are a good little darling--when your better qualities are
brought out by a judicious application of moral force," said Agatha,
good-humoredly. "Remind me to save the raisins out of my pudding for you
to-morrow. Now, Jane, you shall see the entry for which the best-hearted
girl in the college is to be expelled. Voila!"

The two girls read and were awestruck; Jane opening her mouth and
gasping, Gertrude closing hers and looking very serious.

"Do you mean to say that you had the dreadful cheek to let the Lady
Abbess see that?" said Jane.

"Pooh! she would have forgiven that. You should have heard what I said
to her! She fainted three times."

"That's a story," said Gertrude gravely.

"I beg your pardon," said Agatha, swiftly grasping Gertrude's knee.

"Nothing," cried Gertrude, flinching hysterically. "Don't, Agatha."

"How many times did Miss Wilson faint?"

"Three times. I will scream, Agatha; I will indeed."

"Three times, as you say. And I wonder that a girl brought up as
you have been, by moral force, should be capable of repeating such
a falsehood. But we had an awful row, really and truly. She lost her
temper. Fortunately, I never lose mine."

"Well, I'm browed!" exclaimed Jane incredulously. "I like that."

"For a girl of county family, you are inexcusably vulgar, Jane. I don't
know what I said; but she will never forgive me for profaning her pet
book. I shall be expelled as certainly as I am sitting here."

"And do you mean to say that you are going away?" said Jane, faltering
as she began to realize the consequences.

"I do. And what is to become of you when I am not here to get you out
of your scrapes, or of Gertrude without me to check her inveterate
snobbishness, is more than I can foresee."

"I am not snobbish," said Gertrude, "although I do not choose to make
friends with everyone. But I never objected to you, Agatha."

"No; I should like to catch you at it. Hallo, Jane!" (who had suddenly
burst into tears): "what's the matter? I trust you are not permitting
yourself to take the liberty of crying for me."

"Indeed," sobbed Jane indignantly, "I know that I am a f--fool for my
pains. You have no heart."

"You certainly are a f--fool, as you aptly express it," said Agatha,
passing her arm round Jane, and disregarding an angry attempt to shake
it off; "but if I had any heart it would be touched by this proof of
your attachment."

"I never said you had no heart," protested Jane; "but I hate when you
speak like a book."

"You hate when I speak like a book, do you? My dear, silly old Jane! I
shall miss you greatly."

"Yes, I dare say," said Jane, with tearful sarcasm. "At least my snoring
will never keep you awake again."

"You don't snore, Jane. We have been in a conspiracy to make you believe
that you do, that's all. Isn't it good of me to tell you?"

Jane was overcome by this revelation. After a long pause, she said with
deep conviction, "I always knew that I didn't. Oh, the way you kept it
up! I solemnly declare that from this time forth I will believe nobody."

"Well, and what do you think of it all?" said Agatha, transferring her
attention to Gertrude, who was very grave.

"I think--I am now speaking seriously, Agatha--I think you are in the
wrong."

"Why do you think that, pray?" demanded Agatha, a little roused.

"You must be, or Miss Wilson would not be angry with you. Of course,
according to your own account, you are always in the right, and everyone
else is always wrong; but you shouldn't have written that in the book.
You know I speak as your friend."

"And pray what does your wretched little soul know of my motives and
feelings?"

"It is easy enough to understand you," retorted Gertrude, nettled.
"Self-conceit is not so uncommon that one need be at a loss to recognize
it. And mind, Agatha Wylie," she continued, as if goaded by some
unbearable reminiscence, "if you are really going, I don't care whether
we part friends or not. I have not forgotten the day when you called me
a spiteful cat."

"I have repented," said Agatha, unmoved. "One day I sat down and watched
Bacchus seated on the hearthrug, with his moony eyes looking into space
so thoughtfully and patiently that I apologized for comparing you to
him. If I were to call him a spiteful cat he would only not believe me."

"Because he is a cat," said Jane, with the giggle which was seldom far
behind her tears.

"No; but because he is not spiteful. Gertrude keeps a recording angel
inside her little head, and it is so full of other people's faults,
written in large hand and read through a magnifying glass, that there is
no room to enter her own."

"You are very poetic," said Gertrude; "but I understand what you mean,
and shall not forget it."

"You ungrateful wretch," exclaimed Agatha, turning upon her so suddenly
and imperiously that she involuntarily shrank aside: "how often, when
you have tried to be insolent and false with me, have I not driven away
your bad angel--by tickling you? Had you a friend in the college, except
half-a-dozen toadies, until I came? And now, because I have sometimes,
for your own good, shown you your faults, you bear malice against me,
and say that you don't care whether we part friends or not!"

"I didn't say so."

"Oh, Gertrude, you know you did," said Jane.

"You seem to think that I have no conscience," said Gertrude
querulously.

"I wish you hadn't," said Agatha. "Look at me! I have no conscience, and
see how much pleasanter I am!"

"You care for no one but yourself," said Gertrude. "You never think that
other people have feelings too. No one ever considers me."

"Oh, I like to hear you talk," cried Jane ironically. "You are
considered a great deal more than is good for you; and the more you are
considered the more you want to be considered."

"As if," declaimed Agatha theatrically, "increase of appetite did grow
by what it fed on. Shakespeare!"

"Bother Shakespeare," said Jane, impetuously, "--old fool that expects
credit for saying things that everybody knows! But if you complain
of not being considered, Gertrude, how would you like to be me, whom
everybody sets down as a fool? But I am not such a fool as--"

"As you look," interposed Agatha. "I have told you so scores of times,
Jane; and I am glad that you have adopted my opinion at last. Which
would you rather be, a greater fool than y--"

"Oh, shut up," said Jane, impatiently; "you have asked me that twice
this week already."

The three were silent for some seconds after this: Agatha meditating,
Gertrude moody, Jane vacant and restless. At last Agatha said:

"And are you two also smarting under a sense of the inconsiderateness
and selfishness of the rest of the world--both misunderstood--everything
expected from you, and no allowances made for you?"

"I don't know what you mean by both of us," said Gertrude coldly.

"Neither do I," said Jane angrily. "That is just the way people treat
me. You may laugh, Agatha; and she may turn up her nose as much as she
likes; you know it's true. But the idea of Gertrude wanting to make out
that she isn't considered is nothing but sentimentality, and vanity, and
nonsense."

"You are exceedingly rude, Miss Carpenter," said Gertrude.

"My manners are as good as yours, and perhaps better," retorted Jane.
"My family is as good, anyhow."

"Children, children," said Agatha, admonitorily, "do not forget that you
are sworn friends."

"We didn't swear," said Jane. "We were to have been three sworn friends,
and Gertrude and I were willing, but you wouldn't swear, and so the
bargain was cried off."

"Just so," said Agatha; "and the result is that I spend all my time in
keeping peace between you. And now, to go back to our subject, may I ask
whether it has ever occurred to you that no one ever considers me?"

"I suppose you think that very funny. You take good care to make
yourself considered," sneered Jane.

"You cannot say that I do not consider you," said Gertrude
reproachfully.

"Not when I tickle you, dear."

"I consider you, and I am not ticklesome," said Jane tenderly.

"Indeed! Let me try," said Agatha, slipping her arm about Jane's ample
waist, and eliciting a piercing combination of laugh and scream from
her.

"Sh--sh," whispered Gertrude quickly. "Don't you see the Lady Abbess?"

Miss Wilson had just entered the room. Agatha, without appearing to be
aware of her presence, stealthily withdrew her arm, and said aloud:

"How can you make such a noise, Jane? You will disturb the whole house."

Jane reddened with indignation, but had to remain silent, for the eyes
of the principal were upon her. Miss Wilson had her bonnet on. She
announced that she was going to walk to Lyvern, the nearest village. Did
any of the sixth form young ladies wish to accompany her?

Agatha jumped from her seat at once, and Jane smothered a laugh.

"Miss Wilson said the sixth form, Miss Wylie," said Miss Ward, who had
entered also. "You are not in the sixth form."

"No," said Agatha sweetly, "but I want to go, if I may."

Miss Wilson looked round. The sixth form consisted of four studious
young ladies, whose goal in life for the present was an examination by
one of the Universities, or, as the college phrase was, "the Cambridge
Local." None of them responded.

"Fifth form, then," said Miss Wilson.

Jane, Gertrude, and four others rose and stood with Agatha.

"Very well," said Miss Wilson. "Do not be long dressing."

They left the room quietly, and dashed at the staircase the moment they
were out of sight. Agatha, though void of emulation for the Cambridge
Local, always competed with ardor for the honor of being first up or
down stairs.

They soon returned, clad for walking, and left the college in
procession, two by two, Jane and Agatha leading, Gertrude and Miss
Wilson coming last. The road to Lyvern lay through acres of pasture
land, formerly arable, now abandoned to cattle, which made more money
for the landlord than the men whom they had displaced. Miss Wilson's
young ladies, being instructed in economics, knew that this proved that
the land was being used to produce what was most wanted from it; and if
all the advantage went to the landlord, that was but natural, as he was
the chief gentleman in the neighborhood. Still the arrangement had its
disagreeable side; for it involved a great many cows, which made them
afraid to cross the fields; a great many tramps, who made them afraid to
walk the roads; and a scarcity of gentlemen subjects for the maiden art
of fascination.

The sky was cloudy. Agatha, reckless of dusty stockings, waded through
the heaps of fallen leaves with the delight of a child paddling in the
sea; Gertrude picked her steps carefully, and the rest tramped along,
chatting subduedly, occasionally making some scientific or philosophical
remark in a louder tone, in order that Miss Wilson might overhear
and give them due credit. Save a herdsman, who seemed to have caught
something of the nature and expression of the beasts he tended, they
met no one until they approached the village, where, on the brow of an
acclivity, masculine humanity appeared in the shape of two curates: one
tall, thin, close-shaven, with a book under his arm, and his neck craned
forward; the other middle-sized, robust, upright, and aggressive, with
short black whiskers, and an air of protest against such notions as that
a clergyman may not marry, hunt, play cricket, or share the sports
of honest laymen. The shaven one was Mr. Josephs, his companion Mr.
Fairholme. Obvious scriptural perversions of this brace of names had
been introduced by Agatha.

"Here come Pharaoh and Joseph," she said to Jane. "Joseph will blush
when you look at him. Pharaoh won't blush until he passes Gertrude, so
we shall lose that."

"Josephs, indeed!" said Jane scornfully.

"He loves you, Jane. Thin persons like a fine armful of a woman.
Pharaoh, who is a cad, likes blue blood on the same principle of the
attraction of opposites. That is why he is captivated by Gertrude's
aristocratic air."

"If he only knew how she despises him!"

"He is too vain to suspect it. Besides, Gertrude despises everyone,
even us. Or, rather, she doesn't despise anyone in particular, but is
contemptuous by nature, just as you are stout."

"Me! I had rather be stout than stuck-up. Ought we to bow?"

"I will, certainly. I want to make Pharoah blush, if I can."

The two parsons had been simulating an interest in the cloudy firmament
as an excuse for not looking at the girls until close at hand. Jane sent
an eyeflash at Josephs with a skill which proved her favorite assertion
that she was not so stupid as people thought. He blushed and took off
his soft, low-crowned felt hat. Fairholme saluted very solemnly, for
Agatha bowed to him with marked seriousness. But when his gravity and
his stiff silk hat were at their highest point she darted a mocking
smile at him, and he too blushed, all the deeper because he was enraged
with himself for doing so.

"Did you ever see such a pair of fools?" whispered Jane, giggling.

"They cannot help their sex. They say women are fools, and so they are;
but thank Heaven they are not quite so bad as men! I should like to look
back and see Pharaoh passing Gertrude; but if he saw me he would think I
was admiring him; and he is conceited enough already without that."

The two curates became redder and redder as they passed the column of
young ladies. Miss Lindsay would not look to their side of the road, and
Miss Wilson's nod and smile were not quite sincere. She never spoke to
curates, and kept up no more intercourse with the vicar than she could
not avoid. He suspected her of being an infidel, though neither he nor
any other mortal in Lyvern had ever heard a word from her on the subject
of her religious opinions. But he knew that "moral science" was taught
secularly at the college; and he felt that where morals were made
a department of science the demand for religion must fall off
proportionately.

"What a life to lead and what a place to live in!" exclaimed Agatha. "We
meet two creatures, more like suits of black than men; and that is an
incident--a startling incident--in our existence!"

"I think they're awful fun," said Jane, "except that Josephs has such
large ears."

The girls now came to a place where the road dipped through a plantation
of sombre sycamore and horsechestnut trees. As they passed down into
it, a little wind sprang up, the fallen leaves stirred, and the branches
heaved a long, rustling sigh.

"I hate this bit of road," said Jane, hurrying on. "It's just the sort
of place that people get robbed and murdered in."

"It is not such a bad place to shelter in if we get caught in the rain,
as I expect we shall before we get back," said Agatha, feeling the
fitful breeze strike ominously on her cheek. "A nice pickle I shall be
in with these light shoes on! I wish I had put on my strong boots. If it
rains much I will go into the old chalet."

"Miss Wilson won't let you. It's trespassing."

"What matter! Nobody lives in it, and the gate is off its hinges. I only
want to stand under the veranda--not to break into the wretched place.
Besides, the landlord knows Miss Wilson; he won't mind. There's a drop."

Miss Carpenter looked up, and immediately received a heavy raindrop in
her eye.

"Oh!" she cried. "It's pouring. We shall be drenched."

Agatha stopped, and the column broke into a group about her.

"Miss Wilson," she said, "it is going to rain in torrents, and Jane and
I have only our shoes on."

Miss Wilson paused to consider the situation. Someone suggested that if
they hurried on they might reach Lyvern before the rain came down.

"More than a mile," said Agatha scornfully, "and the rain coming down
already!"

Someone else suggested returning to the college.

"More than two miles," said Agatha. "We should be drowned."

"There is nothing for it but to wait here under the trees," said Miss
Wilson.

"The branches are very bare," said Gertrude anxiously. "If it should
come down heavily they will drip worse than the rain itself."

"Much worse," said Agatha. "I think we had better get under the veranda
of the old chalet. It is not half a minute's walk from here."

"But we have no right--" Here the sky darkened threateningly. Miss
Wilson checked herself and said, "I suppose it is still empty."

"Of course," replied Agatha, impatient to be moving. "It is almost a
ruin."

"Then let us go there, by all means," said Miss Wilson, not disposed to
stand on trifles at the risk of a bad cold.

They hurried on, and came presently to a green hill by the wayside. On
the slope was a dilapidated Swiss cottage, surrounded by a veranda on
slender wooden pillars, about which clung a few tendrils of withered
creeper, their stray ends still swinging from the recent wind, now
momentarily hushed as if listening for the coming of the rain. Access
from the roadway was by a rough wooden gate in the hedge. To the
surprise of Agatha, who had last seen this gate off its hinges and only
attached to the post by a rusty chain and padlock, it was now rehung and
fastened by a new hasp. The weather admitting of no delay to consider
these repairs, she opened the gate and hastened up the slope, followed
by the troop of girls. Their ascent ended with a rush, for the rain
suddenly came down in torrents.

When they were safe under the veranda, panting, laughing, grumbling, or
congratulating themselves on having been so close to a place of shelter,
Miss Wilson observed, with some uneasiness, a spade--new, like the hasp
of the gate--sticking upright in a patch of ground that someone had
evidently been digging lately. She was about to comment on this sign
of habitation, when the door of the chalet was flung open, and Jane
screamed as a man darted out to the spade, which he was about to carry
in out of the wet, when he perceived the company under the veranda, and
stood still in amazement. He was a young laborer with a reddish-brown
beard of a week's growth. He wore corduroy trousers and a linen-sleeved
corduroy vest; both, like the hasp and spade, new. A coarse blue shirt,
with a vulgar red-and-orange neckerchief, also new, completed his dress;
and, to shield himself from the rain, he held up a silk umbrella with
a silver-mounted ebony handle, which he seemed unlikely to have come by
honestly. Miss Wilson felt like a boy caught robbing an orchard, but she
put a bold face on the matter and said:

"Will you allow us to take shelter here until the rain is over?"

"For certain, your ladyship," he replied, respectfully applying the
spade handle to his hair, which was combed down to his eyebrows.
"Your ladyship does me proud to take refuge from the onclemency of the
yallovrments beneath my 'umble rooftree." His accent was barbarous; and
he, like a low comedian, seemed to relish its vulgarity. As he spoke he
came in among them for shelter, and propped his spade against the wall
of the chalet, kicking the soil from his hobnailed blucher boots, which
were new.

"I came out, honored lady," he resumed, much at his ease, "to house my
spade, whereby I earn my living. What the pen is to the poet, such is
the spade to the working man." He took the kerchief from his neck, wiped
his temples as if the sweat of honest toil were there, and calmly tied
it on again.

"If you'll 'scuse a remark from a common man," he observed, "your
ladyship has a fine family of daughters."

"They are not my daughters," said Miss Wilson, rather shortly.

"Sisters, mebbe?"

"No."

"I thought they mout be, acause I have a sister myself. Not that I would
make bold for to dror comparisons, even in my own mind, for she's only a
common woman--as common a one as ever you see. But few women rise above
the common. Last Sunday, in yon village church, I heard the minister
read out that one man in a thousand had he found, 'but one woman in all
these,' he says, 'have I not found,' and I thinks to myself, 'Right you
are!' But I warrant he never met your ladyship."

A laugh, thinly disguised as a cough, escaped from Miss Carpenter.

"Young lady a-ketchin' cold, I'm afeerd," he said, with respectful
solicitude.

"Do you think the rain will last long?" said Agatha politely.

The man examined the sky with a weather-wise air for some moments. Then
he turned to Agatha, and replied humbly: "The Lord only knows, Miss. It
is not for a common man like me to say."

Silence ensued, during which Agatha, furtively scrutinizing the tenant
of the chalet, noticed that his face and neck were cleaner and less
sunburnt than those of the ordinary toilers of Lyvern. His hands
were hidden by large gardening gloves stained with coal dust. Lyvern
laborers, as a rule, had little objection to soil their hands; they
never wore gloves. Still, she thought, there was no reason why an
eccentric workman, insufferably talkative, and capable of an allusion to
the pen of the poet, should not indulge himself with cheap gloves. But
then the silk, silvermounted umbrella--

"The young lady's hi," he said suddenly, holding out the umbrella, "is
fixed on this here. I am well aware that it is not for the lowest of the
low to carry a gentleman's brolly, and I ask your ladyship's pardon
for the liberty. I come by it accidental-like, and should be glad of a
reasonable offer from any gentleman in want of a honest article."

As he spoke two gentlemen, much in want of the article, as their
clinging wet coats showed, ran through the gateway and made for the
chalet. Fairholme arrived first, exclaiming: "Fearful shower!" and
briskly turned his back to the ladies in order to stand at the edge
of the veranda and shake the water out of his hat. Josephs came next,
shrinking from the damp contact of his own garments. He cringed to Miss
Wilson, and hoped that she had escaped a wetting.

"So far I have," she replied. "The question is, how are we to get home?"

"Oh, it's only a shower," said Josephs, looking up cheerfully at the
unbroken curtain of cloud. "It will clear up presently."

"It ain't for a common man to set up his opinion again' a gentleman wot
have profesh'nal knowledge of the heavens, as one may say," said the
man, "but I would 'umbly offer to bet my umbrellar to his wideawake that
it don't cease raining this side of seven o'clock."

"That man lives here," whispered Miss Wilson, "and I suppose he wants to
get rid of us."

"H'm!" said Fairholme. Then, turning to the strange laborer with the air
of a person not to be trifled with, he raised his voice, and said: "You
live here, do you, my man?"

"I do, sir, by your good leave, if I may make so bold."

"What's your name?"

"Jeff Smilash, sir, at your service."

"Where do you come from?"

"Brixtonbury, sir."

"Brixtonbury! Where's that?"

"Well, sir, I don't rightly know. If a gentleman like you, knowing
jography and such, can't tell, how can I?"

"You ought to know where you were born, man. Haven't you got common
sense?"

"Where could such a one as me get common sense, sir? Besides, I was only
a foundling. Mebbe I warn's born at all."

"Did I see you at church last Sunday?"

"No, sir. I only come o' Wensday."

"Well, let me see you there next Sunday," said Fairholme shortly,
turning away from him.

Miss Wilson looked at the weather, at Josephs, who was conversing with
Jane, and finally at Smilash, who knuckled his forehead without waiting
to be addressed.

"Have you a boy whom you can send to Lyvern to get us a conveyance--a
carriage? I will give him a shilling for his trouble."

"A shilling!" said Smilash joyfully. "Your ladyship is a noble lady. Two
four-wheeled cabs. There's eight on you."

"There is only one cab in Lyvern," said Miss Wilson. "Take this card
to Mr. Marsh, the jotmaster, and tell him the predicament we are in. He
will send vehicles."

Smilash took the card and read it at a glance. He then went into the
chalet. Reappearing presently in a sou'wester and oilskins, he ran off
through the rain and vaulted over the gate with ridiculous elegance.
No sooner had he vanished than, as often happens to remarkable men, he
became the subject of conversation.

"A decent workman," said Josephs. "A well-mannered man, considering his
class."

"A born fool, though," said Fairholme.

"Or a rogue," said Agatha, emphasizing the suggestion by a glitter of
her eyes and teeth, whilst her schoolfellows, rather disapproving of her
freedom, stood stiffly dumb. "He told Miss Wilson that he had a sister,
and that he had been to church last Sunday, and he has just told you
that he is a foundling, and that he only came last Wednesday. His accent
is put on, and he can read, and I don't believe he is a workman at all.
Perhaps he is a burglar, come down to steal the college plate."

"Agatha," said Miss Wilson gravely, "you must be very careful how you
say things of that kind."

"But it is so obvious. His explanation about the umbrella was made up
to disarm suspicion. He handled it and leaned on it in a way that showed
how much more familiar it was to him than that new spade he was so
anxious about. And all his clothes are new."

"True," said Fairholme, "but there is not much in all that. Workmen
nowadays ape gentlemen in everything. However, I will keep an eye on
him."

"Oh, thank you so much," said Agatha. Fairholme, suspecting mockery,
frowned, and Miss Wilson looked severely at the mocker. Little more was
said, except as to the chances--manifestly small--of the rain ceasing,
until the tops of a cab, a decayed mourning coach, and three dripping
hats were seen over the hedge. Smilash sat on the box of the coach,
beside the driver. When it stopped, he alighted, re-entered the chalet
without speaking, came out with the umbrella, spread it above Miss
Wilson's head, and said:

"Now, if your ladyship will come with me, I will see you dry into the
stray, and then I'll bring your honored nieces one by one."

"I shall come last," said Miss Wilson, irritated by his assumption that
the party was a family one. "Gertrude, you had better go first."

"Allow me," said Fairholme, stepping forward, and attempting to take the
umbrella.

"Thank you, I shall not trouble you," she said frostily, and tripped
away over the oozing field with Smilash, who held the umbrella over her
with ostentatious solicitude. In the same manner he led the rest to the
vehicles, in which they packed themselves with some difficulty. Agatha,
who came last but one, gave him threepence.

"You have a noble 'art and an expressive hi, Miss," he said, apparently
much moved. "Blessings on both! Blessings on both!"

He went back for Jane, who slipped on the wet grass and fell. He had to
put forth his strength as he helped her to rise. "Hope you ain't sopped
up much of the rainfall, Miss," he said. "You are a fine young lady for
your age. Nigh on twelve stone, I should think."

She reddened and hurried to the cab, where Agatha was. But it was full;
and Jane, much against her will, had to get into the coach, considerably
diminishing the space left for Miss Wilson, to whom Smilash had
returned.

"Now, dear lady," he said, "take care you don't slip. Come along."

Miss Wilson, ignoring the invitation, took a shilling from her purse.

"No, lady," said Smilash with a virtuous air. "I am an honest man and
have never seen the inside of a jail except four times, and only twice
for stealing. Your youngest daughter--her with the expressive hi--have
paid me far beyond what is proper."

"I have told you that these young ladies are not my daughters," said
Miss Wilson sharply. "Why do you not listen to what is said to you?"

"Don't be too hard on a common man, lady," said Smilash submissively.
"The young lady have just given me three 'arf-crowns."

"Three half-crowns!" exclaimed Miss Wilson, angered at such
extravagance.

"Bless her innocence, she don't know what is proper to give to a low
sort like me! But I will not rob the young lady. 'Arf-a-crown is no more
nor is fair for the job, and arf-a-crown will I keep, if agreeable to
your noble ladyship. But I give you back the five bob in trust for her.
Have you ever noticed her expressive hi?"

"Nonsense, sir. You had better keep the money now that you have got it."

"Wot! Sell for five bob the high opinion your ladyship has of me! No,
dear lady; not likely. My father's very last words to me was--"

"You said just now that you were a foundling," said Fairholme. "What are
we to believe? Eh?"

"So I were, sir; but by mother's side alone. Her ladyship will please to
take back the money, for keep it I will not. I am of the lower orders,
and therefore not a man of my word; but when I do stick to it, I stick
like wax."

"Take it," said Fairholme to Miss Wilson. "Take it, of course. Seven and
sixpence is a ridiculous sum to give him for what he has done. It would
only set him drinking."

"His reverence says true, lady. The one 'arfcrown will keep me
comfortably tight until Sunday morning; and more I do not desire."

"Just a little less of your tongue, my man," said Fairholme, taking
the two coins from him and handing them to Miss Wilson, who bade the
clergymen good afternoon, and went to the coach under the umbrella.

"If your ladyship should want a handy man to do an odd job up at the
college I hope you will remember me," Smilash said as they went down the
slope.

"Oh, you know who I am, do you?" said Miss Wilson drily.

"All the country knows you, Miss, and worships you. I have few equals as
a coiner, and if you should require a medal struck to give away for good
behavior or the like, I think I could strike one to your satisfaction.
And if your ladyship should want a trifle of smuggled lace--"

"You had better be careful or you will get into trouble, I think," said
Miss Wilson sternly. "Tell him to drive on."

The vehicles started, and Smilash took the liberty of waving his hat
after them. Then he returned to the chalet, left the umbrella within,
came out again, locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and walked
off through the rain across the hill without taking the least notice of
the astonished parsons.

In the meantime Miss Wilson, unable to contain her annoyance at Agatha's
extravagance, spoke of it to the girls who shared the coach with her.
But Jane declared that Agatha only possessed threepence in the world,
and therefore could not possibly have given the man thirty times that
sum. When they reached the college, Agatha, confronted with Miss Wilson,
opened her eyes in wonder, and exclaimed, laughing: "I only gave him
threepence. He has sent me a present of four and ninepence!"



CHAPTER IV

Saturday at Alton College, nominally a half holiday, was really a whole
one. Classes in gymnastics, dancing, elocution, and drawing were held
in the morning. The afternoon was spent at lawn tennis, to which
lady guests resident in the neighborhood were allowed to bring their
husbands, brothers, and fathers--Miss Wilson being anxious to send
her pupils forth into the world free from the uncouth stiffness of
schoolgirls unaccustomed to society.

Late in October came a Saturday which proved anything but a holiday
for Miss Wilson. At half-past one, luncheon being over, she went out of
doors to a lawn that lay between the southern side of the college and a
shrubbery. Here she found a group of girls watching Agatha and Jane, who
were dragging a roller over the grass. One of them, tossing a ball about
with her racket, happened to drive it into the shrubbery, whence, to the
surprise of the company, Smilash presently emerged, carrying the ball,
blinking, and proclaiming that, though a common man, he had his feelings
like another, and that his eye was neither a stick nor a stone. He
was dressed as before, but his garments, soiled with clay and lime, no
longer looked new.

"What brings you here, pray?" demanded Miss Wilson.

"I was led into the belief that you sent for me, lady," he replied.
"The baker's lad told me so as he passed my 'umble cot this morning. I
thought he were incapable of deceit."

"That is quite right; I did send for you. But why did you not go round
to the servants' hall?"

"I am at present in search of it, lady. I were looking for it when
this ball cotch me here" (touching his eye). "A cruel blow on the hi'
nat'rally spires its vision and expression and makes a honest man look
like a thief."

"Agatha," said Miss Wilson, "come here."

"My dooty to you, Miss," said Smilash, pulling his forelock.

"This is the man from whom I had the five shillings, which he said you
had just given him. Did you do so?"

"Certainly not. I only gave him threepence."

"But I showed the money to your ladyship," said Smilash, twisting his
hat agitatedly. "I gev it you. Where would the like of me get five
shillings except by the bounty of the rich and noble? If the young
lady thinks I hadn't ort to have kep' the tother 'arfcrown, I would not
object to its bein' stopped from my wages if I were given a job of work
here. But--"

"But it's nonsense," said Agatha. "I never gave you three half-crowns."

"Perhaps you mout 'a' made a mistake. Pence is summat similar to
'arf-crowns, and the day were very dark."

"I couldn't have," said Agatha. "Jane had my purse all the earlier
part of the week, Miss Wilson, and she can tell you that there was only
threepence in it. You know that I get my money on the first of every
month. It never lasts longer than a week. The idea of my having seven
and sixpence on the sixteenth is ridiculous."

"But I put it to you, Miss, ain't it twice as ridiculous for me, a poor
laborer, to give up money wot I never got?"

Vague alarm crept upon Agatha as the testimony of her senses was
contradicted. "All I know is," she protested, "that I did not give it to
you; so my pennies must have turned into half-crowns in your pocket."

"Mebbe so," said Smilash gravely. "I've heard, and I know it for a fact,
that money grows in the pockets of the rich. Why not in the pockets of
the poor as well? Why should you be su'prised at wot 'appens every day?"

"Had you any money of your own about you at the time?"

"Where could the like of me get money?--asking pardon for making so bold
as to catechise your ladyship."

"I don't know where you could get it," said Miss Wilson testily; "I ask
you, had you any?"

"Well, lady, I disremember. I will not impose upon you. I disremember."

"Then you've made a mistake," said Miss Wilson, handing him back his
money. "Here. If it is not yours, it is not ours; so you had better keep
it."

"Keep it! Oh, lady, but this is the heighth of nobility! And what shall
I do to earn your bounty, lady?"

"It is not my bounty: I give it to you because it does not belong to me,
and, I suppose, must belong to you. You seem to be a very simple man."

"I thank your ladyship; I hope I am. Respecting the day's work, now,
lady; was you thinking of employing a poor man at all?"

"No, thank you; I have no occasion for your services. I have also to
give you the shilling I promised you for getting the cabs. Here it is."

"Another shillin'!" cried Smilash, stupefied.

"Yes," said Miss Wilson, beginning to feel very angry. "Let me hear no
more about it, please. Don't you understand that you have earned it?"

"I am a common man, and understand next to nothing," he replied
reverently. "But if your ladyship would give me a day's work to keep me
goin', I could put up all this money in a little wooden savings bank I
have at home, and keep it to spend when sickness or odd age shall, in a
manner of speaking, lay their 'ends upon me. I could smooth that grass
beautiful; them young ladies 'll strain themselves with that heavy
roller. If tennis is the word, I can put up nets fit to catch birds of
paradise in. If the courts is to be chalked out in white, I can draw a
line so straight that you could hardly keep yourself from erecting an
equilateral triangle on it. I am honest when well watched, and I can
wait at table equal to the Lord Mayor o' London's butler."

"I cannot employ you without a character," said Miss Wilson, amused by
his scrap of Euclid, and wondering where he had picked it up.

"I bear the best of characters, lady. The reverend rector has known me
from a boy."

"I was speaking to him about you yesterday," said Miss Wilson, looking
hard at him, "and he says you are a perfect stranger to him."

"Gentlemen is so forgetful," said Smilash sadly. "But I alluded to my
native rector--meaning the rector of my native village, Auburn. 'Sweet
Auburn, loveliest village of the plain,' as the gentleman called it."

"That was not the name you mentioned to Mr. Fairholme. I do not
recollect what name you gave, but it was not Auburn, nor have I ever
heard of any such place."

"Never read of sweet Auburn!"

"Not in any geography or gazetteer. Do you recollect telling me that you
have been in prison?"

"Only six times," pleaded Smilash, his features working convulsively.
"Don't bear too hard on a common man. Only six times, and all through
drink. But I have took the pledge, and kep' it faithful for eighteen
months past."

Miss Wilson now set down the man as one of those keen, half-witted
country fellows, contemptuously styled originals, who unintentionally
make themselves popular by flattering the sense of sanity in those whose
faculties are better adapted to circumstances.

"You have a bad memory, Mr. Smilash," she said good-humoredly. "You
never give the same account of yourself twice."

"I am well aware that I do not express myself with exactability. Ladies
and gentlemen have that power over words that they can always say what
they mean, but a common man like me can't. Words don't come natural to
him. He has more thoughts than words, and what words he has don't fit
his thoughts. Might I take a turn with the roller, and make myself
useful about the place until nightfall, for ninepence?"

Miss Wilson, who was expecting more than her usual Saturday visitors,
considered the proposition and assented. "And remember," she said, "that
as you are a stranger here, your character in Lyvern depends upon the
use you make of this opportunity."

"I am grateful to your noble ladyship. May your ladyship's goodness sew
up the hole which is in the pocket where I carry my character, and which
has caused me to lose it so frequent. It's a bad place for men to keep
their characters in; but such is the fashion. And so hurray for the
glorious nineteenth century!"

He took off his coat, seized the roller, and began to pull it with
an energy foreign to the measured millhorse manner of the accustomed
laborer. Miss Wilson looked doubtfully at him, but, being in haste, went
indoors without further comment. The girls mistrusting his eccentricity,
kept aloof. Agatha determined to have another and better look at him.
Racket in hand, she walked slowly across the grass and came close to him
just as he, unaware of her approach, uttered a groan of exhaustion and
sat down to rest.

"Tired already, Mr. Smilash?" she said mockingly.

He looked up deliberately, took off one of his washleather gloves,
fanned himself with it, displaying a white and fine hand, and at last
replied, in the tone and with the accent of a gentleman:

"Very."

Agatha recoiled. He fanned himself without the least concern.

"You--you are not a laborer," she said at last.

"Obviously not."

"I thought not."

He nodded.

"Suppose I tell on you," she said, growing bolder as she recollected
that she was not alone with him.

"If you do I shall get out of it just as I got out of the half-crowns,
and Miss Wilson will begin to think that you are mad."

"Then I really did not give you the seven and sixpence," she said,
relieved.

"What is your own opinion?" he answered, taking three pennies from his
pocket, jingling them in his palm. "What is your name?"

"I shall not tell you," said Agatha with dignity.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps you are right," he said. "I would
not tell you mine if you asked me."

"I have not the slightest intention of asking you."

"No? Then Smilash shall do for you, and Agatha will do for me."

"You had better take care."

"Of what?"

"Of what you say, and--are you not afraid of being found out?"

"I am found out already--by you, and I am none the worse."

"Suppose the police find you out!"

"Not they. Besides, I am not hiding from the police. I have a right to
wear corduroy if I prefer it to broadcloth. Consider the advantages of
it! It has procured me admission to Alton College, and the pleasure of
your acquaintance. Will you excuse me if I go on with my rolling, just
to keep up appearances? I can talk as I roll."

"You may, if you are fond of soliloquizing," she said, turning away as
he rose.

"Seriously, Agatha, you must not tell the others about me."

"Do not call me Agatha," she said impetuously. "What shall I call you,
then?"

"You need not address me at all."

"I need, and will. Don't be ill-natured."

"But I don't know you. I wonder at your--" she hesitated at the word
which occurred to her, but, being unable to think of a better one, used
it--"at your cheek."

He laughed, and she watched him take a couple of turns with the roller.
Presently, refreshing himself by a look at her, he caught her looking
at him, and smiled. His smile was commonplace in comparison with the
one she gave him in return, in which her eyes, her teeth, and the golden
grain in her complexion seemed to flash simultaneously. He stopped
rolling immediately, and rested his chin on the handle of the roller.

"If you neglect your work," said she maliciously, "you won't have the
grass ready when the people come."

"What people?" he said, taken aback.

"Oh, lots of people. Most likely some who know you. There are visitors
coming from London: my guardian, my guardianess, their daughter, my
mother, and about a hundred more."

"Four in all. What are they coming for? To see you?"

"To take me away," she replied, watching for signs of disappointment on
his part.

They were at once forthcoming. "What the deuce are they going to take
you away for?" he said. "Is your education finished?"

"No. I have behaved badly, and I am going to be expelled."

He laughed again. "Come!" he said, "you are beginning to invent in the
Smilash manner. What have you done?"

"I don't see why I should tell you. What have you done?"

"I! Oh, I have done nothing. I am only an unromantic gentleman, hiding
from a romantic lady who is in love with me."

"Poor thing," said Agatha sarcastically. "Of course, she has proposed to
you, and you have refused."

"On the contrary, I proposed, and she accepted. That is why I have to
hide."

"You tell stories charmingly," said Agatha. "Good-bye. Here is Miss
Carpenter coming to hear what we are taking about."

"Good-bye. That story of your being expelled beats--Might a common man
make so bold as to inquire where the whitening machine is, Miss?"

This was addressed to Jane, who had come up with some of the others.
Agatha expected to see Smilash presently discovered, for his disguise
now seemed transparent; she wondered how the rest could be imposed on
by it. Two o'clock, striking just then, reminded her of the impending
interview with her guardian. A tremor shook her, and she felt a craving
for some solitary hiding-place in which to await the summons. But it
was a point of honor with her to appear perfectly indifferent to her
trouble, so she stayed with the girls, laughing and chatting as they
watched Smilash intently marking out the courts and setting up the nets.
She made the others laugh too, for her hidden excitement, sharpened by
irrepressible shootings of dread, stimulated her, and the romance of
Smilash's disguise gave her a sensation of dreaming. Her imagination was
already busy upon a drama, of which she was the heroine and Smilash
the hero, though, with the real man before her, she could not indulge
herself by attributing to him quite as much gloomy grandeur of character
as to a wholly ideal personage. The plot was simple, and an old favorite
with her. One of them was to love the other and to die broken-hearted
because the loved one would not requite the passion. For Agatha,
prompt to ridicule sentimentality in her companions, and gifted with an
infectious spirit of farce, secretly turned for imaginative luxury to
visions of despair and death; and often endured the mortification of the
successful clown who believes, whilst the public roar with laughter at
him, that he was born a tragedian. There was much in her nature, she
felt, that did not find expression in her popular representation of the
soldier in the chimney.

By three o'clock the local visitors had arrived, and tennis was
proceeding in four courts, rolled and prepared by Smilash. The two
curates were there, with a few lay gentlemen. Mrs. Miller, the vicar,
and some mothers and other chaperons looked on and consumed light
refreshments, which were brought out upon trays by Smilash, who
had borrowed and put on a large white apron, and was making himself
officiously busy.

At a quarter past the hour a message came from Miss Wilson, requesting
Miss Wylie's attendance. The visitors were at a loss to account for the
sudden distraction of the young ladies' attention which ensued. Jane
almost burst into tears, and answered Josephs rudely when he innocently
asked what the matter was. Agatha went away apparently unconcerned,
though her hand shook as she put aside her racket.

In a spacious drawing-room at the north side of the college she found
her mother, a slight woman in widow's weeds, with faded brown hair, and
tearful eyes. With her were Mrs. Jansenius and her daughter. The two
elder ladies kept severely silent whilst Agatha kissed them, and Mrs.
Wylie sniffed. Henrietta embraced Agatha effusively.

"Where's Uncle John?" said Agatha. "Hasn't he come?"

"He is in the next room with Miss Wilson," said Mrs. Jansenius coldly.
"They want you in there."

"I thought somebody was dead," said Agatha, "you all look so funereal.
Now, mamma, put your handkerchief back again. If you cry I will give
Miss Wilson a piece of my mind for worrying you."

"No, no," said Mrs. Wylie, alarmed. "She has been so nice!"

"So good!" said Henrietta.

"She has been perfectly reasonable and kind," said Mrs. Jansenius.

"She always is," said Agatha complacently. "You didn't expect to find
her in hysterics, did you?"

"Agatha," pleaded Mrs. Wylie, "don't be headstrong and foolish."

"Oh, she won't; I know she won't," said Henrietta coaxingly. "Will you,
dear Agatha?"

"You may do as you like, as far as I am concerned," said Mrs. Jansenius.
"But I hope you have more sense than to throw away your education for
nothing."

"Your aunt is quite right," said Mrs. Wylie. "And your Uncle John is
very angry with you. He will never speak to you again if you quarrel
with Miss Wilson."

"He is not angry," said Henrietta, "but he is so anxious that you should
get on well."

"He will naturally be disappointed if you persist in making a fool of
yourself," said Mrs. Jansenius.

"All Miss Wilson wants is an apology for the dreadful things you wrote
in her book," said Mrs. Wylie. "You'll apologize, dear, won't you?"

"Of course she will," said Henrietta.

"I think you had better," said Mrs. Jansenius.

"Perhaps I will," said Agatha.

"That's my own darling," said Mrs. Wylie, catching her hand.

"And perhaps, again, I won't."

"You will, dear," urged Mrs. Wylie, trying to draw Agatha, who passively
resisted, closer to her. "For my sake. To oblige your mother, Agatha.
You won't refuse me, dearest?"

Agatha laughed indulgently at her parent, who had long ago worn out this
form of appeal. Then she turned to Henrietta, and said, "How is your
caro sposo? I think it was hard that I was not a bridesmaid."

The red in Henrietta's cheeks brightened. Mrs. Jansenius hastened to
interpose a dry reminder that Miss Wilson was waiting.

"Oh, she does not mind waiting," said Agatha, "because she thinks you
are all at work getting me into a proper frame of mind. That was the
arrangement she made with you before she left the room. Mamma knows that
I have a little bird that tells me these things. I must say that you
have not made me feel any goody-goodier so far. However, as poor Uncle
John must be dreadfully frightened and uncomfortable, it is only kind to
put an end to his suspense. Good-bye!" And she went out leisurely.
But she looked in again to say in a low voice: "Prepare for something
thrilling. I feel just in the humor to say the most awful things." She
vanished, and immediately they heard her tapping at the door of the next
room.

Mr. Jansenius was indeed awaiting her with misgiving. Having discovered
early in his career that his dignified person and fine voice caused
people to stand in some awe of him, and to move him into the chair
at public meetings, he had grown so accustomed to deference that any
approach to familiarity or irreverence disconcerted him exceedingly.
Agatha, on the other hand, having from her childhood heard Uncle John
quoted as wisdom and authority incarnate, had begun in her tender years
to scoff at him as a pompous and purseproud city merchant, whose
sordid mind was unable to cope with her transcendental affairs. She
had habitually terrified her mother by ridiculing him with an absolute
contempt of which only childhood and extreme ignorance are capable. She
had felt humiliated by his kindness to her (he was a generous giver
of presents), and, with the instinct of an anarchist, had taken
disparagement of his advice and defiance of his authority as the signs
wherefrom she might infer surely that her face was turned to the light.
The result was that he was a little tired of her without being quite
conscious of it; and she not at all afraid of him, and a little too
conscious of it.

When she entered with her brightest smile in full play, Miss Wilson and
Mr. Jansenius, seated at the table, looked somewhat like two culprits
about to be indicted. Miss Wilson waited for him to speak, deferring to
his imposing presence. But he was not ready, so she invited Agatha to
sit down.

"Thank you," said Agatha sweetly. "Well, Uncle John, don't you know me?"

"I have heard with regret from Miss Wilson that you have been very
troublesome here," he said, ignoring her remark, though secretly put out
by it.

"Yes," said Agatha contritely. "I am so very sorry."

Mr. Jansenius, who had been led by Miss Wilson to expect the utmost
contumacy, looked to her in surprise.

"You seem to think," said Miss Wilson, conscious of Mr. Jansenius's
movement, and annoyed by it, "that you may transgress over and over
again, and then set yourself right with us," (Miss Wilson never spoke of
offences as against her individual authority, but as against the school
community) "by saying that you are sorry. You spoke in a very different
tone at our last meeting."

"I was angry then, Miss Wilson. And I thought I had a
grievance--everybody thinks they have the same one. Besides, we were
quarrelling--at least I was; and I always behave badly when I quarrel. I
am so very sorry."

"The book was a serious matter," said Miss Wilson gravely. "You do not
seem to think so."

"I understand Agatha to say that she is now sensible of the folly of her
conduct with regard to the book, and that she is sorry for it," said Mr.
Jansenius, instinctively inclining to Agatha's party as the stronger one
and the least dependent on him in a pecuniary sense.

"Have you seen the book?" said Agatha eagerly.

"No. Miss Wilson has described what has occurred."

"Oh, do let me get it," she cried, rising. "It will make Uncle John
scream with laughing. May I, Miss Wilson?"

"There!" said Miss Wilson, indignantly. "It is this incorrigible
flippancy of which I have to complain. Miss Wylie only varies it by
downright insubordination."

Mr. Jansenius too was scandalized. His fine color mounted at the idea
of his screaming. "Tut, tut!" he said, "you must be serious, and more
respectful to Miss Wilson. You are old enough to know better now,
Agatha--quite old enough."

Agatha's mirth vanished. "What have I said What have I done?" she asked,
a faint purple spot appearing in her cheeks.

"You have spoken triflingly of--of the volume by which Miss Wilson sets
great store, and properly so."

"If properly so, then why do you find fault with me?"

"Come, come," roared Mr. Jansenius, deliberately losing his temper as a
last expedient to subdue her, "don't be impertinent, Miss."

Agatha's eyes dilated; evanescent flushes played upon her cheeks and
neck; she stamped with her heel. "Uncle John," she cried, "if you dare
to address me like that, I will never look at you, never speak to you,
nor ever enter your house again. What do you know about good manners,
that you should call me impertinent? I will not submit to intentional
rudeness; that was the beginning of my quarrel with Miss Wilson. She
told me I was impertinent, and I went away and told her that she was
wrong by writing it in the fault book. She has been wrong all through,
and I would have said so before but that I wanted to be reconciled to
her and to let bygones be bygones. But if she insists on quarrelling, I
cannot help it."

"I have already explained to you, Mr. Jansenius," said Miss Wilson,
concentrating her resentment by an effort to suppress it, "that Miss
Wylie has ignored all the opportunities that have been made for her to
reinstate herself here. Mrs. Miller and I have waived merely personal
considerations, and I have only required a simple acknowledgment of this
offence against the college and its rules."

"I do not care that for Mrs. Miller," said Agatha, snapping her fingers.
"And you are not half so good as I thought."

"Agatha," said Mr. Jansenius, "I desire you to hold your tongue."

Agatha drew a deep breath, sat down resignedly, and said: "There! I have
done. I have lost my temper; so now we have all lost our tempers."

"You have no right to lose your temper, Miss," said Mr. Jansenius,
following up a fancied advantage.

"I am the youngest, and the least to blame," she replied. "There
is nothing further to be said, Mr. Jansenius," said Miss Wilson,
determinedly. "I am sorry that Miss Wylie has chosen to break with us."

"But I have not chosen to break with you, and I think it very hard that
I am to be sent away. Nobody here has the least quarrel with me except
you and Mrs. Miller. Mrs. Miller is annoyed because she mistook me for
her cat, as if that was my fault! And really, Miss Wilson, I don't know
why you are so angry. All the girls will think I have done something
infamous if I am expelled. I ought to be let stay until the end of the
term; and as to the Rec--the fault book, you told me most particularly
when I first came that I might write in it or not just as I pleased, and
that you never dictated or interfered with what was written. And yet the
very first time I write a word you disapprove of, you expel me. Nobody
will ever believe now that the entries are voluntary."

Miss Wilson's conscience, already smitten by the coarseness and absence
of moral force in the echo of her own "You are impertinent," from the
mouth of Mr. Jansenius, took fresh alarm. "The fault book," she said,
"is for the purpose of recording self-reproach alone, and is not a
vehicle for accusations against others."

"I am quite sure that neither Jane nor Gertrude nor I reproached
ourselves in the least for going downstairs as we did, and yet you did
not blame us for entering that. Besides, the book represented moral
force--at least you always said so, and when you gave up moral force,
I thought an entry should be made of that. Of course I was in a rage at
the time, but when I came to myself I thought I had done right, and I
think so still, though it would perhaps have been better to have passed
it over."

"Why do you say that I gave up moral force?"

"Telling people to leave the room is not moral force. Calling them
impertinent is not moral force."

"You think then that I am bound to listen patiently to whatever you
choose to say to me, however unbecoming it may be from one in your
position to one in mine?"

"But I said nothing unbecoming," said Agatha. Then, breaking off
restlessly, and smiling again, she said: "Oh, don't let us argue. I
am very sorry, and very troublesome, and very fond of you and of the
college; and I won't come back next term unless you like."

"Agatha," said Miss Wilson, shaken, "these expressions of regard cost
you so little, and when they have effected their purpose, are so
soon forgotten by you, that they have ceased to satisfy me. I am very
reluctant to insist on your leaving us at once. But as your uncle has
told you, you are old and sensible enough to know the difference between
order and disorder. Hitherto you have been on the side of disorder, an
element which was hardly known here until you came, as Mrs. Trefusis
can tell you. Nevertheless, if you will promise to be more careful in
future, I will waive all past cause of complaint, and at the end of the
term I shall be able to judge as to your continuing among us."

Agatha rose, beaming. "Dear Miss Wilson," she said, "you are so good! I
promise, of course. I will go and tell mamma."

Before they could add a word she had turned with a pirouette to the
door, and fled, presenting herself a moment later in the drawing-room to
the three ladies, whom she surveyed with a whimsical smile in silence.

"Well?" said Mrs. Jansenius peremptorily.

"Well, dear?" said Mrs. Trefusis, caressingly.

Mrs. Wylie stifled a sob and looked imploringly at her daughter.

"I had no end of trouble in bringing them to reason," said Agatha, after
a provoking pause. "They behaved like children, and I was like an angel.
I am to stay, of course."

"Blessings on you, my darling," faltered Mrs. Wylie, attempting a kiss,
which Agatha dexterously evaded.

"I have promised to be very good, and studious, and quiet, and decorous
in future. Do you remember my castanet song, Hetty?

"'Tra! lalala, la! la! la! Tra! lalala, la! la! la! Tra!
lalalalalalalalalalala!'"

And she danced about the room, snapping her fingers instead of
castanets.

"Don't be so reckless and wicked, my love," said Mrs. Wylie. "You will
break your poor mother's heart."

Miss Wilson and Mr. Jansenius entered just then, and Agatha became
motionless and gazed abstractedly at a vase of flowers. Miss Wilson
invited her visitors to join the tennis players. Mr. Jansenius looked
sternly and disappointedly at Agatha, who elevated her left eyebrow and
depressed her right simultaneously; but he, shaking his head to signify
that he was not to be conciliated by facial feats, however difficult
or contrary to nature, went out with Miss Wilson, followed by Mrs.
Jansenius and Mrs. Wylie.

"How is your Hubby?" said Agatha then, brusquely, to Henrietta.

Mrs. Trefusis's eyes filled with tears so quickly that, as she bent her
head to hide them, they fell, sprinkling Agatha's hand.

"This is such a dear old place," she began. "The associations of my
girlhood--"

"What is the matter between you and Hubby?" demanded Agatha,
interrupting her. "You had better tell me, or I will ask him when I meet
him."

"I was about to tell you, only you did not give me time."

"That is a most awful cram," said Agatha. "But no matter. Go on."

Henrietta hesitated. Her dignity as a married woman, and the reality of
her grief, revolted against the shallow acuteness of the schoolgirl. But
she found herself no better able to resist Agatha's domineering than
she had been in her childhood, and much more desirous of obtaining her
sympathy. Besides, she had already learnt to tell the story herself
rather than leave its narration to others, whose accounts did not,
she felt, put her case in the proper light. So she told Agatha of her
marriage, her wild love for her husband, his wild love for her, and his
mysterious disappearance without leaving word or sign behind him. She
did not mention the letter.

"Have you had him searched for?" said Agatha, repressing an inclination
to laugh.

"But where? Had I the remotest clue, I would follow him barefoot to the
end of the world."

"I think you ought to search all the rivers--you would have to do that
barefoot. He must have fallen in somewhere, or fallen down some place."

"No, no. Do you think I should be here if I thought his life in danger?
I have reasons--I know that he is only gone away."

"Oh, indeed! He took his portmanteau with him, did he? Perhaps he
has gone to Paris to buy you something nice and give you a pleasant
surprise."

"No," said Henrietta dejectedly. "He knew that I wanted nothing."

"Then I suppose he got tired of you and ran away."

Henrietta's peculiar scarlet blush flowed rapidly over her cheeks as she
flung Agatha's arm away, exclaiming, "How dare you say so! You have no
heart. He adored me."

"Bosh!" said Agatha. "People always grow tired of one another. I grow
tired of myself whenever I am left alone for ten minutes, and I am
certain that I am fonder of myself than anyone can be of another
person."

"I know you are," said Henrietta, pained and spiteful. "You have always
been particularly fond of yourself."

"Very likely he resembles me in that respect. In that case he will grow
tired of himself and come back, and you will both coo like turtle doves
until he runs away again. Ugh! Serve you right for getting married. I
wonder how people can be so mad as to do it, with the example of their
married acquaintances all warning them against it."

"You don't know what it is to love," said Henrietta, plaintively, and
yet patronizingly. "Besides, we were not like other couples."

"So it seems. But never mind, take my word for it, he will return to you
as soon as he has had enough of his own company. Don't worry thinking
about him, but come and have a game at lawn tennis."

During this conversation they had left the drawing-room and made a
detour through the grounds. They were now approaching the tennis courts
by a path which wound between two laurel hedges through the shrubbery.
Meanwhile, Smilash, waiting on the guests in his white apron and gloves
(which he had positively refused to take off, alleging that he was a
common man, with common hands such as born ladies and gentlemen could
not be expected to take meat and drink from), had behaved himself
irreproachably until the arrival of Miss Wilson and her visitors, which
occurred as he was returning to the table with an empty tray, moving so
swiftly that he nearly came into collision with Mrs. Jansenius. Instead
of apologizing, he changed countenance, hastily held up the tray like a
shield before his face, and began to walk backward from her, stumbling
presently against Miss Lindsay, who was running to return a ball.
Without heeding her angry look and curt rebuke, he half turned, and
sidled away into the shrubbery, whence the tray presently rose into the
air, flew across the laurel hedge, and descended with a peal of stage
thunder on the stooped shoulders of Josephs. Miss Wilson, after asking
the housekeeper with some asperity why she had allowed that man to
interfere in the attendance, explained to the guests that he was the
idiot of the countryside. Mr. Jansenius laughed, and said that he had
not seen the man's face, but that his figure reminded him forcibly of
some one; he could not just then recollect exactly whom.

Smilash, making off through the shrubbery, found the end of his path
blocked by Agatha and a young lady whose appearance alarmed him more
than had that of Mrs. Jansenius. He attempted to force his tray through
the hedge, but in vain; the laurel was impenetrable, and the noise
he made attracted the attention of the approaching couple. He made no
further effort to escape, but threw his borrowed apron over his head and
stood bolt upright with his back against the bushes.

"What is that man doing there?" said Henrietta, stopping mistrustfully.

Agatha laughed, and said loudly, so that he might hear: "It is only
a harmless madman that Miss Wilson employs. He is fond of disguising
himself in some silly way and trying to frighten us. Don't be afraid.
Come on."

Henrietta hung back, but her arm was linked in Agatha's, and she was
drawn along in spite of herself. Smilash did not move. Agatha strolled
on coolly, and as she passed him, adroitly caught the apron between
her finger and thumb and twitched it from his face. Instantly Henrietta
uttered a piercing scream, and Smilash caught her in his arms.

"Quick," he said to Agatha, "she is fainting. Run for some water.
Run!" And he bent over Henrietta, who clung to him frantically. Agatha,
bewildered by the effect of her practical joke, hesitated a moment, and
then ran to the lawn.

"What is the matter?" said Fairholme.

"Nothing. I want some water--quick, please. Henrietta has fainted in the
shrubbery, that is all."

"Please do not stir," said Miss Wilson authoritatively, "you will crowd
the path and delay useful assistance. Miss Ward, kindly get some water
and bring it to us. Agatha, come with me and point out where Mrs.
Trefusis is. You may come too, Miss Carpenter; you are so strong. The
rest will please remain where they are."

Followed by the two girls, she hurried into the shrubbery, where Mr.
Jansenius was already looking anxiously for his daughter. He was the
only person they found there. Smilash and Henrietta were gone.

At first the seekers, merely puzzled, did nothing but question Agatha
incredulously as to the exact spot on which Henrietta had fallen. But
Mr. Jansenius soon made them understand that the position of a lady
in the hands of a half-witted laborer was one of danger. His agitation
infected them, and when Agatha endeavored to reassure him by declaring
that Smilash was a disguised gentleman, Miss Wilson, supposing this to
be a mere repetition of her former idle conjecture, told her sharply to
hold her tongue, as the time was not one for talking nonsense. The news
now spread through the whole company, and the excitement became intense.
Fairholme shouted for volunteers to make up a searching party. All the
men present responded, and they were about to rush to the college gates
in a body when it Occurred to the cooler among them that they had better
divide into several parties, in order that search might be made at once
in different quarters. Ten minutes of confusion followed. Mr. Jansenius
started several times in quest of Henrietta, and, when he had gone a few
steps, returned and begged that no more time should be wasted. Josephs,
whose faith was simple, retired to pray, and did good, as far as it
went, by withdrawing one voice from the din of plans, objections, and
suggestions which the rest were making; each person trying to be heard
above the others.

At last Miss Wilson quelled the prevailing anarchy. Servants were sent
to alarm the neighbors and call in the village police. Detachments were
sent in various directions under the command of Fairholme and other
energetic spirits. The girls formed parties among themselves, which were
reinforced by male deserters from the previous levies. Miss Wilson then
went indoors and conducted a search through the interior of the college.
Only two persons were left on the tennis ground--Agatha and Mrs.
Jansenius, who had been surprisingly calm throughout.

"You need not be anxious," said Agatha, who had been standing aloof
since her rebuff by Miss Wilson. "I am sure there is no danger. It is
most extraordinary that they have gone away; but the man is no more mad
than I am, and I know he is a gentleman He told me so."

"Let us hope for the best," said Mrs. Jansenius, smoothly. "I think
I will sit down--I feel so tired. Thanks." (Agatha had handed her a
chair.) "What did you say he told you--this man?"

Agatha related the circumstances of her acquaintance with Smilash,
adding, at Mrs. Jansenius's request, a minute description of his
personal appearance. Mrs. Jansenius remarked that it was very singular,
and that she was sure Henrietta was quite safe. She then partook of
claret-cup and sandwiches. Agatha, though glad to find someone disposed
to listen to her, was puzzled by her aunt's coolness, and was even
goaded into pointing out that though Smilash was not a laborer, it did
not follow that he was an honest man. But Mrs. Jansenius only said: "Oh,
she is safe--quite safe! At least, of course, I can only hope so. We
shall have news presently," and took another sandwich.

The searchers soon began to return, baffled. A few shepherds, the only
persons in the vicinity, had been asked whether they had seen a young
lady and a laborer. Some of them had seen a young woman with a basket of
clothes, if that mout be her. Some thought that Phil Martin the
carrier would see her if anybody would. None of them had any positive
information to give.

As the afternoon wore on, and party after party returned tired and
unsuccessful, depression replaced excitement; conversation, no longer
tumultuous, was carried on in whispers, and some of the local visitors
slipped away to their homes with a growing conviction that something
unpleasant had happened, and that it would be as well not to be mixed up
in it. Mr. Jansenius, though a few words from his wife had surprised and
somewhat calmed him, was still pitiably restless and uneasy.

At last the police arrived. At sight of their uniforms excitement
revived; there was a general conviction that something effectual would
be done now. But the constables were only mortal, and in a few moments a
whisper spread that they were fooled. They doubted everything told them,
and expressed their contempt for amateur searching by entering on
a fresh investigation, prying with the greatest care into the least
probable places. Two of them went off to the chalet to look for Smilash.
Then Fairholme, sunburnt, perspiring, and dusty, but still energetic,
brought back the exhausted remnant of his party, with a sullen boy, who
scowled defiantly at the police, evidently believing that he was about
to be delivered into their custody.

Fairholme had been everywhere, and, having seen nothing of the missing
pair, had come to the conclusion that they were nowhere. He had asked
everybody for information, and had let them know that he meant to have
it too, if it was to be had. But it was not to be had. The sole resort
of his labor was the evidence of the boy whom he didn't believe.

"'Im!" said the inspector, not quite pleased by Fairholme's zeal, and
yet overborne by it. "You're Wickens's boy, ain't you?"

"Yes, I am Wickens's boy," said the witness, partly fierce, partly
lachrymose, "and I say I seen him, and if anyone sez I didn't see him,
he's a lie."

"Come," said the inspector sharply, "give us none of your cheek, but
tell us what you saw, or you'll have to deal with me afterwards."

"I don't care who I deal with," said the boy, at bay. "I can't be took
for seein' him, because there's no lor agin it. I was in the gravel pit
in the canal meadow--"

"What business had you there?" said the inspector, interrupting.

"I got leave to be there," said the boy insolently, but reddening.

"Who gave you leave?" said the inspector, collaring him. "Ah," he added,
as the captive burst into tears, "I told you you'd have to deal with me.
Now hold your noise, and remember where you are and who you're speakin'
to; and perhaps I mayn't lock you up this time. Tell me what you saw
when you were trespassin' in the meadow."

"I sor a young 'omen and a man. And I see her kissin' him; and the
gentleman won't believe me."

"You mean you saw him kissing her, more likely."

"No, I don't. I know wot it is to have a girl kiss you when you don't
want. And I gev a screech to friken 'em. And he called me and gev me
tuppence, and sez, 'You go to the devil,' he sez, 'and don't tell no one
you seen me here, or else,' he sez, 'I might be tempted to drownd you,'
he sez, 'and wot a shock that would be to your parents!' 'Oh, yes, very
likely,' I sez, jes' like that. Then I went away, because he knows Mr.
Wickens, and I was afeerd of his telling on me."

The boy being now subdued, questions were put to him from all sides.
But his powers of observation and description went no further. As he was
anxious to propitiate his captors, he answered as often as possible in
the affirmative. Mr. Jansenius asked him whether the young woman he had
seen was a lady, and he said yes. Was the man a laborer? Yes--after a
moment's hesitation. How was she dressed? He hadn't taken notice. Had
she red flowers in her hat? Yes. Had she a green dress? Yes. Were the
flowers in her hat yellow? (Agatha's question.) Yes. Was her dress pink?
Yes. Sure it wasn't black? No answer.

"I told you he was a liar," said Fairholme contemptuously.

"Well, I expect he's seen something," said the inspector, "but what it
was, or who it was, is more than I can get out of him."

There was a pause, and they looked askance upon Wickens's boy. His
account of the kissing made it almost an insult to the Janseniuses to
identify with Henrietta the person he had seen. Jane suggested dragging
the canal, but was silenced by an indignant "sh-sh-sh," accompanied by
apprehensive and sympathetic glances at the bereaved parents. She was
displaced from the focus of attention by the appearance of the two
policemen who had been sent to the chalet. Smilash was between them,
apparently a prisoner. At a distance, he seemed to have suffered some
frightful injury to his head, but when he was brought into the midst of
the company it appeared that he had twisted a red handkerchief about
his face as if to soothe a toothache. He had a particularly hangdog
expression as he stood before the inspector with his head bowed and his
countenance averted from Mr. Jansenius, who, attempting to scrutinize
his features, could see nothing but a patch of red handkerchief.

One of the policemen described how they had found Smilash in the act of
entering his dwelling; how he had refused to give any information or
to go to the college, and had defied them to take him there against his
will; and how, on their at last proposing to send for the inspector
and Mr. Jansenius, he had called them asses, and consented to accompany
them. The policeman concluded by declaring that the man was either drunk
or designing, as he could not or would not speak sensibly.

"Look here, governor," began Smilash to the inspector, "I am a common
man--no commoner goin', as you may see for--"

"That's 'im," cried Wickens's boy, suddenly struck with a sense of his
own importance as a witness. "That's 'im that the lady kissed, and that
gev me tuppence and threatened to drownd me."

"And with a 'umble and contrite 'art do I regret that I did not drownd
you, you young rascal," said Smilash. "It ain't manners to interrupt a
man who, though common, might be your father for years and wisdom."

"Hold your tongue," said the inspector to the boy. "Now, Smilash, do you
wish to make any statement? Be careful, for whatever you say may be used
against you hereafter."

"If you was to lead me straight away to the scaffold, colonel, I could
tell you no more than the truth. If any man can say that he has heard
Jeff Smilash tell a lie, let him stand forth."

"We don't want to hear about that," said the inspector. "As you are a
stranger in these parts, nobody here knows any bad of you. No more do
they know any good of you neither."

"Colonel," said Smilash, deeply impressed, "you have a penetrating mind,
and you know a bad character at sight. Not to deceive you, I am that
given to lying, and laziness, and self-indulgence of all sorts, that the
only excuse I can find for myself is that it is the nature of the race
so to be; for most men is just as bad as me, and some of 'em worsen I do
not speak pers'nal to you, governor, nor to the honorable gentlemen here
assembled. But then you, colonel, are a hinspector of police, which
I take to be more than merely human; and as to the gentlemen here, a
gentleman ain't a man--leastways not a common man--the common man bein'
but the slave wot feeds and clothes the gentleman beyond the common."

"Come," said the inspector, unable to follow these observations, "you
are a clever dodger, but you can't dodge me. Have you any statement to
make with reference to the lady that was last seen in your company?"

"Take a statement about a lady!" said Smilash indignantly. "Far be the
thought from my mind!"

"What have you done with her?" said Agatha, impetuously. "Don't be
silly."

"You're not bound to answer that, you know," said the inspector,
a little put out by Agatha's taking advantage of her irresponsible
unofficial position to come so directly to the point. "You may if you
like, though. If you've done any harm, you'd better hold your tongue. If
not, you'd better say so."

"I will set the young lady's mind at rest respecting her honorable
sister," said Smilash. "When the young lady caught sight of me she
fainted. Bein' but a young man, and not used to ladies, I will not deny
but that I were a bit scared, and that my mind were not open to the
sensiblest considerations. When she unveils her orbs, so to speak, she
ketches me round the neck, not knowin' me from Adam the father of us
all, and sez, 'Bring me some water, and don't let the girls see me.'
Through not 'avin' the intelligence to think for myself, I done just
what she told me. I ups with her in my arms--she bein' a light weight
and a slender figure--and makes for the canal as fast as I could. When I
got there, I lays her on the bank and goes for the water. But what
with factories, and pollutions, and high civilizations of one sort and
another, English canal water ain't fit to sprinkle on a lady, much less
for her to drink. Just then, as luck would have it, a barge came along
and took her aboard, and--"

"To such a thing," said Wickens's boy stubbornly, emboldened by
witnessing the effrontery of one apparently of his own class. "I sor you
two standin' together, and her a kissin' of you. There worn's no barge."

"Is the maiden modesty of a born lady to be disbelieved on the word of a
common boy that only walks the earth by the sufferance of the landlords
and moneylords he helps to feed?" cried Smilash indignantly. "Why, you
young infidel, a lady ain't made of common brick like you. She don't
know what a kiss means, and if she did, is it likely that she'd kiss
me when a fine man like the inspector here would be only too happy to
oblige her. Fie, for shame! The barge were red and yellow, with a green
dragon for a figurehead, and a white horse towin' of it. Perhaps you're
color-blind, and can't distinguish red and yellow. The bargee was moved
to compassion by the sight of the poor faintin' lady, and the offer of
'arf-a-crown, and he had a mother that acted as a mother should. There
was a cabin in that barge about as big as the locker where your ladyship
keeps your jam and pickles, and in that locker the bargee lives, quite
domestic, with his wife and mother and five children. Them canal boats
is what you may call the wooden walls of England."

"Come, get on with your story," said the inspector. "We know what barges
is as well as you."

"I wish more knew of 'em," retorted Smilash; "perhaps it 'ud lighten
your work a bit. However, as I was sayin', we went right down the canal
to Lyvern, where we got off, and the lady she took the railway omnibus
and went away in it. With the noble openhandedness of her class, she
gave me sixpence; here it is, in proof that my words is true. And I wish
her safe home, and if I was on the rack I could tell no more, except
that when I got back I were laid hands on by these here bobbies,
contrary to the British constitooshun, and if your ladyship will kindly
go to where that constitooshun is wrote down, and find out wot it sez
about my rights and liberties--for I have been told that the working-man
has his liberties, and have myself seen plenty took with him--you
will oblige a common chap more than his education will enable him to
express."

"Sir," cried Mr. Jansenius suddenly, "will you hold up your head and
look me in the face?"

Smilash did so, and immediately started theatrically, exclaiming, "Whom
do I see?"

"You would hardly believe it," he continued, addressing the company at
large, "but I am well beknown to this honorable gentleman. I see it upon
your lips, governor, to ask after my missus, and I thank you for your
condescending interest. She is well, sir, and my residence here is
fully agreed upon between us. What little cloud may have rose upon our
domestic horizon has past away; and, governor,"---here Smilash's voice
fell with graver emphasis--"them as interferes betwixt man and wife now
will incur a heavy responsibility. Here I am, such as you see me, and
here I mean to stay, likewise such as you see me. That is, if what you
may call destiny permits. For destiny is a rum thing, governor. I came
here thinking it was the last place in the world I should ever set eyes
on you in, and blow me if you ain't a'most the first person I pops on."

"I do not choose to be a party to this mummery of--"

"Asking your leave to take the word out of your mouth, governor, I make
you a party to nothink. Respecting my past conduct, you may out with it
or you may keep it to yourself. All I say is that if you out with some
of it I will out with the rest. All or none. You are free to tell the
inspector here that I am a bad 'un. His penetrating mind have discovered
that already. But if you go into names and particulars, you will not
only be acting against the wishes of my missus, but you will lead to my
tellin' the whole story right out afore everyone here, and then goin'
away where no one won't never find me."

"I think the less said the better," said Mrs. Jansenius, uneasily
observant of the curiosity and surprise this dialogue was causing. "But
understand this, Mr.--"

"Smilash, dear lady; Jeff Smilash."

"Mr. Smilash, whatever arrangement you may have made with your wife, it
has nothing to do with me. You have behaved infamously, and I desire
to have as little as possible to say to you in future! I desire to have
nothing to say to you--nothing," said Mr. Jansenius. "I look on your
conduct as an insult to me, personally. You may live in any fashion
you please, and where you please. All England is open to you except one
place--my house. Come, Ruth." He offered his arm to his wife; she took
it, and they turned away, looking about for Agatha, who, disgusted at
the gaping curiosity of the rest, had pointedly withdrawn beyond earshot
of the conversation.

Miss Wilson looked from Smilash--who had watched Mr. Jansenius's
explosion of wrath with friendly interest, as if it concerned him as a
curious spectator only--to her two visitors as they retreated. "Pray, do
you consider this man's statement satisfactory?" she said to them. "I do
not."

"I am far too common a man to be able to make any statement that could
satisfy a mind cultivated as yours has been," said Smilash, "but I would
'umbly pint out to you that there is a boy yonder with a telegram trying
to shove hisself through the 'iborn throng."

"Miss Wilson!" cried the boy shrilly.

She took the telegram; read it; and frowned. "We have had all our
trouble for nothing, ladies and gentlemen," she said, with suppressed
vexation. "Mrs. Trefusis says here that she has gone back to London. She
has not considered it necessary to add any explanation."

There was a general murmur of disappointment.

"Don't lose heart, ladies," said Smilash. "She may be drowned or
murdered for all we know. Anyone may send a telegram in a false name.
Perhaps it's a plant. Let's hope for your sakes that some little
accident--on the railway, for instance--may happen yet."

Miss Wilson turned upon him, glad to find someone with whom she might
justly be angry. "You had better go about your business," she said. "And
don't let me see you here again."

"This is 'ard," said Smilash plaintively. "My intentions was nothing but
good. But I know wot it is. It's that young varmint a-saying that the
young lady kissed me."

"Inspector," said Miss Wilson, "will you oblige me by seeing that he
leaves the college as soon as possible?"

"Where's my wages?" he retorted reproachfully. "Where's my lawful wages?
I am su'prised at a lady like you, chock full o' moral science and
political economy, wanting to put a poor man off. Where's your wages
fund? Where's your remuneratory capital?"

"Don't you give him anything, ma'am," said the inspector. "The money
he's had from the lady will pay him very well. Move on here, or we'll
precious soon hurry you."

"Very well," grumbled Smilash. "I bargained for ninepence, and what with
the roller, and opening the soda water, and shoving them heavy tables
about, there was a decomposition of tissue in me to the tune of two
shillings. But all I ask is the ninepence, and let the lady keep the one
and threppence as the reward of abstinence. Exploitation of labor at
the rate of a hundred and twenty-five per cent., that is. Come, give us
ninepence, and I'll go straight off."

"Here is a shilling," said Miss Wilson. "Now go."

"Threppence change!" cried Smilash. "Honesty has ever been--"

"You may keep the change."

"You have a noble 'art, lady; but you're flying in the face of the law
of supply and demand. If you keep payin' at this rate, there'll be a
rush of laborers to the college, and competition'll soon bring you down
from a shilling to sixpence, let alone ninepence. That's the way wages
go down and death rates goes up, worse luck for the likes of hus, as has
to sell ourselves like pigs in the market."

He was about to continue when the policeman took him by the arm, turned
him towards the gate, and pointed expressively in that direction.
Smilash looked vacantly at him for a moment. Then, with a wink at
Fairholme, he walked gravely away, amid general staring and silence.



CHAPTER V

What had passed between Smilash and Henrietta remained unknown except to
themselves. Agatha had seen Henrietta clasping his neck in her arms,
but had not waited to hear the exclamation of "Sidney, Sidney," which
followed, nor to see him press her face to his breast in his anxiety to
stifle her voice as he said, "My darling love, don't screech I implore
you. Confound it, we shall have the whole pack here in a moment. Hush!"

"Don't leave me again, Sidney," she entreated, clinging faster to him
as his perplexed gaze, wandering towards the entrance to the shrubbery,
seemed to forsake her. A din of voices in that direction precipitated
his irresolution.

"We must run away, Hetty," he said "Hold fast about my neck, and don't
strangle me. Now then." He lifted her upon his shoulder and ran swiftly
through the grounds. When they were stopped by the wall, he placed her
atop of it, scrabbled over, and made her jump into his arms. Then he
staggered away with her across the fields, gasping out in reply to
the inarticulate remonstrances which burst from her as he stumbled and
reeled at every hillock, "Your weight is increasing at the rate of a
stone a second, my love. If you stoop you will break my back. Oh, Lord,
here's a ditch!"

"Let me down," screamed Henrietta in an ecstasy of delight and
apprehension. "You will hurt yourself, and--Oh, DO take--"

He struggled through a dry ditch as she spoke, and came out upon a
grassy place that bordered the towpath of the canal. Here, on the
bank of a hollow where the moss was dry and soft, he seated her, threw
himself prone on his elbows before her, and said, panting:

"Nessus carrying off Dejanira was nothing to this! Whew! Well, my
darling, are you glad to see me?"

"But--"

"But me no buts, unless you wish me to vanish again and for ever. Wretch
that I am, I have longed for you unspeakably more than once since I ran
away from you. You didn't care, of course?"

"I did. I did, indeed. Why did you leave me, Sidney?"

"Lest a worse thing might befall. Come, don't let us waste in
explanations the few minutes we have left. Give me a kiss."

"Then you are going to leave me again. Oh, Sidney--"

"Never mind to-morrow, Hetty. Be like the sun and the meadow, which are
not in the least concerned about the coming winter. Why do you stare
at that cursed canal, blindly dragging its load of filth from place to
place until it pitches it into the sea--just as a crowded street pitches
its load into the cemetery? Stare at ME, and give me a kiss."

She gave him several, and said coaxingly, with her arm still upon his
shoulder: "You only talk that way to frighten me, Sidney; I know you
do."

"You are the bright sun of my senses," he said, embracing her. "I feel
my heart and brain wither in your smile, and I fling them to you for
your prey with exultation. How happy I am to have a wife who does not
despise me for doing so--who rather loves me the more!"

"Don't be silly," said Henrietta, smiling vacantly. Then, stung by a
half intuition of his meaning, she repulsed him and said angrily, "YOU
despise ME."

"Not more than I despise myself. Indeed, not so much; for many emotions
that seem base from within seem lovable from without."

"You intend to leave me again. I feel it. I know it."

"You