Thomas_He_Cometh_Not_She_Said.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
CHAPTER I.
MADGE RODEN.
The village lies partly in a shady hot
hollow, and partly on a breezy slope that
is inclining away to the grand ridges of
Exmoor. From some wild deep spring up
in those purple heights a river takes its rise,
and, after tearing tumultuously through this
village of Halsworthy, pours itself a passionate
offering into the sea that is lashing the chffs
out yonder.
It is July! rich, sumptuous July. The
VOL. I. B
" * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.
year has "grown lush in juicy stalks," and
the bees are everywhere keeping up a hum
about the globes of clover and the waxy-
looking pale pink heath that blooms abund-
antly here. The land is wreathed with flowers,
in short; for the soil is fertile, and the love of
flowers strong in this locality.
Soft torpor is the normal characteristic of
that portion of Halsworthy which nestles
away in the hollow. But to-day unwonted
excitement* not to say agitation, reigns there.
Halsworthy is about to compete with the
great world of which it knows so Uttle in the
matter of pleasure. It is going to start
a cricket* croquet, and archery club; and
it is gcong to commence proceedings to-
day.
There is one name on the tongue of every
man. woman, and child in Halsworthy to-day,
and that is the name of )[iss Roden. The
MADGE RODEN. 3
girl finds that life lags more than a little in
this sweet sleepy hollow ; and so, in her im-
patience of this lagging, she has at last incited
Halsworthy to bestir itself in the matter of
amusements.
She has given up the lawn that stretches
away in front of her own picturesque, many-
gabled house as the ground for the sports.
And now she is standing on the steps just
outside the porch, watching them decorate the
tent that is to be called a " pavilion,'' and to
be the scene of a " the dansant " with ever-
greens and purple heather.
She was born and has grown up in this
fi^ee, invigorating moorland air, and now at
twenty she is as full of health and spirit and
fearlessness as an Exmoor pony. There is a
strong bewitching element of untamed, un-
trained grace about her, as she suddenly
jumps off the steps and walks quickly, with-
B 2
" * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
out the faintest indication of Grecian bend, to
meet a lady who is slowly coming up the
drive.
She wears a dress of. some thick white
material, cut just short enough in front to
show her small, shapely feet. The tone of
colour of any thick white material is enough
to ruin the fairest complexion ; but, though
Madge Roden is never called " fair,'' it does
not ruin hers. Her round straight throat
does not look brown rising even from the
collar of such a dress. And as for her face,
few people care to criticise the colour of a
countenance that is bright, merry, and frank
as a gratified child's. The roundness of youth
has not left her cheeks yet. Her eyes have
not learned to drop or lower themselves. She
gives back look for look without blushing.
Indeed, altogether the bloom is very much on
this beautiful peach ^this girl on whom no
MADGE RODEN. 5
rays that scorch have ever been allowed to
faU.
The lady whom she meets a little way
down the drive takes her hand, holds
her at arm's length, and scans her criticis-
ingly. When the inspection is over, she
says,
"You will do very well, Madge. I like
your rose-coloured ribbons and feather."
" I tried a dozen colours at least before I
settled on rose,'' Madge answers a trifle re-
piningly, " and then 1 felt after all, Who will
see me 1 Who will take the trouble to come
to Halsworthy. Mrs. Henderson ? do you
think anyone will accept our challenges 1 do
you think anyone will come 1 "
Mrs. Henderson is forty-five. She has a
husband, children, a home, a round of duties
that must be done, and a few anxieties.
Nevertheless, she has the heart of a woman,
6 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
and a great love and sympathy for Madge.
So she says heartily,
"I hope so, dear I think so. At any
rate, your eflforts won't be unrewarded, for
you'll have given a great deal of pleasure to
your old friends in the village ; they will
meet here and enjoy themselves even if no
strangers come/'
Madge has clasped her hands behind her
bacL There is a comic expression, half
amused, half petulant, on her face. The
lig^t breeze that comes down from the hill
has wafted a few stray locks of her bronze-
brown hair away fitm the confining pins.
Her smaD, oval, eager face is changing its
expression every instant Her lustrous velvet
eyes are lifted, with a look in them that
pkads for more sympathy, with her loiiging
for a change, with her cravii^ for something
better than she has known. AItogetbw
MADGE RODEN. 7
though she is not a beauty, Madge Koden is
a very attractive specimen of womankind as
she stands here, about to play the part of
young lady of the land for the first time.
She is an orphan, this girl who owns
Moorbridge House and lands ; and though
she has a brace of guardians, and an old
aunt of her father lives with her, she is, to
all intents and purposes, as free and un-
fettered as one of the uncaught Exmoor
ponies, to which I compared her just now.
For three years she has done very much as
she pleases with herself and her two thou-
sand per annum. But her 'flights have been
very circumscribed, and she is longing to try
her wings.
All the fashion, youth, and beauty of Hals-
worthy arrive shortly after Mrs. Henderson.
Halsworthy is not densely populated with
the upper classes ; but still it has its pair of
" *HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
surgeons, its lawyer, and its one retired
gentleman who has realised fabulous sums in
the city. These all have daughters who are
delighted to shoot arrows in the air and play
croquet. The sons of these respective
famiUes are out in the world, naturally, and
Halsworthy knows them not.
Madge hurls herself into the task of enter-
taining her friends ; and, aided by Mr. Hen-
derson (the vicar) and his wife her dear
friend, she is succeeding, when a drag comes
up, and the- arrival of the " Incogniti,'* who
are to play against the " Gentlemen of West
Somerset," is proclaimed, Madge's heart
thumps with joy. It is going to be a success,
this enterprise of hers. If only the Gentle-
men of West Somerset would be good enough
to come, all would go merry as a marriage
beU.
They come at last. The first cricket-
MADGE RODEK. 9
match of the week is played. The " th6
dansant '* goes off in a vray that makes it a
sweet memory among the maidens of Hals-
worthy for ever. And the veil of night
descends upon enthusiastic paeans of praise
and thanksgiving to Miss Roden, the origi-
nator of this holiday f^te that has been
so gloriously inaugurated. When that day's
work is quite done, and the evil of forget-
fulness cannot be remedied, a thought that
would have been such a happy one if it had
only flashed across Madge's mind in time,
comes into it and tantalises her. And in the
act of saying good-night to Mrs. Henderson,
she interrupts herself to cry out,
"Oh! why didn't you wh^ didn't you
ask your friend's son that Philip, you know?
How could ypu forget him ? and how could
ir
" How remiss ! how stupid I am." Mrs.
10 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
Henderson is as sincerely sorry and morti-
fied about this omission as Madge herself.
"Never mind, Madge," she adds, directly,
" m write to-morrow ; and if he can take a
holiday, the gbod, hard-working fellow, he
may be here by Wednesday, and enjoy three
days of our jubilee/*
After a long search Mrs. Henderson is
rewarded by finding the last letter she has
received from her old friend Mrs. Fletcher,
They have been tender and true friends for
thirty years ; but life is too full of work for
the great majority, for frequent correspon-
dence in these days. This letter is dated
two years ago. The address given is
Number 20 in one of the insignificant streets
in Chelsea, that do not dare to call them-^
selves a portion of Belgravia. Mrs. Hen-
derson reads the letter over again with
interest as keen and fresh as when she
MADGE RODEN. U
received it. It is full of the praises of Philip
of the good son and brother, whose quiet,
unvaunted heroism wins a blessing from his
mother every hour of his life.
Presently she gives a pleased shake of
the head, and a well-satisfied smile, and
says,
'' I am justified. A man who has given
up a career he loved, as Philip loved the Bar,
and has settled down so uncomplainingly to
an occupation he must nearly loathe, for his
mother's sake, must deserve even my child
Madge. I'll ask him down : even his good-
ness will have its reward, if he wins her for
his wife."
So she sits down and writes to Mrs.
Fletcher this night, tired as she is, and
pleads the cause of the Halsworthy sports
and pastimes so cleverly, that it seems as if
Philip would be conferring a favour on every
H " *IIE COMETH KOT/ UHE SAID."
ono by coming to be a guest at the Vicarage
for 80 long a time as he can take a holiday.
And 80 the first link in the chain of compli-
cations which will ensue is forged by one of
the kindest, truest hands in the world.
For tho first time for the day, the tempera-
ture of tho front sitting-room in the little
liouBO in which tho Fletchers live in Chelsea
is plonsanti or, rather, endurable. It is the
day aftor the inauguration of the Halsworthy
S(Hrts and [pastimes. Tho evening post is
j\wt in. and Mrs. Fletcher Philip's mother
is in rt^Mipt of a letter from her old friend
Mrs. Ileudorsinu
IWh\ld her a:$ ^e $its ther in the most
wn\ivrtiible chair in the room a rery old
aud teebte x^ma thoi^rh $he oidy numbers
fif^ year^j. lake her svm^. her uerroiKs
?j^v^tem b finely er^jnut^^ ami ik hasj had
MADGE RODEN. 13
some severe shocks from Fate and Fortune-
There is a want of power about her muscles,
a lack of physical force that makes her chil-
dren shrink in pain from any mention of the
word "paralysis'' ^although her incapacity
for action and exertion has never been
broadly called by that name yet.
Those children are about her now, as she
finishes reading Mrs. Henderson s letter, and
tired with the eflfort, lets it feebly flutter to
the floor. Philip, her son, is reading a news-
paper. His occupation as head clerk in an
important mercantile house does not leave
him much time for even press-literature
during the hours of the day.
He is a young man of eight and twenty,
neither grave-looking nor endowed with a
disappointed expression, though he has re-
linquished some hopes in Ufe that have been
and etill are desperately dear to him.
14 " * HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID."
He has a power of happiness and enjoyment
about him stilL Looking at him as he sits
there by his mother, his fair hair tossed off
his open brow, his eyes sparkling vdth his
keen sense of the humour of something that
is only seen by himself one feels inclined
to endorse Mrs. Henderson's opinion, and
declare that he does deserve eren such an
one as her favourite, the heiress, Madge
Boden.
His two sisters, ''the gu-ls'' as they are
called still, though one is twenty-S3ven and
the other twenty-five, are hovering about full
of suggestions.
"You might manage it so easily, surely,
Phil. Get Roberts to take your work for a
week, and give your pupils papers: the
holiday would do you so much good,"
" And to feel you were having a holiday
would do mamma so much good," the
MADGE RODEN. 15
younger sister pleads. " Chrissy and I
would never let her miss you, would we
Chriss?"
Chriss, a determined, good, practical, hard-
headed, pretty woman of twenty-seven, takes
careful stock of all the possibiUties before she
answers.
" Mamma wouldn't miss him very much if
Cousin Philip stayed here with us while Phil
was away : the change to Phil would do her
good, wouldn't it, mamma ? "
" And Cousin Philip is entirely at your
service, now and for ever,'' a refined fuU-
toned voice says, as a man lounges forward
from the darkest corner of the room, and
shows himself in the gleam of light that still
comes in at the window, without any dread
of that light being too fierce for him.
The two girls, Chrissy and Mabel, look
at him admiringly, rapturously, gratefully.
t
1(5 " * HE COMETH NOT,' HE SAID."
Philip Fletcher, their own good, true,
tfaorcmgbl J appreciated brother/ is cast in a
mould that is very agreeable in the eyes of
young womankind. But this cousin of his is
jtwt so much taller, handsomer, finer in every
way as forces one to see the diflFerence, even
when one does not want to mark it. He is
quite as clover, too, as Phil quite as am-
bitious, quite as attractive. But he lacks all
that patient, gallant spirit of self-abnegation
which has made Phil saciifice himself to his
mother's real tangible comfort; He lacks all
the self-control, all the plodding perseverance,
all the higher elements of Phil's nature..
But ho is very attractive, very bewildering,
very greatly gifted with the power of seem-
ing, and the women are all bewitched by
him. Kvon his old aunt feels as if she could
blush with pleasure, when she hears him say
that ho will willingly stay and play Phil's
MADGE RODEN. 17
part in the household, while Phil goes down
to Halsworthy to play croquet and cricket,
and to make the acquaintance of Mrs.
Henderson's dear child, Madge Roden.
" Though why that young person should be
held out as a bait in these days of strikes, and
high prices, and general inability to marry
and be happy on nothing a year, is incompre-
hensible to me," he says.
And- then he learns for a certainty that
Miss Roden has two thousand per annum.
It is a dreadful disappointment to the
mother, to the sisters (and to the cousin,
he himself affirms), but later that night
Phil Fletcher comes to the conclusion that
he " can't go to Halsworthy." Another pupil
is looming on his horizon. The senior
partner of his house wants to get away to
Switzerland early this year. He "doesnV
see his way out of it all till September.
#
IS " 'he COMETH not/ SHE 8AID/'
he says; and then he kisses his mother
and adds,
^One of the girls must \mte and tell
Mrs. Henderson this as poUtelj as possible,
mother. A good thing, too: her child, as
she calls this Madge Roden, might entangle
herself in my life, and she must fly higher."
The girls have a rery full portion of work
allotted to them already, in spite of all Phil's
efforts to smooth their paths. Chrissy
keeps the house, and does daily battle with
butcher and baker ; to say nothing of the
hourly combat that goes on between mind
and matter, the former being represented by
herself, the latter by the cook and house-
maid. Chrissy's time is very fully occupied.
She always feels as if so much ground were
cut from beneath her feet, when she has to
sit down to write a letter. And Mabel, the
younger sister, is striving to bo independent of
MADGE EODEX. 19
" dear, noble, hard-working PhiL'" She gives
music-lessons from ten till four, and after
four, well ! she is not inclined to rush into
a correspondence with a woman who is to
her onlj "mamma's old friend Mrs. H^ider-
son."
But Cousin Philip, the handsome idler
about town, of whom utter ruin has been
prognosticated by discerning friends a hun-
dred times and more, Cousin Philip, the
iiTesistible scamp of the Fletcher family,
comes to the fore on this occasion in a most
unprecedented way.
He will write and explain (in his aunt's
name) to Mrs. Henderson that his cousin
has no time for Halsworthy, and all the
happiness Halsworthy might represent to
him. He (in his aunt's name) undertakes to
make the refusal a more gracious thing than
the acceptance of the invitation would have
02
20 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
been. He (in his aunt's name) will take
care that Phil's conduct shall shine out
inore gloriously than ever in Mrs. Hender-
son's eyes.
Thus much he declares to the mother and
the sisters. To his cousin Phil he simply
says,
I'll put it all so neatly, old fellow, that
you will be able to step into that hospitable
Hendersonian home at any time. Look here,
Phil, my opinion is not worth much, I'm aware,
I'm rather of the vagabond order, I know.
But you are right not to fall into a silk net
yet : work, work, is the thing for us both. I
am oflf to-morrow, to try to shift for myself
at last."
As he utters this virtuous resolve, he rises
and holds out his hand, and Phil grasps itj
opening his mouth in amazement the while.
" You work ! " he ejaculates.
MADGE RODEN. 21
" Yes, I'm going in for the hardest work
IVe ever done in my life. Shake hands, old
boy, and say good-by to your mother and
sisters for me/'
Phil Fletcher hears a pupil in the hall;
he has no time to be astonished at his cousin's'
determination. He says rapidly, as he is
arranging his papers for the evening
" I hope you put it smoothly to Mrs. Hen-
derson : she may be a useful friend to the
girls. I wish she'd give them the chance of a
holiday there; but it's as likely as not that we
don't hear of her for another half-century.*'
"As likely as not," Cousin Philip rejoins.
Then he says good-by once more, rather
brokenly, and goes and kisses his aunt and
bids the girls farewell.
* . * * * ^
For all these arrangements a fresh impetus
is given to the Halsworthy hilarities on
22 " * HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
Wednesday night by the introduction of Mr.
PhiUp Fletcher.
Mrs. Henderson takes him up to Moor-
bridge House herself, and specially presents
him to the young presiding deity. " He's
his mother's son, dear, that's the only claim
he has on my regard,'' she whispers to
Madge; but she adds, as Madge is turning
away
" He's as good as he's good-looking, dear ;
I dare venture to tell you that. This holiday
is the first he has had for years, and he half
repents having taken it now. My own girls
are darlings, but I do envy my old friend
that son."
" Yet he isn't quite what I expected to
see," Madge says, a little wistfully : " he's so
handsome, and his goodness sits so easily
upon him. His sisters must like him very
much. And how good of you to get him! for I
MADGE RODEN. 23
have so many young girls to think of,
haven't I?"
This from the fair chatelaine of twenty.
Surely Philip Fletcher's lines are cast in
pleasant places !
CHAPTER II.
OLIVE AVELAKD's EREOB,
The Thursday following PhUip Fletcher's
arrival is the best, brightest, most beautiful
Jay of the Halsworthy week so far. The
houses of all the clergy and gentry, for ten
miles round, are filled with guests, and these,
together with their entertainers, flock to the
lawn of the head-centre of all this gaiet}^
Miss Eoden herself.
Her friends from the Vicarage are with her
very early, and Madge soon finds herself con-
sulting Mr. Fletcher rather humbly about
many things over which she had assumed the
sole control before he came. For a man
OLIVE AVELAND's EREOR. 25
whose whole growu-up life has been given to
engrossing business (engrossing though dis-
tasteful), he is surprisingly well up in all that
pertains to athletic sports, pastimes, amuse-
ments of every kind. " And he doesn't vaunt
his familiarity with them at all ^it just seems
to slip out against his will," Madge tells
Mis. Henderson towards the end of the day,
when Philip has carried off the stranger's
honours in a flat-race.
Old Miss Roden, the great-aunt who takes
care of Madge and manages (I) Moorbridge
House (she really believes that she does both
these things, thanks to Madge's tact and
kind-heartedness), is out on the lawn in an
arm-chair under the bright green sweeping
branches of a deciduous cypress. All those
visitors who are of sufficient note in the
neighbourhood have been presented to the
lady who is in authority over pleasant Madge
i
26 ** ' JIB COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
Eodon. To Madge's great delight, her aunt
has invited a great number of people to finish
the evening in Moorbridge House on this
happy day.
" The young people can dance till^ twelve,
and then we will have supper," she said, when
she issued her invitations the day before to
the happy many who have been chosen. And
all this she has done of her own accord, and
not at Madge's instigation.
Presently those who are to remain troop in
joyfully, and every bed and dressing room in
spacious Moorbridge House is soon full of
merry young people intent on making the
best of themselves. Only Madge lingers out
on the lawn still, saying a few more words to
her friends, the Hendersons, who are going
homo to dress.
" Don't rely on my coming back, Madge,"
Uvn. Hondersou says. "I'm but a weak
OLIVE AVELAND's ERROR. 27
mortal, and the temptation to stay at home
and be cool and comfortable all the evening
may overcome me/*
" Fancy anyone abstaining from dancing!"
Madge says pityingly, as they saunter slowly
towards the entrance-gate. " I'm tired now :
if I'd nothing to look forward to, my feet
would ache horribly, and I should be asleep in
two minutes ; but, as it is, my feet are only
throbbing to dance, and I do wonder at your
thinking of coolness and comfort and home,
when you have an opportunity of flying round
doublatime to Olive Aveland*s playing."
The four are walking abreast as Madge
says this, and Mrs. Henderson answers,
"You dear exhaustingly unfatigued per-
son, you had better go in and dress now,
or you'll be a laggard hostess ^as bad a
thing in a woman as it is for a man to be
a laggard in love or war ; isn't it, Philip 1 "
28 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
The vicar's wife tuins kindly to include
her old friend's son in the conversation ;
and as her eyes fall on him, she exclaims,
"Philip, you have overdone yourself to-day;"
for Philip Fletcher seems to be almost stag*
gering as he walks.
" Yes," he says rather faintly, " this sudden
burst after my sedentary life it tries a
follow ; and you were right, Miss Roden :
when that ball struck my foot, it gave me
a harder blow than I confessed to."
" Oh 1 " Madge cries, full of a feeling that
is half pity for him, and half fear that this
handsome young stranger may not be able
to dance all the round dances with his lame
foot. " Oh 1 do come into the house, and
have your things sent up ; do save yourself
the walk : he must, mustn't he, Mrs. Hen-
derson."
"It would be wise to do it," both the
OLIVE AVELAND's EREOR. 29
Hendersons tell him; but his foot gets
instantaneously better, and he insists on
going back to the Vicarage; and Madge at
last goes in to dress with a feeling that it will
be a great blow to the beauty of this enter-
tainment of theirs, if the flower of the man-
hood here assembled must be a wall-flower.
Madge is no laggard. In clouds of rose-
coloured gauze that shade away to white
nearly, she is springing down the stairs
before any of the guest-chambers give forth
their renovated occupants. All the walls
of Moorbridge House are panelled with
finely veined and polished wood, that was
cut on the estate two centuries ago. It
is all sombre and superb; but the bright
young figure, that glances fi:om room to
room so swiftly, seems to make it all radiant
at once.
Flowers droop in hanging baskets from
80 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
every comer and every ceiling. Flower
on pedestals, in pyramids, on brackets,
render every available corner gorgeous and
fragrant. But not a bloom there is sweeter,
brighter, or purer than the girl who owns
them all the frank-faced, light-hearted,
pleasure-loving little heiress.
Suddenly there comes towards this Queen
Rose of the rose-bud garden of girls a
glorious contrast to her, in the form of as
perfect an Amber Witch as the eyes of men
have ever beheld. The two figures increase
their speed as they approach one another.
The rose-coloured gauze floats over the folds
of an amber-hued silk ; the round clear-
complexioned cheek of bonnie Madge is
pressed by the crimson lips and the ivory-
white cheek of a tall, dark, lissom-figured
girl, whose movements are supple and se-
ductive as a serpent's.
OLIVE AVELAND's EEEOE. 81
" You dear Olive, to have come after all :
isn't this all jolly ! " Madge (who has not been
trained down to be reticent on the subject
of the charms of her own house) exclaims.
" It*s all very delightful, Madge,'' the new
comer says carelessly, "but you know that
I think it a pity that all these people should
be coming in to spoil it : I hate these gather-
ings!"
She says these last words with such an
increase of force and emphasis as proves
that she means them. She gives an im-
patient gesture, too, and sits down abruptly
on a sofa, and twists a bracelet round her
arm roughly.
" It's so good of you to have come, as you
do hate it all so," Madge says ruefully : " no
one plays as you do, and I should have
been obhged to give up dancing myself and
strum for them, if you hadn't been so kind ;
3^ " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
but I shall feel so selfish if you don't seem
to enjoy Jt at all."
OUve Aveland laughs a little contempt-
uously.
" Even you can't work a miracle, Madge ;
but I'll tell you this for your comfort, dear.
If I sit with my back to the congregation
and my face to the piano all the evening,
and you keep people from speaking to me,
I shall be as happy here as I should have
been in Mrs. Wilmot's school-room."
I can't keep them from speaking to you ;
and why should I, when everyone admires you
so, and longs to be introduced to you "
"Tell them that I'm Mrs. Wilmot's
governess," Olive interrupts; " say that there's
something suspicious about the way I refuse
to speak about my Ufe before I came here ;
say what you like, only save me from being
teset by anyone.''
OLIVE AVELAND's ERROR. 33
^ She is unquestionably a handsome high-
bred looking girl, this one who rises up now
trembling a little from the effects of the vehe-
mence with which she has spoken. A dark-
haired handsome girl, with a pale face that
tells falsehoods if its owner has not suffered
a wealth of disappointment and sorrow in
her time, however easily the world may be
wagging with her now. There is a good
deal of something that is not perhaps abso-
lute defiance in her manner and expression.
It is not absolute defiance. It is more a con-
viction that she will shortly be attacked,
and an impatient readiness to defend herself.
But people who are not given to drawing deli-
cate distinctions between attributes which
differ greatly, though on the surface they
resemble one another slightly, fall into the
error of fancying her largely endowed
with the quality of defiance, and a rather
VOL. I. D
*6i " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
presuming person altogether for her posi-
tion.
As she staoids now^ still playing with the
bracelet that clasps her tender arm, with a
half averted face, and a well-developed ex-
pression of " not wishing to be one of them," as
Madge and old Miss Roden receive the friends
who come trooping in, more than one glance
falls upon her with pronounced, compelled ad-
miration. She would ornament any room
any station any age 1 For she has not only
beauty, but style and cultivation.
And yet she is only " the governess '' in
Mrs. Wilmot's family, and Mrs. Wilmot is the
wife of a quick-brained, purse-proud soUcitor,
who tells Olive every day that "she's hand-
some enough to pick and choose something
better than a pauper parson." And yet she
has not the option of " picking and choosing"
as he declares, for with all her beauty and her
OLIVE AVELAND's ERROR. 35
look of breed, men do not go down before her
as the few who have seen Madge Roden
abready have gone down before that bright
young person.
She is only the governess at Mrs.Wilmot's,
and to-night she is here to play the piano
without intermission while a score of girls
who can't hold a candle to her whirl and frisk
about in waltzes and gallops. It is a way-
ward ite hers. But wayward as it is, there
is something in her face and bearing that
hints even to a casual observer that she can
battle with it. And wayward as it is, at this
moment when we meet with her first, she
would hot change it for " any other that she
can think of.'' This is the way she words
her dissatisfied contentedness to herself as she
superciliously surveys the society that comes
joyously trooping into Madge Roden's draw-
ing room.
D 2
1
86 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
By-and-by, after half a hundred jubilant
ejaculations of satisfaction that mean nothing
at all, Madge the rose-coloured and socially
appointed Success, finds herself close to that
Amber Witch whose witchcraft has never won
her a good reward yet And Madge says
exultantly :
You'll have to come out of your strong-
hold of indiflFerence to everything directly,
OUve ; Mrs. Henderson is going to bring a
young man ! Imagine a young man at Moor-
bridge House/'
" Brought men are never nice," Olive says,
calmly twiddling her onyx bracelets ; " but
anything that appears under Mrs. Henderson's
auspices must be rather better than the rest
of the worli What is she going to bring ? "
**You call him * anything' and *what,"'
Madge says rapidly; "but when you see
him you'll hke him I do."
OLIVE AVELAND's ERROR. 37
Olive the recipient of this annunciation
tries to laugh lightly ^tries to seem to listen
^tries to run her fingers over the keys care-
lessly, and fails in doing all these things, she
is so miserably uninterested in the young
man who is to appear under Mrs. Hender-
son s auspices.
The fact is that the poor girl, for all her
defiant aspect and eighteen shilling a yard
silk, is distraught by a pettifogging anxiety.
What ought she to give to that gUb, lissom
maid of Madge's who pulled out the train of
her amber silk for her, and adjusted one
contumacious tress of silky dusky hair 1
And further, what a wretched cold she will
catch, and how the night dews will ruin her
dress if the Wilmots send the open square
cart for her.
" What's he called ? " she asks vaguely, in
reference to that last remark of Madge's.
38 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
And Madge says, as she sails away on a
moderately good partner's arm,
Oh ! didn't I tell you PhiUp Fletcher V'
It would be evident to everyone in the room,
if Miss Aveland's face was only turned room-
wards, that something in the sound of that
name strikes upon her strongly. But whether
pleasantly or unpleasantly it is difficult to tell.
However, her position at the piano saves her
^mercifully saves her from any scrutiny.
,And, as she goes on playing as cleverly as
ever, her emotion passes unobserved.
There comes a lull presently. Girls who
have partners wander into the room where
refreshments await them. Girls who are
without partners, but who are also hot and
thirsty, try to look as if they had no tantaliz-
ing thoughts of the iced champagne and
water their luckier compeers are drinking.
At this juncture Olive, who has regained her
OLIVE AVELAND's ERROR.
composure, turns round and looks steadily
round the room.
Mrs. Henderson is just coming in. Kindly,
clever, trustworthy Mrs. Henderson ; the
one matron in the district who has had the
power of melting away a portion of Olive's
reserve. She comes in alone, and Olive
experiences a bitter sense of disappointment,
very much to her own annoyance. Her first
question, as Mrs. Henderson shakes hands
wifh her, is :
" Are you here alone ? ^'
"Yes; unfortunately our visitor injured
his ankle this morning ; my husband is
staying with him.^'
" Madge Roden will be sorry, she expected
a Mr. Philip Fletcher," Olive says, venturing
to pronounce tlie name that has the sweetest,
saddest sound in the world to her.
'' Yes, I must look for her and tell my bad
40 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
news. I wish he had been here, even you
would have admitted that he is a Triton
among minnows.'' Then, half laughing at
herself the while, Mrs. Henderson goes on to
say: "You'll soon find out that he is my
weaji point, OKve ; I loved him dearly for his
mother's sake, before I knew him, now I love
him nearly as well as I do Madge ; my old
friend has known tribulation enough, but she
is recompensed for everything by the devo-
tion of such a son as Phil.''
Olive, in the midst of a sudden, crushing
revulsion of feehng, grasps this fact namely,
that she has made a mistake, and that the
Philip Fletcher she has been half hoping, half
fearing, to see is not the one who is staying
at Mrs. Henderson's. The Philip Fletcher
who made hfe a howling wilderness for her
for awhile had no Uving mother to have her
heart stabbed by his conduct.
OLIVE AVELAND's ERROR. 41
The girl, with unwonted pertinacity and
very much to Mrs. Henderson's surprise^
makes one further eflfort to clear up this
point.
*'I knew something of a Mr. Philip Fletcher
once," she says; "the name struck me curiously
just now; the one I mean had no regular pro-
fession, and very few friends he told us/'
" That must have been his cousin
unluckily my Phil has a cousin who bears
the same name ; your description carries
out what I have heard of him; he has
no profession, and he does not deserve
to have many friends ; he is a clever worth-
less -"
"Don't abuse him," Olive exclaims angrily;
" he is all you say, and worse perhaps, but
don't abuse him."
And then Mrs. Henderson guesses how it
has been with the girl who has been so
42 HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
conspicuously reserved about her past life.
Guesses how it has been, and pities her for
such being, but at the same time feels a little
annoyed at Olive's having confused the
identity of the two cousins even in ignorance.
The dancing goes on merrily enough with
the majority, but Madge Roden is un-
feignedly, openly, heartily sorry, for the
absence of the handsome stranger who is
such a brilliant and attractive man of the
world, in comparison with anyone who has
hitherto been seen among these Exmoor hills.
And old associations roused by the name
overpower Olive to the extent of making her
strike several wrong notes. His cousin must
know something of the welfare and the
whereabouts of that once well-loved black
sheep. She will hear of him again. And
" Oh I " she prays, " may it be something
good at last.''
OLIVE AVELANDS ERROR. 43
As she drives home this night in the
Wihnot's square cart, she thinks of one drive
she had on just such another night, five
years ago, with PhiUp Fletcher opposite to
her, and her hand clasped hy his. Some
of the words he whispered then, ring mock-
ingly in her ears now, and she recalls with
frightful fidelity, the exultant throb of bliss
that her heart gave when he pleaded to " see
her the next day to ask her to be " the closer
pressure of the hand said more to her than
any spoken words could have said.
Of course she did not give him the permis-
sion, and of course he came, and saw, and
wooed, and won her.
She was living with her uncle and aunt
then, and they were rich people who sur-
roimded their beautiful orphan niece with all
imaginable luxury, and expected to be re-
paid for it, by her making a good marriage.
44. " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID.''
Then ensued a brief season of proud love
and happiness, and faith in Philip Fletcher.
A period of praying to her uncle and aunt
to believe in him, to take his version of his
life as gospel truth, to give her to him, and
treat her as their own child still. And when
her prayers were granted, and they were
about to reaHze their wishes, then ensued
a period of such anguish and humiliation
as she shudders even now to think of. He
proved false and a fool at the same time;
he broke off his engagement to Ohve
Aveland, gambled for higher stakes, pro-
posed to a richer girl, and was refused, for
OUve's story was known.
She had been an ardent impulsive girl in
those days, and had shown her love for her
handsome adoring young lover very openly.
So when she had the letter, in which he told
her that he had " made a vow to crush the
OLIVE AVELAND's ERROR. 45
love which could never make them happy,
out of her heart ^it had never existed in
hia own/^ she thought it a hoax a vile
vulgar jest. But when he never came, when
other tongues told the truth to her relations,
she could not keep her miserable young
heart up with that hope any longer. What-
ever the cause the result was clear. He
had jilted her ^made her life a barren
waste ^been far more cruel than she had
deemed it possible any one could ever be to
her.
Pride, dignity, self-respect all fled, and
in the madness of her misery she wrote to
him. ** You either loved me, or you lied to
me," she said; "if you don't want me to
curse the day I listened and believed, write
to me once, and say at least you loved me
then. You have made the world a hell to
me but I love you still."
46 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.*'
He was a prudent young man. The richer
girl had not refused him then, and he had
no desire for any stray documents to fall
into her hands. There was no knowing
what a rash, ardent creature like Olive
might do. So he burnt the letter and never
answered it.
CHAPTER III.
THB FIRST AWAKENING.
It is the last day of the "Halsworthy
week/' and Madge Koden is permitting her-
self to feel rather glad that " it is nearly
over," this fete which she has organised, and
which, from everybody's point of view, has
been such a grand success. Madge has en-
joyed it as much as anyone ; still she tells
her aunt that she "thinks the quiet will be
delightful again.''
She says this as she stands in her aunt's
dressing-room; she has come in to say "Good
morning," previous to walking over to the
Vicarage to breakfast, as is her frequent habit.
48 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
Old Miss Roden regrets that the quiet will
not be so absolute as she could desire.
"While the Hendersons have Mr. Fletcher
staying there, we may be sure there will be
something going on."
"But, aunt, he's just like one of our of
themselves," Madge says hastily.
" Mrs. Henderson is quite infatuated about
the young man," Miss Roden the elder
remarks, severely. " I quite look upon her as
accountable for him in this neighbourhood ;
she has introduced him.''
In her heart of hearts, Miss Roden is a
little jealous of the more sympathetic married
woman's influence over Madge. ''I respect
Mrs. Henderson for her many good qualities,"
Aunt Lucy says sometimes ; " but she is apt
to rely too much on her own judgment."
This being her opinion of Mrs. Henderson,
she is not altogether sorry when slight diffi-
THE FIEST AWAKENING. 49
culties, not to say little evils, may be fairly
anticipated from the results of any of Mrs.
Henderson's ill-considered acts.
Madge is not inclined to argue this morn-
ing ; she merely says,
''I don't see that the neighbourhood has
any business to question her regard for her
old friend's son," and then walks away to the
Vicarage, thinking a good deal about the
guest, and his sprained ankle, and his many
delightful qualities. He is the first young
man, it must be borne in mind, who has ever
come intimately into Madge's life. And, un-
questionably he is a very delightful first
experience.
The drive through the Vicarage grounds
curls and twists about in a sinuous and sur-
prising way. Madge comes suddenly face to
face with the man she is thinking about, and
to her good-natured pleasure marks in a
VOL. I. E
50 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
moment that he is not lame any longer.
"You will be able to come to us this last
day, won't you ? " she asks very winningly,
and the strain evidently pains him, for he
limps as he answers,
" I hope so ; I am desperately inclined to
be rash, if Mrs. Henderson will let me ; but
at any rate you must tell me whom you
expect to-day. I know all your names now,
and I want you to tell me who I am to like
and dislike when I meet them."
" This looks like his staying for some time,"
Madge thinks, with a certain amount of plea-
sure in the thought, and so rather brightly
she proceeds to mention several people, and
give him brief incisive word-paintings of
them.
" I gather that they are more interesting
as described by you, than they will be in real
life," he says. " I shbuld have known them
THE FIRST AWAKENING. 51
all SO easily if I had come to your ball the
other night ; that sprain was a miserable
misfortune. The * South Journal ' says, * all
the rank, fashion, beauty, and grace of the
neighbourhood assembled in Miss Roden's hos-
pitable mansion, where dancing was kept up
till a late hour.' Tell me about the beauties! ''
"There were not many only one real
beauty," Madge begins, tnithftdly. Then
she generously reminds herself that the first
description is the one that always influences
the mind, and so she determines to say "true
things" about the many girls who will be
hoping for this man's notice while he is stay-
ing here.
" I ought to have said there are so many
sweet, charming girls about here.''
"But only one regular beauty; tell me
about her. I don't care for sweet, charming
girls."
2
52 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
" She is a Miss Aveland."
" An intimate friend of yours 1 Is there
any chance of my seeing her at Moorbridge
House?"
"Every chance/' Madge answers, with
what he considers most uncalled-for anima-
tion. " She is a most intimate friend, though
she hasn't been here very long" ,
They are standing under the verandah
outside the dining-room window now, and
Mrs. Henderson from inside hears Madge's
last words, guesses to whom they relate, and
comes up to join in the conversation.
"You're speaking of Olive, I suppose,
Madge. By the way, Philip, she knew your
cousin, she told me last night." Mrs. Hen-
derson puts her kind hand on her favourite's
shoulder as she says this, and her favourite
smiles faintly.
" I am constantly meeting with people who
THE FIRST AWAKENING. 53
have that pleasure, to my sorrow, for they
haye a habit of mixiDg up the two Philip
Fletchers in other people's minds,'' he says.
Madge scans his face curiously, keenly;
then considerately averts her gaze as she
suggests :
" I am sure the sun is too hot for you, Mn
Fletcher ; let us go in." And as they go
in Mrs. Henderson words that belief of hers
that the other Philip Fletcher has been
rather too much to Miss Aveland, for her
ever to make the mistake of "mixing him
up " with the present Phil.
" Lucky fellow, if, as you say, she is such
a beauty," he remarks. Then Mrs. Henderson
tells him that his opportunities of judging of
her beauty will be many : " for I'm as fond of
her as Madge is, and 1 often get her here,"
she adds.
" I am afraid she won't show to-day ; the
5t " *HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
Wilmots would feel themselves defrauded of
a portion of their pound of flesh if she
wanted to come out two days following/'
"Are they the friends she is staying
with 1 "
"She is governess in their family," Mrs.
Henderson explains, and again Madge
observes that his face gets red and gets pale
without any visible sufficient cause.
By the time the Queen of the Revels is
due on the lawn, which is her throne, Mr.
Philip Fletcher's ankle is strong enough to
enable him to walk home with her. Mrs.
Henderson is a good, prudent woman, but she
is no dragon of propriety, or prudery rather.
She permits the young people to walk away
alone. And by the time the sun sets this day
Philip Fletcher has made up his mind that
the stakes he came down to look at are worth
playing for at any risk. Unluckily for him
THE FIRST AWAKENING. 55
he has to play against Time! As soon as he
realizes this he resolves to get over the first
meeting with Madge's' beautiful favourite
friend Miss Aveland, as soon as possible.
" It's the first hohday he has had for years,
poor boy, and he does enjoy it so much,"
Mrs. Henderson says pathetically to Madge.
And Madge's kind heart is at once stirred
within her to make this holiday as pleasant
an episode in his life of hard work and self-
sacrifice as possible. With the close of the
festive week, Halsworthy subsides into its
normal condition of quiet, and by the dawn-
ing of the Monday of the next week, Philip
has a very clear idea of what the ordinary
Halsworthy life is.
" Her lines are cast in as secluded a spot
as the Lady of Shalot's," ' he tells himself;
" poor girl, with all that underlying vivacity
she must be ' half sick of shadows.' "
56 " HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
He sketches boldly, cleverly, rapidly, and
Madge knows all the best bits within a radius
of ten miles. Her services are in constant
requisition as this gifted amateur's guide.
The guide is a very willing one, for the gifted
amateur talks as cleverly as he sketches.
They pass many long hours of these sunny
summer days on the purple slopes of heath-
covered hills of Exmoor, and Madge ac-
knowledges to herself that she is getting
more and more fascinated by this young
fellow, who is as manly and clever as he is
fiUal and good. Nevertheless, he is not the
Philip she had pictured he would be, and
sometimes a sense of disappointment seizes
her. In short, long before Madge quite
suffers her heart to stray into his keeping, it
is broadly rumoured in Halsworthy that they
are engaged.
Undoubtedly Philip Fletcher has a power
THE FIRST AWAKEKIXG. 57
of staying as well as a turn of speed. In
spite of its being so all-important to him, as
he considers, to bring matters to a climax
with this girl whom he means to make his
mfe, he does not mar or hinder himself by
one hasty false step. To lookers-on he seems
to be quietly walking over the course. But
he is going with a caution that only he him-
self wots of
He was rather tired of free expanses and
bold sweeps of moorland, he says to her one
day. He wants some close bit of perfect
water and fohage. Of course Madge is equal
to the occasion, and can supply his wants at
the pleasant cost of a scramble for a couple of
miles along the bank of a river that is always
in fierce action against the boulders in its
midst.
" It's a series of waterfalls all the way up,"
she explains, " but quite at the top where I
58 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
mean, there is the sweetest, finest, grandest
bit in the world/*
" Sweet, fine, and grand ! that will do,'' he
says, as he takes up her shawl and his sketch-
ing materials, and indicates that he is ready
to start.
" It's all there, I assure you, Mr. Fletcher ;
the river bounds down the hill-side at that
point over a dozen intersecting rocks ; the
suddenness and the velocity are grand. Then
the banks are wreathed with flowers, and ivy
and ferns all down to the water's edge, that's
sweet. And the way the trees arch them-
selves and meet overhead gives one good
jdeas for a cathedral aisle, and that is fine,
I am justified in my combination of epi-
thets."
They are well into the scrambling path by
the river side now, and here and there steep
places have to be clambered, for the path
THE FIEST AWAKENING. 59
(sach as it is) is up rather a sharp incUoe.
Nature seems to be making herself as
fiisdnatingly beautiful as she possibly can,
for the benefit of these two young people.
The advantage there is in a man being tall
and strong is very patent to her as Philip
swings her easily round some intervening
boulders. In the heat of her perfect appre-
ciation of this fact, she adventured upon a
topic she had never touched upon before, and
asks :
" Are your sisters at all like you ? "
" I have no sisters," he answers gaily, for
Madge is looking particularly pretty, and he
feels that his is going to be a very fair fate
after all.
In her astonishment at this his utter
renunciation of his nearest kin, Madge sufiers
her feet to slip from under her, and becomes
immersed in about two feet of water. By the
60 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID/'
time she is pulled out, and her dress has been
defkly wrung, Philip is ready with an
explanation of that apparently incompre-
hensible speech.
'* How could I remember the existence of
my sisters or of any other human being, when
my mind was so full of " He pauses,
for his tact teaches him that to finish his
sentence as he had intended doing when he
commenced it, will be to ruin his cause
altogether. Madge thoroughly appreciates
that pause. It saves her the responsibility
of being definite, and she feels rather more
indefinite at this moment than she has ever
felt in her life before. Philip Fletcher is
handsome, well-bred, and cleverly amusing.
But so she had pre-determined he would be,
before she ever saw him. And she had also
pre-determined that he would be something
more which he is not.
THE FIRST AWAKENING. 61
So Madge collects her faculties, and recol-
lects the original topic which led to that
yague remark of his.
" Now that your mind is no longer full of
something it oughtn^t to have been full of at
all/' she says, a little slyly, " I suppose you
can answer my question, are your sisters at
all like you ? "
"No-o," he answers a little hesitatingly.
Chrissy and Mabel Fletcher are not at all
the type of women Philip admires. But his
hesitation in this matter of considering their
claims to a resemblance of him, is not due to
vanity, but to vexation of spirit of which
Madge has no conception. No human being
is altogether bad, and at this juncture the
PhiUp Fletcher who is winning Madge Roden
to the best of his ability, feels heartily
ashamed of himself and horribly afraid of
either ** going on,^^ or " going back.'^ So it is
62 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAm/'
that he hesitates and blenches a little as he
answers,
"No they're not Hke me happily for
them/'
There is a ring of something genuine about
this speech about the tone of it about the
look which accompanies it ! And Madge is so
sympathetic to anything that is genuine.
She puzzles herself for a brief moment, as to
whether it is self-contempt or self-compassion,
this " something " which thrills her. That
moment over though she is puzzled still
slie gives the rein to her sympathy aiid
" You mean them to be thought something
very splendid indeed, when you say * happily
for thom' they're not like you. How I'd
like to know your sisters."
In spite of this abject flattery Madge is not
a fawning flirt. Be it understood at once
THE FIRST AWAKENING. 63
that her apparent desire to win and, chain
this man by all the subtle influences in her
power, is only the result of her position and
her passion for making her fellow-creatures
think well of her. As the mistress of Moor-
bridge House she has been brought forward
very prominently in her limited social circle.
But he misjudges her a little, and believes
that she is quite ready to pick up the hand-
kerchief the instant it is his sovereign will to
throw it. Believing this he begins to under-
value her a little, and to ask himself: "After
all, is that love worth having which has been
won so easily 1" For clever as he is, Mr.
Philip Fletcher has fallen into the manly
error of mistaking Madge's admiration for
the Idea he represents to her for love of
himself.
The sketching materials have been put up
for a long time, and the sun is going down
64 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
with golden reluctance, and the thrill of the
falling waters sounds more loudly than it does
in broad day, before Philip Fletcher and
Madge Roden make the homeward move
this night. By the time they do this they
have advanced greatly in their intimacy
though he knows and she feels that he
checked himself on the brink of an offer of
marriage to her just now. Notwithstanding
that apparently precautionary halt of his, he
is doing good work with Madge this day.
For he talks to her of the many ambitions of
his boyhood, and she remembers how he
renounced them all for the benefit of his
family.
' Sauntering along in that soft summer night
air by the side of the intemperate river, it
occurs to her that all these long sunny hours
spent together, " are not to be justified '' if
she halts and wavers now. Madge is as
THE FIBST AWAKENING. 65
honest as the day, and as honourable as a man,
or rather as the perfect type of man, ought to
be. She holds it to be as &ulty a proceed-
ing for a woman to raise Mse hopes, and
then to screen herself behind innocence and
unconsciousness, as it is for a man to do so.
She had not meant to give him excellent op-
portunities of learning to love her, but it came
home to her this eyening that she had
seemed to do it. And the seeming must
have misled him to the full as much as if she
had meant it "And I wouldn't deceive a
dog knowingly," the girl is thinking, self-con-
demningly, while the object of her compassion
and remorse walks on in unusual silence by
her side.
He is quite clever enough to follow the
workings of her mind. Hers is a sensitive
tell-tale face, that says " sorry or glad " as
openly as a child's. He is right in so far as
VOL. I. F
50 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
h^ thinks that Madge's eyes are opened to-night
to the fact that he has passed the narrow boun-
dary line between friendship and love. But
he is wrong in the deduction he draws,
namely, that Madge will adopt a stand-off de-
meanour to him until she has quite made up
her mind as to whether it would be well for
her to repel or to accept him. Madge never
in her life made a plan or chalked out a line
of conduct that, if followed out, would be of
benefit to herself alone. She is not likely to
do it now. Unluckily for herself, she is as
generous, as undesigning, and unsuspicious in
this as in other matters. Madge would go
on being just as friendly, just as frank, just as
demonstrative of her regard for him as she
had ever been, whether he proposed to her or
not, and whether she refused him or not. That
is, she will be these things if he will let her.
But the chill fear that this well-liked new
THE FIRST AWAKENING. 67
acquaintance^ who seems much more like an
old friend to her than any one else in the
world, will misjudge her, has not struck her.
So he thinks she is leading him on after
the manner of the majority, when she ex-
claims
F 2
CHAPTER IV.
GENEROUS POLLY.
** Tlius doth the dust destroy the diamond."
'' Look here ! I used to play at coming to
this cottage to spend my honeymoon, when I
was a child;" and she points as she speaks to
a low thatched house that stands a little way
back from the river, on a half-moon of turf
that is studded with myrtles just bm^ting
into bloom, and with standard roses.
"With whom used you to play that in-
teresting game 1 " he asks with the slightest
accent of sarcasm in his voice. He is not in
the least in love with this girl, who is childish
enough to be surprised at a man feeUng (or
feigning) love for her. But he is jealous, for
GENEROUS FOLLY. 69
all that, at her ever having played at love and
matrimony before his advent.
"Why with my doll, to be sure," she.
answers, feeling half ashamed at having been
led into speaking of her baby-pursuits. " Td
no brothers nor sisters, you know," she adds,
apologetically; "and one must play with
something. Old servants of ours hve here,
and let lodgings; so we can sit down and rest
on this bench."
As she speaks, she stoops and walks in
nnder the drooping branches of a tree that
partially conceals a nobbly, gnarled, uncom-
fortable combination of roots and branches
that is supposed to look essentially rustic; and
he follows her, and asks,
" No brothers nor sisters ! any cousins ?"
" Oh yes ! I have cousins : but they live in
London, and we never met as children."
"And no playfellows ^no Uttle lovers to
70 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
bring 'a lily or a cherry, or some new-in-^
vented game/ as Haynes Baily sings." Again
there is the slight, faint accent of jealous
sarcasm in his tone; and this time Madge
hears it, and knows what it means, and feela
that in some way or other she has beea
wrong again.
There is a good deal of ease, and force, and
freedom about a statement this semi-convic-
tion impels her to make by-and-by. She
has been very much accustomed all her life
to make full confession of every fault and
folly she is self-suspected of; and she is also
very much accustomed to receive instant and
loving forgiveness. She is craving for this
man's pardon now ^his pardon for a fault
she has not committed ; and so presently
she says, so truthfully and timidly (and he
merely thinks her an audacious flirt for her
pains),
GENEROUS FOLLY. 71
" I have never had a lover in my life, Mr,
Fletcher; not even a baby one to bring me * a
lily or a cherry/ '"
There is a rickety table in front of the
nobbly and gnarled seat, and on this Philip
Fletcher leans his arms as he turns his head
to look at the girl by his side^ and her
colour rises fast and furiously, for his glance
is a far bolder one than the Philip of her
imaginings would have bestowed upon her.
" Oh ! I see," he says, " it's your habit,
Miss Roden, to ignore all the love that is
oflFered to you. Well! it's a course that must
save you a great deal of trouble ; but how
about the offerers'? '^
"Through her own act her majesty he
wounds :" she with her own hand gave him the
nettle (it isn't a dagger, or anything true and
tried, like steel) with which he is stinging
her now. Why did she say anything about
72 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
that childish pastime of hers 1 Why did he
lure her into this conversational web by
means of Haynes Baily's innocent little songt
" Ah ! " she says quickly, really stung into
imprudence now, "you shouldn't say that.
If any offerings had been made, do you think
I would ever speak of them to you to
anyone ? "
He ifii trying to make up his mind as to
whether or not it would be well to take the
leap now, at once ; or whether it would be
well to wait, and make her feel and fear that
her prey may escape her altogether. He
misconstrues her utterly and entirely. He
believes that she is giving him encourage-
ment, and that it is quite on the cards that
she may only be desirous of adding his scalp
to her collection. For he has no faith in
that statement of hers that she has never had
a lover ; and as he hesitates and pauses.
GENEROUS FOLLY. 73
Madge rises and picks up the light shawl
which she has thrown on the table, and in
doing so pulls to the ground a pair of scissors
that have been lying there unobserved.
"Mrs. Ball must have lodgers," she re-
marks, as she picks up the gilt-handled
scissors ; " these can't be hers. 1*11 go and
hear who it is."
And before Philip Fletcher has made up
his mind as to whether it would be well to
put it to the touch quite so soon or not,
Madge has crossed the myrtle-studded lawn,
and is knocking at the door of the cottage.
In another instant a pleasant buzz falls on
his ears. Madge's rich clear voice is raised
in gratified surprise, and some fuller, deeper
notes that are not unfamiliar that are, "Yes,
by Jove ! that are Olive's," he cries, as
against his own sense of expediency he rises,
and goes half across the lawn, and there waits
74 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
to be called for, to be seen, to be he hardly
dares to think what.
Meantime the pleasant buzz has ceased,
and there is a sort of low hum of explanation
going on inside the pretty cottage, the out-
side of which is all beauty, and peace, and
flowers. There is a goodly share of beauty
inside also ; but there is no peace in one
breast at least, and the flowers are changing
to noxious weeds rapidly.
Madge, having crossed the threshold, has
been met, stopped, petrified nearly, by the
apparition of a tall lissom figure in unbleached
hoUand. (In the midst of her astonishment,
Madge notices the admirable manner in
which the polonaise deports itself, and re-
solves to have the pattern of it.) There is
nothing at all melodramatic about the
utterance of the tall lissom figure; she merely
says,
GENEROUS FOLLY. 75
" When did this Mr. Fletcher come, dear?"
"Why, some time ago,*' Madge answers;
" don't . you know 1 Of course you don't,,
though ; you know nothing of what goes on in
Halsworthy, when Halsworthy shakes oflF dull
sloth. But are you here f and why are you
here, and how are you here % "
" I have had neuralgia, and I've come here
for a holiday and a change," Olive Aveland
says, rather deprecatingly ; and Madge
protests
''A change ! coming into the bed of a river
for neuralgia ; why didn't you come to me ?
You shall come to-night."
" I cannot."
She emphasizes her refusal very firmly;
but Madge can be equally decided, equally
firm. In the bottom of this latter's heart
there lurks a happy thought that it will be
well to have OUve Aveland with them for the
76 " * HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
remainder of the homeward walk. " Perhaps
he may fall in love with Olive," Madge
thinks ; " and if he does, I wonder if I should
like it/'
" Do go on, dear/^ Olive says, " and leave
me quiet ; the least thing drives me half mad
with pain now : do go on to-night/'
"That's because you need change and
excitement," Madge says, sapiently. Then
she proceeds to introduce strong elements of
both these things into Olive's life by going
to the door and calling for " Mr. Fletcher."
He comes in at once, without delay, with-
out embarrassment, apparently. There is
nothing else for him to do ^and (off the
boards) he is a capital actor.
He comes in with that first coating of ex-
pression on his face, which can take the colour
from any other person's look. Whatever
Olive Aveland may do, however she may
GENEROUS FOLLY. 77
look or speak, she will not be able to surprise
him into awkwardness, hesitation, or sorrow.
He will follow easily, however tortuous the
path she may take. She takes a straight
one ; and still, odd as it may seem, he
follows her.
He is one of the easiest-going men on the
face of the earth. Literally, he never
^'troubles" himself about anything. This
venture that he is making now is the most
arduous work of his life ; and already he
begins to repent himself of making it, because
of the labour it involves.
After all he begins to question, " What is
the worth of it all ? " If all goes smoothly,
and he marries this fresh young girl and her
two thousand a year, will the " second place ''
he will take satisfy him ? He will be accepted
with reservations by her friends, he knows, and
he will be mentally right in hating them for
78 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.''
being morally right, and there is nothing for
him to do now but to go on.
He arrives at this conclusion as Olive Ave-
land comes into the passage, well into the light
that is shed through the doorway, and says,
" A friend of yours, Madge, I suppose 1 I
^m glad to see him."
" There will be no diflBiculty with a woman
who can say this, to spare another woman's
feelings.'' At least, Philip is sure of this for
^ moment. Then he wonders "what she
means," as Olive's eyes show him that she is
glad, very glad, to see him.
She is splendidly handsome ! . Of this, at
any rate, there is no doubt, as she goes back
with a swing into the low-roofed, lattice-
windowed room, and bids them follow her.
Come what will of this rencontre, Olive is
resolved to play the hostess to-night to
Philip Fletcher.
GENEROUS FOLLY. 79
" You benighted wanderers must stay and
have supper with me/' she says, moving
rapidly about, and directing Mrs. Ball to
bring in everything eatable and drinkable that
the house contains, or that can be procured
at this unhallowed hour. And so presently
the feast is spread, and rath^ well spread
too ; for Olive's services are valuable to Mrs.
Wilmot, and that lady seeks to regain them
speedily by a supply of well-stocked baskets.
They have been talking scenery vigor-
ously ever since Philip canae in. His sketch
has been shown, and Olive has looked at it
with eyes that see nothing, but that glisten
strangely. As she gives it back to him, his
hand touches hers, his eyes fasten on and
hold hers, and she shivers in a way that
betokens that she is feeling either joy
or pain.
"Olive dear, you're cold," Madge says.
80 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
"and it's time I were at home; we don't
deserve supper at your hands, do we, Mr,
Fletcher? "
She appeals to him in the lightest way.
She means absolutely nothing more than this,
that as Olive is cold and chilled, it is a pity
to keep her up. But there is a deeper mean-
ing, Olive feels, in the way in which Philip
Fletcher responds,
"I don't deserve anything at Miss Ave-
land's hands. That is the only thing I feel
sure of."
"And that feeling is the result of Mrs.
Ball being rather slow in her movements,
and many oth^r things being out of joint."
Olive speaks with a carelessness which she is
very far from feeling. But Philip's speech
has this effect upon her : she feels very
strong, and very merciful !
By-and-by (this water-side cottage is
GENEROUS FOLLY. 81
close to Halsworthy), Mrs. Henderson walks
down, having "felt certain that she should
find them there/' she says ; and they all sit
down, and eat and drink things that are
pleasant, and avoid things that are un-
pleasant, at Olive's little oval table. Would
that the same could be said of every gather-
ing for friendly and festive purposes !
At length a remembrance of old Miss
Roden arises, and Madge pronounces the
decree that they must part, as she must go
home, and assuage any anxiety that Aunt
Lucy may think proper to feel. And so they
all saunter out together into the cool quiet
night air, Olive going with them.
As they pass slowly over the turf under
the moonlight, Miss Aveland is divided from
Philip by Madge and Mrs. Henderson. But
he alters ^this arrangement presently, by
crossing over to gather a great shiny, starry
VOL, L G
82 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
branch of jessamine that hangs temptingly
over the garden hedge. This brings him by
OUve's side, and as he calls her attention
to the immense size of the jessamine flowers,-
unseen, by the others his hand clasps
hers.
Clasps it in a way that nearly makes
her cry out with the pain of this joy that,
may be as treacherous as all the joys she-
has ever felt through him have proved them-
selves.
Whatever he may have been, false, feeble,,
cowardly, at any rate she has the bhss of
feeling that at the present moment he is not
indifi'erent. His hand trembles to the full
as much as hers does, and his face is full of
earnest desire to make her look at him in a
way that shall be intelligible to him. But,
though she lets her hand rest in his for a
moment, she will not let him wring the
GENEROUS FOLLY. 83
whole truth from the eyes that have grown
deeper through long weeping for him.
" It's still quite early," Madge says. " It
would only be sensible of Olive to come in
with us, and tell Aunt Lucy that it's her
Arcadian freak that has made us so late as this
even." And though she faintly negatives the
proposition at first, she presently assents ; for
it is passing sweet to her, this sight of him.
Beautiful Moorbridge House rises before
them directly, standing out clearly from its
background of foliage-covered hill-side. The
lawn has recovered from the effects of the
Halsworthy week, and presents its usual
emerald green and velvety appearance.
Rich odours from flower-beds and open
conservatory windows are wafted towards
them. All looks and feels smpoth, prosper-
ous, safe. It will be " a position that none
but a fool would resign, that of being the
o 2
84 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
master of this place/' Philip Fletcher thinks
as he strolls with face bent down towards
Olive Aveland.
Aunt Lucy comes to the open French
window of the drawing-room conservatory (a
modern addition), and they assuage the
anxiety and appease the wrath of the dear
old lady, who is never by any chance either
wrathful or anxious. They are very loth to
part, although it seems as if they had
nothing left to say to one another, for they
sit out on the garden chairs for another hour
at least, almost in silence.
Madge is tired, puzzled, uncertain of her
own wishes. Mrs. Henderson is puzzled too,
but very certain of her own wishes. Olive is
in one of those tempests of memory, when
one thought after another comes upon one
like alternate peals of deafening thunder and
dazzling lightning. She cannot but re-
GENEROUS FOLLY. 85
member how passionately this man by her
side wooed her long ago. She cannot but
remember how soon after that passionate
wooing he told her he had never loved her.
Thoughts of the misery and madness, of the
shame, and the fury, and the agony of love
thrown back in her face, are upon her now.
What wonder that she does not speak?
What wonder that she marvels whether
all this is a dream within a dream as she
recalls that fervent, trembling clasp his hand
gave hers ; only one Uttle hour ago by the
river side.
Mrs. Henderson breaks the spell by say-
ing,
" Phil, I had a note from your sister Mabel
to-day : she is anxious about Chrissy."
"About Chrissy 1 " he stammers.
" Yes ; haven't they told you ? She has an
attack of that wearing intermittent fever and
I
86 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
ague. Mabel, in her anxiety, forgets to
mention you ; but she speaks of that ne'er-do-
well cousin of yours. '*
There is a long pause after this. Then
Philip dares all, knowing that Olive's eyes are
on him.
" What of him, Mrs. Henderson ? "
" She says, * my dear mother is miserable
about our cousin Philip ; we have heard
nothing of him for weeks, and in spite of all
his faults we are very fond of him.* ''
" Poor aflfectionate Mabel," Philip says ;
and there is a huskiness in his voice that
makes both Mrs. Henderson and Madge feel
very tender to him.
"I beheve you are fond of the ne'er-do-
well yourself," Madge says cordially; and he
can't answer her, for Ohve's eyes are on him
still.
It is settled at last, how or why no one can
GENEROUS FOLLY. 87
.ay, that Mrs. Henderson shall walk home
with one of Madge's servants, and PhUip
Fletcher escorts Miss Aveland back to her
lodgings. As soon as they clear oflF Madge's
;groundg, OUve stops short and exclaims,
" Why are you masquerading here 1 What
object have you in deceiving that good
woman and t^iat poor girl who may be
miserable enough to love you ? Why are you
passing yourself oflF as your cousin ? "
Almost simultaneously Mrs. Henderson is
saying,
"Madge! you have something to tell mel
Is it what I hope ? "
CHAPTER V.
"the little pitted speck on garnered
fruit/'
He does not attempt to answer Olive
Aveland in words. He just possesses himself
of her hands, and bends his face down on
them ; and ajs he does this, a great choking
breath, that is more than half sigh, bursts
from him full of all manner of feeling. And
so in the old days has he often sighed his
soul out, by way of stopping any awkward
inquiries ; and so in the old days, before he
discovered his love for her, had he been wont
to kiss her hands. And she remembers all
these things and still can only say
"the little pitted speck.'* 89
Oh, PhUip ! oh, PhiUp, Philip ! "
Of course stern standers-up for the dignity
of the female sex will say that she ought, if
not exactly to hate him (Christian charity
forbids that), to crush him by uiiaflFected
contempt and indiflference. When a man
has once trifled with and wounded a woman's
heart, that heart is, we all know, in duty
(to its owner) bound to be like ice to him
henceforth. But, unfortunately, the heart is
an organ that will not always perform its
high and proper duties, especially if these
latter be repugnant to it.
It is idiotic of her to stand there and
suffer him to treat her hands affectionately,
when he had treated her heart so badly.
But women are apt to be idiotic in these
matters, apt to forget the offence in the
presence of the offender.
She wrings herself away from him pre-
i
90 " ' HE COMETH NOT,* SHE SAID."
sentlj^ and says angrily, for she feels that he
is only fooling her again,
" You can't answer my question ^I see you
can't. Until to-night I thought that, odd as
it seemed to me, they must know you were
you; but that speech of Mrs. Henderson's
to-night about the ne'er-do-well! oh,
Philip ! "
She breaks down panting to subdue her
inclination to cry, and he feels that he must
speak or have a scene.
" It's not the most honourable position in
the world that I'm occupying now," he says
bitterly. "No one knows that better than
myself ; but, after all, my masquerading, as
you call it, will do no harm to anyone. Some
time or other, when I have won her Uking
thoroughly, I shall tell Mrs. Henderson that
I'm not that admirable Crichton, my cousin ;
and then, if she continues to honour me with
r,
THE LITTLE PITTED SPECK. 91
her regard, though she knows I'm not the
son of her old friend, it will prove to you that
Tm not so utterly worthless/'
" As if it mattered what I thought," she
says hotly, walking on with steps that are
unsteady towards the river-side cottage.
** And as for doing ' no harm ' to anyone
what are you doing to Miss Roden? She
^haU not learn to love you," she continues in
a whirlwind of diflferent feelings. " I won't
45tand by quietly, and see dear Madge walk
into a net of your weaving."
He sees that she is jealous, and he is sure
of her loving him still as he ever was. This
being the case, he has no fear of what she
may do.
The brisk night air clears his mind, and
cools the warm tumultuous feelings which the
sight of this girl has engendered in his heart
again. His heart ! yes, actually his heart.
92 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
For, in spite of that crushing letter of years
ago, OUve Aveland sways him, thrills him,
fires him as no other woman has ever done.
In short, in spite of his selfish poUcy, pursued
because he fancies he ^' can't strike out a
decent career," because he believes that he
never will be anything but a ne'er-do-well,
he loves her, and would at this moment
sacrifice any human being (but himself) to
kiss her lips and feel that he might do it.
But he checks the impulse to cast himself
on the hot loving heart that, outraged as it
is, is still so true to him. He lifts his hat of
a brow that is so much wider and braver
than it need be, considering the quality of
that which is beneath it, and he is prudent.
*^ You are as harsh to me as the rest of the
world, Olive."
" Oh, Heaven help me to be so ! "* she cries
sharply.
"the little pitted speck." 93
" You distrust me as everyone else does.
How can a man do right who is universally
distrusted ? It will not be through the help
of any of my fellow-creatures if I ever do
walk a decently straight course, for they
have done all they can to make my way
devious.^ He winds up with a reckless,
scornful laugh. "Olive!" he bends down
and looks earnestly into her fece, "let me
have a chance of making friends with these
people. It will be like the warning note
of * the leper,' if you tell them that I am
that outcast cousin of the Fletchers, whom
the Hendersons have been taught to consider
a social miscreant.''
" I shall be only one degree less horribly
wrong than yourself." Then a shock of
revulsion of feeling overcomes her, and she
whimpers, "PhiUp! do, do tell me what
brought you here ; will you, Philip 1 "
94 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
Her voice is very pathetic, very full of
some belief in him that he can't quite
understand for a moment or two. Then, at
the expiration of that moment or two, some
evil spirit clears his vision, and he knows
that poor Olive Aveland believes that he
has come here to be near her again.
He deadens his conscience, he resolutely
closes his heart to the appeal made to it
by that girl's trusting faith and clinging
love, and resolves to use her belief as a
weapon in his own service. And it is not
altogether easy, nor is it altogether difficult,
for him to do this ; for he loves this girl
who sfands trembling by his side ^trembling
with a truer, deeper love for him than he
will ever inspire in another woman's heart.
" DarUng ! '' he says in a desperate kind
of whisper, as if the truth were being wrung
from him against his will, "does not your
"the little pitted speck." 95
heart tell you why I came here ^where you
werer'
The last words are in such a sunken, plead-
ing Toice, that it carries conviction with it to
the heart and mind of that girl, who would
what would she not give to be loved once
more by this man, who once made her the
by-word that, in spite of our sense of justice^
jilted girls are 1
She does not actually say, " Did you come
to me, Philip ? '^ but she looks with those
glorious velvet eyes of hers, that are so
unspeakably soft and seductive, and once
more he lowers his head down close, very
close, to her own as he calls her
" My darling ! always my darling ! "
She is in a fooFs paradise for a few
moments more, while the echo of that loving
whisper still lingers in her ear ; then she
finds that she is at the water-side cottage-
96 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
gate, and that she must say " good-night '
to this man, who is her lover and still not
her lover. She feels as if the ground were
slipping from under her feet as if he might
vanish, and she never see him more, even
as he holds her hand in his and bids her
a " good-by *' so full of gentleness and con-
sideration that it seems to have a promise
in it.
"Shall I see when shall I see you
again ? '' she ventures to say. " You know
I am here alone, and so you mustn't call
here ; but in a day or two, if you like, I
shall be back at Mrs. Wilmot's, and I can
always see my friends there ! "
She marks his brow lower in the middle
of her sentence, and so there is an anxious
ring in her voice towards the end of it.
"For your sake, I don't think it would
be well for me to call there yet, darling,"
"the little pitted speck." 97
he replies softly, "just at present you
see ''
And she interrupts him to say,
" Oh, Philip ; as you like when you Uke,
only don't tell me that this is good-bye
after all these years/'
^ And then she goes in beaten down and
humiliated in a measure, by her knowledge
of the utter abnegation of anything like an
attempt at dignity of which she has been
guiltj
Her head is in a whirl, and her heart
is thumping, but the action of both is
checked abruptly by a certain sullen look
of disapprobation that sits upon the coun-
tenance of her landlady, when the door is
opened. Olive understands it in an instant.
The strict sense of propriety which animates
the matronly British bosom, is outraged by
these late walks abroad.
VOL. I. H
98 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.'*
"I have been up to Moorbridge House
with Miss Roden," she begins, faltering.
But the landlady interrupts the sentence
with vicious civility,
" I daresay you have. Miss ; and I
shouldn't have waited up long after my
usual time, if it wasn't that I wanted to tell
you to-night thinking that there might be
inconvenience in your leaving it in the
morning that the rooms are engaged /rom
to-morrow, Miss; and the party coming in
at once."
A great flusl;i of colour burns all over
Olive's face. She feels that this woman
dares to deem her (Olive) guilty^ of some-
thing like impropriety or carelessness of
conduct dares to try and show her that
she has been wrong in some way or other.
And she has no home to go to ; no place
but Mrs. Wilmot's house, and Mrs. Wilmot
"the little pitted speck." 99
will question, why she "left her lodgings,
when she was really getting stronger so
quickly/' All these considerations force
themselves upon her mind at once, and she
is orerwrought by that unexpected sight of
the old love which has been given her to-
night, and she is only a woman, and so she
cries.
But only for a moment, though. Olive
Aveland is not of the order that attempts to
wash away disagreeables in a flood of tears.
She dries her eyes with a speed that per-
plexes her landlady, who has gone to get a
bedroom candlestick, and who finds her
yoiing lodger quite herself again, on her
return to the passage.
"FU pay you to-night I shall leave
directly after breakfast," Olive says; "I
suppose you can get a boy to take my boxes.'*
" Where to ? " the landlady asks, reflec-
H 2
100 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
tively. And a direct inspiration leads Olive
to answer,
" To Moorbridge House/'
The immediate effect of this direct inspi-
ration is to make the landlady feel that,
*' Well, if ever there was a serpent it is this
young person at Mrs. Wilmot s ; to dare
and go to the shelter of Miss Madge's roof,
when she had been walking with Miss
Madge's young man ! "
However, Miss Aveland's manner is con-
clusive, and so the mistress of the water-side
cottage does not make any open appeal or
protest. But she goes to bed thinking,
" that if ever there was a serpent, this one
was, and Miss Madge did ought to know/'
It is the
** little pitted speck in garaer'd fruit.
That, rotting inwards, slowly moulders all. "
Poor OUve Aveland was not very carefully
"the little pitted speck." 101
"garnered" in these days by anyone. But
the " Kttle pitted speck " was upon her
already in that landlady's eyes.
This is not the first time that Olive Ave-
land has been tried, judged, found guilty,
and condemned unfairly. Years ago, when
Philip Fletcher jilted her (it is as well to use
the expression concerning her that was
always used, even by her dearest friends,
behind her hack in those desolate days).
Years ago, when Philip Fletcher jilted her,
her little world the circle of friends and
acquaintances in which was comprised
" everybody '^ to her young mind, had been
disturbed by the broken alliance.
" ^The world is a nettle disturb it, it stings ;
Grasp it firmly, it stings not. On one of two things,
If you would not be stung, it behoves you to settle
Avoid it, or crush it. She crushed not the nettle,
For she could not, nor would she avoid it ; she tried,
With the weak hand of woman, to thrust it aside,
And it stung her ! A woman is too slight a thing
To trample the world without feeling its sting."
HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
These lines adapted themselves to her
poor, common case with bitter force and
accuracy. The world would not be tolerant
to the reserve she had displayed about* those
broken vows which had blighted her life.
It whispered about her, and surmised about
her, and undermined all her bravery and
self-reUance and common sense.
So, in an evil hour she had writhed round,
and " tried,, with the weaker hand of woman,
to thrust " aside the nettles of social slight
and contumely that the very people who
blamed Philip Fletcher so severely showered
upon her. She evaded questions that only
cut her, and could never cure her pain. She
grew silent, "sulky and contumacious, and
conscience-stricken," they called it each of
these things in turn, when they had wanted
her to analyse for their amusement, each
phase of this life-agony of hers each act of
"the little pitted speck." 103
this heart-murder that Philip had committed.
And so at last she had been so tortured, poor
thing, in various minor ways, that might
seem very small and insignificant if written
down here, that she had mistaken the solici-
tude of her uncle for severity, and had goae
out from the scenes of the life and death of
her love, into what seemed a wilderness.
And now, after the long, hard battle with
incongruous associations, and uncongenial
surroundings, and her own insubordinate
spirit, she has met that wrecker again, and
is ready as ever to be wrecked.
" He will come back to her,'' she tries to tell
herself tries to feel that she believes, as she
next morning recalls every act, and word, and
look of love and devotion that he had vouch-
safed to her the previous night. They were
not many, when counted up even with the care
with which a woman who is madly, foolishly,
104 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
hopelessly in love does count up such things.
They were not many. A few of those im-
passioned looks that practice had made him
so perfect in. A few lingering hand-clasps,
that might have been (how her face burns,
flames, fires at the doubt) as much her fault
as his. A few melodious "darUngs!" that
were ah ! well ! sweeter than any sound
in the world to her, for all their doubtful
value.
She has a very brave, honest, honourable
trust in Madge Roden, and in Madge
Roden's sincerity and constancy, and general
womanliness and worth. Yet for all this
perfect trust poor Olive feels very dubious
and diffident, as she comes into her friend's
presence the next iiay after that moonlight
walk.
Madge is in the middle of the instalment
for that month of an absorbing serial story
"the little pitted speck." 105
in which " all the people are just as common-
place as she is herself/^ she feels with a
certain sense of gratitude to the author for
not having made his puppets too exalted for
her to sympathise with them. She has " had
it out" with Mrs. Henderson about that
absorbing young guest at the Vicarage, who
is concentrating all the attention " of every-
body " (she means of herself and Mrs. Hen-
derson) upon herself at present. And she is
trying to feel a weight of responsibility
pressing upon her shoulders, concerning the
forthcoming Harvest Festival, and generally
endeavouring to feel that "uneasy lies the
head that wears a crowii."
And failing, faihng altogether she knows,
for she is too bright, as well as too true, to
humbug even herself successfully.
To her enterjs OUve, at a great disadvan-
tage to-day, by reason of the untoward
106 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
events of last evening. At a further dis-
advantage shall not the whole truth be told
concerning these very human beings % by
reason of all the starch having come out of
her brown holland polonaise. We are all
dependent on these trifles. No girl can be
at her best when her dress is limp in a way
that it was not designed to be.
" Oh, Madge,'^ she begins, rather hurriedly
and confusedly ; " what will you think when
I tell you I have come to claim your hospi-
tality will you take me in 1 '^
Madge has bounded to her feet at the first
word of Olive's intention ; she is ready with
her welcome as if she had been preparing it
for a week.
"I am glad I am glad you dear, to
have come to me after all; you shall
have the biggest room with the sweetest
view opening into mine. I mean the room
"the little pitted speck." 107
opens into mine, not the view, you know
and we'll sit up chatting all night."
Madge has had, very few enthusiastic
friends in her brief Ufe. To her there is an
immense amount of unhallowed bliss in the
prospect of sitting up chatting (she doesn't
know or care about what) half the night.
"The fact is, dear," Miss Aveland pre-
varicates, love and conscience making a
thorough coward of her, " Mrs. Bale had an
opportunity of letting her lodgings, so I
thought, as you had asked me "
" Oh! bless Mrs. Bale !" Madge interrupts,
glittering all over with the delight of having
this selected friend of hers domesticated with
her in her own house ; " it's better than the
whole Halsworthy week put together to have
you here."
"It's better than the whole Halsworthy
week put together to be here, I know that,"
lOS " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
Olive says devoutly, as she remembers how
intimate Mrs. Henderson (his guardian angel)
and Madge are, and speculates upon the
increased probabihties of seeing him.
" I am going to lunch with Mrs. Hender-
son," Madge says presently, " and now you
must come too, and we're going to fish up
the valley after luncheon ; won't it be jolly !
you and I together fishing."
" Is she fond of fishing 1 I thought she
didn't care for anything of that sort," Olive
says hypocritically, in her desire to be assured
as to whom the " we " referred to are.
And Madge's answer is given without
hesitation.
" No. Mrs. Henderson doesn't care a bit
about fishing, but she is going with Mr.
Fletcher and me to-day, because I begged
for her company so hard, she couldn't refuse
me."
^*THE LITTLE PITTED SPECK.'' 109
"You don't like being alone with him,
then/' Olive cries, in her unwitting jealousy.
She would have every woman sigh for him
in fact, while he should sigh for none but her.
Poor deluded Olive!
" I think even in Halsworthy one ought
to be careful/' Madge says, majestically,
strengthening herself to utter the saying by
the thought that it is a fierce light that beats
upon her. " One can't be too careful," she
repeats with an emphasis of which she does
not herself know the full meaning an
emphasis Olive, who begins to fear that she
may not have been careful enough in the
matter of meandering about last night with
Philip Fletcher, winces under.
'^ Well, Madge," she says, with a smile that
tries hard to be scornful, and that only
succeeds in being very, very sorrowful, " the
lion is lying down with the lamb with a
110 " 'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID.''
vengeance, when you and prudent considera-
tions are allied/^
And Madge, utterly oblivious both of the
scorn and the sorrow, says truly enough, as
she shakes her dear, glossy head,
" They don't fetter either of us very much,
I fancy, and why should they, when we never
wish to do anything imprudent. Olive, if
you wear buflF to-day, I'll wear blue then we
shan't clash."
As if the colour of their dresses was the
only matter in which those two girls could
clash ! Those two girls whom Philip Fletcher
was moving about the board very much as he
willed.
So again it was an Amber Witch who
contrasted with bright Madge (Madge has
blue this time). An oval-faced Amber Witch
with velvet eyes of the deepest hue, and
with a supple, lissom figure, the grace of
"the little pitted speck." Ill
which would lead the eye oflF the face of a
Venus.
Seeing her come in by gracious, open-
hearted Madge's side to luncheon at Mrs.
Henderson's, previous to starting on the
fishing excursion, Philip calls himself "a
blackguard,'* and calls himself so heartily.
CHAPTER VL
FISHING !
" Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright gleams of the past, which she cannot destroy."
" As I don't care to vex my souL -with a
line and a fly (what fools the fishes must be
to believe in anything so palpably artificial)/'
she interpolates contemptuously, pointing to
a coachman, and "blue-upright," which
Philip had provided with much care and fore-
thought, *' I must take something to read."
Mrs. Henderson is the speaker, and her
appeal is made to Madge. Madge being in a
hurry to get ofi*, puts her hand down on the
first book she sees.
FISHING ! 113
" The Cornhill! Mrs. Henderson is reading
it, I know/' Philip apologises. " The Small
House at Allington'* is the serial story in
The Cornhill at this time, and Philip has no
fancy this afternoon for listening to Mrs.
Henderson's running commentary on Crosbie's
many virtues ! It is patent to everyone who
knows anything at all of Philip Fletcher, that
there is nothing hard or obtuse about him.
He is a sensitive man. Vain as nearly all
sensitive people are. And rather greedy of
the good- will and opinion of those with whom
he is associating. Moreover, he has a deep-
rooted dislike to seeing pain depicted on any-
one's face. And he knows well what sort of
shadow would fall over Olive's lustrous
velvet eyes if any allusion were made to the
troubles of Lily Dale.
They walk away through the village, past
the riverside fishing-cottage, on their way up
VOL. I. I
114 ** * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
the yalley to fish. And Halsworthy in
general and Mrs. Bale in particular are well
pleased to see the order of their march.
Madge and Philip are sauntering about ten
yards behind Mrs. Henderson and Olive
Aveland.
Philip is one of the men, who are under
all circumstances invariably well-dressed. On
what principle tailors whom he never pays
supply him with their best broadcloth and
their most artistic make, it is impossible to say.
Perhaps they Uke the light-hearted audacity
with which he criticises and complains more
freely than the majority of their paying
customers put together. Perhaps they
recognise in his easy manner of entering
their shops, when he owes them more money
than they ever even hope he may pay,
something of the relentlessly brave highway-
man spirit, which made well-bred travellers
fishing! 115
relinquish their purses with something like
pleasure to Dick Turpiu and Tom Faggus.
At any rate, whatever the cause, his habit
is far " more costly than his purse can
buy/'
His light grey clothes to-day are judici-
ously brightened by a buttonhole-bouquet
composed of harmoniously-blended pale pink
and blue flowers. These attract fooHsh
insects naturally, and one specially fine
specimen of the humming-bird moth plunges
headlong into the midst of the bouquet, and
there whizzes and buzzes with a loudly
expressed delight that attracts Madge's
attention. Some prescience (women in love
are very much like spiders, they see with the
back of their heads when the men they love
are behind them) makes Olive look round
at this very moment, and she sees oiie of
Madge's small hands firmly grasping his grey
I 2
116 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
coat sleeve to keep him steady, while with
the other she makes frantic dabs at the
humming-bird moth which is bobbing about
his bouquet.
Olive's own feeling about him is that she
would willingly walk ten miles to catch a
glimpse of him any day. And she aches now
as she sees another girl's hand on his arm,
although she feels almost (not quite) sure
that Madge has no sentiment concerning the
happy position that hand is occupying.
Olive feels sure that he is looking down into
Madge's face with that steady, desperate,
ardent look, which she (Olive) has learnt to
love better than any other look on earth.
" Why can't I hate him, or be indifferent to
him?*' she asks herself hopelessly as she stares
at this little scene, and Mrs. Henderson
quietly reads her face.
" Is Phil, anything like that cousin of his
FISHING ! 117
whom you knew once, dear ? '' Mrs. Hender-
son asks, following the direction of Olive's
eyes, and Olive recovers herself, and remem-
bers how he had called her " darling '' the
night before, and how he had implied, or she
had thought that he meant to imply, that she
was the magnet that had drawn him hither,
and feels that she can't betray him to this
good motherly woman whose friendship he
wants to win.
"Yes, very much like his cousin," she
stammers , out as the loiterers come up
Madge with the insect captive in her hand-
kerchief Philip with his bouquet a trifle
mutilated by Miss Roden's chase through it
after the moth.
In spite of her strong feeling that she is
unwise to do it) Olive cannot help managing
so that she walks next to Philip along the
rapidly narrowing path. She longs to have
118 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
him assure her, in the rapid imperceptible fer-
vent way he has of oflFering such assurances,
that it was by no design of his that Madge
and himself had dropped behind. She lon^
to hear him call her " Olive." She longs for
the path to become dangerous that he may
help her over it. She longs to see him look
the " darling ^' he dare not speak with other
ears so near.
Madge's voice raised high in hilarious
mimicry of some acquaintance known only to
Mrs. Henderson and herself, is wafted back
to the pair behind. And when he breaks
the silence, it is to say
" What a pleasant light ring there is in
Miss Koden's voice ; she's the best specimen
of unspoilt heiress Fve ever met in my life."
" She's a dear girl, and I'm very fond of
her," Olive says stoutly, though at that
moment she is anything but fond of the dear
fishing! 119
girl for whom Philip is expressing admiration.
Her prophetic soul tells her that Philip has
no intention to-day of even surreptitiously
resuming the demeanour of last night. Her
heart sinks, and she wishes herself a hundred
miles away, while he glances unseen at the
love-fraught, down-cast face, and can hardly
resist kissing its melancholy away, whatever
the cost of his rashness may be. But she is
not her uncle's heiress any longer, and in
"justice to her, he cannot ask her to share
his miserable fortunes." " She's not the type
of girl to take to wife in an attic on a crust
of bread," he tells himself. And as he is no
longer afraid of OUve's impetuosity betraying
him (the most impetuous women are always
easily kept down by love) he resolves to
charitably cool off to her from this hour.
The two girls whip the stream for more
than an hour, perseveringly and unskilfully.
120 *' * HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
Then OKve, in utter fatigue (fatigue of heart
not of body) sits herself down by Mrs. Hen-
derson, and as she does so she sees Philip
move up nearer to Madge.
She tries not to look at them she tries to
fix her eyes on the distant waving lines of
heath-crowned hills, and she fails.
"Child, you're wretched about some-
thing 1 " Mrs. Henderson says, suddenly, and
as Olive shakes her head by way of feebly
negativing the assertion, Mrs. Henderson goes
on
" My dear, I know better ; very few of us
marry our first loves. I am a happy wife
and mother now, Olive, but Tve sickened, and
sorrowed, and suffered as much as a woman
can suffer and sorrow at the sight of a man
who was not Mr. Henderson, My dear, I've
kissed my own hand after that other man has
shaken it ; do you think that a woman who
FISHING ! 121
has gone through the fire, can't see when
another is scorched ? is he so like his cousin,
OUve ? ''
For a moment Olive thinks that she will
explode this deception which her idol is prac-
tising. Then she tells herself that " it would
be mean, cruel, unwomanly to do it. He has
so few friends, poor fellow. Fate and For-
tune have been so brutal to him,'' she finally
believes. So she just puts her poor little
trembling hand up over her aching eyes, and
answers
"Yes, he is/'
" We are both very fond of this Phil.," Mrs.
Henderson goes on, " though he's been with
us for such a short time ; my husband and I
feel towards him as if he were a younger
brother; this morning Mr. Henderson received
an answer to an application he has made for
a good appointment, that will be much more
1^2 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.'*
remunerative than the one he holds
now ''
" Has he taken it ? " Olive* gasps. This is
deceiving the blind and winning Esau's
birthright by fraud with a vengeance, she
thinks.
" He hasn't been told of it yet," Mrs. Hen-
derson says. "Madge and you must dine
with us to-night, and hear us give him the
good news."
"What is it?" Olive asks.
" The managership of my husband's bro-
ther's house. My brother-in-law is tired of
active work, and is going to give it up ; he
says if young Fletcher pleases him it will lead
to a partnership."
He is to be given his chance at last. Poor
fellow! he has been kept out of it so long
that Olive can do no other than hold her
peace, and hope that there is not much
FISHING ! 123
iniquity in this tacit deception of which she
is guilty. Poor OUve ! she is fool enough to
hope something else too. And that is, when
his success is certified he will return to his
allegiance to herself. That he will do it she
is sure if Madge does not win him in the
meantime.
Keally, Madge looks very much like win-
ning him now. She is tired of whipping the
stream, and never landing a trout, and so she
has pulled in her line and is standing close
up by him, talking to him eagerly about the
colour of the winding, purplish hills, and the
rich, brown sherry hue of the water, and the
rarified blue-pink there is in the atmosphere.
She hasn't the faintest notion that her friend
Olive Aveland, sitting behind her, and watch-
ing all her gestures, and her rapidly changing
expression, is accusing her of being a pro-
found and consummate flirt.
124 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
By-and-by, as their dilatory steps take
them a Httle further up-stream, they come
upon another angler, who is fishing lazily the
while he is comfortably seated smoking on
the trunk of a tree, that has fallen half across
the rapid rushing river. At first sight of
him Philip sees that he is a fine, good-look-
ing, fair, rather uncultivated young man.
That is all. In another minute Philip is
informed that this young man, whom he has
tried and found wanting so rapidly, is Grif-
fiths Poynter, a young squire of the neigh-
bourhood, recently come into his own, and
suspected at once by Philip of having designs
on Madge the heiress.
There is something very quieting to these
fears, which are not the oflF-spriug of jealous
love, in the way in which Madge presently
greets this man.
" What a nuisance that you should have
fishing! 125
chosen to-day of all others, to come and fish
this bit of the river, Grif," she says, in tones
of unmistakable annoyance. "I did want
Mr. Fletcher to take home a good basket to-
day, and here you have spoilt my best bit."
Philip Fletcher forgives Madge for caUing
this "new fellow" thus familiarly by his
christian name, out of his great gratitude for
her not being a bit glad to see Mr. Poynter.
He is not a bit in love with pleasant Madge,
as has been stated before. And he is very
much in love with dark, winsome Olive : but
for all this he would not like Madge's inclina-
tions, or fancy, or whatever one may call it,
to go straying off* in the direction of "any
other fellow " whether that fellow were an
old friend or not.
For the first half hour after this meeting,
it does seem very much as if Mr. Poynter
meant to commit the gross error of attempt-
126 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID,
ing to monopolise Madge. The fact is, rich
young squire and landed proprietor as he is,
he is intensely shy, and doubtful as to his
own merits. He knows full well that he has
not the easy go of graceful satisfaction with
himself, which is a pre-eminently distinguish-
ing mark of the impecunious Philip. And
so GriflSiths Poynter frequently suffers himself
to drift to some point socially, where he is at
a disadvantage and neglected.
The smooth, supple, perfectly self-possessed
young man of society without a sou ^takes
the lead in the most natural way possible,
before the young lord of some of the neigh-
bouring soil, who has been made an idol of in
his own family, and never roughly handled
by fortune all his life. Philip (unconsciously,
it must be confessed) adopts an air of patron-
izing tolerance to the interloper who owns
the property and right of iSshing here, and
FISHING ! 127
from whom Madge has never deemed it
worth while to ask for a ticket for her friend
Philip. And so, presently seeing that Mr.
Poynter is being cast into outer darkness
through sheer carelessness, generous Olive
tears her attention from Philip, and bestows
it and a few words on GriflBiths Poynter.
It is in the nature of this young man to
reciprocate speedily and warmly. If a dog
wags his tail at Griffiths, that dog is sure of
a kindly pat or a bone. If a cat purrs at
him in the fawning false way in which the
sweet deceitful creatures do purr when it
pleases them, he strokes it, and very frequently
gets scratched. And if a woman shows him
any favour, he accepts it as a courtier might
a kiss from a queen.
Now it must be told that in spite of that
declaration of Miss Madge's made the other
day to Philip, that she "has never had a
128 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
lover/' GriflSths Poynter has " cared for her,"
to use his own temperate uneffusive language,
ever since she was a frisky Fenella-like child,
and he a big, florid, handsome, strong, courage-
ous, awkward boy. He went on craving for
her during his youth-hood, or hobble-de-hoy-
liood. And now in his young manhood the
fondness has deepened, strengthened, in-
tensified itself into love ; into love that he
has not told yet, save with his honest bright-
blue eyes (the very homes of candour and
simplicity), which invariably open wide and
let out all their secrets whenever they rest
on Madge.
But Madge has not tried, not cared to, not
thought of reading their secrets yet. Heart-
whole, Madge looks upon him as a trusty,
tried, amiable, human mastiflF, whom it is
good to have within call. While as for him,
up to the hour of their meeting by the river.
FISHING ! 129
on this he would have cut his heart up for
her, or given up hunting, or committed any
other appalling sacrifice that can be men-
tioned,
Mrs. Henderson, from the heights of her
own experience, sits and watches this
quartette, and sees clearly that they will not,
that they cannot sing in harmony much
longer. She knows well (few know better,
indeed), how one can " love and unlove, and
forget; fashion and shatter the spell,'' but
still she does pity, and fear for those four
young people. For she thinks of Olive
Aveland, " She is getting to love him for his
cousin's sake, and if she shows her love to
him, oh 1 my poor Madge."
As they walk home late in the afternoon a
blessed boulder does compel Philip to place
himself close to Olive for a minute, and he
whispers,
VOL. I. K
130 " *HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
"What could induce you to lay yourself out
to please that yokel, that yeoman, that ^'
" Why don't you call him only a clod at
once/' she says impatiently, "how can you be
so ill-natured and unjust V^
And then all her agony of the last few
hours is wafted away in a moment, as he
mutters, in a sulky, hopeless way,
" Because I love you, and can't help my-
self!"
And as he says it he has to take Olive's
hand in his, because the river-side path has
become a mere big boulder jutting over the
stream at this junction, and with that hand
lying lightly, unresistingly in his, why he would
be more or less than Philip were he to resist
the impulse to press it.
She skims along over enchanted space for a
brief time, and then Madge and Griffiths
Poynter drop back, for the path has widened.
FISHING ! 131
and Griffiths can't help wishing to talk a little
more to that " fair, unaflFected, good-natured
girl in buflF/' who saved him from the utter
confusion of feeling himself superfluous just
now; and Olive, without a thought of the evil
she is doing, out of an excess of happiness
that has been generated in her heart by that
last boulder episode, talks to him freely,
easily, almost gaily, and leaves him to think
her kind, and good, and beautiful, and almost
equal to Madge.
And Mrs. Henderson has a dim perception
that something is growing which she never
planted, or desired to plant. And is not
quite sure as to what it is, and feels that on
the whole she will not be altogether sorry
when this excellent, dear, handsome, fascinat-
ing Philip has gone off to work the vein of
good fortune which her husband has struck
for him.
k2
132 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAm."
At the Vicarage-gate Madge, who treats
Mrs. Henderson with the free affectionate
insolence of a daughter, darts back to
whisper, " Do ask Griffiths to dinner ; I think
he is taken with Olive." And so Griffiths is
asked to dinner too, and goes in radiant
and ruddy, " his eyes and face almost match-
ing his sky-blue tie and ruby pin," Olive
notices. And his light yellow hair has a
sheen upon it that oil, and oil only gives.
And altogether no one could think of pro-
nouncing this stalwart young rustic Apolla
good form.
But through that merry dinner and long
friendly evening, Olive Aveland is very kind
to him, and attentive to him. She does not do
these things with design ; but the fact is, she
has herself winced and smarted under neglect
a good many times during the last few years.
And knowing how it hurts she cannot put
fishing! 133
a fellow-creature to the pain wittingly. So
in the midst of her tumultuous, almost mad
joy (she has drugged her scruples to rest) at
the good fortune which Mr. Henderson has
announced to Philip, she has time to give
kindly words and looks to Griffiths Poynter.
Is she not a woman ?
They sit listening to the low sweet music
that Olive is making for them without other
light in the room than the faint light of stars.
And in the semi-darkness and under cover
of the nocturns she is playing, Philip ap-
proaches Olive. It is his way to do every-
thing easily and gracefully, and without
attracting surprised attention. There are no
rough edges about any part of his manner.
So now the others do not notice it when he
lounges on a low ottoman by the end of the
piano and whispers,
" I must see you alone to-morrow ? "
134 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
In the tremulous notes that follow, he
reads acquiescence to his request. And he
rewards her characteristically.
" DarUng ! '* he whispers, and then rises
up and makes way for Mr. Poynter as the
lamp is brought in.
" And now Madge must sing," Mrs. Hen-
derson says, for she feels somehow as if
Madge were being over-shadowed by this
display of musical proficiency on Miss Ave-
land^s part, and Madge, who has a voice that
is rich and soft as butter-milk, sings " Kath-
leen Mavourneen " with such sympathy and
expression, that the tears well up into
Mr. Poynter's eyes, and he has to give a
series of Uttle short coughs in order to
prevent them running down over his cheeks,
as he thinks what a sad day it will be for
him if he ever has to say farewell, "it may
be for years, or for ever," to Madge Roden.
CHAPTER VIL
MRS. WILMOT'S views.
"Sweet 13 true love, tho' given in vain, in vain."
As they are parting this night Philip
Fletcher slips a card into Olive's hand, and
when she gets to her room and dares to look
at it, she sees inscribed thereon,
" I will be at the end of the lawn nearest
to the wilderness to-morrow at twelve."
And she presses that card to her bosom,
and kisses it, and performs a variety of absurd
antics about it, such as first putting it in a
casket presently withdrawing it from there,
because the casket has no lock putting it in
her purse and taking it out again, because she
136 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
fancies the filthy lucre may defile it and
finally tearing it up into minute pieces,
because she fears it may fall into the hands
of some prying servant.
As she finishes tearing it up Madge comes
in, and Olive experiences one of those qualms
of guilt which one does experience when any-
thing like a secret however unimportant it
may be has to be maintained.
There is rather a perplexed look on
Miss Roden's face as she puts her candle down,
and there is an unwonted degree of hesitation
in her manner as she says
" Olive dear, I have had such a funny note
from Mrs. Wilmot."
" Oh, have you,'' OKve says, carelessly, for
her head and heart are both so full of Philip
that she cannot give any consideration to
anything or anybody with whom he has no
concern just at present.
MRS. wilmot's views. 137
" So odd of her to write to me," Madge
goes on rather testily, and then she hands
Mrs. Wilmot's letter to Olive, and politely
withdraws her observation from her friend
during the reading.
The letter is written with a pin apparently
^the lines are all so sharp and hard, and
there is so little ink in them, and the words
prick so as Olive reads them. The letter is a
request that Miss Roden will kindly fix a day
and hour for an interview with Mrs. Wilmot,
who wishes to say a. few words to her on the
subject of Miss Aveland's incomprehensible
conduct.
" It's the most insolent letter I ever heard
of,'' Madge says rather hotly when Olive has
finished it, " as if you had any need to have
consulted her before you came to my house
for I suppose that is your oflFence."
Olive is only a girl, and she does shrink
138 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
with a girl's undefined fear and dread from
any stone that may be thrown at her repu-
tation. Her lips quiver a little as she
says,
*' I suppose I was injudicious in allowing
Mr. Fletcher to walk home with me the other
night when I was in lodgings/'
" Injudicious 1 and he such a friend of
mine," Madge protests, "what nonsense, what
utter nonsense 1 '' and Olive says, " Ah I but
every one doesn't know that, you sed,"
and sighs, and would, rather have the
sharpest stones thrown at her reputation
than hear that Philip is " such a friend " of
Madge's.
" If she even hints at anything so im-
pertinent, you won't stay with her a day,
will you, Olive ? " Madge says eagerly, and
Olive shakes her head and says she can't
tell what she may do yet. For hope tells
MRS. WILMOT's views. 139
a bright tale to her as she remembers
that to-morrow she is going to see Philip
alone.
Conversation flags between the two girls
after this. Madge, without well knowing
why, is mortified a Uttle that her new friend,
Philip, should so unconsciously have com-
promised her old friend Olive by that trifling
act of attention. Of course, it is simply ill-
nature on Mrs. Wilmot's part, but Madge
feels that it would sting her to hear that
Philip was dubbed a flirt, however unde-
servedly. And while she is resolving these
possibilities in her mind, Olive is employed
in plotting how to make her escape to-
morrow at twelve.
Just as she is leaving OUve's room, Madge
recollects something.
" Oh ! what do you think of Griffiths
Poynter ? "
140 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
Olive strives to reraember what she does
think of him. She can only recall one
portion of her opinion, which she gives
utterance to.
" I think he looks very healthy," she says.
"And very kind," Madge puts in, hurriedly ;
"if I had a sister, I should like dear old
Grif for a brother-in-law. I'd rather see
anyone I loved married to Grif than to any-
one else in the world, I think." And as
Olive only says " Ah ! " to this, the con-
versation comes to a dead lock, and the
girls say " good-night."
There is a rustic bench planted well into
a sp^ce that has been cut away for it, in
the midst of a laurel hedge at the end of
the Moorbridge lawn. The laurel hedge
divides the lawn from the wilderness; and
through this wilderness, Philip ^Fletcher
makes his way about twelve o'clock makes
MRS. WILMOT's views. 14.]
his way to the meeting with Olive, which he
himself has petitioned for.
As he walks along, a passer-by would pro-
bably take him for a spoilt, silky, curled
darling of fortune. It is his way to look in
such a much better case always, than he
is in, in reality. For instance, now he is
not happy or satisfied by any means,
although Fate, working through Mr. Hen-
derson, has put the means of competence,
if not of wealth, within his grasp.
Unscrupulous as he is deemed, unscru-
pulous as he is in many respects, he does
hang back and hesitate about accepting
this good fortune, which he has won under
false pretences. Who can tell where the
point of honour is with such a man? He
does not hesitate or scruple (much) about
winning Madge's heart and wealth under
false pretences. But when it comes to a
142 " * HE COMETH not/ SHE SAID/*
matter of business to a dealing between
man and man, he loathes his Mae colourSy
and is strongly tempted to haul them down.
But ^' in the case of a man who has once
gone astray, the daws peck so fiercely and
freely at the heart he may at any time
afterwards wear on his sleeve/' he thinks.
And so, though he has nearly proclaimed
himself to be what he is this morning to
Mrs. Henderson, he has faltered and &Uen
back, and only succeeded in puzzling that
good woman intensely.
To complicate matters still further, Mrs,
Henderson has more than hinted to him
this morning, that she greatly lacks patience
\yith men who "fear their fate too much/*
She, in her blind belief in Madge's supe-
riority to every other created being, thinks
that Philip is so dazzled by Madge's worthy
merits, that he quite forgets his own. And
MRS. WILMOT's views. 143
SO she more than hints at broad disappro-
bation of men who are laggards in love.
And he with a vision of Olive dancing
before his eyes, and with a sharp, stinging
recollection of that cousin of his whom he
is robbing of the mess of pottage so care-
fully and hberally prepared, feels his tongue
tied, and his mind a moral chaos.
He wishes now with all' his heart, that
he had not proposed this secret meeting to
Olive. For though the fascination of Ohve
is upon him overpowqringly as of old, he
has no faith in his own fidelity to her. His
love would never stray from her, but his
vows would, for his fortunes are too pre-
carious altogether for him to dare to neglect
the certain good, the security, the power that
would accrue to him through Madge Roden.
But in spite of all these low calculations,
all these pettifogging doubts and fears, he
144 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
looks a very exalted being indeed in Olive's
eyes, as he comes up to the bench half-
hidden in the laurels, on which she is trying
to sit as if she had not been there for half-
an-hour waiting impatiently for him. Olive
is making a shallow pretence of reading, but
in the presence of the real, living, breathing,
cruelly-absorbing romance that is before her,
the shallow pretence falls away, the book
slips from her hand, and she rises up to
greet him with far too much gladness in her
eyes and voice.
For a few moments they sit there side by
side, each trying to seem easy and natural,
and altogether as if they had met there by
accident, and each failing signally. During
those few moments Olive gets horribly vivid,
painfully acute, impressions of everything
surrounding her. She is so highly strung
that she feels the soft, tremulous motion of
MRS. WILMOt's views. 145
the leaves over her head vibrating through
every fibre of her body. She feels her heart
ticking like an ill-regulated clock ; and a
stray sunbeam shimmering Cn the path
before her, dazzles her into speculating as to
whether that same sun will go down this day
upon her happy love.
What she would give how she longs to let
her head droop on the broad strong shoulder
by her side. He has been false as the mirage,
and fickle as the public taste to her, and she
has every reason to believe that he is these
things still, and that he will never be any
other. And yet, knowing and feeUng this,
she yearns for the slightest sign of loving
interest from him she covets every kindly
look and word he may ever have given or
ever will give to another woman. And a
woman who surrenders her heart thus
utterly, must always be at a disadvantage.
146 ** ' HE COMETH N6t/ SHE SAID."
On the authority of one who was " a poet
and a lover too/' we are taught that
** Woman's heart is made
For minstrels hands alone ;
By other fingers played
It loses half its tone."
Philip Fletcher has no pretensions to the
minstrers art ; but the victor in the Battle
of the Bards himself would have failed in get-
ting a fuller and more thrilling tone out of
this special woman's heart than he (Philip) is
getting. And so at last when he says,
" Well, Olive, we didn't come here to tell
each other that it's a fine day, and that the
autumn tints are richer than the spring
ones," and holds his hand out to her at the
same time, she puts hers into it and
straightens the figure that had been droop-
ing a moment before, and feels that this is
enough enough to recompense her for any
amount of past agony.
MRS. WILMOT's views. 147
"However it goes with me, Olive ^how^
ever dark and uilcertain my fixture may be, I
shall feel it less if I know you're well and
happy." And he bends forward as he
speaks, and wins her more with one of those
ardent fervent glances from the dark blue
eyes in which she sees her Heaven and her
HeU.
" Well and happy," the girl repeats, tem-
pestuously ; " it^s so easy to link the two
words together. I'm well enough. I
haven't a headache or a toothache ; I've
only " she pauses on the brink of the
declaration that she has only a heartache.
The saving remembrance that it is his proud
prerogative to woo her with such statement,
not hers to woo him, checks her, and she
substitutes the words,
"I've only a wretched feeling of uncer-
tainty about me just now ; Mrs. Wilmot has
L 2
148 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
* done with my services ' rather abruptly this
morning/^ * .
" Why ? " he asks, eagerly. Then he goes
on without giving her time to answer him,
"Never mind, Olive; you don't mind, do
you, my child? Yours should have been
feuch a much brighter lot; it's one of the
things that a man can't think of when he
can do nothing."
The saving clause informs her rather fully
of his present state of mind, and she realises
that some selfish consideration has battled
successfully with the love that is passion for
herself. She strangles a sob as she answers,
" rd rather not talk of myself, please ; tell
me what you are going to do t "
"On my honour, I don't know," he
answers, involuntarily ; " make a clean
breast of it to Mrs. Henderson, I think
tell her that I came down for a lark.
MES. WILMOT's views. 149
and renounce the honours that are ofifered
me."
She heaves a sigh. " I verily beUeve they
would be re-ofifered to you in your own
proper person then/' she says, thinking: the
while with quickened pulses of how cour-
ageous Madge Roden would respond to the
touch of bravery there would be in this man's
confessing him and risking a topple. Thiuk-
ing of how Madge would respond, and of
how tempting a response fix)m Madge would
be, she adds,
" Miss Roden will persuade Mrs. Hender-
son to be very merciful."-
"Do you think she will trouble her head
about me, when I have dubbed myself im-
postor?"'
" Yes," Olive cries, in her jealousy, suffer-
ing the truth to be wrung from her. " You'll
let her beheve that it was for her sake you
150 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
did it, and and I know what she will feel/'
Then she nerves herself to leam the worst
without further delay, and says,
"Look here, Philip; if you ever had a
spark of love for me, don't, when you're
everything to Madge Roden, let her know
that you have ever been anything to me/'
Then she tries to talk cleverly about it, in
weak endeavour to save some portion of
woman's traditional dignity.
" We have played at being many things
at being in love at being indifferent at
being jealous at being strangers at being
interested in that way in one another still.
Now let us leave off play, and in serious,
sober earnest be friends, nothing more."
"Has it been play?" He has risen up and
now stands before her, one hand thrust into
his pocket, the other clasping her shoulder to
steady her and force her to front him.
MRS. WILMOT's views. 151
" Has it been play ? by heaven, no ! it's
been such desperate earnest as you'll never
care to inspire in as you never can feel for
any man again.''
With all his faults he is such a lover as
few women qan resist loving.
" Has it been play ? " she moans out after
him. '*0h, Philip, how much better you
know than I do, whether it has or not ; but
I don't wish to talk of myself ; I only wish
to talk of you. What are you going to do?"
He shrugs his shoulders with a great air
of giving up all things, and OUve says,
sapiently,
" That will do no good ; you're not the
man to say ' Can't help it,' or ' Things must
take their course,' especially now that you
have the ball at your feet."
"What are you going to do?" he asks,
suddenly.
15 *' ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
" I ? oh, I am going T?liither &te wafts
mc/' she answers, making a gesture as
though she flung her future to the winds.
" Mrs. Wilmot having given me a bad name,
it will chng to me probably, and, when next
you see ine, Philip (if you ever do see me
again), perhaps I shall be so very much in
the shade that you will deem it due to your
own respectability to cut me ; I shall not be
in the least surprised."
He ponders for a few moments, and can't
make up his mind as to how he can make
his will agree with expediency. Then he
takes another false step as the impulse to
take that reproachful-looking, loving girl in
his arms and kiss her, overcomes him.
"Be true to me, Olive, though I can't
claim you openly yet,'' he mutters in the
fulness of that grasping spirit of his, which
cannot bear to relinquish anything that
MRS. WILMOT's views. 153
comes in his path. And OUve for one
minute struggles against her own infatuation^
and her prophetic spirit lashes her into the
utterance of an angry truth, as she replies,
" You will never claim me openly, Philip.
I know that well enough ; why should I
bind myself down to be true to you, when
you provide against any unpleasantness
through being false to me 1 ''
" So you won't trust me again ? " he pleads.
"Trust you? No!"
"Then only love me, darling,*' he says,
lowering his voice in a way that proves him
an adept in the art of winning, and she
acknowledges impatiently,
" I can't help doing that to my sorrow;''
and then adds, as the wonderful yearning to
be near him comes over her the yearning
which only a woman in love can understand,
" When shall I see you again, Philip ?"
154 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
"If I only consulted \nj own wishes,
darling, I should say daily and hourly ; but
I have your welfare to think of, Olive, as
well as my own, and so I must tell you that
it must depend on circumstances/'
"Philip,'' she cries out, sharply, " I'm trust-
ing you again so foolishly ; you won't flirt
you won't seem to love anyone but me when
you're away from me, will you 1 '^
It is easy to say " No " to this, so he says
" No " with an immense air of sincerity.
And while he holds her hands, and searches
the depths of her eyes with that seeking,
devouring glance of his, she believes him.
CHAPTER VIII.
"THOSE WHO HAVE NOTHING LEFT TO HOPE,
HAVE NOTHING LEFT TO DREAD."
Vividly, more vividly than the majority,
who only mark her calm demeanour, would
give her credit for, does Mrs. Henderson
remember the days of her youth and the
luxury of love excitement that filled them.
She is, as she herself told Olive the other
day, a happy wife and mother now; but
she has not forgotten the days when other
lips and hearts than Mr. Henderson^s told
tales of love to her. And Philip Fletcher
judges wisely in deeming her a fitting re-
cipient of some of his doubts and difficulties.
I
156 " 'he COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
For she is that rare combination, a padent,
clever, impulsive, sympathetic, dear-headed,
warm-hearted woman. And "she's but a
contradiction still," for being all these excel-
lent things, she is nevertheless weak enough
to attempt to work out what she considers
a scheme of perfect matrimonial felicity
between her two favourites Madge and
riiilip.
It must be borne in mind, before her con-
duct is tried and found wanting, that though
she has been spoken of as a friend of old
Mrs. Fletcher's, that she is considerably Mrs.
Fletcher's junior. The gulf of years indeed
between the two women, makes her a far
more sympathetic and congenial companion
to Mrs. Fletcher's supposititious son, the Philip
with whom we are dealing.
Her mood is specially good for the recep-
tion of a confidence, now as Philip comes
"those who have nothing left." 157
leisurely into her presence, after that inter-
view with OKve, of which the chief details
have been given. Her mood is specially
good for the reception of a conjBdence, and
the instinct of a woman tells her that
she is to be the recipient of one as soon
as she catches a glimpse of the young
man.
All the daily duties that must be done,
have done themselves, as it were, easily this
morning. Her cook has been moderately
intelligent, and not actually immoderately
extravagant in her demands on the butcher
during the last week. Her conservatory, to
which she attends chiefly herself, has been
well supplied with water. Her pet flowers
are in their best bloom. Her daughters have
just settled down comfortably with a new
daily governess, and her dear little friend
Madge Roden has been with her for an
158 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
hour3 talking a great deal, and blushing a
little about Philip 1
Yes, it has come to this. Madge has
reached the stage when, without being
actually in love, without feeling that for a
certainty, and, in very truth, the hero of
her Hfe has come to her, she blushes and
feels flatteringly that in a measure she has a
right in him, when she hears the sound of
Philip's name. He is miles ahead of the
dear, trusted, old friend of her youth, Griffiths
Poynter, in her own estimation, for he has
that trick of taking a woman's liking without
exerting himself which cannot be defined.
Mrs. Henderson is remembering the days
of her youth very vividly as PhiUp comes
into that little room of hers which she has
boarded off from the big corridor, and
decorated according to her own taste. She
is remembering these days, not remorsefully.
"those who have nothing left." 159
not regretfully, but clearly and viyidly for
Madge's sake. And, as she is remembering
them, and determining to be very tolerant to
any hesitation on the part of the man Madge
is learning (has learnt ?) to love, for fear any-
thing Uke intolerance should confirm that
hesitation, and cause him to ride away
though he loves ; while she is determining
on this course, he comes in, and the kind,
languid, clever eyes that meet his see at once
that the crisis is come.
There is a fulness, a steadiness, a quiet
power in Mrs. Henderson's manner that
makes it a very reassuring one to any weaker
vessel. PhiUp feels himself to be the weaker
vessel now, as he takes a stool that happens
to be at her feet, and begins by saying,
" I wish I had come under your influence
ten years ago.''
She smiles, for the impUed flattery is
160 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
pleasing to her, married woman as she
is. Albeit, married woman that she is, she
knows it means nothing, and she answers
half deprecatingly,
" Ah, Philip ! so many men say that,
feeling sure that the influence which
might have run counter to their wishes
can never be brought to bear upon them
now."
In her kind, grand, half elder-sisterly, haJf-
coaxing way, she leans forward and offers
him her hand, and adds,
" But I feel as sure of this, Phil, as I feel
sure I love your mother, my influence will
never be brought to bear upon you badly.
I shall only urge you forward in a good path.*'
For half a second more he hesitates, then
all the manliness, all the good that is in him
asserts itself, and he rises to his feet, looking
very grave and miserable, and says,
"those who have nothing left." 161
" I have swindled you out of this interest
but, for Heaven's sake, don't withdraw it/'
And then, clearly and humbly, he tells her .
all the story of his temptation, his trial, and
his inglorious success.
By the time it is told, her eyes are foil
of tender tears, and her face is quivering
with intense compassion. " Poor fellow ! "
she believes firmly the whole tone of his
narrative has led her to believe that, though
"a lark" brought him here under false
colours, love has chained him here.
She likes him very much, this handsome,
glorious young fellow, who likes her so well
that he trusts her thoroughly. She likes him
very much, and so she argues with herself
that, as they have all liked him for himself
hitherto, to the full as much as they have
liked him because they believed him to be
somebody else, so no harm can be done by
VOL. I. M
162 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
suflFering things to go on as they are for
a while, at any rate. Moreover, he is young,
and his youth and pleasantness, and his
regard for herself, and her recollection of
how tenderly his aunt and all his cousins felt
for him ; all these considerations step in. and
make her pitiful, to a dangerous degree,
towards him.
The impulse to be thoroughly honourable
and truthful is upon the good-looking good-
for-nothing now. Still sitting low at her feet
(he argues rightly that if she had been very
much displeased with him she would have made
him quit that position of proud humility), he
goes on to appeal more fully to her mercy,
and to cast himself more entirely upon it.
" I'll be quite honest at last/' he says ; *' the
temptation to take that jolly berth has never
been an overpoweringly strong one ; I've
felt, from the moment you told me of it, that
"those who have nothing left." 163
I could resign it to the right man ^to dear
old Phil ^without a pang. But the temptation
not to risk losing your friendship, and Miss
Roden's, has been stronger than any third
person can understand, perhaps.^'
As he says this, he gives her one of those
questioning, eager looks that are so infinitely
useful in bringing about his own ends. And
out of the depth of her generous belief in his
best, she says,
"If I have any influence with Madge,
Philip, you will not lose her friendship ; she
will appreciate your free resignation of a thing
that would have been very valuable to you
as highly as I do, I hope ; for it would be the
heaviest loss you could have, if you lost Madge
Roden's liking."
Her words are so plain, her meaning is so
obvious, that he is compelled to answer her
in an outright manner that he never ecu-
164 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
teinplated when he commenced his confession.
His passionate love for Olive recedes before
his ambitious excitement about Madge.
"It was the description I'd had of Madge
Eoden that tempted me down here to make
a fool of myself/' he says gloomily; "and
now that I have made a fool of myself, the
conviction that I'm no more worthy of her
than the ass was of Titania, is my greatest
punishment."
The thought of Madge groviring haggard,
careworn, pallid, plain, under the influence
of disappointed love for this "young fellow,
iv^iose worst fault has been a reckless desire
to know Madge at any price," fills Mrs.
Henderson's mind, and weakens it.
" What if she thinks you worthy, Philip ?
Tour cousin never can be as dear to us now
as you are ; because you feel boimd to resign
an appointment that is offered to you under
"those who have nothing left." 165
a mistake, you needn't resign every other
good that you've gained during your sojourn
among us."
"Have I gained her r'
" I can't say that, but I will say that you
ought to give her the open assurance that
she has gained you ; if you don't do it, I
shall have my want of wisdom brought home
to me cruelly."
Her voice trembles, and she looks alto-
gether rather more "upset" than he had
ever imagined cool, clever Mrs. Henderson
could look. What a fate ! What a girl this
is that is almost oflFered to him I And after
all he has not pledged himself to Olive! Only
he loves her.
But when "love" is suflfered to be the
lord of all, Real Life very often ends in a
desperate heart-rending struggle with every-
day necessities. And Olive may do so much
166 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
better with her beauty, and her brains ! And
how heartily hell hate the fellow who gets
her eventually, if he loses her for there is
still an "if* between Olive and the renuncia-
tion of her.
By-and-by Mr. Henderson comes in with
his boots wet, and his spirits a trifle weary.
He has had a long round in the parish this
afternoon, and he is not exactly in the
mood to balance Philip's claims to toleration
fairly.
" It seems to me that the young man has
sold her, and humbugged us all, my dear/' he
says to his wife, who is making the best of
Philip's case through the open dressing-room
door. And she is obliged to acknowledge
that he has done both these things, and that
still she likes him, and means to stand by
him.
" It was simply that he might make friends
(
THOSE WHO HAVE NOTHING LEFT." 167
whom he would never have had the chance
of knowing if he hadn't done it/' she urges,
and though her argument is loose, her face is
so eloquent that Mr. Henderson refrains from
banning Philip with book and bell, and
consents to sit down and dine with him.
By the time that dinner is over the
oflfender's oflFences seem to have become
family property, and Mr. Henderson looks
upon them with very kind eyes. He will
have DO further trouble or responsibility about
the appointment, for Philip renounces it
utterly and entirely, and responsibiUty and
trouble outside the parish are things that
Mr. Henderson is beginning to shrink from.
So Philip floats in a calm harbour of refuge,
^uite safe and comfortable for the time, but
very uncertain as to either his safety or
comfort directly he ventures out of it. Feel-
ing that it would be very sweet to write to
168 * * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.
Olive, and sweeter still to get one of those
open^souled notes of hers in reply, notes in
which she throws down her cards as only a
trusting, loving girl who is void of all mean
suspicion can.
But sweet as this would be, it would hjd
dangerous sweetness for him to taste at this
juncture. And so he sends no written balm
of Gilead to the poor girl who is thrillingly
consdious of the hopelessness and helplessness
of her case.
Her instincts tell her to get away from
Moorbridge House, to get away from this
neighbourhood, as soon as possible. But prac-
tical need opposes her instincts. Mrs. Wilmot
has *' renounced Miss Aveland's services as
governess, not deeming Miss Aveland a fit
person to be entrusted with the charge of
young and impressionable girls.'' So Mrs.
Wilmot takes care to tell everyone she meets
"tHOSE WHO HAVE NOTHING LEFT." 169
in a way, with a fulness pf suppressed mean-
ing, which induces every one to question
" Wherefore 1 " Then Mrs. Bale's tale of the
midnight ramble " with Miss Madge's gentle-
man '* is repeated and repeated again until it
loses all resemblance to the original statement,
and poor Olive is regarded as a very black
sheep.
Poor Olive really does not know where to
go, for the fraction of stipend she has to draw
from her late employer is too small to be
wasted on unnecessary travelling expenses.
Accordingly, though her taste revolts at thus
staying on near her lover while her lover
outwardly ignores her, she. is compelled
to do so, at Madge's earnest invitation, for a
few days, while she searches the columns
of all the daily papers for something that
may suit her, or rather for something that
she may suit.
170 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
And Philip, the while, comes and goes and
is freely welcomed always by Madge, and
seems to be nearer and dearer to Mrs.
Henderson than before, although he has not
availed himself of the good service that lady
has done him through her husband and her
husband's brother. A sort of undefined
estrangement seems to be springing between
Philip and Olive, and he abstains from
telling her that he has made a clear breast
of it to Mrs. Henderson.
So a few more suns rise and set upon this
state of affairs, without there being any out-
ward variation. Only Madge knows, and
Olive guesses with sharp pain, that Philip is
becoming the one absorbing object of interest
in the world to the girl whose heart will
never be treated as a worthless toy, as poor
Olive's has been.
In very truth, the ease and comfort, the
"those who have nothing left." 171
peace, and plenty, and power, which are all
represented fully by Madge's favour, are
proving too strong temptations to him. It
would be mere feeble cruelty, he argues, to
unite himself with Olive now. She is not
the kind of girl to try love in a garret, and
living on potato peeUngs with. Fettered by
a penniless wife he would surely be a penni-
less man all his life. And when the halo of
romance died away (how brief its life would
be) she might in justice reproach him with
having indulged his selfish passion at the cost
of all the comfort of her life ! No ; it
behoves him to guard her against herself
against the countless minor miseries that
crop up in the matrimonial path, on nothing
a year. His folly was culpable enough so
far as it had already gone, as regarded Ohve.
But if he suffered it to go on to the end he
had weakly led her to anticipate the other
172 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
day, it would become criminal! That his
sufferings would be equal to hers was a fact
that, surely, proved him blamelessly unselfish
in the course he intended to pursue ? It
was for her sake as much, nay, more than his
own that he would make an end of this love
that was so sweet and so bitterly hopeless.
Arguing thus with himself, his conduct
soon ceases to appear faulty. Indeed, it
speedily assumes a rather lofty aspect in his
own eyes. Girls rarely consider conse-
quences ; it is the part of the men to be
prudent, and to protect the imprudent ones
from themselves.
So the days go on, Olive becoming almost
hourly more anxious eyed, more pitifully
desirous of hearing more loving words from
Philip. And Madge almost hourly becoming
more and more convinced that in him she has
found her hero and her fate.
** THOSE WHO HAVE NOTHING LEFT." 173
He has spoken open and rather carelessly
to Mrs. Henderson of his former acquaint-
ance with Olive. Spoken of it in a free and
unembarrassed way, that shows Mrs. Hender-
son that he has never reciprocated the beau-
tiful brimette's evident predilection for him.
And when he has told Mrs. Henderson this,
and succeeded in giving her this impression,
he firmly believes that all his difficulties
about Olive are at an end. Firmly believes
that when he has counselled her for their
common good to go away and forget him,
that it will be all plain sailing with Madge,
and that he will never hanker after the girl
he loves and means to renounce.
Then comes a day soon when he must
needs expound his views to Olive. For a
situation offers which she feels bound to
accept; she is to be a companion to the
young wife of a naval officer who is ordered
i
174 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
oflf on foreign service for four years, and so
the night before she goes, Philip manages to
see her alone once more.
"I couldn't say good-by to you before
the others," he says, as she comes up to him,
in silence, at the trysting-spot he had himself
appointed. She has vowed that never again
will she make one step in advance either by
word or look towards this man, whom she
loves better than her life. So now she stands
before him with her eyes cast down, and in
perfect silence.
If she would only look at him, if she would
only speak, he would break the spell that is
over him, and caress her even while he
crushed her. But her motionlessness, and
her speechlessness, combine to check him, to
fill him with a sort of undefined awe.
"Have you forgotten that this is good-by,
Olive?" he says, in rather a choked voice; **I
"those who have nothing left," 175
have a hundred things to say to you, but
while you stand like an unfeeling statue
before me, you chill the words oflf my
tongue."
" I know them all, you needn't say them,"
she answers, in a monotone, without raising
her eyes.
" You must hear me," he begins, trying to
seize her hand, but she draws it sharply
back, and clasps it in the other high up over
her bosom. As she stands thus bending
back a little, with slightly bent head, and
tightly clasped hands, there is a wealth of
hopeless love, of futile fury, of desperate
anguish in her attitude ! Her beauty is so
glorious, her misery so tempting, that he
loves her more than ever in the moment of
renouncing her.
** Good-by," she says hoarsely, after a
minute. And then she turns and walks
17fi " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
away, leaving him with all his arguments un-
said. Leaving him with his heart and brain
burning ^leaving him with a sense of such
discomfiture upon him as he has never
dreamt of experiencing about loving, devoted
Olive. At the last she has triumphed !
As to her, she goes back to her room with
that wofuUy gnawing pain in her breast ,
which is the proud portion of the majority
of women whether they triumph or are tri-
umphed over in this way. Goes back and packs
up her things, and tries to still the ringing in
her ears, and to listen to Madge's bUthe, hope-
ful prognostications of the " better days *'
that must surely be in store for her and can
do nothing but feel in every fibre, in every
nerve, that it is over ! over ! for ever !
There are tears in Mrs. Henderson's and
Madge's eyes the next morning when Olive
bids them farewell. But Olive's eyes are dry
"those who have nothing left." 177
and bright no one knows how hot and
aching they are.
" We shall all miss her," Mrs. Henderson
says, a little sadly, as they go back into the
house after watching the carriage out of sight
round the comer of the drive. But though
she says it sadly, she is rather glad than
otherwise that the foreign element is removed
from their coterie. It is high time that
Philip and Madge should come to a clear un-
derstanding.
Philip has not come down to the house to
see Olive off, but as the carriage drives rapidly
through the lodge-gate, she sees him lean-
ing on the raiUngs by the side of it. And as
he turns one miserable, passionate glance
towards her, he sees her head droop forward
on her hands, and hears the deep cry that is
beaten out of her by this final blow to the
hope of her life.
VOL. I. N
178 " *lfB COMETH KOT, SHE 8A1D.
So for a time his patb is yery clear. But
he can't follow it for a few hours. The
whole of that day he spends in some place in
the heart of the moor, where only a few stray
red deer can gaze with pitying eyes on the
form of a man stretched on the purple heath.
And not even the red deer can see whether
or not the eyes that are so closely covered
with his hands are dry or full of tears.
In the evening he is at Moorbridge House ;
^^ all the better for his splendidly invigorating
outing on the moor " he tells Madge. And
then he whispers to her
**Will you give me half an hour In thQ
garden t "
She knows well what is coming, and frankly
M a child might she answers.
CHAPTER IX.
Madge's trust.
"And indeed her chief fault was this unconscions scorn
Of the world, to whose usages woman is bom."
Very gravely, almost solemnly, the young
man who has always been so carelessly
happy, so uncommonly debonair, and con-
tented with things in the order they are
going, offers his arm to Madge, and leads her
away out of earshot of the open where Aunt
Lucy and Mrs. Henderson are sitting.
As the fair, gracious-looking young pair
grow faint shadows in the dim light on the
lawn, Aunt Lucy says, with a little sigh, -
" Mi/ vocation will soon be gone/'
" You wouldn't have wished her to remain
n2
180 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
as she is all the years of her life V Mrs,
Henderson says quickly, "this must come
about sooner or later ; and if Philip is the
man, why not Philip as well as another ? "
The argument is unanswerable ; at any
rate Miss Roden, senior, does not attempt to
answer it, she merely sUps on one side of it
and says,
** I am more satisfied than I should have
been if you and Mr, Henderson were not
responsible for him ; as it is, you both love
Madge too well to have lightly wished her
happiness."
For a few moments Mrs. Henderson suffers
sharp pangs of doubt and remorse for her
share in the transaction. Then she hastens
to exonerate her husband.
" Whatever happens," she says decisively,
" however this may turn out^ and I do think
that they love each other, and will tell each
maj)ge's trust. 181
other BO to-night, my husband has don^
nothing, either to forward or to hinder it;
men are not so alert in such matters as w0
are ; he has seen nothing of it/'
" But you have seen it grow," Miss Rodea
says, "even I have seen it, and you're fL
quicker woman than I am ; Tve seen it, and
sorrowed over it, and though Fm here to take
care of the child, Tve not dared to move a
finger/'
" Young blood will have its course," Mrs-
Henderson sings, a little tremulously; "if we
had moved fifty fingers it would have been
just the same/'
"Think of her coming back to us pre-
sently," Miss Roden goes on,, with loving
jealousy, " with the flush of that new interest
in her face, and that young man, who's nearly
a stranger, more to her than either of us ! I
can hardly bear to think of it. Why
182 " * HE CX)METH NOT,' SHE SAID."
couldn't he have fallen in love with and
married that poor friendless girl Olive, a
husband would be a boon to her ! "
Meanwhile Philip has led Madge out of
ear-shot, and fought his battle. He .will not
weary her with tedious recapitulation or- long
pleading.
"I have two things to tell you," he begins,
speaking rapidly, but steadily and clearly, "I
am not the man you believe me to be, and I
wish you to be my wife.''
Whatever she may feel when these two
announcements are made to her thus
simultaneously, Madge Roden does not mani-
fest any surprise ; she just lifts the eyes that
have a shade of bronze brown in the shade,
and of almost golden radiance in the light,
up to his face, and he sees that she does not
recoil from him. And in spite of his craving
for her money, in spite of his liking for the
Madge's trust. 183
girl, in spite of the general dislike men have
for being rejected, he is sorry for it.
There can be no going back now. Rene-
gade as he is to his faith to Olive, renegade
he must remain, for there can be no going
back, no faltering, no hesitation in his deal-
ings with this young lady. All these thoughts
rush through his mind as Madge gravely
scans his face, pausing before she gives her
answer, yet she only pauses for a few
moments. Then her answer comes,
"Before I ask you who you are, I'll
promise to be your wife, Philip." And
somehow this perfect trust in him, displayed
so unsparingly, displayed without effort or
appeal on his part, touches him to a deeper
repentance than he has ever felt in his life
before.
Madge is not a girl to deal in half-
measures. Having waited and been very
184 " * HE COMETH NOT/ 8HE SAID.'*
watchful over her own heart for what she
believes to be a long time, and having at last
discoTered what she belieyes to be genuine
love for him in it, she is ready to pour out all
its treasures freely upon him now ; ready to
acknowledge him openly before all the world
as the real happy Prince for whom she has
waited in her enchanted palace^
He finds it easy enough to tell all his
story now to the girl who so quietly accepts
the situation of being the sharer of his life, his
prospects, and his thoughts. He tells how hear-
ing of her fired him with the desire to come
down and win her. And as he refrains from
telling her why he desired to win her she finds
she cannot be a severe censor about that bit
of lax morality, and he winds up by telling
her that for the last ten days Mrs. Henderson
has known him as he ip, and has remained his
staunch friend despite that knowledge.
Madge's trust. 185
" I thought there was something below the
surface when you wouldn't take that appoint-
ment/' Madge says, and she thinks that there
was something very noble in that act of
abnegation on the part of a man who was
often in dire need of a shilling ; for Philip
Fletcher is not guilty of the folly of seeking to
seem better or richer than he is before this girl
who is taking him upon trust so thoroughly,
but who, foi* all that entire reliance, has the
wit to find out everything she pleases.
" I have just seventy pounds a year of my
own, and I have never had the knack of
keeping any situation more than a couple of
months," he tells her, with an uneasy laugh,
for the confession implies that he must be
content* to owe all to her in the future ; but
Madge spares his [pride prettily in her
answer,
" What a lucky thing that I have so raucb.
186 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
isn't it, Philip 1 '' Then (she is a mere girl
still, full of romantic generosity and high
feeling) she goes on to saj, ^^ You will never
crush me by seeming to remember that it
was mine before it was yours, will you,
Philip 1 ''
" Your friends will probably spare me the
trouble, Madge ; on the &ce of it the look of
the thing is against me, or would be against
me," he hastily corrects himself " if you were
not such a &scinating little thing that no man
could be with you without losing his head,
and forgetting his fortunes."
So he babbles on, as men will to girls to
whom they are professing aflFection, whether
they are feeling it very strongly or not.
And Madge likes the novel sensation of
listening to authorised declarations, and
hanging with both her pretty hands on the arm
that only she has a right thus to lean, she
Madge's trust. 187
feels contented, and wouldn't change her
Philip who has won her in disguise '^ like a
knight pf old/' she thinks, for an army of
iionest adorers like Griffith Poynter.
As they go back to the room where the
lamps are burning now and the moths hoirer*
ing about the same with suicidal recklessness,
and the two ladies waiting for what they each
feel sure of, with every degree of satisfaction,
Madge behaves unconsciously quite like the
young queen of a rich realm about to raise a
prince of inferior station to a share in her
throne. She has been sovereign lady all her
life, it comes quite in the order of things that
ishe should act as a sovereign lady now at this
crisis ; there is no bashful hanging b^k, no
waiting for the man to make the announce-
ment ; it almost seems to both the aunt and
the friend, that she leads Philip forward as
she says,
188 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
^ We haye come to ask yoa for jour oon-
gratulations, for we are engaged to each
other 1 "
Miss Koden feels a thrill of satis&ction in
the midst of her aggrieyed sensations, it
shows that Madge realises fully that she is
the one conferring the greater honour. Old
Miss Roden is a kind-hearted, rather liberal-
minded woman about most things ; but just
about this one matter of marrying and giying
in marriage, she is inclined to be very harcj
on, and illiberal to, the men, not one of whom
has ever chosen her. Theoretically Madge
has always stood out for there being complete
equality in matrimony, when two hearts are
joined together. But this practical betrayal
of the fact that she felt herself to be the most
important element in this special arrange-
ment, " is more to be relied upon '* her far-
seeing relative thinks.
Madge's trust. 189
And Mrs. HcDderson marks that little act
of leadership, and though she knows it is un-
conscious, she feels more sorry to see it than
she has ever been to see any act that Madge
has ever committed in her life before ; for
she knows that if Madge does not resign the
reins, they will be wrested from her, and she
gains this knowledge from Philip's face as
Madge is making her announcement.
However, all is happiness and harmony
to-night. The young people talk over their
plans and intentions in moon-lighted corners,
and servants rush about and serve the elders
with a sort of smirking alacrity that proves
they know very well the determination their
young mistress has arrived at. These latter,
by the way, begin to hope already that " he **
will know his place, and remember that
they are beholden to Miss Madge, and not
to him!
190 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
Altogether this future, for which Philip has
played falsely and forsworn Olive, does not
look too fairly before him for poetical
justice !
The Fletcher family at Chelsea hear of
and rejoice in the ne'er-do- welFs good luck
presently, though they shake loving, disap-
proving heads over the way in which that
good luck has been compassed.
And Philip the genuine, Philip the hard-
worked, Philip the cousin of Madge's future
husband, having earned a holiday at last,
promises to spend it at Halsworthy.
It is market-day at Winstaple, and
Winstaple is only five miles from Halsworthy,
so the Halsworthy people frequently drive
over there on market-days, for the pleasure
apparently of meeting each other out of their
own parish. Madge has a pair of splendidly
smart-stepping cobs which she drives in a
Madge's trust. 191
little wagonette^ and on this special market-
day, she takes them along under a bright
autumnal sun at a rapid rate into Winstaple.
She has adroitly substituted the wagonette
for a low pony carriage in the latter, either
Mrs. Henderson or Philip would have seemed
to occupy a subordinate position behind.
Courtesy wouldn't have permitted Philip to
let Mrs. Henderson sit there. And, inclina-
tion wouldn't have permitted Madge to let
Philip sit there. His place is by her side now,
and in the wagonette he can take his place
naturally without any derogation from Mrs.
Henderson's dignity.
Madge, it must be confessed, goes into
Winstaple this afternoon with a very pleasant
sense of importance upon her. The man
whom all the Winstaple world will know she
is going to marry is sitting by her side, and
he is as handsome as a star. As she tui*ns
192 " 'she COMETH NOT,' HE SAID."
her cobs into the yard of the " Red Lion '*
they all see Griffiths Poynter dismounting
from his horse, and they all remember that
the last time they saw him, Olive was with
them, and that he seemed to admire Oliire.
The burden of congratulating Madge is the
heaviest one that has ever been laid upon
Griffiths, but he takes it up gallantly, and
comes forward, a very deep flush on his
florid face, and a shimmer of hot tears
in his blue eyes, and says the common-
place words :
" They tell me I have to congratulate you,
Madge. I do it heartily, I'm sure.'' And
he grips the hand he has coveted for so
many years, and detests Philip with all his
soul for the cool way in which that young
interloper stands by and seems to take it all
for granted. All involuntarily, and quite
without any design of giving PhiUp offence
Madge's trust. 193
he turns to the happy young lord lover and
says, even while Madge is thanking him,
" And you're to be congratulated a good
deal more for we all know what Madge is."
Philip bows very stiffly and superciliously,
and Madge feels annoyed with him for the
first time. Out in the world, of course, they
will be equal, or he may be acknowledged
the superior without let, hindrance, or ques-
tions from her. But just here, he needn't
grudge her the honour and glory that her
own subjects like to accord her.
" Dear Grif," she says playfully, " you
always thought too highly of me," and then,
somehow or other, without design on the part
of any one of them, she passes out from the inn
yard into the High-street byMr.Poynter's side.
Philip meanwhile prowling behind with
Mrs. Henderson, and who from having
gone through this sort of thing understands
VOL. I.
194 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
well that Madge is only bringing certain and
sure retribution and tribulation upon herself.
Philip, with a downcast and moody face, is
less pleasant to behold than usual. If this is
a specimen of the way in which Madge means
to quietly assert her individuality her well-
authenticated claims to being a free agent,
and quite independent of the will or wilful-
ness of others, he has made a bitter bad
bargain, in spite of the Moorbridge estate and
the two thousand a year.
Presently he gives vent to his dissatisfac-
tion to the lady who begins to experience the
sensation of having played with edged tools
to say nothing of fire :
" A misfortune it is for a girl to have been
brought up in the wilds."
Mrs. Henderson has known other homes
than Halsworthy, and has gone through a
good deal in them that makes her life at
Madge's trust. 195
Halsworthy seem faint and shadowless. But
she has been the wife of the vicar of Hals-
worthy for many years now, and she is too
loyal a woman to hear it disparaged without a
protest.
"Fortunately for us whose lots are cast
here in the luxuriant west, we know nothing
of the wilds where it's bad for girls to be
brought up."
" I am not speaking of the soil, but of the
social barbarity of this region," he replies
savagely, for Madge knows many people to-
day in Winstaple, and is graciously and gladly
greeting them in company with GriflSth
Poynter.
"My idea is that a girl should never
venture outside the barrier," he goes on as he
stalks past Madge and Griffiths, who are
flattening their noses against a photographer's
window ; "anything that calls for remark that
o 2
196 " 'he COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
makes any section of the world look round, is
bad style, according to my idea/^
" Really " (Mrs. Henderson is fairly nettled
now with her favourite. How can anyone
dare to hint at a fault in you, frank, faultless
Madge?) "Really! I'm afraid you^l find
that a very large section of the world will
look round in most utter bewilderment when
Madge marries you."
'Don't you throw the inequality of our
fortunes in my face," he says in a harsh tone ;
" if she requires a man to be the slave of her
caprices, on account of it, she should have
taken the bucolic by her side now ; he was
willing enough."
"So were you, Philip ?" She says it
questioningly he notices, for he is a man who
by reason of his extreme selfishness is very
sensitive to the faintest shadow of a change
in tone or expression.
Madge's trust. 197
" Can you doubt it ? Is she not the load-
star that drew me here? Didn^t I play a
very dubious part indeed, for the sake of her
fair face?"
He says all this in a way that makes this
staunch friend, this impetuously ardent
admirer of his, feel that after all, she knows
very little about him. Almost in spite of
hersqlf, she had arranged in her own mind,
how Philip would deport himself during these
difficult days of courtship. And here he was
acting in a way that appeared to be utterly
at variance with the nature of the man as
she had known him hitherto. She did not
know that all this spurious jealousy, all this
apparently over-weeniijg sense of his own
importance, all the captious conduct which
had succeeded his former cool calm, was the
oflFspring of his love for and remorse about
Olive. And so being ignorant of this, she
198 ^' ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE BATB.
failed to read the riddle Philip h^
aright,
As she is wondering for the fiftiet
whether the laws of Nature, and of
are not more to be trusted to ^ork
iTood in matters matrimonial than t
of matron friends, quick footsteps
behind them, and they are checke
breathless exclamation from Madge
* Do come back, Philip ; Grif an
going to be taken at Hamilton's, anc
you to he done too /'
She would paint splendidly, he
seeing as he looks at her, for hei
bronze hair is blowing lightly, like a
cobwebs, about her cliignon, and 1
are sparkling^ and smiles are dancing
her face. But according to his taste
photograph badly, look like a " Frail
or a *' Forest Flower/' or some oth^
Madge's trust. 199
resquely untidy specimen of feminine beauty.
And probably as she ran up to him from
GriflSiths Poynter, she would run back to
Griffiths Poynter from him. He disliked the
whole tone of the episode, and showed that
he disliked it in the way in which he refused
to go to Winstaple's chief photographer, and
be put into Mr, Hamilton's best position for
a lover ; and reproduced by the sun.
A^nd Madge listens to his curt refusal with
a heightened colour ; and walks back slowly
with a sore feeling in her heart, and a
marble wobbling about in her throat, to
rejoin Griffiths at Hamilton's.
" Won't he come ? " Grif asks, opening his
eyes wide, and expressing wonderment all
over himself, as Madge comes into the shop *
with a look of mortification on her face ^the
first he has ever seen there.
" Philip says he never has been, and never
200 *' * HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
will be photographed," she tells him briefly.
And then he feels that he will, as the
Americans say, have anything but "a good
time '' with this young lady for the remainder
of the period they are doomed to spend in
Hamilton's shop. He guesses the cause :
the men who are left are apt to be keen
about any shortcomings on the part of the
men who succeed them. But though he
distrusts and detests Philip for it, he reflects
sagaciously that it will be anything but a
policy of peace to express his distrust and
detestation to Madge. So he goes on
fiddling with the photographs on the counter,
and feels it almost a relief when a cumbrous
woman, followed by six children, comes in and
greets Madge with efiusion.
The whole party are carefully arranged
for representation in Mr. Hamilton's best
style evidently. The lady is ample, and
MADGE S TRUST. 201
to-day her amplitude is magnified by a stiflF
silk. Her complexion is a steady, unvarying
magenta, and the whites of her eyes are so
yellow that they suggest acrimony and bile
to all who look at them. These eyes kindle
now as they rest on Madge. There is no
doubt whatever that Mrs. Wilmot is delighted
to see Miss Roden ; so delighted, that there
must be a special cause.
CHAPTER X.
THE PHOTOGRAPH.
"Shall a light word part us now ? "
Mil. WiLMOT, the husband of the lady
who is regarding Madge with bUthely bilious
eyes, is the solicitor who manages what is
called down here, " the Poynter property ; "
therefore it is with Griffiths a matter of
habit and interest, quite as much as of
courtesy and feeling, to give her gracious
recognition whenever he sees her, however
untoward the sight of her may be.
She bows out a greeting to him now, as
ho makes all his features curvet in a smile
xhat is about as natural as a spmrred house's
THE PHOTOGRAPH. 203
prance. He is too dejected to wish to
interchange ponderous badinage with the
lawfiil spouse of his legal man of business
just now, and she looks as if she had any
amount of imsaid words ready to say to him.
On ordinary occasions she commences con-
versation by saying to him,
"You haven't been near us lately, Mr.
Poynter,'' but she adopts another mode of
salutation to-day, and says as she gives his
hand an emphatic squeeze,
" I'm sure I thought for a minute that you
were Mr. Fletcher."
"You couldn't have thought so for a
minute," he responds rather gruffly, "for
you only caught sight of me the instant you
spoke." He feels unaccountably annoyed by
the insinuation contained in Mrs. Wilmot's
speech. He has a vague notion that it will
annoy Madge ; not fathoming the truth that
204 '' ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
Madge will never feel annoyed about Philip
through anything that a third person can
do or say.
At this, Madge, still looking downcast and
slightly annoyed, is called away to take her
place opposite to the mind-quelling instru-
ment in front of which we have most of us
passed some intensely unhappy moments.
The day is sultry, Winstaple High Street is
dull ; and Mrs. Wilmot gets impatient as
more than half-an-hour elapses, and still
Madge does not come back to them.
"Miss Roden must be very difficult to take
or very fussy about being taken," Mrs. Wilmot
says to Griffiths : and Griffiths rejdns,
" She certainly isn't fussy, but I daresay
hers is a difficult face to catch correctly it's
so full of expression."
, " Yes ; not a good feature in it, and no
repose about it," Mrs. Wilmot says, com-
THE PHOTOGRAPH. 205
placently surveying her own fleshy well-
settled features in the glass, " a nice-looking
girl though to my mind ; that girl who was,
I grieve to say it, in charge of my children,
was not a patch on Miss Roden/'
He hates her for speaking of the divinity
of his life as a mere " nice-looking girl ; "
but he hates her more for the imputation
she casts upon Miss Aveland.
"I can't understand your grief in the
matter of Miss Aveland," he says looking at
her sternly ; and those blue eyes of his that
waver, and water, and flicker, and do a
variety of absurd things when Madge is
confusing his faculties, can look very stern
indeed when mere mortals such as Mrs.
Wilmot do wrong to his sense of right,
" unless indeed you grieved as everyone else
did, to see Miss Aveland occupying a sub- ^
ordinate position."
206 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.''
Mrs. Wilmot's pendulous purple under-lip
purses itself up at this. Then she opens her
mouth with a snap, and says,
"I can only say I hope, though I don't
expect it, that Miss Aveland will be more
prudent in future,'' and Griffiths feels savagely
that she is referring to that midnight walk
with the invincible Philip which has been well
bruited abroad.
Madge comes in now, radiant, delighted
with the negative which has been shown to
her in relief against the coat-sleeve of the
artist in a dark closet where the smell of
chemicals had made her sick. And Mrs.
Wilmot instantly folds her mouth into a more
amiable form, and says ingratiatingly,
" I was going to call on you, Miss Roden,
to ask you to forward something which I
A found belonging to Miss Aveland after she
left my employ ; I don't know her address.
THE PHOTOGRAPH. 207
and have no desire to hold any communica-
tion with her myself/'
Madge's face grows scarlet as she listens
to this exposition of ill-feeling which cannot
be fairly fought. She puts her hand out,
and takes what Mrs. Wilmot gives her, and
as she does so the scarlet, ebbs from her face
for one moment, and then comes back in a
cruelly burning wave as her eyes light on the
photograph of her lover, and the words
" from Philip to Olive," written underneath.
It is a cruel blow to the girl who has been
so full of trust in him and in Olive. For a
few moments she quails in a way that makes
Griffiths regard her wistfully, and causes
Mrs. Wilmot to open her eyes in assmned
surprise and say,
"Fm afraid the heat of the studio has
upset you. Miss Roden."
" No, it hasn't," Madge says quickly. Then
208 '' ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
she collects herself, and (it comes so easy to
Madge to be straightforward in this extre-
mity, for it is the habit of her life) then she
adds,
" I was staggered for a moment when I
saw it was Mr. Fletcher's photograph; Fd
forgotten that he had told me he knew Miss
Avcland very well some years since ; thank
you, Mrs. Wilmot ; I will certainly send it to
her."
" She must be foolishly fond of the young
man if that doesn't open her eyes," Mrs.
Wilmot keeps on all the time she is sitting to
Mr. Hamilton. "Tm sure, when I was a
young woman, I was always up at the least
slight, much less any attention to any other
young lady ; but la ! girls in these days put
up with anything to get husbands ; in my
time we knew what was due to us.''
Meanwhile, Madge is trying to determine
THE PHOTOGRAPH. 209
not only what is due to herself, but what is
due to Olive, and to Philip. Madge is no
perfect monster, and the discovery of this
good and intimate understanding which must
formerly have existed between her lover and
her friend has nettled her more than a little,
since neither of them have taken any trouble
to inform her of it. But in the midst of this
natural nettled feehng, there rises up a strong
counter-current of belief in the liberty of the
subject of recognition of the right that each
human being has to keep his or her own
counsel. If a hundred girls are in possession
of photographic attempts to reproduce Philip
the Magnificent, what right of complaint has
she 1 So she argues, and all the time she
feels as if the photograph, and the words
written underneath it, were burning holes in
her pocket.
. At length she decides that she will say to
VOL. I. y
210 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
Philip, handing him the carte-de-visite at the
same time say as cheerfully and easily as
she can,
" See here, Mrs. Wilmot foimd this in one
of Olive's drawers after she left ; I suppose
you gave it to her years ago, didn't you 1 "
say this, and leave it to him to offer any
explanation he thought proper, and then
forward it to Olive. Just as she comes to
this decision, Mrs. Henderson and Philip
come in, and clearly the mood of the latter
is dark. Madge, with a wisdom that many a
wife after years of experience would do well
to take example by, resolves now to wait
until they are home again; not to spoil
the day for Philip, "if by any chance he
should feel vexed at this likeness of himself
having turned up.*'
" How long you have been, Madge,'' Mrs,
Henderson begins ; she is determined that
THE PHOTOGRAPH. 211
all the fault-finding shall not come from
Philip. The broad injustice of his com-
plainings may not strike Madge so forcibly,
if someone else indulges in them too.
" Yes, it's long, tedious work being photo-
graphed, isn't it, Philip ? " Madge answers
wearily, for since Mrs. Wilmot shot that
arrow of hers into the air, everything has
been long and tedious with usually vigorous,
atmosphere absorbing Madge. She makes
her appeal to Philip in a little entreating way
that is new to her,N for she is thinking that
he may perchance be annoyed with her by-
and-by, for not now at once giving him 'an
opportunity of oflFering her that explanation
which " really does after all " seem due both
to herself and to Olive Aveknd.
And he falls into the natural manly error
of thinking that it is her conscience smiting
her. " She feels she has outraged propriety
P 2
212 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
by running all over the place with that
yokel/' is the way he words it to himself.
He thinks it will be a good lesson to " this
spoilt country-bred child," to make her feel
it still more, by showing how men of the
world regard such derelictions of female
duty in the case of the special females who
owe duty to them. Accordingly he adopts
a stiffer, more reserved manner than is quite
seemly even in tolerant Madge's eyes. And
as they go home that evening she credits for
the first time the assertion that she has
frequently heard made ramblingly, that an
"adoring lover may develope into a stern
task-master."
But before they go home they meet Mrs.
Wilmot again. At a confectioner's this time,
where she is extravagantly regaling herself
on the most airy of jam puflfs, and econo-
mically filling up space in her children with
THE PHOTOGRAPH. 213
rotund penny buns. Each young Wilmot
is pastured, so to say, about the middle of a
broad, brown table land of bun when Madge
and her friend go in, and they crop off the
remainder hastily with a view to more, for
they know well that so long as Miss Roden
" stays talking to Ma,'' they may eat on with
impunity.
" That dreadful woman is absolutely
making her way to us, with an air of being
sure of a welcome," Mrs. Henderson whispers,
in comic despair, as Mrs. Wilmot surges
down the middle of the shop towards the
comer wherein Madge and her friends are
ensconced. Whereat Madge, who feels very
genuine despair at the prospects of another
collision with Mrs. Wilmot while that photo-
graph remains unexplained, unmentioned, at
the bottom of her pocket, says,
" Do let us be civil to her, please," and
214 " * HE COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
looks shy and shattered, in a way that is
quite novel.
Mrs. Wilmot is a woman who has never in
the whole course of her life done anything
that is either culpably foolish, or morally bad.
Yet for all that she is an abomination to
many people whose tents are pitched in the
same region as hers.
" For,'' as she herself says to an enterpris-
ing fellow-labourer in the field of planting,
nourishing and cherishing many weeds that
are noxious to her neighbours, "I make a
point of speaking my mind, my dear, and of
saying what I think ; but I must say for
myself that a husband of mine has never
been embroiled by me." And this does not
mean that she has several husbands liable
to be embroiled, in stock, but that Mr.
Wilmot's predecessor is resting in the grave
undisturbed by any back thoughts of an
THE PHOTOGRAPH. 215
"action for defamation" brought about by
the lively tongue of his wife ; and that Mr.
Wilmot is such a pacific, well-meaning fellow,
that society at large for his sake pointedly
ignores any blisters caused by the working of
Mrs. Wilmot's tongue.
Madge has a piercingly keen recollection of
all these attributes of Mrs. Wilmot, as she
says, " Do let us be civil to her ; '' instinc-
tively Madge feels that Mrs. Wilmot is aware
of having her (Madge) at an advantage. "If
she's awkward enough to mention it to
Philip, it will be the one straw too much for
this poor camel to-day,'' she thinks, in half
comic, half genuine fear, and she hurriedly
resolves to fly from her foe.
" Philip," she says, rising up, " I want to
go and get some broad envelopes, will you
come with me 1 "
" Ah ! I thought from the likeness to the
216 *' * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
photograph that this must be Mr. Fletcher,"
Mrs. Wilmot says, interposmg her person in
the path between the chairs which Madge
had been about to take ; '* I was just going
to ask for an introduction, Miss Roden.^-^
In an agony of annoyance and embarrass-
ment Madge makes Mr. Fletcher known in
the conventional manner to Mrs. Wilmot,
and then indicates that she is ready to
go on.
But Philip, out of sheer captious wilfulness,
affects not to see this. Madge has put him
out this day, and he can't resist the inclination
to punish her, even in this petty way. For
some reason unknown to him, Madge evi-
dently desires to get away from Mrs. Wil-
mot. Therefore, she shall be thwarted, and
compelled to endure that lady's society for
exactly so long a time as seems good to
Philip.
THE PHOTOGRAPH. 217
" Quite a pleasure to meet so many
friends and acquaintances in Winstaple, I'm
sure," Mrs. Wilmot goes on, with her largest
smile, " the best treat my little people have
had for a long time ; it's the reward I give
them, Mr. Fletcher, for appUcation to their
studies ; I bring them into Winstaple, and
so kill two birds with one stone, as one may
say, for I do my shopping, and they see a
little life, so good for children to see a little
life and society, you know : rubs off the
rusticity which creeps over girls brought up
in the country, unless they are remarkably
fortunate in their governess, which we all
know my children have not been."
Mrs. Wilmot shakes her head in a
gloomily regretful manner as this flood of
words ceases. During the continuance of it
the others had sustained that look of feeble,
flickering, vague interest which is apt to
218 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.'*
creep over any countenance when its owner
is listening to one of those stories without
end, interest, or incident, which an unwise
majority are so fond of telling. But Madge
has concentrated all her attention upon it,
dreading as each word falls that the next will
contain some allusion to that oppressive pho-
tograph.
The young Wilmots, meanwhile, having
patiently plodded through the broad, dreary
expanse of bun, are now taking gay little flights
over the aromatic regions of lemon-cheese
cakes, and citron cakes ; steeped in a sweet
sense, the while, of these things being forbidden
joys, for their indulgence in which painsome
penalties will have to be paid by-and-by,
when their excellent mother gets them safely
back into the sanctuary of their own home.
Nevertheless, for all this full knowledge
they have of the darkness of their future.
THE PHOTOGRAPH. 219
they are the only happy people in the shop.
For the mistress of it, though she does not
dare to check their ravenous raids upon her
daintiest bits of epitomised indigestion, is the
slave of a dreadful doubt as to whether she
will ever be paid in full or not. Mrs. Wilmot
has a fine appetite, and a horrible habit of
beating down every unhappy vendor of any-
thing who may approach her. Moreover, the
young Wilmots dart with such fay-like
rapidity from one dish to another, that it
requires a ready reckoner, indeed, to count
the cost of all they devour.
" Come, Philip, I must get my envelopes/'
Madge says when Mrs. Wilmot's first burst of
eloquence has come to a close, and Philip
provokingly pauses to say,
" I won't say good afternoon, Mrs. Wilmot,
for we shall find you here when we come
back, shall we not ? "
220 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.''
" What did that woman mean by knowing
me ' from my likeness to the photograph 1 ' **
he inquires as soon as they are in the
street.
" Oh ! I can't tell," Madge hastily ejacu-
lates, for at that moment another batch of
eager acquaintances stop her. A bevy of
girls this time, who like the pattern of the
jacket and tunic she wears, and so accom-
pany her to the stationer's, and then back
to the confectioner's, in order to get these
garments well defined in their mind's eye,
so that they may go home, and "carry
them out." And when they get back to
the confectioner's, Mrs. Wilmot is still there,
and Madge begins to realise how potent
are the minor miseries of life in working
wretchedness.
She stands in a little fidget now, as Mrs,
Henderson settles the bill, and Philip begins
THE PHOTOGRAPH. 221
to talk again to Mrs. Wilmot. The true
secret of his being attracted towards this
woman is to be found in the repulsion he
feels for her. She has maligned his always
dearly loved Olive, and indulging this
specious courtesy of his is a deep-rooted
determination to make her smart for that
maligning. Additionally, he feels a certain
amount of pleasure in showing that " fellow
Poynter,^' that he (Philip) is not the slave of
Madge's lightest caprice.
"I have been sending invitations out to-
day, to a little gathering for croquet and
music next week at Rittering," Mrs. Wilmot
is saying to Philip, as Madge who is quite
transformed into " Fine ear,'' stands by ex-
pectant of she hardly knows what. " I hope
we shall see you all, Mr. Fletcher ; quite a
pleasure I'm sure to make your acquaintance ;
photographs very inadequately represent the
222 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
human face diyine as a rule, but I was
prepossessed by yours the iu6ment I saw
it ; good'hy, delighted to have met you all ;
good'hy"
They, the Halsworthy and Moorbridge
House party, get out of the shop at last, and
now Nemesis rushes up, overtakes and nearly
crushes Mrs. Wilmot. Her healthy, hearty,
hungry six have nearly cleared the counter,
and she has not even the maternal felicity of
feeling that what they have eaten may do
them good.
A dozen trifles crop up, and make Madge
defer bringing the photograph to the fore,
\mtil the evening. Then she stands by him^
loaning her arm on his shoulder very
trustingly, as slie says,
"Mrs. Wilmot found a photograph in Olive's
drawer after slie left ; she gave it to me to
forward to-day ; it's of you, Philip."
THE PHOTOGRAPH. 223
Has the bolt fallen 1 Must he renounce
the place, the position, the love, security and
fortune that Madge can give him ?
CHAPTER XL
MRS. TOLLINGTOK.
** *TiOve must cliog where it can,' I say."
Mrs. Tollington is in what she herself
calls "one of her nervous states" this
morning, and the cause of her being so
must be briefly described.
Mrs. Tollington has been spoken of as the
" young wife of a naval officer '^ just now ;
but in justice to the veracity of the parish
register wherein her baptism was entered
thirty-five years ago, it must be admitted
that " youth " and Mrs. Tollington had seen
the last of each other for some time.
But she belongs to the large army of
MRS. TOLLINGTON. 225
those who dispute this ground of "youth"
inch by inch with time. And in this un-
ceasing warfare, she was greatly assisted by
her limpid eyes, and a liquid voice, and a
general air of being rather too ethereal for
this work-a-day world. Her eyes and her
veins are so very blue, and her long tendrils
of curls are so very bright and fair and
silky, and the figure (that of an evening
is encased generally in a " baby-body '' with
the newest apologies for sleeves) is so very
slender and willowy, that on the ' whole no
one can be very much disgusted with Mrs.
ToUington for calling herself a "mere girl
stilF' a mistaken notion which has been
fostered by her marriage with a man who
is, and who owns to being, sixty.
Mrs. Tollington is quite sufficiently en-
dowed with this world's perishable wealth
to be able to indulge herself in her " ner-
VOL. I. J
226 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
vous moods," her companion (our old friend
Olive), and a well-appointed house on breezy
Blackheath. She has given the verdict in
favour of Blackheath, for thijee reasons : the^
first is "its widely acknowledged healthiness ;"
the second is, her '* dear sister is settled near
has married into poverty, and may need;
her (Mrs. ToUington's) heart-and-purse aid
sometimes ; " and the third is, that there is
a deep and charitable joy to her in living
thus well surrounded among the shabby
, remains of a band of people who had been?
powerful in her genuine girlhood, who had.
snubbed her when she was living in Green-
wich Hospital where her father was a
lieutenant, and who " are so glad to recall
their old intimacy with her,'' now that sho
is the petted wife of a man who shortly will
have his flag.
The two first reasons Mrs. Tollington
MRS. TOLLINGTON. 227
gives out openly to everyone who cares to
listen to them, regardless of the fact of their
being utterly false. The third reason she
cautiously represses, regardless of the fact
of its being thoroughly true. But don't
think, from this exposition of her weaknesses,
that she is a fool pure and simple, otherwise
her conduct will perplex you as much as it
did Olive at first.
She came down to break&st this morning
in one of her "nervous states," with a white
muslin and blue-ribboned dressing-gown on,
and an expression of fatigued annoyance on
her neat passionless face. And as Olive
noticed the expression, she inwardly girded
up her soul for endurance of all that the
expression portended.
" Look here, OUve," Mrs. ToUington begins,
holding out an envelope that has been
broken open, "that goose Maria brought
Q2
22S " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
this to me, and, without saying that it was
addressed to you, I opened it, and out
this tumbled" (here she hands Olive a
photograph of Philip Fletcher); "and then
naturally, seeing such a handsome young
man, I read the letter ; and when I'd done
that, I found it was addressed to you. What
does it all mean V
" It means," Olive says as steadily as the
sudden vision of even this poor semblance
of the never-forgotten, still-idolized old love
will let her, " it means that a photograph,
which I left behind, has been returned to me."
" Of a young man and such a handsome
young man ! Is he your lover ? "
With such pain, such humiliation, and
such regret that he is not, Olive stammers
out,
"No!"
" Then why do you look like that ? " Mrs.
MRS. TOLLINGTON. 229
Tollington asks in an aggrieved tone. " I
can't bear to be deceived ; and when I thought
I had lighted on your secret by accident, I
did feel vexed that you should have kept it
from Captain TolUngton. I am still quite
young enough for Captain Tollington to be
very anxious about the friendships I form
with men during his absence ; and of course,
if you have a lover, he will come here, and
I shall see him.'^
" And I must live with such a woman as
this ! " Olive thinks. But aloud she only
answers,
" Pray don't be uneasy : the original of
this is neither my lover nor my friend ; he
will never come here ; " and her voice sinks
almost to a whisper as she announces this
fact, which ought to be such a satisfaction
to her. Why is love, the noblest of the
passions, such a promoter of lies, and double
230 " * HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
dealing, and deceit generally ? He may
make men " fierce, tame, wild, and kind ; "
but I know that he very often makes women
cowardly, cruel, and false to everyone on
earth but the loved one.
" Then, being neither your lover nor even
a friend, you won't mind telling me who he
is ? '' Mrs. Tollington purrs. Mrs. Tollington
likes handsome young men, and the prospect
of not seeing the original of this pleasing
photograph is not agreeable to her, as she
had made up her mind to see him. So she
asks the question with just a slight flavour
of acidity (these sweet fair women always
turn acid on the smallest provocation), and
gives Olive to understand that it is a portion
of her duty as companion to answer all
questions asked by her employer.
" He is a Mr. Fletcher ; and really I can
tell you nothing more about him.''
MRS. TOLLINGTON. 231
" Why does his photograph arriye in this
impressive and mysterious tray, then ? "
" I can't tell you, as you have not given
me time to read the note that came with
it yet/' Olive says, bouncing up from her
seat, with her nose in the air, forgetting for
the blessed period of one moment that she
is in bondage, which forgetfulness on her
part Mrs. Tollington carefully notes down
on the tablets of her memory, with the design
of showing Captain Tollington "how very
foolish it is to rely on a sheep-dog who
growls when her own peccadilloes are found
out, and her own little game spoilt.'' For
Olive is the child of an old friend of Captain
Tollington. She is here against the wishes
of Captain ToUington's fair wife ; and so all
these derelictions from the straight path that
companions ought to follow are noted down,
and treasured up in a certain storehouse,
232 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.
where they will gain greatly in flayonr and
strength by the time Captain Tollington
comes home.
Olive goes out of the room, and can't stay
to reach the sanctuary of her own bed-room
before she reads the note. It is short, and
unsigned ; but how well she knows the
peculiar turns and twists and flourishes of
each capital letter ! What a mixture of
strength and weakness, of indecision and
obstinacy, in the writing that only Philip
can have penned I
No date, no address, no signature ; only
these words :
"Do you wish to have done with me
altogether 1 "
There is savagery in the sentence, and she
feels it, and thrills in exquisite agony in
response to it. And yet too there is something
in the savagery fliat soothes the pain she
MRS. TOLLINGTON. 233
feels. For she knows he would not give way
to it, if he did not love her still. And then
she wonders " what has happened at Hals-
worthy since she left;'^ kisses the photo-
graph that is all of him that is left to her ;
and remembers that it is her duty to go
and hear what Mrs. Tollington's plans are for
the day.
Shall I tell the secret of all this loving folly
of which a girl is guilty, who loves with head
and heart, with heat and force, as this poor
Olive does 1 Her very cleverness, instead of
being a safeguard, only increases the pain of
it all. For though she knows full well that
she is being made the fool of hope, whenever
she lets herself hope that it will all end as she
desires, still she can't help indulging in the
^ imaginings which are destined to destroy her
ultimately. Even now, as Olive goes down to
her duty, there is an exultant throb at her
231. " ' HE COMETH not/ SHE SAID.'*
heart, an exultant light in her eyes, an exult-
ant colour like a red flag in her cheek, as she
thinks, " He can't forget me/' And all these
exultations drop down dead an instant after,
as she remembers, " but he has left me/'
Mrs. Tollington has a pony carriage drawn
by two plump, tame, handsome, grey ponies,
which she is fond of driving about well under
the observation of all such of her old friends
as have not these luxuries at command. She
delights in making a progress down Crooms
Hill, through the High Street and Hospital,
well in sight of the still poor friends of her
youth, who have many of them grown fat and
poor, while she had still remained slim and
young, and waxed rich. Oh ! the joy of it
the justness and beauty of it ! No wonder
she forgot to think of the means by which
this fitting end has been attained. No
wonder that Captain ToUington, broihng for
MRS. TOLLINGTON. 235
his flag under a Mediterranean sun, is rather
less to his wife than the beasts that perish.
She whips her phlegmatic ponies daintily
down Grooms Hill, and shrugs her neat
shoulders contemptuously as she passes regi-
ment after regiment of the same unmated
beings who were girls when she was Miss
Smith. And as she passes one very large
sisterhood whom she knows to have done
their ball-going and general showing-off duty
very nobly, the fact of " its all being a game
of the sheerest chance '' strikes her forcibly
afresh ; and she says, turning suddenly to
Olive
" Why are you not married ? ^'
Olive is in a day-dream a day-dream of,
lounging on green turf, under green trees of
love and Philip Fletcher. But she wakes
from it gallantly as Mrs. ToUington asks her
this, and answers with such lavish recoUec-
236 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
tions of all that might have been if Philip
had only been strong and true,
" Why ! why indeed ! ''
" Really you seem to take it very much to
heart," Mrs. ToUington says languidly,
leaning further back in her carriage, and en-
couraging her plump ponies onward ; " but,"
surveying Olive over her left shoulder, "you
are a good-looking girl, and it must be
annoying to find that the men of this age
don't appreciate your style of good looks. I
have always thought them so foolish to think
so much more of blue eyes and light hair ;
and I have told them so over and over again/'
" How you must have been troubled by
their admiration ! " Olive says, indiflFerently.
" Troubled 1 trouble is no word for it, my
dear. Pv)()r papa was so particular, that I
really shrank from meeting any new man.
I don't know how it is some girls are so run
MRS. TOLLINGTON. 237
after, and others who are much worthier and
better, and who would really make better
wives, are left to wear the willow."
Through some peculiar twist in human
nature, no girl of twenty-two likes to be
called "worthier and better'' than the women
who have grabbed all the loaves and fishes.
Olive is quite conscious that she is a goose
for feeling it, but she does feel very much
annoyed with Mrs. Tollington and her pre-
tensions to fascination, as she replies
"And what a Triton among minnows
Captain Tollington must be, for you to have
kept yourself steeped in your enchanted
sleep till he appeared ! ''
The allusion to the sleep that lasts until the
real "Happy Prince with joyful eyes,'' the
true "right man," appears, is quite thrown
away upon Mrs. Tollington. She does not
understand it, and therefore resents it.
238 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
"I can tell you I could name six or
seven girls who were trying to catch Cap-
tain ToUington/' she says a little indig-
nantly, " and I carried him oflF without try-
ing to do it : not that there is anything
contemptibly easy-going about him, as you
seem to imply/'
" Oh ! Mrs. Tollington, no," Olive exclaims,
roused* into explanation; "I didn't, really I
didn't, imply anything of the sort ; I only
meant that he must have been greater than
the others to have won you from them
all."
"He had been posted for some years,"
Mrs. Tollington says musingly ; "and there
is something so flattering to us girls in being
tricsted entirely by men who might be our
fathers, you know. But what I went through
mentally before I could decide "
She pauses here, not because she is in the
MRS. TOLLINGTON 239
least shy about stating what her mental
doubts were, but because she is not suffi-
ciently imaginative to be able to coin a few
on the spot. And Olive, girl as she is, gauges
the reason of that pause so thoroughly, and
despises the inadequate proportion of it so
heartily.
They are in the middle drive of the
Hospital grounds by this time, and Mrs. Tol-
hngton, by flourishes of her whip, is indicating
where So-and-so used to Uve when she was
here "as a child." How is OHve, the re-
cipient of her information, to know that she
is making her childhood extend to twenty
years 1 Pouf ! 'tis but a paltry difficulty,
this, and Mrs. Tollington surmounts it with
the gallantry of an irresponsible nature.
" Hovf jealous the people were of me here,
to be sure," she says, with a meditative air,
as she drives slowly along through the well-
240 *' ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
known grounds "jealous of a child of fifteen,
who didn't know whether she was being
admired or not ! Wasn't it wicked ? "
" But how did! you know that the women
were jealous, when you didn't know that
the men gave them cause to be so ? " Olive
asks, with an air of abstraction that is rather
offensive to one who has been laying herself
out to tell the whole thing in a narrative
form that will sound well. And just as Mrs.
Tollington answers, pettishly, "As if one
couldn't always tell about the men ! " Olive
sees Philip, one of a group of five men,
smoking on the balcony at the end window
of the "Trafalgar."
She dare not faint, and she dare not find
fault : social decorum forbids her doing
either, because she is powerless. There is
nothing left for her to do but to sit back in
the carriage, and bear the agony of passing
MRS. TOLLINGTON. 241
him and not speaking to him. For Mrs.
TolUngton drives well down under this win-
dow, in order that she may have all the
credit to be gained by the fact that she can
turn her ponies moderately well at the end
down by the railings; so Olive even hears his
voice.
"What's that you say, Ritchie? * Phil's
last bachelor dinner? ' Let us howl ! My dear
boy, ril give you a better dinner than this
any day at Moorbridge House."
She hears these words. The full meaning
of them is borne in upon her mind. She
realises in an instant that the man who has
this day written to her, to ask if she " wishes
to have done with him altogether," is up
there talking to other men about Moorbridge
House and his power there. And his power
there means power over Madge ^the " power
of love."
TOL. I. K
242 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
She understands it all, she realises it all,
and she can't help herself. She leans back
and turns up her dark, gleaming face to the
balcony, where Philip and his friends are sit-
ting, and she cries out, " Oh ! take care," for
she sees that Mrs. Tollington in trying to
follow her example, and look up too, has
involved her reins, and caught the carriage
wheel in the step of a ponderous brate, and
they are smashed over in some way or other,
and the ordinarily placid ponies are kicking
one another.
There is a great commotion, and very little
real assistance rendered. Mrs. Tollington's
youthful groom has been precipitated from
the hind seat, and is weeping Over his
tattered coat and bruised cheek, and the
rowing he will get from the housemaid (who
has to mend his clothes)' by-and-by. He is
young much too young, and sm^l, and
MRS. TOLLINGTON. 243
tightly clad to be useful in any emergency.
Naturally, he is incapable at this moment ;
and so the young men from the balcony rush
down to their assistance, and by the time the
much-mangled carriage has been pulled free
from the much-astonished ponies, Phihp has
recognised Olive, and OUve has made up
her mind what to do.
Be herself ! Do herself so much right at
last I Show him that she ^* is no more
scorched than he is ! " So she resolves*
But, ah 1 how hard the task she has set her-
self, when she reads the genuine anxiety that
is in his eyes, as he recognises her flies to
her stakes her hand, and mutters,
" Olive ! my darling, ate you hurt through
that fooFs mismanagement of her miserable
ponies?" -
This is his first impression of Mrs. ToUing-
ton.
It 2
CHAPTER XII.
phil!
" Oh ! love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out"
It is five days after the photograph
episode, and Madge is trying to make herself
believe that she has forgotten it, or, at any
rate, that she is not worrying herself about it.
When she handed it to him, and spoke her
speech that night after the Winstaples ex-
periences, she had been full of generous*
unwillingness to perplex him by the smallest
sign of a desire to know anything at all about
it.
But now, on reviewing the case calmly, un-
dazzled by the glamour of his presence, she
PHIL ! 2 15
does recall every light and shade that had
made the incident a picture to her ; and she
does feel that she has not been quite fairly
treated.
This is how it was. She handed him the
likeness, as has been told, saying at the same
time, " Mrs. Wilmot found this after OUve
left, and gave it to me to-day to forward to
Olive." She had lifted her eyes to his, and
hers were very fiill of faith, but, at the same
time, there was a questioning look in them.
Instead of replying to this questioning look
as she had half hoped he would, he had
merely given her one of those long eflFective
looks of his, from his deeply, darkly fringed
blue eyes a look that was very beautiftd to
behold in itself, and regarded as an abstract
thing ; but that was not entirely satisfactory
to a girl who was craving to hear that " it all
meant nothing."
246 HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
She can't bear to do it, but in spite of all
her eflforts to the contrary- she does admit to
herself, as she sits alone this day, that
" Philip's going oflf to town in that way was
very funny/' Even the Hendersons didn't
know why he went; and what ^'made it
.more awkward/' poor Madge felt, was that
to her he had said ''family business called
him," while to Mrs. Henderson he had
pleaded the necessity of seeing an old friend
who was just on the eve of sailing for India.
She can't bear either to look back or to
look forward this morning. Behind her she
sees quagmires of direct double dealing and
false pretences ; and though she has passed
over these in safety, how about the future ?
Will it be so again and again ; or will the
ground be all fair and firm all in reality
what it seems to be ?
In her recently engendered doubtful frame
PHIL ! 247
of mind, Madge does what is very natural
tries, namely, to keep her anxieties
and distrusts to herself, and so shun the
observations of others. And it is so hard
to do this in the village life where they all
know, and like, and seek her ; where they
are all so familiar with her, that they talk of
her marriage perpetually, honestly behoving
that it must be the pleasantest topic, and
that in fealty to Queen Madge they must air
it constantly.
Even Mrs. Henderson's fine perceptions
desert her, Madge thinks, a Uttle pettishly,
as a note from the Vicarage is put into her
hand a note of earnest entreaty that Madge
will drive Mrs. Henderson over to luncheon
at Parkavon, Griffith Poynter's place. The
excellent young man has a widowed aunt,
and a host of cousins staying with him; and
these latter are clamorous for amusement.
248 " * HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
In the innocence and loyalty of his heart, he
does believe that the highest form of amuse-
ment to be offered to any human being is a
sight of Madge Roden.
Philip has been four days away from Hals-
worthy, and to-day she has heard from him
for the first time. Intuitively the giri feels,
as she re- peruses the letter just before driving
off for her old friend, that it is not the letter
a man would write to his "dear and only
love,'' though he uses the phrase. It is not
the letter of the man she has waited for,
shutting her heart the while against the
advances of all others ; it is not the letter of
the lover for whose coming she has looked
with as sweet and blind a &ith as "Little
Elsie " had when she sang,
** I will have a lover,
Riding on a steed of steeds ;
He shall love me without guile,
And to him I will discover
The swan's nest among the reeds."
PHIl! 249
Philip says a great deal about the many
slopes and dear shady glades of Moorbridge
Park ; a great deal about the happiness
he has tasted there, and the charm of the
girl who has made that happiness ; a great
deal about the Hendersons' magnanimous
kindness, and the generous view his aunt
and cousins have taken of what he is pleased
to call his " freak ; '' but absolutely nothing
at all about what he is doing in town, or
what detains him there.
" Have I been a precipitate fool," the girl
can't help asking herself, "or do men always
let you go thus far and no further into their
real lives ? It's rather unfair. He knows all
about, and I know "
She dislikes finishing the sentence. After
all, there is something humiliating in making
full confession of knowing nothing at all of
one's future husband. So she hums the first
250 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
few bars of her favourite waltz by way of
finale to her sentence, and tries to wonder
" what Griffiths has got going on at Parkavon/'
It's a long drive to Parkavon, and a long
portion of the drive is through the " Poynter
property/' The talk between the two ladies
is of GriflBths and his belongings (naturally
of them) for a while. They conjecture as to
the cousins and aunts. They speculate
as to whether these latter will " try to marry
Grif They surmise that, whatever they
are, " they're safe not to be half good enough
for the dear old fellow/' "In fact," Madge
puts in with an uneasy laugh, " no one is but
me. I ought to have married Grif myself"
And then silence falls on them, and they
ruminate.
How Madge dreads the breaking of that
silence. How she flicks her ponies with
unwonted force, hoping to make them fly
PHIL ! 251
over the ground that intervenes between them-
selves and Parkavon before Mrs. Henderson
can say anything. How she almost gasps
as Mrs. Henderson shakes silence off, and says
with an effort
''How is Philip, dear Madge ? ''
" Quite well, I suppose," Madge says, be-
coming absorbed in the contemplation of the
off trace at once. '' I hate driving these cobs
on the cheek ; I shall take them on the
middle bar coming home : grooms are as
stupid as other men."
Mrs. Henderson knows that there is a sore,
and fears greatly to press on it. But there
may be as much pain in silence as in speech.
If Madge thinks that the subject of Philip is
evaded, she will be justified in being hurt
and annoyed. Mrs. Henderson collects the
shattered remnants of her faith in the affair
being a promising one, and says,
252 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAtD."
" Though he was a stranger to it three
months ago, Halsworthy isn't Halsworthy
without Phih'p. I shall be so glad when he's
back in his proper place/'
Silence on the part of Madge. Presently
Mrs. Henderson is sorry to find she is not
suj-prised to see that Madge is crying.
"My darling," she says, tenderly, "sup-
posing he were in either service, and ordered
away for three or four years ; compare your
position with that of hundreds of girls who
love and marry oflBcers."
"If he'd been ordered away and com-
pelled to stay, I should be happy enough,"
Madge says ; " but I think he liked to go,
and I feel he likes to stay. There, I've said
it."
Palpably the subject had better be dropped.
Therefore Mrs. Henderson drops it, and
Madge feels sorely that Mrs. Henderson is as
PHIL ! 253
doubtful as herself of the wisdom of all the
work of the last few weeks. Accordingly
they ruminate again for a mile, and then
Mrs. Henderson makes another effort in
what she firmly believes to be a perfectly
safe direction.
" Have you heard how Olive is getting on,
dearr'
" No ; I wrote to her teUing her of my
engagement to Philip, but whether it's ' out
of sight, out of mind ' with her, or whether
she has never had my letter, I can't tell ; I
only know that she has never answered it.'*
"Perhaps Mrs. ToUington's demands on
Olive's time leave the poor child too worn
out for letter-writing, or perhaps "
" Oh, please don't,'* Madge interrupts ; " it
doesn't matter. I should never exact love
and attention from anyone who didn't render
both willingly."
254 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
" What would you do, Madge ? "
" Give up/' Madge says, firmly : " one can
always do that, you know. Here we are; and
oh ! dear, I am too tired to care to speak to
anyone."
Parkavon*s " portals open wide *^ to receive
her. In other words, a footman opens the
front door, and Griffiths runs from the draw-
ing-room into the hall to greet her.
" Where's Fletcher ? " he begins with eflFu-
sion, to cover the bubbling up of the bliss he
feels in holding Madge's hand, and looking
into Madge's face, in his own house. "I
asked you to get him to come, Mrs. Hender-
son.
"He's in London," Madge says, briefly.
" Come, GriC take the goods the' gods give
you, and be thankful, and don't hanker
after the absent ; / don't."
" Does she mean it 1 " both Grif and Mrs.
PHIL ! 255
Henderson ask themselves, as she goes on
Triith her fair face red as a rose. And it
really seems that she does, as she turns to
them, all colour and animation, and says,
"I like meeting strangers; where are your
aunt and cousins, Grif V
" In here," he- says ; and they go into a
drawing-room, where seven ladies sit on seven
chairs, working at seven pieces of lace- work.
" My aunt, Mrs. Wainwright ; my cousins,
the Miss Wainwrights," he says, comprehen-
sively. "Mrs. Henderson, Miss Roden ;'' and
as he names Madge, such a gleam of pride in
her, and longing for them all to admit that
his pride in her is justifiable, irradiates his
face, that Madge can't help contrasting the
love that has never been told in words, with
the other of which Philip is the exponent.
The Wainwrights are not essential to my
story. They cannot claim the honour of
HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
separate portraiture. A family group,
hastily dashed in, is all that is necessary.
The mother is weak, widowed, wearifullv
anxious to see her daughters well married
or married at all. The daughters are big,
buxom, all wearing chignons of exactly the
same shape and size, all speaking in exactly
% the same slightly strained and very artificial
tones, all looking about the same age, and
all hoping for the same end.
From the day the eldest reached the
age of twenty (and the youngest is twenty
now), Griffiths, their cousin, has been re-
garded by them as their legitimate and
proper prey. They had each in succession
grown up at him, and each failed to gain
him. And each has felt inclined to resent
the eflforts of the one who has gone before as
a piece of personal injustice towards the
current fair foe to Griffiths' peace of heart
PHIL ! 257
But the clannish feeling obtains with them
greatly ; and they are always ready to
unite their forces and declare war upon any
outsider upon whom Grif turns a commenda-
tory eye.
Madge Eoden has been cited to them,
quoted to them, extolled to them by un-
guarded Grif, until they have come to the
pass of putting wrong lace stitches in at the
bare mention of her name. At the sight of
her, is it any marvel that they prick their
fingers?
The seven chairs on which they sit become
seven seats of judgment the instant she
enters, and they all find her guilty of
"designs" on GriflSiths. For Madge, who
brims over with cordiality and kindness, is
being gracious to the full extent of her
graciousness, is shaking hands with them all,
and admiring the view, and saying how
VOL. I. 8
258 " * HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
^nice the dear old room looks with a lot of
ladies in it/' in a way that the Miss Waln-
wrights denounce in the secret recesses of
their souls as '' simply audacious.^
And all the while Madge's thoughts are
wandering. Is it right ^is it just to her sex
that she^ so petted and sought and made
much of by other people who are nothing to
her^ should allow herself to be treated as a
nonentity by the one who is everything to
her 1 She is longing, longing to ask Grif if
all men are alike in this. But she remembers
just in time that Philip does not like Grif,
and so she forbears.
They have luncheon presently, and all the
Miss Wainwrights gurgle in subdued mirth
in chorus, as something is said about the
head of the table. When their mother is
inducted into it, she regards each one of
them deprecatingly, as if she would say, " I
PHIL ! 259
am ready to resign it to you^ beloved child,
at the lightest hint from him/* But he does
not oflTer the lightest hint, and they all sit
down as guests, with Madge somehow as the
honoured one.
And how they hate her for this honouring
to which they do not subscribe, and to which
she does not aspire! They think she
" means " so many things of t^hich she is
entirely guiltless. For example, they rather
think that she thinks "their presence
here at Parkavon may affect the influence
she is trying to establish over Grif," on
whom they look as one fated to be theirs
eventually. And all the while they are
thinking these things, and half hinting these
things by their manner, poor Madge is
striving not to be self-absorbed in her
miserable half-doubts, half-fears about Philip
about her love for him and his for her.
8 2
260 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
It is a relief to her when luncheon is over,
for she can't eat, and she knows that her
want of appetite is being noticed, and sensi-
tively dreads its being ascribed to the right
cause. And shrinking from this, she con-
firms all the Miss Wainwrights' convictions
that she is "a designing puss,'' by saying
"yes" heartily when Griffiths asks her to
go out in the grounds with him, and look at
a new garden he has just had made at some
distance from the house.
The Parkavon grounds lend themselves to
picturesque gardening very well, for a river
full of cascades runs through, and their
undulations would be called hill and dale in
another part of the country. This new
garden is in the old romantic English style
that obtained before Dutch stiffness and
Italian artificiality set in. Through such a
garden the gallant queen, who is always
PHIL ! 261
being picked to pieces in this age, because of
her capacious heart, may have walked with
Leicester, and Sussex, and Hunsdon, and
Raleigh amidst the odours of ro^es, and
jasmines, and gillyflowers, and sweet mar-
jory. Shaded by huge shrubs and trees,
cooled by running water, rendered fragrant
by the old familiar flowers that each of them
had known from their childhood, it is no
wonder that a sort of restfulness settles
down on both Madge and Griffiths as they
step into the bounds of the enchanted spot.
" Tm so glad you didn't bring a band of
your cousins with us, Grif," Madge says, in a
languid tone ; " they will talk so much in
sentences that it's hard work to listen to
them, and harder work to answer; it's so
sweet to sit and say nothing sometimes/'
"You were never one of the very silent
ones till "
262 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
a Till?" she questions firmly, steadily fixing
her eyes on his^ and braying herself to hear
the truth at last.
"Well till your engagement,** he says,
hesitatingly, blushing a good deal as he says
it, for Madge is still the dearest thing on
earth to him.
She shakes her head involuntarily.
" I suppose it*s so with all girls, Grif,'* she
says, pleadingly; "it is, isn't it? It's such
a change; and one's past life seems to be
all nothing, and the future seems so very
important and uncertain ; and it is so with
all girls, isn't it, Grif ?"
There is an exquisite air of anxious appeal
in her eyes, in her voice, in her manner.
But Grif is nothing if he is not candid, so
now he says,
" Not with girls who are happily engaged,
I think, dear."
PHIL ! 263
And Madge turns and leans on some
railings that are marking out the new
garden still, and her eyes look out steadily
on the gleaming, blooming flowers and
the bright foUage, and see nothing; and
she cannot contradict him, or even argue
with him.
As she stands thus, a bold, free footstep
falls upon their ears, and presently, as Grif is
saying, "People often stray in here from
that wood, through which there is a public
right of way,"" there comes through the
bowery hedge of shrubs the figure of a
man.
A stalwart, lithe,' supple-jointed man, who
walks out fi-eely, and looks about him with
interest. He is dressed in rather common
tourist garb ^grey clothes and a white felt
hat, and he carries a knapsack on his
shoulders. He strides out well from the
261 ** * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
hips, and his tones are those of a gentleman,
decidedly, as he stops in surprise doflfe his hat
to Madge, and says,
" I fear I'm a trespasser. I've lost my way
in getting out of that wood ; will you be
kind enough to tell me a short cut to the
highroad?"
There is the shadow of a something they
have seen before, both Griffiths and Madge
feel, as they look at this man and listen to
him. And he meanwhile is looking at
Madge under his level, lowered lids, and
thinking, " Here's the realization of my ideal
of an English girl. Lucky dog ! that fellow
by her side."
Griffiths Poynter has never in the whole
course of his life done a chilly act, or uttered
a repressing word. He feels, somehow or
other now, that it behoves him to make
amends for that seductiveness in his grounds
PHIL ! 265
which has lured this wayfarer out of the
right path. So he says,
" Come on to the house, and have refresh-
ment, at least. I can promise you dinner
and a welcome. My name's Poynter."
"And I," the other says, "am Philip
Fletcher.''
CHAPTER XIIL
A BREAKDOWN.
" Falser than all fancy fathoms^ falser than all songs have sung. "
Mrs. Tollixoton's little carriage has been
mended, and Mrs. Tollington's little ponies'
nerves have been restored to their pristine
strength, and Mrs. Tollington's mortification
at having caused an awkward upset just
when she desired to shine as a female Jehu
has evaporated ; and still her " rescuer/' as
she persists in calling Mr. Philip Fletcher,
calls daily to make inquiries about her at
tho house on broezy Blackheath.
His attoutious are very pleasing to the fair
lady who rulo in this house. He is hand-
A BREAKDOWN. 267
some, and he has the gay art in perfection of
adapting the style of his converse to his
hearers. With Mrs. Tollington he is dis-
gusted to find himself drifting into a feebly
vivacious sentimental strain, whenever Olive
is out of the room. And Olive, in spite
of the momentary weakness the glorious
weakness that will obtain while love and the
world lasts which made her say, " Oh ! Phil,
with much loving eflFusion, when Philip picked
her up from under the ponies' feet, and called
her his " darling " Olive rarely stays in the^
room with him.
As the magnet draws the needle, so Philip
in spite of his troth-plight to absent, un-
suspicious Madge, is drawn by that house on
Blackheath. Daily he tells himself that " it
isn't his will or his wish that takes him there ;
it is fate! and a precious wayward fate
too." Courtesy compelled him to call at
268 " * HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
first, and inquire for the gushing, grateful wife
of the man who was soon coming home to be
made an admiral. And though she scarcely
spoke or looked at him on the occasion of that
courtesy-call, still his false feet and his false
hopes carry him there daily. At Mrs. Tol-
lington*s earnest request, be it understood;
for Mrs. ToUington has evolved a theory in
her own mancsuvring mind. She has sharp
sight, though her glance is but a languid
one, and she has taken keen note of Olive's
quick change of colour, of the quivering of
Olive's eyelids, and the passionate droop of
Olive's eyes, whenever Philip Fletcher ap-
pears. ^'She loves him, and has tried and
failed to catch him," the experienced matron
thinks. " It will do her good teach her a
lesson to get him her to show her that he
takes more pleasure in my society than in
hers ; though I atn a married woman, who
A BREAKDOWN. 269
never, of course, can be anything but a friend
to me/'
In her heart Mrs. Tollington calls Olive *' a
sly, artful, specious impostor " for having said
what she did say about Philip, the day the
photograph came. " He has evidently had to
repulse her," Mrs. Tollington thinks ; and she
moralizes over the " forwardness of some
girls," and thanks Heaven she is not as they
are.
In pursuance of her plan of teaching Olive
a lesson, she gives Philip Fletcher a pressing
general invitation to her house. " I will not
lose sight of my preserver," she murmurs
meaningly. " Captain TolUngton must know
and thank you when he comes home." She
tells the story of the courage and self-devo-
tion he displayed, " risking his life to save
hers," when the two small ponies were
tumbling about in their traces, tells it to
270 " * HE COMETH NOT,* SHE SAID."
all the social winds that blow about Black-
heath, and they waft it everywhere. She
claims him as her special Providence pro-
vided friend, and gets him to walk in the Ume-
tree avenue with her, when she hopes that all
the stalking sisterhoods she meets are heart-
sore with envy at not being escorted in a like
manner.
And Philip selfish Philip sufiers the
claim of friendship to be made, and seems to
agree to it, and walks with her, and talks to
her, and flatters her folly, and all for the sake
of getting a look from Olive that is never
given a word from Olive that is never said.
He loathes Mrs. ToUington's gratitude. He
hates her assumption of friendship and
intimacy with himself. He scornftilly laughs
at her evident beUef in his interest in her.
But he goes on flattering her folly, because
she brings him near to Olive brings him
A BREAKDOWN. 271
near to the girl he has renounced, whom he
loves better than he will ever love anything
on earth.
And for what end is it that he does this
after all ? He knows that he has forfeited
all right to long for that love. He knows
that Olive will never let him touch the tips
of her fingers again with tenderness. He
knows that all this dalliance is the idlest
waste of time that nothmg can come of it,
save greater unhappiness to himself, and
yet he goes on hovering about her, seeking
to win some slight return from her, with an
intensity that startles himself almost.
He has his periods of remorse, too : the
worst of us have them. His conduct to these
girls is the " conduct of a blackguard/' he
knows, and he does not scruple to tell him-
self so. There is not a moment in the day
when he would not, if he could, cast himself
272 " * HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
at Olive's feet, or clasp her to his heart, and
cover her face with kisses. And yet he
means to marry Madge I And the two girls
know each other, and are friends; and he
has sought them both so warmly! And
well he is "a scoundrel," he knows. But
still he goes yet again to Mrs. Tollington's
house.
He arrives there one day, just after Mrs.
ToUington has gone out for a drive with a
friend, leaving OUve Aveland alone. It is a
late autumn or rather early winter day, and
Olive in her restlessness can't endure sitting
in a bleak fireless room. Mrs. Tollington's
arrangements are all sumptuous as regards
herself, but rather screwy as regards other
people. It is her custom to spend a goodly
portion of each day in her dressing-room,
watching her maid altering and re-contriving
her garments of price. Accordingly the fire
A BREAKDOWN. 273
is there, and the drawing-room is kept clean
and chilly until the evening.
The companionship of the maid is no more
agreeable to Olive than is the chill atmosphere
of the drawing-room ; accordingly she goes out
into the rather pretty gardens, and walks
about among the battered geraniums and
mignonette, and the stiff, sturdy dahlias and
chrysanthemums, recalling there, as she did
everywhere else, the shattered romance of
her life.
If she could only crush her love for this
man, who had shown himself worse than
"unworthy," who had shown himself *' regard-
less " of her, out of her heart ! If she could
only have a satisfactory answer to her prayer,
that she " might be fickle,'* granted her ! If
she could only see some other man, whose eyes
and hair, and tones and turns of thought,
and walk and words, would haunt her !
VOL. I. T
274 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
Was it always to be going on like tliis,
that she couldn't forget him, and ached
horribly at the memory of him ; or wonld he
in time tire of others^ and come back to her?
Her heart bounded with joy at the possi-
bility which she had conjured up. Some
girls tell us they " have too much pride ever
to think of a man who has slighted them."
They may be telling the trutii, but I know
that Olire Ayeboid's love was not ailer this
sort K he had slighted her ninely-nine
times, and caressed her the hundredth she
would have forgotten the slights, and enjoyed
the caress as only a woman can.
In the agony of her mind as she wanders
about the damp garden-paths she asks her-
self. What she can have done that she
should be singled out to endure such pangs,
such gnawings, as these ? What can she
have done ? Why should other wom^ her
A BBEAKDOWN. 275
inferiors in head and heart and beauty, be
married to the men they loved, while she was
left forlorn in this way ? And what was
there about Philip Fletcher to make him the
one man on earth to her ?
*'Iwish I could hate him," she mutters.
** I wish I could laugh at him i how will he
look when he gets cdd 1 Just Uke other men,
with no teeth, and bald spots on their heads,
and punchy figures. Oh ! but I'll be old too,
then, Philip; and all my youth will be passed
without you ! ''
She walks fast, fast, faster, round the garden,
and aches to have him beside her, " though it
would be no good if he were here it would
all end in nothing," she says in a paroxysm
of loving sulkiness. And just as she says
it, he comes right into her path ; for he
has caught sight of her from the exalted
door-step ; and at sight of him, the girl
T 2
lb .ujien-it M-vr/ she said."
i%e .^tumlise where fever rages at
hjv a-v to be conversational, and he tells
!. .udiii lie has come to caU on IVIrs. Tolling-
. lA, '.ua that, finding Mrs. Tollington out, he
.w ^ gu&ui-ed to walk round the garden, and
.vou t vou say you're glad to see me, Olive?"
i ^*iCiMI& humbly, in such a low voice.
\.iiaJ to see him ! " How can she tell
Mbii ^e is when she's trembling so that
4w vqsu t make her breath come right, and
.i 5 violate her steps 1 She takes two or
M :4^rt, quick ones, and then goes falter-
;w^*y .UJkJ dowly ; and she knows all the while
ijiii^ "w i$L looking at her with that concen-
i^^ jj ^^ :^t which she once so loved to meet.
:^^ .WlSL herself a "fool," an "easily won
^^^ W ^^ can't succeed, the poor en-
,,^1^^^ viiilii iu feeling anything like cold-
^^^ s'ii' .%H^QU to the cause of her foUy.
A BEEAKDOWN. 277
All she can feel is, " He has come ! he has
come to me"
Everything protrudes itself distinctly, and
makes her abstractedly conscious of it ; the
damp yellow gravel path, that looks rather
like bruised sponge-cake, glares at her, and
the limp hanging trusses of geranium, that
were a vivid scarlet before the last rain, lop
forward over the border and clamour for her
pity ; and she can only walk on, just as straight
as she may, between all this vegetable matter
that seems to be sympathetically out of joint,
and wish, oh ! so heartily, that she could
dare to snuggle her head down on the
shoulder of the man at her side, and there
whisper out all her love and doubt and
agitation.
Is not this an ignominious and ill-regulated
state of feeling ? " The creature ! '' to suffer
love to reign in her heart for a man who was
278 " * HE COMETH KOT/ SHE SAID."
not readj with the offer and the Ring!
IIow horribly human, and detestably
womanly! Surely all Mrs. Grundy's
daughters will be advised to shun her, and
to take no further interest in her fortunes.
To go on loving when it is no longer expe-
dient to do so ! What a pity this poor OUve
lacks the convenient powers of unloving and
forgetting directly it would be advantageous
for her to do it 1
" Won^t you say you're glad to see me ? "
he repeats, and the truth is pressed out of
Olive by the repetition.
'^ You know what I am, better than I can
tell you. I don't think it's gladness that I
feel, but madness ! "
She says this last sentence in a whisper
almost ; and he realises that, in the midst of
Iior passionate pleasure in seeing him, there
is a deep vein of hopelessness. Poor Olive !
A BREAKDOWN. 279
" Does she know how utterly hopeless it all
is 1 '' he wonders ; " does she know about
Madge ? ''
As he is thinking this, OUve probes the
part of the affair that gives her the most
poignant pain.
" When are you going back to Moorbridge
House, Mr. Fletcher ? "
" Don't call me that ! " he cries hastily.
" I can bear a great deal; but ' Mr. Fletcher '
from you, Olive, you won't "
"When are you going back?" she inter-
rupts, tottering almost on her feet as well as
in her judgment.
"Why do you ask?"
"I heard what you said just before we
.were upset, the other day," she says ra-
pidly, Ufting her eyes to his face, and meet-
ing the look that she ^knows has been in
his eyes all along. " I heard what you
280 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
said, and I suppose I know what it
meant."
"It meant yomig men's chaflF, Olive/' he
says falteringly, for he is ashamed of himself
for prevaricating so meanly. " You're often
hearing from Halsworthy, aren't you 1 Mrs.
Henderson and Miss Roden have the name
of being capital correspondents."
"I have had one letter only one from
Madge Roden," she tells him ; and then she
blushes fiercely and adds, "and that I tore
up without reading, because ''
"Because of what?"
"Because I thought it might hold news
that would hurt me ! '' she says impetuously ;
and then he stifles the cries of his conscience,
and resolves that she shall not hear of his
engagement yet. She had tried to evade it-
had confessed that she had tried to evade it ;
wherefore, then, should he thrust it upon her?
A BEEAKDOWN. 281
The blow must fall in time, but just a little
longer it might be averted.
The agitation of her spirit is fretting and fa-
tiguing her physically. She feels Kterally
that every step taken exhausts her energies,
and leaves her mentally and morally more at
his mercy ; and she knows that he has none.
" I have been walking for a long time, and
I'm tired : I must go ia."
" Do you mean this as a signal for my de-
parture ? After all, is five minutes' conversa-
tion with me all the grace you have for me
now ? How lightly you women can let most
thiugs go ! "
*' Don't speak bitterly to me, Philip ! " she
says, trembUng a little at the pathos he can
put into his tones at an instant's notice, and
a little, also, with indignation at the calm
audacity which enables him to cast the burden
of his conduct upon her.
282 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
" Don't send me away, OKve 1 Sit down
on this bench, and let me tell you something.
Yes, you must hear it, though perhaps you
won't be interested, and will think me a fool
for my pains, I came down to the ' Tra-
falgar,' that day, solely with the hope of
seeing you. I felt as if I couldn't live without
a sight of you, and I should have walked about
Blackheath till it was granted me. Olive,
why did you leave that photograph behind at
Mrs. Wilmot'sl''
"It was left by accident; and how did you
know it was left at all 1 "
" It was given to me, and I forwarded it.
That wretched woman flaunted it all over the
market-place at Winstaple one day. Don't
you value it any more, Olive, that you leave
it behind you carelessly, to be commented on
by every idle tongue and vulgar mind ? "
" Not value it 1 It's all that's left to me,"
A BREAKDOWN. 283
she says sorrowfully. Then she hates herself
for what she calls the cowardice that causes
her to^ linger by him just so long as he
pleases.
The subject of Madge Eoden has a pain-
fully strong fascination for her. Surely, if
Philip were engaged to Madge, he would tell
her. That dreadful consummation has not
been achieved yet. Still, though she. tells
herself this, she flutters back to the sub-
ject.
" When did you leave Halsworthy 1 "
" A fortnight ago."
" And how was Mrs. Henderson ? Were
they all quite well 1 ''
" Quite well, thank you. Never mind
Halsworthy now; tell me about yourself.
Does that fool of a woman behave decently to
you 1 Are you happy here, Olive 1 "
"Happy!" how can he ask her that? Why
284 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
she couldn't be happy in a palace of which
she was the queen, if he were not with her ;
and he knows it he must know it. She
manages to say,
" Yes,, she is kind enough. When do you
go back ? '''
" Where to 1 "
" Why to Halsworthy, of course ; we were
talking of Halsworthy."
" Talk of something pleasanter, Olive," he
says eagerly; and now he can't resist putting
his hand on one of hers, which is resting on
^ the back of the bench. With what wild joy
that hand was once yielded up to him ! re-
membering this, how can he dare to touch it
now ?
" How wrong all this is!" she cries, starting
up ; " how weak and wicked I am ! "
" You weak and wicked, poor child 1 "
" Yes, to let you make me such a slave.
A BREAKDOWN. 285
Just think, if you had a sister, and any man
tortured her as you do me 1 ''-
" I blame myself every hour of my life,
Olive,'' he says humbly; "you can't say
harder things of me than I think of myself."
This self-depreciation of his brings her
down again.
*^0h, Phihp! don't thihk I mean hard
things ; but I get bewildered, and feel then
that I must be awfully weak, or you wouldn't
treat me so."
" Let us be friends, if we can't be more," he
says speciously. " To lose you altogether out
of my life is a little more than I can bear,
and Fve borne hard things in my time, dear.
Let us be friends ; let me see you sometimes,
and feel that yt)u vtiU turn to me as you
would to a brother.'*
A great dry sob rises up and chokes her';
the tortures of Tantalus can have been
286 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
nothing to thia. This is asking for bread, and
being given a stone, with a vengeance,
"And when you marry, what will your
wife think of our friendship ^for you will
paarry, Philip ? "
" If I said to you, * You will marry and
forget me, Olive, and be false to the claims ot
friendship I make upon you,^ would you not
feel that I was unjust and cruel 1 '' he asks
in a hurt tone.
" Yes, because I am I; but you are j/(w/'
Then she collects all her strength; she inter-
laces her fingers, and presses them together
to keep down any show of pain, and says,
"Is it Madge r'
He is not prepared for the question ; he
had really thought that he had cleverly drawn
a boundary line round the subject of himself
and Olive, and that the latter would not over-
step it. In his surprise he tells the truth.
A BREAKDOWN.
287
" Yes, it is."
" You are engaged to her 1
" I am, Olive, my love ! ''
CHAPTER L
" HAVE I DONE WELL, OR ILL 1 ''
Madge Roden is as self-possessed as it is
desirable that any girl of twenty should be.
She has played the part of young lady of
the land, Queen of Halsworthy, and idol of
the neighbourhood too long for any feeble
embarrassing doubts as to her relative im-
portance to come forward and cripple her
on ordinary occasions. But this does not seem
to her an ordinary occasion this first rather
romantic meeting with the real Simon Pure.
TOL. IL B
"'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID.''
Here before her is the man about whom
she has heard from her chfldhood as a hero,
the man for whom she had aknost uncon-
sdously designed herself, and for whom she is
rery sure Mrs. Henderson had designed her ;
and he is the cousin of her future husband,
and she ought to give him a welcome, and
let him understand their future relationship
at once.
" But perhaps I ought to leave it to Grif,"
she thinks. '^ Grif may imagine that I fancy
he doesn't understand etiquette, if I put
myself forward before he has thought it
necessary to introduce this waif and stray to
me/' So she marches on with her pretty,
easy step by Grif s side, and Philip Fletcher is
left in ignorance of her name, for Grif forgets
his part of master of these ceremonies,
" Tm going on to a place called Hals-
worthy,'' Philip explains, as he swings out
t
HAVE I DONE WELL, OR ILL?" 3
with as free and light a step as if he hadn't
already walked twenty-five miles this day
** going to look up an old friend of
my mothert; do you know her Mrs. Hen-
derson/'
"She's in my house at the present
moment/' Griffiths exclaims deUghtedly.
And then PhiKp, or Phil, as he is invariably
called, leans forward and says,
"Then I am sure this is Miss Roden,"
and crosses over and takes the girl's hand
and adds,
" Philip a^jid I are like brothers : you must
forgive me for telling you abruptly how glad
I shall be to have you for a sister/'
She takes in all the points of resemblance
and all the points of diflference between her
Philip and this one at a glance. They have
the same level brows, the same steady glance,
the same easy, careless way. But her Philip
B 2
" ^ HE COMETH ^0T/ SHE SAIB/
is indisputably the handsomer of the two
handsomer and half an inch taller.
Thej each hear a great deal and tell a
great deal to one another, as they walk back
from the old English garden to the house.
Phil, for instance, hears that Halsworthy is so
many miles from ParkaTon, and is told that,
being so many, he had better make up his
mind to be driven on by Miss Eoden, rather
than walk there. And Madge hears several
little incidents of his pedestrian tour down
into this country briskly narrated, for Phil
has the great merit of being lucid and brief
his narrations last about a minute and a half.
His hearers are not compelled to distort their
facial muscles in order to portray a feeling of
interest which is quite dead. He is terse,
picturesque, graphic. In short, he i^ amusing
without attempting to be facetious.
And Madge finds him amusing, and
^^HAVE I DONE WELL, OR ILL?" 5
Madge Kkes him for being so ; and Madge in
all her life never concealed a liking. " Oh !
the pity of it that he didn't come before ! ''
Mrs. Henderson's prophetic heart almost pal-
pitates the words as he goes in, and makes
himself known to her, and she feels that
there is about him all the radiance of reality.
So like, and so unlike ! At every turn
they are reminded by him of that cousin of
his, who has wooed and won, and gone away
so easily and carelessly, and deceitfully.
They can't help it. Mrs. Henderson, and
Madge catch themselves looking at one
another, and interrogating one another
mutely, as some of the absent Philip's very
tones fall on their ears with a truer ring than
" his can ever have," they feel in silence and
in sorrow.
The young pedestrian tourist is too tired
to care to engage in the croquet match
6 "'HE COMETH NOt/ SHE SAID."
which Griffiths presently organises ; and so
he is left with Mrs. Henderson, while the
seven girls and Grif play that game, which is
the strong point and sole remaining hope of
the Misses Wainwright.
For they play it well very well indeed ;
driving interloping balls away into space,
and helping those who can reward them for
their help with the most consummate ease
and skill. But, for all their ease and skill
and amiability (displayed towards himself
alone), Grif can't help wishmg that they
would let him get a word with Madge some-
times, outside the reach of their keen ears.
To tell the truth, Madge is not very keen
about croquet this day. She would far
rather hear what this stranger, who is still
no stranger, is saying to Mrs. Henderson.
Finally incUnation gets the better of her, and
she begs a left-out Mi^ Wainwright to take
"have I DONE WELL, OE ILL?" 7
her mallet and place, and asks Grif to order
her pony carriage.
" You're going away very early,*' Griffiths
says discontentedly ; and somehow he asso-
ciates this new-comer with Madge's impatience
to be gone, and hates the name of " Philip
Fletcher '* even more than he hated it when
the other man who bore it was present. But,
in spite of his discontent, he contrives to free
himself presently from the trammels of cro-
quet, and comes and stands close by Madge,
to the trembling wrath of the Miss Wain-
wrights.
Madge is in such a thoughtful mood that
she looks almost sad. She has been foUowing
many sudden springs of thought that have
gushed up in her mmd this day to their
sources, and the result of her investigation is a
stinging distrust of novelty and appearances.
" Grif," she begins gravely, not looking at
8 '* ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAED/'
the man she is addressing, but letting her
eyes fasten themselves on a distant object
that does not call for any attention from her
"Grif, you have known your cousins a
long time, haven't you ? "
"All their lives, I think," he answers
indiflFerently. He has no manner of feeling
for or interest in his cousins, beyond the one
of their being his blood-relations. He has no
special liking, no faint admiration, for any one
of them. On the contrary, now that he sees
them near Madge, he marks all their inele-
gancies of feature, and figiire, and manner
with a perspicuity that would send the Miss
Wainwrights' hearts down to dismal depths
did they but know it. , Happily for their
current peace of mind, they don't know it.
So they posture, and pose, and propel their
balls about with a pleasant feeling of playing
well, and impressing Grif with the fact.
"have I DONE WELL, OR ILL?" 9
" You will marry one of them by-and-by/^
Madge says prophetically; and now she
transfixes GriflSths with a glance, " and you
will be so right, Grif/'
" Marry one of them ? good Lord ! no,
not even if I had never known I mean, if I
had never seen anyone else," Grif repUes
hurriedly.
" My dear Grif, what nonsense ! " Madge
says tolerantly, with that . immense air of
superior knowledge and experience which is
one of Madge's special attributes. "You
think you won't now, I quite beUeve that ; but
I know how these things end generally, and I
say you'll marry one of your cousins by-and-
by, and you'll be so right."
In spite of his being some years older than
Madge, in spite of his firm belief in her en-
gagement with Phihp Fletcher being her
soHtary love-afiair, Grif has an unaccountable
10 '' ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
feeling of youth and inexperience steal over
him as he listens to this girl. But he casts
one look at the group on the croquet ground,
and that look strengthens him in the position
he had taken at first.
" They're good sort of girls enough," he
says ; " but when it comes to marrying them,
that's a different thing.''
" Of course not * them,' but one of them,
Grif ; you'll single out one in time, and then
she'll seem so different to her sisters that you
will wonder you hadn't seen her superiority
to the rest all along ; and then all your long
knowledge of her will make you love her
more, and you'll feel so happy and so safe."
He knows now, the sympathetic gene-
rous tender fellow, that she is contrasting
her positive case with his possible one. She
has no long knowledge of her lover to fall
back upon and make her love him more, now
"HAVE I DONE WELL, OR ILL?" 11
that he is away, trying her by his unne-
cessary absence.
" Well,'' he says, trying to think away the
tears that will come into his eyes at the
thought of Madge's distress, "we needn't talk
about my marriage yet ^not for many a long
day. I'd rather not talk about it at all to
you now," he can't help adding in a mutter.
"I don't suppose people ever are quite
happy, whether they get what they want, or
whether they lose it," Madge answers, follow-
ing her spring of thought well home to its
source, in firm reliance on Grif not taking the
smaUest advantage of her daring spirit of
exploration. And Orif justifies her rehance,
for he only shakes his head and says,
" Perhaps you're right ; all the same, I'm
sorry I lost what I wanted."
Madge is not a coquette by design, she has
no greed for miscellaneous love and admiration,
12 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
but she does like to keep alive what she feels to
be the firm, true, and good interest which
Grif has in her, and she in him. And so
when she is saying good-by to him this day,
she uses the very words that a practised
coquette would use.
" As soon as you've settled on the one, Grif,
let me know, that I may endorse your choice
if I can. I shall be frightfully jealous and
exacting for you."
He can^t answer her in the half-real, half-
bantering tone she has taken up. He can
only gulp down a big ball of hopelessly
passionate emotion. Why will she ? how
can she like him so much and not love him a
little ? So he says nothing aloud, calls her
his * darling ' in his heart, and as Madge
drives away with her friends, he goes back to
his cousins.
In spite of himself, Madge's words make
"have I DONE WELL, OR ILL T^ 13
him regard them in a new light. In spite of
himself, he scans them all curiously in search
of the possibiUty of one being a trifle superior
to the others. And all hopes of finding
that which he is searching for flees from him,
as they chorus out some of their convictions
respecting Madge.
" I wonder, with all that money, that Miss
Roden hasn't married before, Grif/'
"Why, she's young enough in all con-
science," he says testily.
" Is she young ? dear me ! young for an
heiress I suppose you mean. Seven or eight
and twenty ? well, of course that's not old.''
" Seven or eight and twenty ! she's not
twenty-one yet : she's only waiting till she's
of age to marry."
" Poor thing ! how terrible for her to have
gone off so then, if she is so young as
that."
e
14 "'he COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
"Gone off! why she gets prettier and
prettier every day/' Grif says indignantly.
Oh ! Grif, really we shall think, I don't
know what all sorts of things, if you
pretend to see beauty in Miss Roden. No,
no " (with a great air of magnanimity), " she's
a nice amiable girl, imaffected and simple,
and evidently desirous of pleasing ; but
pretty ! no, no ! "
"Fine feathers make fine birds," another
Miss Wainwright remarks, with a vicious
recollection of how becoming Madge's dress
had been to her.
" No one can deny that her feathers were
fine enough," a third strikes in ; " rather over
dressed, wasn't she, mamnfo ? Costly things
on a girl Uke that can't be called good taste
even by her most infatuated friends."
" It was amusing to see how eager she was
to relinquish you, Grif, and to get hold of
"have I DONE WELL, OR ILL?" 15,
Mr. Fletcher/* another Miss Wainwright
cries, laughing a great deal too long and loud
for the laughter to be genuine. " She was
all eyes and ears for you at luncheon ; and
you see when he came she couldn't play
croquet like the rest of us, but must go and
stand near him and try to attract his atten-
tion. I suppose she thinks she may be as
bold as she pleases : she can aJOTord to make
herself conspicuous."
" She never tried to attract any man's
attention in her life," Grif says hotly ; " she
has enough of it without trying."
'* Now, Grif, don't be angry, but just wait
and see if I am not right. While her lover is
away, she will get up a flirtation with his
cousin ; she was pretending to take such
interest in everything he said, it was
sickening."
And it is one of these women who say
16 "*HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.''
such things of her that Madge prophesies he
\rill marry by-and-by.
* * * *
During the drive home Madge is restlessly
Tivacious. She describes the Miss Wain-
Wrights to Phil ; she mimics them ; she laughs
at them ; she pulls herself up suddenly in
firowning impatience at the thought of the
rery event she has suggested as possible to
GriiSichs. And Mrs. Henderson, watching her
with loving, aniious eyes, feels that the mirth
and the mimicrj are both false, and that
Madge, her darling, is in the agony of a per*
plexitT with which no outsider may dare to
meddle^
Their conversation is cramped after all,
directiT shelesaires off her mockery of the
M^ss Wainwrighcs. In the common order
CI ohin^ Ffailtp. the absent, ought to be,
and wvfcld be. the topic. But it Ls treading
''HAVE I DONE WELL, OE ILL?" 17
on treacherous ground to speak of him to
the man he personated while it served his
purpose. Roth Madge and Mrs. Henderson
have a strong feeling upon them, now that
they see him, of having defrauded this late-
comer.
Moreover, Madge is rapidly becoming too
angry with Philip for having gone in the way
he has, and stayed in the way he has, to
speak of him without a certain tremulous
tone of voice that she is very much ashamed
of. And in the midst of her refraining from
all mention of him, she feels that it is due to
herself not to shrink from the topic due to
Mrs. Henderson to let his cousin know as
soon as possible that there has been no con-
nivance on her dear old friend's part due to
Philip, her lover, to mention him without
fear, and to show that she dreads no reproach
concerning him.
VOL. /IT. C
i
18 "*HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
And she cannot do it.
Failing heart, and failing faith ! How she
tries to prop up both ; how she tries to flatter
herself back into blind belief; how she
shrinks from a gleam of further hght ; how
she regrets that the one who was meant to
be the " real " Prince from the first has come,
and that he is so little disappointing. How
she blames herself for all these feelings.
There is intense relief to her in getting
home this day intense relief in getting
back to the old home where no harm has
ever befallen her, and where she has never
been more nor less than she is now, to all the
loyal, faithful hearts who dwell there. A
sense of relief and safety creeps over her, as
she flings the reins down, and jumps out, and
then remembers that she is mistress here,
and says, quite freely and cordially,
^*^You must come and dine with us to-day,
(
HAVE I DONE WELL, OR ILL?" 19
that you and my aunt may know each other,
without delay, Mr. Fletcher. There is nothing
out of the way in my asking him the first
day I see him, is there ? " she appeals to Mrs.
Henderson ; " for we are to be cousins, you
know/^
She feels that this is a superfluous re-
minder, as soon as she has uttered it ; and so
she tries to look and act as if she didn't, and
is lin-Madge-like altogether. Explanations,
elaborations, all are foreign to Madge's
nature.
"Why on earth should she try to speak
of this subject before him V Mrs. Henderson
thinks, as they go to the room where Miss
Roden senior awaits them.
Madge has got herself together in her pro-
gress from the hall door to the oak-wains-
coted room, that still retained its ancient
designation of " parlour " at Moorbridge.
2
4
20 "*HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
She is quite the Madge her friends all love to
see her, as she goes gracefully and gaily for-
ward to her old relative, saying, as she goes,
"Philip's cousin is here, aunt another
Philip Fletcher ; you must welcome him, for
Philip's sake and mine, until you know him
better/'
"Another" PhiUp Fletcher is rather dis-
composing to Miss Roden, but she makes the
best of the social jungle into which they have
all rambled, and proceeds at once to talk
polite conversation with immense old-lady
power.
" You are just fresh from London, and the
country must look very beautiful to you," she
says, as if the country were all her own
doing, and she did like to hear a word, in
acknowledgment of its superiority to every-
thing else on earth, uttered at times.
" Yes, very beautiful," he says, looking at
t(
HAVE 1 DONE WELL, OR ILL?" 21
Madge, and thinking of Madge, and utterly
failing to grasp the entire meaning of old
Miss Roden's words, " very beautiful,
but ''
" ^but not for me," is what would be
the conclusion of his sentence, if old Miss
Roden, in her ardent desire to conftite what
she considers a compromising mention of
the natural beauties of Halsworthy, didn't in-
terrupt him.
"But now you're not going to tell me
that you think it too cramped and low? I
won't hear it. See the expanse the bold
sweep above it ? "
For a wild moment, Philip Fletcher thinks
that Miss Roden is speaking of Madge's brow,
and Madge's glorious arching head. Then
he collects his faculties, knows that he is mis-
understanding her, and making an idiot of
himself, and answers,
I
22 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID/'
" Do believe me, I think all I see perfec-
tion. I never dreamed of such an earthly
paradise as this in which I find myself/*
"And you will find yourself in it very
often, I hope, by-and-by, when your cousin is
master here," Madge says, gallantly, though
the corners of her mouth twitch painfully as
she speaks. And then she leaves him, with
that last speech of hers ringing in his ears,
while she goes to dress for dinner.
Madge Roden is no coquette. She does
not desire to deck her beauty in this
stranger's eyes, for the sake of making them
smart with an admiration which they should
not express. Nevertheless, the taste of the
woman will have it so. She puts on a white
dress, and then tries ribbons of various colours
against her cheeks and hair, to see which suits
her best. And, at last, she doflFs the white
dress, and dons a cream-tinted one, with
*^HAVE I DONE WELL, OR ILL?" 2'6
which some sweet wild-rose pink harmonises
admirably.
And she puts her rich hair in cloudy
ripples over her brow, and commands the
sweet tremulous lines of her mouth to "be
still," and tries hard to regulate the sparkling
measure of her eyes. And when she has
done all these things, she goes down, know-
ing that she is looking her best^ and that her
best is a very fair thing.
So they all dine together (for Mr. Hender-
son has been summoned by special mes-
senger), and Madge is a suppressed young
hostess, because she will put her dear old
aunt so prominently forward. But, for aH
that suppression, she is quite enough of a
queen to command attention from this one
wha looks upon her for the first time.
She sees that he is noticing the effect of
each shade and each ribbon. She feels that
24 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
he appreciates her taste in setting forth such
beauties as she has. And so when he comeg
near her in the course of the evening, and
touches her dress, and says (letting the light
fall on its semi-transparent texture),
" Is this idealized silk, Miss Roden, or is it
a thing that every-day women may buy and
wear ? '^
" Yes, at six-and-eightpence a yard. And
how exactly you are like my Philip ; he raves
about this colour/' she says, with a great big
eflFort at being all she ought to be. And
then she concentrates herself, and asks him
the question she has been longing to ask
ever since he came upon her unexpectedly in
that revised old English garden.
"Have you seen much of him in town ? He
must have been so sorry that you came away
just as he went back/'
She says it inquiringly, wistfully, deject-
"HATE I DONE WELL, OR ILL?" 25
edly, and he does not know how to answer
her. He has been loving and loyal to his
ne'er-do-well cousin all his life, but his love
and loyalty are most sorely tried now.
" Graceless as he is, how can he fritter away
such an opportunity 1 " the true Philip ques-
tions. But no answer is accorded him, and
he has to say something.
" Tve been unlucky enough to miss him,'*
he says, vaguely. " In town, you see, your
time is not your own, and you're always
missing the very people you want to meet. It's
always a white-stone day to me, when I do
meet Philip," he continues with energy ; and
Madge looks at him with a gaze that seems
to penetrate into his soul.
The girl is a puzzle a subUme puzzle to
him. Is she acting ? or mad ? or only
childish 1 Still, when she suddenly leans
nearer to him, and asks,
26 ** ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID."
" You can tell me ! have I done well
or ill 1 The truth now the truth ! "
He pauses. Shall he speak it ^i
CHAPTER 11.
DESPAIR !
" Love can hope when Reason would despair."
Engaged to Madge! owning his engage-
ment ! Standing there before her, with that
love -light in his eyes, affianced to another
woman ! Olive tries to take in the truth,
and cannot.
It is the very worst that has come upon
her now, she tells herself, and her hands even
seem numb with this pain that can^t be com-
bated, with this deadly assailant of her
peace that can't be grappled with. There
is something terribly piteous in the girFs
utter inabiUty to be other than fond of
HH " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID/'
him still, though he has been so faithless to
her.
He proceeds to explain, and extenuate
after the manner of men. And, after the
manner of women, she listens and is lenient.
" I can't tell how it came about,'' he says.
" It would all have been diflFerent, you know
that, Olive, if you hadn't cast me adrift in
the way you did ; and Madge "
"Don't say a word about Madge;" she
shivers, and then she adds, in her fruitless,
candid wrath,
"I could trample on the throat of any
other woman in the world who crossed my
path. How you ought to love her ! "
He is sitting on the bench still, his arm
resting on a rustic, half-decayed table in
front of it, his face bent down, and his soul
sick with the conviction that he will always
go on missing the best that the world can
DESPAIB ! 29
give him. And she is standing about before
him, wrapping her shawl around her and
loosening it, resting now on one foot and
now. on the other, feeling it equally hard to
be near him and to go away from him, greedily
divining every expression of his face, and
feeling them all so unsatisfying.
She recalls every lingering pressure of the
hand, every love-lighted glance, every endear-
ing epithet that he has lavished upon her
lately, and she longs, she yearns, to be told
that they were, not all a cheat. This love
that he has depicted with such deceiving
skill is it all a lie 1
" How could you do it ? " she gasps out ;
and this is the only accusation she makes,
but it pierces through his selfish coat of
mail.
* If I could undo it, I wouxti,'' he stammers
out earnestly. *'But that would only be
80 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
perjuring myself to her, and doing no good
with you. Forgive me, Olive ! "
He rises up and goes to her as she flutters
about in her misery on the gravel path, and
holds his hands out, and bends his head down
towards her in a deferentially loving way that
makes her brain whizz and her heart beat ;
and he is Madge's. PhiUp, she recollects, and,
after this day, all interest in him must be
crushed out of her heart.
But still, for all this saving recollection,
hIio lots him take her hand and draw her to
him, and a thrill of rapture relieves her
anguish for a moment as he says,
" I love you, Olive I've always loved you :
boliovo that of mo to the end."
Her white, wistful face hfts itself up, and
deep in her eyes he reads a portion of the
passionately intense misery that he has
inflicted upon her. This is love, he knows ;
DESPAIR ! 31
such love as gracious, happy Madge will
never lavish upon him ; such love as can only
exist in the heart of a girl who has a strong
element of recklessness in her nature.
He remembera well how he laboured stre-
nuously at first, long ago, to make this girl care
for him ; remembers how carefully he planted
the love that looked so fair a flower, and
that has turned out such a noxious weed to
poor Olive, who nourished and cherished it.
He remembers how he left her; how he
wooed her by every means in his power when
accident threw them together again. And
as he remembers all these things, he loves her
as he knows he will never love another woman,
be the other good, kind, and fair as an angel.
'' OUve/' he says, pressing her hands
together in his own against his breast, " my
darling, Fve been mad, I think, mad to
beUeve that I could exist without you, without
32 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
your love and kisses, mad, to imagine that
Madge Roden's cool, complacent regard
could ever compensate me for the loss of
your thrilling words and tones. Let us be
what we were before : be my wife, and,
whatever comes of it, I shall be happier with
you than without you."
She shakes like a reed in his strong
embrace; her brain can't clearly entertain
this idea which he has put before her as
such a plain possibiUty, when only the minute
before it had been such an utter impossibility.
** His wife ! " She whispers the words as he
stoops and kisses her wildly, desperately.
And then she understands everything as
he ceases, and looks away from the face he
has been gazing at with such rapture, and she
sees he is pale and gloomy.
But still his hand caresses her silky hair ;
still her hands are palpitating in his grasp.
DESPAIR ! 33
Can she give up all this 1 can she renounce
him at the call of either friendship or
honoiu: 1
She questions herself thus in a dreamy kind
of way, and then suddenly she rouses herself
and says
"And what of Madge?"
" Oh ! I must break it off with her as
decently as I can/^ he says, almost savagely ;
for he is beginning to repent himself already
of that burst of passionate feeling which
induced him to make Olive such an offer.
He is beginning already to have visions of the
many disagreeables that will beset his path, if
Olive is " fooKsh enough to take him at his
word/'
She reads every thought that is in his
mind, and, with a wrench that nearly tears
out her heart-strings, she frees herself from
his arms, and stands back out of his reach.
VOL. II. D
34 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID/'
" Keep your engagement with Madge," she
says quiveringly, for she is sorely shaken by
this storm; "keep your engagement with
Madge."
" Do you mean this, Olive ? do you reject
mel"
" Reject you ! Didn't I see the repentance
in your face the regret that you should have
let yourself be led into saying it the minute
after you asked me ? Reject you ! Don't I
know that you'd hate me if I were weak
enough to come between you and fortune?
for it's Madge's fortune you love, PhiUp, not
herself. Reject you ! Oh ! this is the worst
of all, that you should have let me see what
it cost you to oflFer me what you thought a
reparation."
He expostulates, beseeches, explains ; but
the burden of his strain is that he is
helpless. A man can't marry, and live on
DESPAIR ! 35
nothing. No fellow is justified in dragging a
girl down into poverty, however much he
loves her. The gratification of passion at the
' expense of principle, in his case, would be as
ruinous to her as to himself. All this in
broken, pathetic tones, that accord terribly
well with the deep, loving tenderness of his
eyes.
She growsich Phil
the genuine has spent with her (Mrs. Hen-
derson) alone. Sad recollections clog the
ordinarily fine utterances respecting Madge
which all who know Mrs. Henderson are
accustomed to hear firom her lips. She
thinks of all those idle hopes and wishes
which she had indulged in respecting this
pair whom fate has thrown together, now
that honour forbids the realization of those
hopes and wishes. She is a good, thoroughly
human woman ; and though there is some-
thing sacred to her in the first pledge of
love made by a pure young girl, she is
full of sympathy for the possibilities which
56 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
might have been, if only Philip the true had
come first.
Accordingly she does not dare to make
Madge her topic ; does not dare to respond
'when he strives to make Madge his topic.
He is much impressed (so much is evident)
by this girl whom his cousin has won for his
bride : she has interested him ; if he only
suspected how much, he would leave Hals-
worthy to-day.
It is in vain that Mrs. Henderson tries
to talk to him about his mother, his sisters,
his own prospects : his attention wanders,
and ho gives vague answers, and vague fears
enter in and abide in Mrs. Henderson's heart.
" Yot after all/' she asks herself, " what can
happen ? It is not in Madge to play fast and
loose with a inousOi much less with a man/'
Buti for all tlicso reaf^suring speeches which
she makes to liorMolfi the vague fears go on
A. FALSE STEP. 57
obtaining dominion and enfeebling her nerves.
She is conscious that she is presenting her-
self in the character of a bore to the son
of her old 'friend, when she assiduously
knocks down every little subject connected
with Madge which he sets up. She is
conscious of the fact, but in her dismayed
perplexity she can't help herself; for she
knows that she has aided in weaving the
web in which Madge is getting entangled.
Presently he says (and her anxious eats
fsincy that he says it hesitatingly),
" I accepted an oflFer of a horse for to-day
from Miss Roden, and said I would go
there about twelve for it.''
As he looks at his watch, Mrs. Henderson
sees in his bent face more beauty, more
power, more feeling, than she has ever seen
in his cousin's sees it, and sorrows at seeing
it, for Madge must see it too.
5S ** * HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID/'
"I Trill walk up with you/' she says,
feeling that she is intrusive, suspicious,
ungenerous, and yet not daring to remain
quiescent. " I want to speak to Aunt Lucy ;
we may as well go up together."
So they go up together, and find Madge
lounging in a big chair before a big fire,
making no pretence of doing anything but
shiver.
'^I tell her she 1ms caught a chill, and
I want her to go and walk it oflF, or ride
it ofi*/' Aunt Lucy says, anxiously appealing
to the visitors to second her advice. And
Mrs. Henderson turns a deaf ear to Aunt
Lucy's words, and says with outward bold-
ness and inward terror,
" Is it a chill, Madge ; or are you dis-
appointed by not having had a letter from
Philip ? "
"I have had a letter fi-om PhiUp, and
A FALSE STEP. 59
he is coming back at once/' Madge says with
animation. Then she takes his letter from
her pocket, and reads the last words of
it : " I am thankful to say my business is
ended, and I am free to come back to dear
Halsworthy/' " I am so glad you two will
be here together,'* she adds, looking up at
Phil, and unexpectedly surprising him with
the look of that interest in his eyes of which
he is unconscious yet.
. " What business can Philip have in town
that we don't know of ? " he catches himself
wondering ; but aloud he says,
" I'm glad, too. I have been looking for-
ward to some days on old Exmoor with him."
Madge folds her letter up, pockets it, and
subsides back into her chair again ; and Aunt
Lucy's quick eyes detect a tiny shiver.
** You have taken a chill, I'm sure of it,
Madge ; and nothing ever cures your colds
60 "*HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
SO quickly before they come to anything/*
she explains in parenthesis " as a gallop on
the moor. The air is so beautiful and fresh,
you know, Mr. Fletcher, that it's physician
and nurse at the same time, my poor brother
used to say.''
'*I really think Madge had better nurse
her cold to-day, instead of going out." Mrs.
Henderson feels a fresh crop of fears spring
up with each sentence that Aunt Lucy lets
fall. With a keen, sudden glance Madge
detects these fears ; with an equally sudden
resolve she determines to brave them. For
the first time in her life, she is angry with
her old friend ; for the first time in her life,
she feels inclined to rebel against that old
friend's advice. For she has done nothing,
has thought nothing, has felt nothing, that
can justify this dawning suspicion.
"I think Aunt Lucy is right," she says
A FALSE STEP. 61
resolutely ; " a gallop on the moor will do
me all the good in the world. I caught a
chill from the cold looks of those cousius of
GriTs. I shall forget them when Brunette
and I have had a bursf And she rises
up and lays a hand on Mrs. Henderson's
shoulder^ and gives a look of innocent,
comical defiance that makes Mrs. Henderson's
heart ache with love and fear.
" Will you ring the bell for me, please ? "
Madge says, looking at Philip; and as he
obeys her, she utters the words that Mrs.
Henderson has been expecting and dreading
" Didn't you say you'd ride to-day 1 "
Before he can answer, Aunt Lucy inter-
poses
" Then you'll have an escort, dear much
nicer for you than riding alone ; and Madge
won't have a groom behind her on the moor,"
she adds to Mr. Fletcher.
62 "'HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
And so, through no eflFort on his own
part, it comes about that Phil goes out for
a ride with Madge. And as he swings her
up to her saddle, as he marks her grace,
her ease, her skill, her beauty, his heart
beats high with pleasure, the source of which
he does not pause to analyse.
The horses afford them subject of con-
versation for a short time. The great merit
of her good brown mare. Brunette, is a theme
of which Madge is never tired. For the
sake of making Madge eloquent, Phil ven-
tures upon ground which is foreign soil to
him.
''I thought ladies liked something rather
slimmer than Brunette,'" he begins, scanning
the strong, big brown mare with what he
means to be a critical eye.
" Weedy horses are all very well for the
flat,'' Madge says carelessly, though in her
A FALSE STEP. 63
heart she is annoyed at the least reflection
being cast even in ignorance upon her
&70urite'8 splendid proportions ; " but, for a
hillj country, bone and muscle are as re-
quisite as beauty and breeding aren't they
Brunette ? and you have all four, haven't
you. Brunette ? "
"Brunette is on a grand scale, and her
manners have all the repose of caste,'' Phil
laughs ; " but I thought ladies, who rode well,
liked horses that shied about and showed oflF/'
Madge turns hghtly about the eighth of an
inch in her saddle, and leans back her hand
on the back of the saddle and surveys him
calmly and closely for a moment.
" Now why will you talk of what you know
nothing about, for the sake of saying some-
thing, when we would both of us just as soon
not speak ?" she says, quietly. " How do you
know I ride well ? "
64 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
" How do you know that I know nothing
about it ? " he retorts, laughing.
" I'll prove my assertion by putting you to
the test of asking you to prove yours. I do
ride well, of course, I know I do ; now you
tell me how you know that I do/'
" The eflFect is superb, and it would not be
superb if you failed in any one promoting
cause."
" Polite, but not satisfactory," Madge says
meditatively ; " however, what are the pro-
moting causes ? "
"Your figure, your skill, your courage,
your grace," he cries, laughing dehghtedly;
for all this brings him into greater intimacy
with Madge, and little recks he what that
intimacy will eventually cost them both.
" Less and less satisfactory, Mr. Phil. Now
listen : Tve seen a woman with the figure of
a Venus and the grace of a Lady Hamilton
A FALSE STEP. 65
and the couraore of a lioness, ride awkwardlv
and badly. I'll tell you why I ride well, you
poor dear ignoramus, and then when you
want fo win some lady's heart by subtle
praises of her horsemanship, you won't
blunder and say flattering words of the per-
formance that prove you to be stronger in
faith than in knowledge."
"I shall never try to win any woman's
heart by flattering her," Phil interrupts ; " in-
deed, I doubt if I shall ever try to win a
woman's heart in any way."
** Pooh ! nonsense ! " Madge says prosai-
caUy.^'
"Why should I?" Phil asks fooUshly,
with gathering gloom ; " what am I, and
what have I to offer that any woman worth
marrying should give me a second thought,
much less a thought of love ? "
As he pauses here, and looks at Madge,
TOL. II. F
G6 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
she feels she ought to say something. .AH
she can think of saying is,
** Really, I don't know."
"No; nor does anyone else," he laughs,
and recovers himself, and Madge makes ' an
eflFort to change the current of the conver-
sation.
" We have wandered from our text : shall
I take up the broken thread and tell you the
what and the why of my riding well ? "
" Tell me anything you like," he answers,
beginning to experience that rare delight in
the mere sound of her voice which one does
experience weakly enough once or twice in a
lifetime, in the voice of a fellow-creature.
" Listen, then : my figure might be fifty
times as good as it is (no, it s not '' impos-
sible ''), and if I couldn't bend from the waist,
and didn't sit back, and down, and square, I
should look like a sack if I were fat, or a
A FALSE STEP. 67
stick if I were thin ; and I might have three
times as much courage as I have, and it
would avail me nothing if I bungled with my
reins^ or worried her mouth, or let Brunette
feel for an instant that I wasn't ready for any
impromptu performance to which she might
treat me; and ^you're not listening one bit V
In her ardour she has turned round and
looked at him, and his eyes are fastened upon
her with a gaze in which there is not the
faintest shadow of attention to what she is
saying. There is a glow on his face, a Hght
in his eyes, that some other thoughts and
interests have conjured up.
The spell is broken. With almost a groan
he recalls himself from a dazzling possibility
that some demon had been dangling before
his mental vision. The present is all that is
his. And he dares not turn even that to
advantage.
F 2
68 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
"I'm not an apt pupil, I fear/* he says
sadly. " Never mind ; the knowledge will
never be useful to me in the way you pro-
posed just now/*
And as he says this his horse puts his foot
into a grass-grown hole, and Phil is flung
forward some yards on the turf, where he
remains without moving.
CHAPTER IV.
FAETHER ASTRAY.
A MOMENT before he had been so animated,
briUiant, full of hfe and yivacity, and now he
lies flat on his face motionless, with that inert
look about his form that is so full of ghastly
suggestions of concussion of the brain or
spine.
Every one who has been much in a hunt-
ing field must have experienced some at least
of the sensations that besat Madge in an
instant. The shock, the horror, the sym-
pathy, all these are felt by everyone who sees
either a man or a woman thrown from a
horse, unless either he or she promptly picks
70 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SEUS SAID."
him or her self up again. All these Madge
felt now and she felt something more,
A blinding bitter grief that startles her as
the thought, " He is dead/' forces itself into
her mind. The shaking hands can hardly
guide intelligent but bewildered Brunette to
the spot where he lies. The throbbing heart
impedes her breath so that she gasps as she
springs down and bends over him. Trying
to realize dreading to realize how much he
is hurt.
The grey horse whose false step has caused
the mishap, is grazing in a docile manner on
a patch of bracken close by. Brunette's
snaffle rein is over her mistress's arm.
Madge and these two horses and a few stray
rabbits and the trout in the stream are the
only living creatures near the man who may
be dead or dying.
The desolation of it all strikes her forcibly,
FARTHER ASTRAY. 71
and with a wailing sob she kneels down and
puts her arms round his neck, and strives to
lift his head and turn him on his side. She
touches him tenderly, lovingly as she would a
flower, or a baby, and as she puts him in his
new position Brunette puts her soft warm
nose against his cheek and gives an inquiring
snort.
The sound or something touches some
hitherto dormant spring of vitality, and
Madge can't check a cry of joy as Phil opens
his eyes. One arm is round his neck still,
and she is bending so low in her efforts to
move him that her quivering lips are almost
touching his cheek. Before he realizes the
dazzling vision she has released herself and is
staiiding by his side.
For half an instant he blinks in perplexity
and then he too rises to his feet, unhurt in
brain or spine, thank God *' she feels through
72 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID/'
every fibre of her frame, but rather confused
by a blow on the temple.
" Stunned, I suppose,'' he explains ; " have
I been lying there terrifying you long ? "
" It seemed hours but it can't be really,"
Madge confesses ; " only I thought you were
dead and it seemed a lifetime."
" Awkward of me not to see where I was
going, " he says with some vexation expressed
in tone and manner ; " you were right, Miss
Roden, I don't know anything about riding ;
it was unpardonable to give you such a
fright."
" Never mind that ; the joy of finding
you're not hurt much is the greatest I have
ever had in my life," Madge replies unafiec-
tedly and so earnestly that it brings some of
the life's blood back to PhiUp's brow ; " you'll
like to go back now after such a shaking ? '*
she adds.
FARTHER ASTRAY. 73
" It would be wiser," he says slowly,
looking at her and not thinking a bit of the
shaking his fall had given him, " but Til beg
you to let me be foolish just for once ; let us
go on."
She protests and argues against going on
very faintly for a while, until he assures her
that he feels " no ill effects whatever from his
fall," and then she gives in, and they mount
their horses again, and ride on across the
lonely lovely moor.
Brightly the sun shines on the fading
heather and the rich gold of the dying
bracken. Sweetly the odours their horses'
feet crush out of these two plants rise up and
hang about them. Freshly the invigorating
moorland breeze fans their brows and kisses
their cheeks, as they ride on rich in beauty,
and youth, and happiness.
She tells him legends of the grand old
evtry fAins 'A i. :.^. legciuU of
Uy a blow un thf; ! ,_.^ a bcwitcli-
" tStuiiii';'!, I M: _as been born
I been l^in;; iln-r- ._ ind has heard
"It Miciiifj'l ]i JlnJ whenever
Mttdf^i! 'Kiiliifwe.-i wfT her voice and
dead itii'l ii s'i" ^j.:aat he might so
going, " Iji; ftH_)- ,ap jaj country, and
in ton: jiit'l iici" *** ^^^^^ without
Itudun, I iluii .. tiMtiiif- Accordingly
it w;iH iinjiai- ^ stoorland streams
fright." .frr*; po'"t of rising
" Jvivci .... -' .^Kflfftfiiir extended
you'n: (Mil "^* j--^ wildncsB of the
liiid ^^MdHJ^^HKltil they " ride on
tudly ;iii'^^^^^^^^^B^^1csB of where
thu hli-.s ^^^^^^^^^Z|v they ^i"*^ to get
bhe !i(i;^^^^^ jam suddenly tliat
FAKTHER ASTRAY. 75
they are losing their way. They are conscious
of it, and speak and laugh ahout it at in-
teirals, for Madge feels sure that she will
presently see some well-known landmark
which will enable her to steer for the right
path back to the Halsworthy side of the moor.
But time goes on, and no such landmark
appears. And the day begins to die.
The bright happy breeze begins to change
into a strong howling wind that seems to be
coming from every quarter of the heavens at
once. Happily there is no rain, but the wind
bites, and when they take the level and gallop,
which they do at brief intervals, Madge has
to bend her head down low in order to avoid
the cutting blast
" We may be miles from Halsworthy, or we
may be close on its borders for all you know,
I suppose, " Phil says at last. He is getting
keenly excited, and he cannot define even to
76 " * HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
himself whether it is with pleasure or with
pain.
"If we were anywhere near the Hals-
worthy border I should know it/' Madge has
to confess ruefully ; " people ought to put up
posts on the moor ; I am so hungry/'
It is the plaint of healthy happy youth.
They have been riding for many hours now
and the moor breeze is brisk and appetite-en-
gendering. *' If I had only brought my flask
and some biscuits/' she says. " What can we
do r'
Literally they know not where they are,
nor where they are going, and the day
goes on dying as quickly as possible. Madge
is in the frame of mind to look out for
omens and magpies. Phil never in his life
prayed so heartily for the appearance of
a third human being as he is praying
now.
FARTHER ASTRAY. 7
Presently another ill befalls thera. The
grey develops what scarcely amounts to a
lameness, " but a decided dip " in the leg
which he had stuck into the grass-grown hole
in the morning. And in mercy to him their
pace grows slower and slower.
Unexpectedly the character of the land
alters there is still light enough in the sky
for them to see that hedges appear, and trees
crop up. They are off the Moor proper, but
in what direction they have come off it
neither of them can tell.
It is dusk now, as they strike into a wild
road, and they cannot see though they hear
cart-wheels approaching lumberingly. By
this time the dip has become lameness of
such a decided nature that Phil has been
obliged to dismount and prowl along on foot.
The light of stars is upon them as he accosts
the carter with the words,
FARTHER ASTRAY. 79
be gwain on the Moor go thicky waj.'"
Then he cries ^ way " to a horse that wants
to go on,- and "'glong " to a horse that wishes
to stand still. And passes out of the riew of
the pair, who realize at last that they are lost
in the wilda
Slowly and rather sadly they plod on now
until they come to a precipice, down which
they stumble, it being the only road. It is
getting late now, between seven and eight
o'clock, and Madge is suffering from poignant
pangs of remorse for her imprudence. " What
must poor Aunt Lucy and Mrs. Henderson
be feeling, what must they be thinking;
what must they be suffering?"
A glimmering light at the bottom of the
precipice relights the Torch of Hope in her
bosom. That same torch is ignited so easily
in youth. "It must be a village, and we
shall be able to get a horse for you, or a fly
80 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID/'
or dog-cart to take us home/' she says
enthusiastically, and Phil agrees with her,
though he hasn't the faintest shadow of belief
in any such good fortune as a fly or dog-cart,
or saddle-horse befalling them.
The bottom of the precipice is reached,
and they find themselves ina picturesque ravine
between the ridges of some of the border
hills of wild Exmoor. They hear the sound
of a gurgling stream, and the wail of the
mighty Moor blast, and, better than all else,
they hear the sound of the blacksmith's
hammer ! Human habitations are near
them, and in that sense of nearness they find
infinite relief.
Abruptly, without the warning of a single
house, they come upon a slight unsub-
stantial shell of a place before which a
lantern and a sign are swinging. The
lantern shows them that the sign is that of
FARTHER ASTRAY. 8]
the *^ Hunter's Delight" a fine fat stag of
Ten. And with a groan of relief, after the
long strain of uncertainty, they pull up at the
little shaky portal.
As they do so, a shabby small mail
phaeton drawn by a pair of champing well-
bred bay cobs dashes up to the door, and
with an impulse which she can't resist, and
which has a marked influence on her future,
Madge springs back, and vents her admira-
tion of them aloud.
" Look ! they're thoroughbreds," she cries
to Philip, who is engaged in ascertaining a
few dreary facts, and as she says it and turns
her beaming face towards the lighted passage
(Madge always " beams " at sight of a good
horse), a weird old figure gUdes from an inner
room.
A strange old figure, the sight of whom
carries Madge back a hundred years into the
VOL. II. Q
82 "'he COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
realms of long long dead and gone novels
and plays. An old lady, of seventy at least,
whose figure is concealed by a huge coach-
man'is coat and capes, and whose face burrows
under a half high beaver hat tied down with
big lappets. A product of the past. A
something indigenous to the soil of Exmoor
evidently : a plump floury landlord (he turns
out to be the village baker as well as the
village Boniface) backs with trepidation
before this apparition. A landlady, whose
efforts to retain her gentility in this barren
region, have rendered her sparse and bony
and sHghtly snappish, regards the new
comers chillingly. But the lady with the big
cloak and beaver hat greets them genially.
" Come in, my dears," she begins ; " cold
riding on the moors to-night, I should say ;
heroes a fire," and as she speaks she pushes back
a shaving that represents a door, and gives
FARTHER ASTRAY. 83
them a view of a room that looks like a
partition in a deal box, at one end of which a
bright peat fire is burning. " Come in," she
says, "and be warm and comfortable,*' and
they go in, and are warm and uncomfort-
able.
The quaint figure follows them, and by the
light of a solitary dip candle that is drearily
guttering itself away in a draught, they see
her as she is.
A slim, supple old woman enveloped as
she is they can see that she is this brisk in
movement, energetic in action, keen and alert
in expression. The face the half high beaver
shadows almost gleams with a queer half-
comic, half-suspicious smile as she surveys
the young pair before her.
"I heard you speak of my horses," she
says presently to Madge, "and I'll tell you
that I have twenty at home as handsome and
a 2
84 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
Bome of them handsomer than they ; I'm the
Lady of the Manor ; now tell me who you are
-or who your husband is 1 "
Madge has a hght and ready explanation
of the real state of the case on her lips, and
she is about to offer it. But something
checks the utterance of the ringing soprano
tones, and that something is the intense
expression of emotion which overspreads
Phil's face^ as the old lady's mistake falls on
his ears.
He imderstands himself and his feeUngs
clearly enough now. Madge's husband ! It
is what he would give half his life to be. It
is what he may never even dare desire to be.
Already he loves her with the love of a man
who has never wasted his affection on every
fair face that has come within his ken.
Already he knows that she and she only
represents all that he can ever love in
FARTHER ASTRAY. 85
woman, or desire in a wife. Already he
feels that he ought to leave Halsworthy the
same hour that sees her safely home.
Already he is wildly, madly, desperately sure
that Madge understands some of this, and is
not outraged by it.
They stand there silently, foolishly enough,
illuminated by the one flaring dip, and keenly
regarded by the gleaming grey eyes that
sparkle out from imder the half high beaver
hat. The expression which lights up Philip's
face and betrays his feelings, has completely
fascinated Madge. Pausing on the brink of
the explanatory^ speech, she stands with
parted lips and rising colour looking at him
and not looking at him angrily. Before
she can recover herself, before she can recall
either Philip or herself to a sense of the alle-
giance due to the absent lover, the old lady
comes to her aid.
86 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
" I beg your pardon, my dear lady ; IVe
been a little premature, I see ; he is not your
husband yet/' And here she pauses, and
nods her head, and informs Madge in a con-
fidential undertone, that she "had actually
taken them for a pair of newly-married
geese ; but all the bloom is on the rye still, I
see ; marriage brushes it off* quickly enough."
While she has been speaking, Madge has
made a mighty effort to resume that
sovereignty over herself which had been
shaken just now.
" He is the cousin of the gentleman I am
engaged to," she explains as firmly as she
can ; and then she hands her card to the old
lady, and asks her if there is any possibiUty
of their getting back to Moorbridge House
to-night."
Speedily and decisively that hope is anni-
hilated.
FAHTHER ASTRAY. 87
" There is no possibility ; you are twenty-
six miles from Winstaple^ and Halsworthy is
on the other side of Winstaple."
" And my brute of a horse is lame/' Philip
grumbles.
" And Fm tired out/' Madge says, throw-
ing herself down on a chair and beginning to
cry ; " still we can't stay here."
She looks appealingly at Philip, and there
is infinite distress in her tone, and in her
eyes.
"I will do whatever you wish/' he
whispers, eagerly. " I'll walk by you, if you
like to try and ride on to-night/'
" Mrs. Henderson will be so distressed/'
poor Madge goes on whimpering; "she
didn't wish us to come ; and now that this
has happened oh, dear ! oh, dear ! I don't
know what to do."
" ril tell you, my dear : " the strange lady
88 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
has been listening to every word they have
uttered, and scanning every look of theirs.
And she knows all their story; ay! even
more of it than they know themselves yet.
She has been young herself.
" ril tell you, my dear ; you can't get
home to-night, for there's no one to guide
you, and no horse to carry your ^friend ;
and you can't stay here, that's certain ; tut
my house is only half a mile oflF, and if you'll
be my guests for the night. 111 drive you
home the first thing to-morrow morning ; so
just step into my phaeton and make your-
selves as happy as you can."
They hesitate, but only for a moment or
two, for it is the only alternative they have.
And so, rather dispiritedly, they but still
with a sort of exultation (about which they
feel half guilty) they follow Mrs. Graves to
her carriage, and are driven up and down a
FARTHER ASTRAY. 89
rocky road, through wild, unkempt pleasure
grounds to the door of a long, low house,
where they are deafened by the vociferous
barking of at least a dozen dogs.
CHAPTER V.
LOST AND POUND.
Five days have passed since Olive the
iniquitous has been expelled from the vir-
tuous portals of Mrs. ToUington's house.
Five long, dreary, disagreeable days spent by
the poor forlorn girl in wandering about
trying to got employment.
Naturally she is in London. Where else
can women workers hope to find immediate
work. The great Mart is the only place she
knows to which she can bring such wares as
she has ah ! " how poor her wares are," she
feels miserably; "and how plentifully sup-
plied everyone appears to be with them."
LOST AND FOUND. 91
For five days she has toiled incessantly
about the great labour market without avail.
She has patiently waited her turn in at least
twenty "Governesses Agency Offices," she
has made two or three futile journeys into
far-oflF suburbs at the call of ladies who
"think she may suit/' until they see her.
And now she sits in her dusky bed-room in
the boarding-house where she is staying, sick
at heart, and sadly conscious that she must
come down a rung of the social ladder if she
wants to live.
The fees at the Agency Offices, and the
inevitable omnibus fares, have terribly
lightened the purse into which so very little
money was put at starting. And her board
and lodging is a heavy item when compared
with the slender resources on which she has
to draw to pay for them. The boarding-
house is kept by two ancient maiden ladies.
SHE SAIT'.
. : remarkablv nice.
.-. :i-.le;"and so jioor
r.::v there "while her
. sio gets employment.
'.r lite as she sits here
., :roui having traversed
I . cniont this day and
.'.in. Dejection of spirit
..:i^!y weak as is always
. L.-r.usation is fine. She
. Iio takes her place at
^. ..--cable, round which are
.-.Aiuive, bustling women.
.. lio is seeking emjiloy-
. s^ . companion. They all
..sent date her search
riiey all know that
. m: she is poor and
.. . ::iose her surround-
Ik.
His infinite mercy
LOST AND FOUND. 93
has made the larger section of humanity so
gentle, that they pity and are kind to her
according to their Ughts.
** Have we to congratulate you on better
fortune to-day, Miss AvelandV the senior
sister chaunts, as she hands OUve a cup of
tea. The senior sister is a good, kind crea-
ture, and whenever she has time to think
about Olive, she does hope that that poor
forlorn one " may soon meet with something
good.'' Still the season has been a dull and
'empty one for the unprotected pair who are
striving to Uve by means of the home they
make for other women as unprotected, and
poor, and anxious as themselves. And so
while Olive's money lasts she is very welcome
here.
"No," Olive answers, conscious that all
eyes are upon her as the question is asked.
" I'm getting weary of trying, even ; people
94 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
want so much in these days: if I had no
conscience, and would only * profess ' to teach
half-a-dozen things of which I know nothing,
it would be all well ; my employers would
not find me out ; but I have a conscience,
and so * unsuited to the situation ' is the
verdict passed upon me wherever I have
shown my face."
All the faces at the table turn towards her
as she speaks. She is such a brilliant young
creature that she gathers all the interest the
anxious-hearted women about her have left
for anything in life but themselves. They
admire a little, fear a Uttle, condemn a little
but all like her.''
" I suppose you wouldn't be anything but
a governess ? " one of them suggests, depre-
catingly ; and Olive is aware that there is a
hard, ungrateful ring in her voice as she
answers,
LOST AND FOUND. 95
"Fd be a cook if I had the skill, or a
housemaid if I had the strength requisite ;
haying neither, I can only be a governess/'
"If you wouldn't scorn the occupation/'
the old lady goes on, " I happen (quite by
chance, indeed, promdentiallyy as one may
say) to know of something that would be,
perhaps, better in the long run than a
governess's situation, though of course not
so genteel " ^
** Oh ! don't say that," Olive interrupts ;
" tell me what it is ; it would be vulgar to
die of want as I shall soon if I can't get
work/'
And then she remembers all she has lost
for love ; and would not regain it at the cost
of the love she has known. OUve is a true
woman I
With many a preamble, and many an
apology, the scheme is propounded to her.
9C " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID/'
and at the first hearing Olive shudders
shudders indignantly. It is this.
"With that lovely figure of yours you
would be invaluable in a show-room/' the
lady says, deprecatingly, "and I happen to
know that they want a young lady in the
mantle department at * Barr and Battle's ; '
most genteel young persons in the shop,
I assure you ; my own cousin is cashier
there.''
Poor Olive !
Little by Uttle the possibility of doing
what has been suggested to her filters
through and permeates her mind. She must
do something. And nothing else is to be
done. Therefore, she goes up and offers
herself to the awfully critical eye of "Barr
and Battle,^' and her shoulders are seen to be
the right shape for showing off a shawl, and
her figure is discovered to be replete with all
LOST AND FOUND. 97
the gi'ace requisite for the disposal of a
polonaise ! And so she takes her place in
the show-room, and inwardly renounces all
her past life and its associations. Poor
Olive !
The rate of remuneration offered by Barr
and Battle for the manner in which she will
display their polonaises and shawls, is mag-
nificent when compared with the meagre
sura she could ever hope to obtain as a
governess. She is not to live in the house,
as do a large number of her fellow-workers.
But altogether, she is to be very safe, and
respectable, and well cared for in this lower
sphere.
But after all she does gird against the con-
ditions of her life. She neither gives herself
airs, poor, humbled, heart-sore creature, nor
strives in any way to assume a superiority to
her fellows which she does not feel conscious
TOL. ir. H
4
98 " * HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
of. But she is not one of them ! Her
traditions are all of another life than theirs,
and they intuitively feel that she is not of
them, though she is with them.
One day the mantle she is displaying to
the best advantage, for the benefit of a pair
of badly built young beings, who find every-
thing " ungraceful," falls prone on the floor
in Ump folds, and she stands trembling and
aghast as Griffiths Poynter stumbles forward^
full of surprise, in which there is both joy
and pain, to greet her.
Her fellows regard her jealously. The-
two young beings who find everything un-
graceful, regard her superciliously and sus-
piciously, for her beauty is as incontestable
as is Grif s pleasure at seeing her again*
And for the last few days they have been
cultivating the feeUng that Grif will even-
tually resign himself utterly unto them, hia
LOST AND FOUND. 99
lawful cousins, until it has assumed the pro-
portions of a fair flower of Hope. It is dis-
appointing, irritating in the highest degree,
to see it nearly uprooted in this way by ^* a
young person in a shop.'^
They claim Grif's attention assiduously,
they try to hurry him away, by pulling out
watches he ha^ given them, and avowing
themselves "late for an appointment that
they wouldn't miss for the world.'' But
their efforts are proved futile. Griffiths'
mind refuses to grasp anything beyond the
great fact that Olive is Madge's friend,
and seems to be most miserable. Possibly
he may be of use to her. Possibly he
may be enabled to give Madge some com-
forting tidings of her friend when he goes
back.
" I must not keep you from your friends,"
she says, in a low tone, as the cousinly
H 2
100 **'HE COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
glances pierce her soul ; and the idea enters
in that one of them may be his bride elect ;
" men, as a rule, only go shopping with the
girls they are going to marry/' she tells her-
self. There is nothing intrinsically beau-
tiful about either of these girls ; it can only
be the sentiment that enables him to bear the
sight of the awkward attempts they make at
draping themselves gracefully.
Some of these feelings make themselves
manifest in the indifferent glance which she
lets fall on them. Some fine turn, of which
she is herself unconscious, betrays itself in
the half-averted head, and lowered tones.
They are very keen as to the maintenance of
their dominion over Grif. They detect and
determine to denounce all manner of
subtilty in the demeanour of this "young
person/^
" You must give me your address, Miss
LOST AND FOUND. 101
Aveland," he says, handing out a note-book.
"Madge will never forgive me when I go
back, if I don't take a full report of you to
her."
She picks up the mantle she had dropped
at the first sight of him, and with it she
recovers her perfect self-possession.
" Take this report of me to Miss Roden/'
she says coldly, "that I feel my old ac-
quaintances can do me no greater kindness
than to forget me.'^
" You'll let me call to see you V he asks
in a state of flushed amazement. And Olive
answers definitely,
" No ! my time belongs to Messrs. Barr
and Battle. I have none to give to such
idle follies as friendships and old associa-
tions.'"
He is heartily, unfeignedly, pathetically
sorry. But she is "half sick of shadows,"
102 '**HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
poor thing, and she thinks that all this
earnestness of his may be a sham, and the
sorrow a shadow. There is not sufficient
sympathy between Griffiths and herself for
her to hear the genuine ring of the metal in
every word he speaks to her. And so she
wishes to get rid of him ! He is but a talka-
tive intemiption to her thoughts.
But even as she gives him a limp hand in
fareweU, even as she raises her languid eyes
to give a last look at the fussy, unpreposses-
sing young ladies [who accompany him, an
idea darts into her mind, and permeates it.
Supposing she marries this man ? No one
would be harmed, and it might make her
forget Philip.
Quick as thought all the worst of the
woman comos to the foro^ and causes her to
change her tactics. Ho, seeing her relent,
believes that swootening, chastening thoughts
LOST AND FOUND. 108
of Madge are leavening her harshness of a
minute ago, and he feels inclined to adore
that absent influence.
His cousins , seeing the change, crack the
nut of truth, and extract the kernel as they
-whisper jealously to each other
" She means mischief/'
What she meant to do and how she meant
to do it may not be told just yet. All that
need be mentioned at this juncture is that
she called Griffith's note book into requisi-
tion at last, and therein wrote down her
address and an hour when she could receive
him.
As in a dream she goes on displaying
-articles of apparel to women far less feir than
herself during the remainder of that day.
As in a dream she hears envious badinage
from the many who were not fortunate
-enough to excite the admiration of Mr.
104 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID/'
Poyuter, and the spleen of his cousins. As
in a dream she lays a train that will scorch
her sadly when it explodes.
^ 4fr }'? -JS" -r?
Phil Fletcher has roughed it considerably
during his journey through this world. He
has seen a goodly portion of the darker side
of life, and he has no " kid gloves," " per-
fumed curl," and lascivious lute,'' proclivities.
He has never gone in for the character of
"curled darling," or fastidious man of fanciful
habits. Yet he stares aghast when he finds
himself, with Madge by his side, well inside
Mrs. Graves's portals.
They have effected an entrance through a
spacious conservatory wherein there is not
so much as a leaf, far less a flower, to break
the monotonous glare of glass. It looks like
a tank, and smells like a charnel vault, and
Madge shivers as she passes through, and
LOST AND FOUND. 105
thinks more regretfully than ever of Mrs.
Henderson's face of patient protest against
the ride which has ended in this. She
shivers in a more pronounced manner pre-
sently when the house door of the con-
servatory is opened by a dwarfed female
servant whose face is cut across from the
right temple to the left point of the jaw by a
deep red wound that looks stiff, and sore, and
altogether revolting.
She admits them into a big musty hall
hung round with coarse sporting pictures, of
fifty years ago ; with otter heads, and foxes'
tails, and the antlers of the red deer. The
odour of the vault, of a dead and rapidly
decaying respectability is over all these
things.
The sound of a dozen tongues raised ia
anger, in mirth, in revelry, in savagery, reeks
in fi:om the back regions. The handmaiden
106 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID/'
with the gash across her face, and a candle
held at the best angle for guttering, stands
and stares at the unwonted apparition of two
handsome, clean, intelligent-looking human
beings. Six of the dogs have eflFected' an
entrance, and are yapping and yowling over
a big loaf of bread which they have dragged
from some recess. Six more are howling
their protest outside, against their unjust
exclusion. Slightly in the background the
mistress of the mansion stands, keenly
observant of the eflFect of all this on her
unexpected guests.
'* Welcome to my house,'' she breaks into
the midst of their amazed meditation with a
suddenness that makes them both start.
*' Dorcas " (this to the girl who had admitted
them), " call Mr. Graves ; tell your master I
want hun."
The girl shambles away on her mission,
LOST AND FOUND. 107
and Mrs. Graves leads the way into an apart-
ment from which apparently fresh air has
been excluded for the last century. There is
in it an odour of apples, of tobacco smoke,
of stale beer, of poultry, of musty books. As
the feeble light falls on surrounding objects^
Madge sees masses of rare old china piled up
together with common modern crockery on
a sideboard, above which hangs a superb
Oanaletti, and an indisputable Sir Joshua,
together with some penny coloured prints,
and appalling photographs. *' It is the end
of the world, and we have tumbled into
;haos," she whispers, as her hostess goes out
of the room, and the young pair involuntarily
draw nearer to one another.
V It is but an episode that we shall laugh
over heartily with Philip,'' Phil says reassur-
ingly, as he takes observant note of a new-
born look of fear in Madge's eyes. But
108 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
though he says this with the greatest sang^
froid he has at command, he knows within
himself that it is an episode which will set
its mark on the after lives of both Madge
and himself.
He knows that do what he will, struggle
as he will (and, poor fellow, he begins sadly
to distrust his own strength and capacity for
struggling now), an amount of intimacy will be
developed between them which can never be
forgotten, never obliterated, never remedied.
When she turns to him with those beseech-
ing eyes, full of half-pitiful half-quaintly
humorous appeal, what can he do but give
her all the quick sympathetic companionship
she mutely pleads for.
Even now they stand nearer together, just
for a moment while Mrs. Graves goes out on
some domestic mission connected with their
sudden appearance. And as she inclines
LOST AND FOUND. 109
towards him she forgets all stiff and con-
ventional forms of address and says,
Oh ! Phil, isn^t this funny ? "
" It's too delicious/' he answers earnestly,
not thinking a bit of Mrs. Graves, or of Mrs.
Graves's chaotic establishment, but thinking
solely and wholly of the bright young
creature by his side who at this juncture is
depending on him very visibly.
" Delicious while we're together," she says,
in that fooKshly vehement way of hers that
makes itself manifest whenever she is gratified
or excited, " but it will be awfully dull to me
when I can't look at you, and see that you
see the fun of it no longer. I shall have
time to gloom then about what they must be
thinking at home."
The corners of her mouth drop pitifully
here, for Madge is very tired. The breezes
that blow off the Moor are very health-
110 *''HE COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
giving doubtless, but they are very prostrat-
ing in their immediate eflFects. Never in her
life before has Madge longed so for a human
shoulder on "which to repose her weary young
head. Unfortunately Philip's is the only
shoulder near, and he is the '' wrong Philip.*'
By-and-by, a small strawberry coloured
man shambles in, covered with grimy clothes
that hang upon him as if he were an ill-
made peg. He is closely followed by Mrs.
Graves, who saves them from falling into
the error of taking him for a tipsy groom,
by presenting him to them in the character
of,
" My husband Mr. Graves."
There is a lamentable want of purpose
about Mr. Graves's, words, and hands, and
deportment generally. He experiences the
most frightful difficulties with his knees, and
consonants. The first bend out helplessly,
LOST AND FOUND. Ill
and have to be spasmodically straightened,
and the second won^t fall trippingly off his
tongue. He is the first specimen of this
kind of thing that Madge has seen, and
she recoils from him and gets nearer to
Philip.
Nearer in seeming, and oh ! how much
nearer in reaUty, as he makes each move-
ment that portrays trust and dependence
upon him. Nearer to him, nearer to his heart
every instant. And he dares not take her in
and welcome her, because his cousin has
won this blessing with a he.
But when she puts her soft clinging hand
round his arm, and gives it a frightened clasp
and says,
"Oh! don't you wish we had never
come? don't you wish we had stayed at
home 1 ''
When she says this, he is a fool and in his
112 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
folly he forgets many things he would do
well to remember, and says,
" No, darling, no, for we shall meet again
to-morrow," And Madge (failing Madge)
forgets to rebuke him for calKng her
" darling."
Will she dream this night of the arrival
of the lover for whose advent she has been
waiting all her life ? Will she welcome the
real Happy Prince and find him not the
Philip who came to Halsworthy first 1
When morning dawns, will the thought in
her mind, the thought that will make her
spring to meet the new day be this ; that
her fellow-traveller of the day before is wait-
ing below to greet her waiting below, as
eagerly expectant of that greeting as she is ?
A fellow-sinner ! A fellow-suflFerer ! (will she
thrill, and hate herself) the lover of her life.
No ; none of these thoughts and emotions
LOST AND FOUND. 113
will be hers for many a long day to come.
But the presentiment that they are destined
to overcome her finally is upon the loyal,
loving girl, with painful power.
VOL. II.
CHAPTER VI.
BIRD OR DEVIL !
*' I love thee so dear, that I only can have thee."
Preceded by the girl with a gash across
her face, Madge, after those parting words of
folly with Philip, goes to her chamber, and
its influences are not soothing or cheering.
It is a spacious apartment ; one candle is
utterly insufficient to Ught up its dim re-
cesses, so all that Madge sees at first is a
desert of much worn Persian carpet, and an
oasis of bed in the middle of the same ; the
bed is a ponderous four-poster, the curtains
of so dark a green that they look black by
this faint light, hang from the posts' like
BIRD OR devil! 115
ishrouds. At the head of the bed is a plume
of feathers. " Bah ! it looks like a hearse,"
she says, with a shudder of repulsion.
Dorcas puts the candle down, stumps to
the door, and gets herself away without
uttering a word. ' As the echo of her foot-
steps dies away in the corridor outside, poor
Madge's heart stands still, and then thumps
audibly with uncontrollable fear. Supposing
anything (she does not attempt to define a
possible object of dread) should come out of
one of those dark distances and frighten her,
where should she flee, and on whom should
she call 1 and, oh ! how awful this loneliness
is to her.
In ordinary circumstances, and under or-
dinary conditions Madge Roden is the reverse
of a coward. But her courage fails her now,
for circumstances have conspired to unnerve
her cruelly to-day. She is so shaken by the
I s
116 '**HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
events of the day, she is so startled at finding
what a prominent place Phil has taken up in
her mind, that all her self-control is forsaking
her.
It is a dreadful room ; she speaks a few
reassuring words to herself once and they
seem to roll about and echo all around her.
The walls are dark, and several even darker
portraits hang upon them. These are power-
fully painted pictures ; they seem to move as
poor modern Madge does, and their eyes look
into hers wherever she turns, and appear to
gleam with sardonic intelligence.
On reviewing her progress upstairs to
bed, it seems to her now that she walked
through miles of corridors, past iminhabited
rooms; she knows that whatever happened
Phil would not hear her, even if she yelled all
her horrors aloud. As this dark view of her
desolation presents itself before her, she dis-
BIRD OR DEVIL ! 117
tinctly hears a soft rustle somewhere behind
her, between herself and one of the panelled
walls. And in a passion of terror, such as
only highly organised and intensely sensitive
people experience, she retreats into a corner
of the room, and scans all she can of the rest
of it with widely distended eyes.
It is in vain that she tells herself that this
is idle folly, foolish fear, contemptible weak-
ness ! The dread has overmastered her to
such a degree that she is sure some ghostly
fright will be given her before the blessed
daylight creeps in and ousts these grewsome
shadows. Like a child she longs to get into
bed and bury her head under the clothes, but
she cannot muster up courage to cross that
wide expanse between her corner and that
haven of refuge, the bed.
The candle is short and spare, and burns
rapidly away ; there are only three or four
i
118 " ^ HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID/'
inches between herself and utter darkness*
She watches it with fascinated eyes, and with
a choking dread of its abruptly going out
with a sputter before she can make up her
mind to take the leap across to what seems
like a sanctuary by comparison with her pre-
sent position.
Her faculties of hearing and seeing in-
tensify themselves ; she peers into the
shadows opposite, and it seems to her that the
portraits on the wall are fluttering their
preposterous wigs, and affectedly flirting
their fans ; she is sure that their eyes are
dilating, and their bosoms heaving, and oh !
one of them heaved a sigh !
Madge, blind with terror, now takes a
spring that carries her to the side of the bed,
and there stumbles and falls short of reaching
it, for it is higher than she has been ac-
customed to. Still the habits of courtesy^
BIRD OR devil! 119
the habits of concealing feelings, the exhibi-
tion of which would give pain to others, the
custom of her caste, in short, is upon her
strongly. And in this extreme moment she
does violence to her inclinations, and re-
presses the yell of horror which wells up
from her heart, and which her lips decorously
decKne to utter.
How shall she ever endure it, how shall
she ever live through it until the blessed
light comes and relieves her of the agony of
uncertain outUnes, and dim distances full of
pictured forms that move, and eyes that
dilate. Even as she half unconsciously
questions thus of herself, something palpi-
tates behind her, and the light goes out with
a sputter.
In an instant flash through her mind
recollections so vivid, that they seem to be
painted in bright colours of all the scenes of
120 '''HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
luring travellers to their own destruction,
which she has ever heard or read of. The
palpitation behind her is no creation of her
disordered mind. It is a reality, a genuine
sound ! She cannot reason it away for it is
growing, advancing upon her. This some-
thing intangible, which is at the same time
real, crushes the blood out of her heart, and
renders her half senseless.
Frozen with horror, petrified by a fear
that she cannot define, of something she can-
not analyse, the girl on whom so many fair
high hopes are set lies there alone until the
morning. When the morning comes, when
the "blessed light" for which she has so
wildly yearned and prayed appears, she can-
not take comfort from it ; for the fever of
her spirit has mounted to her brain, and
Madge Roden is very ill, so ill that Dorcas
wandering in after much prompting with a
BIRD OR devil! 121
jug of hot water, finds it a task beyond her
capacity altogether to make the " young lady
know what's what."
Other and altogether new elements of con-
fusion are introduced into that household
forthwith. Poor feverish, wandering Madge
is placed on the bed she had so vainly
essayed to gain, and the dogs are turned out
into a distant yard, and a doctor is sent for,
and the owl is driven from the gloomy corner
of the room from whence he had watched and
fluttered at Madge the previous night. And
when all these steps towards her present
comfort and future restoration have been
taken, it occurs to Mrs. Graves that " the
gentleman ought to be told/'
The gentleman in question is still sleeping
the sleep of a sojourner serving his noviciate
on the Moor, while the doctor stoops over
Madge and utters the ominous words " brain
122 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
fever, brought on by cold and some shock to
her nervous system." And it is this verdict
on the state of his already idolised Madge,
that falls with almost stunning force on
Philip's ears whbn he eventually descends to
what resembles " the lower regions " in more
senses than one.
At this juncture out of the chaos of this
realm of riot the key-note of the proper
mode of action is struck by an unexpected
hand. The weird old mistress of this
mansion of misrule, comes forward with a
perfect conception of the exigencies of the
situation that staggers Phil for one minute,
and compels his unwilling admiration the
next.
" The young lady who is engaged to your
cousin will be quite safe in my house, Mr.
Fletcher, without any remote guardianship
from you," she says incisively ; " but the
BIRD OR DEVIL ! 1:2S
sooner her other friends are with her, the
better, so I should advise your taking the
fastest horse in my stable (the screw you
rode yesterday is hopelessly lame), and going
yourself with these poor tidings to her home,^
without delay. The news will come more
softly from you, than from a groom."
In common sense, in common honour, in
common decency Philip has no appeal against
this decision, though he would give all such
fortune as' Pate may ever bestow upon him
to be suffered to lie down like a watchdoo; at
her door. But he has no appeal ; he knows
that he would be worse than a fool to protest
against this really right dictum which has
been uttered from such an unlooked-for
quarter. And accordingly he goes as Mrs.
Graves bids him ; and Madge remains in the
house of a stranger meaningly unconscious,
quite alone.
124 *' ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
The bracing air of wild free Exmoor has
no power this day to brace the nerves of the
messenger of woe, who " rides as though he
were flying " in very truth, quite regardless
of the broken nature of the ground, and the
possibility of Mrs. Graves's bonniest blood
mare laming herself for life over it. He
knows that he has been bitterly to blame in
letting Madge lose herself, and he knows
nothing of the innocent cause of Madge's
final overthrow. Owls are constant visitors
in the darker corners of the manor-house,
and the servant who drove out the special
one that fluttered hke a thing of evil from
the dim distance at Madge, has never
thought of mentioning such a common occur-
rence as its appearance and ejection.
As he gallops by-and-by through the long
narrow street of Halsworthy, emotions crowd
in quickly upon him ; and he begins to dread
BIRD OR DEVIL ! 125
the look of stern (Jispleasure which will gloom
over Mrs. Henderson's face, and the agitation
and tearfulness which Aunt Lucy will bring
to bear upon him, when they hear his story.
The paramount thought in his mind as he
rides up the avenue at Moorbridge, is
"It will be aiding her frail hand to the
heart's suicide with a Tengeance, if I let her
marry Philip.'*
But this thought with all its saving strength
deserts him suddenly, when in answer to
his impatient ring at the hall door bell, a
bewildered looking servant opens the door,
and Philip his cousin stands out clearly, tall,
and fair, and handsome, and with an immense
air of having a well-established right in all
things, behind that servant's head.
Philip the messenger of ill-tidings, and
Philip the accepted lover, make all things
clear (after the manner of men), in a few
126 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
moments ; but Madge's cavalier of the pre-
vious day has a tight time of it presently
when he is brought to bay before the women,
to whom Madge and everything concerning
Madge is dearer than Hfe.
He gets no pity from Aunt Lucy, he gets
no help from Mrs. Henderson ; the former is
weepingly incapable of considering aught but
Madge's danger, Madge's suflFering ; the latter
is sternly disincUned to salve a conscience
that, from the bottom of her honest heart,
she believes ought to be seared about Madge.
And through it all he knows himself to be
so guileless in act and word. As for his
thoughts ! Heaven help him 1 Could he help
them ? They have never been given utter-
ance to, they have never wronged her save
in that one weak moment, when out of his
great love for her and pity for her solitariness
he called her " darling."
BIRD OR DEVIL ! 127
The arrangements that are made at once
are all made with a propriety, a perfection
that proves to Phil " the late," as he may be
called, that he is unneeded, unwelcome. He
has a wretched sensation of being scouted by
Aunt Lucy, and suspected by Mrs. Hender-
son, and simply " suffered " by his cousin
Philip. And so he does his duty in a very
aggrieved and outraged state of mind after
all, and declares himself " ready to go back
to town" directly Mrs. Henderson declares
herself determined to go and nurse her
favourite.
Philip the lover, Philip the prosperous and
preferred, is in the order of natural selection
"told off'* for escort duty to the two ladies who
are going over to aid and succour Madge.
But before this dominant duty claims him, he
has half an hour with his cousin.
When that half-hour commences, each
128 ** ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
man means so honestly *' to have it out " with
each other, but somehow, each falls short of
his meaning, and so the flame of truthful ex-
planation wavers, flickers, fades away.
"I have never apologised to you for having
used your sword and cocked hat, as it were,
when I came a-wooing,'' Philip the lover
begins somewhat meanl3\ For it is mean to
remind a generous foeman of his former
generosity when a fresh conflict is beginning.
** The only thing you could filch from me
was my good name," Phil the leal says
laughing with an efibrt ; '' and as we share
it together "
"Blow the name, it's been the tempta-
tion I " Philip responds savagely ; " Phil !
youVe seen the girl, isn't she glorious ? "
" Glorious I '' the other replies briefly.
" And this place isn't to be despised 1 '*
Philip goes on interrogatively, with the- airy
BIRD OR devil! 129
manner of a man who never having possessed
one square inch of his own can gaily con-
descend to the indifferent contemplation of
acres.
Phil is silent, surUly so ; to him there is
something brutal, coarse, unmanly in this
talk of the " place," when the possessor of it
is so ill, "may be dying for all we know,"
Phil thinks in a burst of impotent love and
fear.
"And yet," PhiUp goes on in a burst of
self-satisfactory feeling, " with all this in my
hand, as I may say, it proves me not an
utterly selfish fellow, Phil. I'd give it all for
a girl who has nothing in the world but her
beauty and her love for me "
"Then why haven't you given it all for
her 1 " Phil interrupts.
" Because well a fellow can't make all the
* reasons why,' canter up into position at a
VOL. II.
130 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
moment's notice," Philip replies. " When I
came down here for a lark (you know how
awfully fond I always was of amateur
dramatics), I didn't know what it would lead
to ; it has led to this ! can you wonder at
it?"
He asks this with an air of self-conceit
that renders him insuflferable to Phil. Briefly
the latter says,
" When did you come down ? "
" Yesterday, about [^four o'clock. I was
disgusted naturally, at finding Madge had
gone out, and when she stayed away all
night I was more disgusted than ever. You
ought to have been more prudent, Phil."
'' I know it."
"Indeed, if it had been any other man
than yourself," Philip goes on, " I shouldn't
have accepted the situation in the quiet way
I have now ; as it is, I don't blame the girl
BIRD OR devil! 181
nor you so much as I do those two fools of
women who encourage Madge in all her silly
escapades."
"Mrs. Henderson is incapable of encouraging
anything silly," Phil says savagely. In spite
of the stern glances which Mrs. Henderson
has been bestowing upon him with liberality
this day, he will be just to her. She is in-
capable of encouraging folly in any form.
She will not even smile upon a form of folly
to which, in his heart of hearts, he does
seriously incline namely that he should
win the girl he loves from a man who loves
her not.
Mrs. Henderson is one of the women who
are prompt in action. She never hesitates,
never vacillates, never gets fussy or be-
wildered in any sudden emergency. So now
she comes back from the Vicarage, having set
her house in order, and organised the system
E 2
132 "*HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
of management of it during her absence, long
before agitated Aunt Lucy is ready to start.
"While I am waiting for Miss Roden I
want to have a talk with you, Phil/' she says
to the man who has proved himself such an
ineflScient escort and protector to Madge.
They are alone in the library as she says
this (for Philip the lover has gone to get his
new travelling bag, with its beautiful assort-
ment of bottles and brushes, ready), and Phil
feels uncommonly like a culprit as he ap-
proaches his mother's friend.
She is a dear, kind, good woman, and she
gentles very much in expression as the
young fellow comes close to her, and waits
his doom with miserable eyes.
She bends forward and rests her hands on
his shoulders and kisses him on the forehead,
and at that he breaks down, and with his face
in his hands he says,
BIRD OR devil! 133
" I'll go to-day."
''I knew you would, I was sure of you,
Phil, my boy; I wish none of this had
happened, but as it has, you must be strong
and true ; you must right the wrong I have
helped to do, you must not run into tempta-
tion, nor lead her into it."
"FU go to-day," he repeats. And then
she sits down and holds his hand as lovingly
as his mother might, and asks,
" Tell me all there is to tell."
" There is nothing but this I love her and
Philip does not ! "
Mrs. Henderson winces as if a blow had
been dealt to her.
" Don't say that, don't think that, Phil : he
may not love her with the love a girl like
Madge ought to inspire; but with his best
surely 1 "
" Philip loves another woman with his best
134 "*H COMETH NOT/ SHE SAId/'
Jove, of whatever quality it may be," Phil
says, with quickly repented-of angry candour.
"But I know what you mean, two wrongs
never made a right. Madge shall never
know how I loved her, or how little it would
cost him to renounce her/'
For a minute Mrs. Henderson weighs the
possibilities in the balance, and then she
speaks.
" I know Madge I know something about
her that you have never thought of, and can-
not realise. From her babyhood she has
never broken her part of an engagement,
however trifling it may be ; she has pledged
herself to Philip, and she will redeem her
pledge, even if she finds out that he does
not give her the full share of love she bar-
gained for. Madge is honourable in the
way men ought to be ; she can't break her
word."
BIRD OR devil! 135
There is unbroken silence between them
for a few moments ; then she speaks again,
" I tell you fairly, that I shall never speak
of you to her, never suffer her to think that
you regard her as other than the most super-
ficial acquaintance ; she is very pure, and very
proud, she will soon compel herself to for-
get you/'
He smiles sadly. "And that is the
thought you give me at parting to comfort
me/'
" Go and work, boy," she says impatiently ;
** go and work and forget her. Because I
have been foolish in smoothing the way to
this engagement of Madge's, shall I stand by
and see a greater folly committed; and
don't hate me, Phil, for my blunder ! Be a
man ! "
He is quite master of himself as he takes
leave of the relief-party, that is going off to
13G " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
Madge presently. Quite master of himself,
as in well-chosen language her expresses his
earnest hopes that " Miss Roden will shortly
be restored to perfect health/' quite master
of himself as he shakes his cousin's hand in
farewell, and says, "You must keep my
mother and sisters au courant with your pro-
ceedings, Philip ; give them time to prepare
the wedding presents, and make my peace
with Miss Roden for my stupidity of yester-
day."
But he knows that this mastery will not
last.
CHAPTER VII.
AS GOLD IS TRIED BY FIRE.
Coming home one evening from the great
emporium where she acts as block for the
better display of the milUnery triumphs of
" Barr and Battle/' to her lodgings hard by,
Olive Aveland meets Philip Fletcher face to
face.
It is the day before he goes down to
Moorbridge House, and he has just been
making thousands of good resolutions, each
one of which he is ready to break at sight
of the girl whose life he has laid waste.
At sight of him, Olive gasps a silent, heart-
felt prayer for strength, and it is given to her.
i
138 "'HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
There is no flush on her face, no flutter in her
Toice, as she says, in answer to his eager,
" Olive 1 I have been mad to know where
you were."
"There can be no pretence of friendship
between us. No ; I would rather no shake
hands with you." And, as she says this, she
walks on steadily, easily, and he stands and
looks after her.
Presently he overtakes her again, and now
there is anger in Olive's eyes as she regards
him.
"I shall be wretched all my life,'" he
begins, " if you cut me in this way. Have
pity on me, Olive ! you know how I love you
how I suffesr in renouncing you ; give me
your friendship still."
" You traitor to Madge!" she cries in a low
voice, but with an amount of concentrated
passion in it that portends a perilous time for
I
AS GOLD IS TRIED BY FIRE. 139
anyone who may encounter her in this mood,
and run contrary to it. "You traitor to
Madge after Td forgiven you about myself
tpo," she adds, with a sudden breaking down
of all her bulwarks, that is intensely weak
and womanly.
Philip Fletcher likes to stand well with
people even with people whom he has in-
jured. It is soothing to his own sense of
satisfaction with himself always, in looking
back upon past events, to remember that,
whatever they knew about him, they could
but seem to like him while they were with
him ! He values this personal power, which
is his distinguishing attribute^ highly ;
cherishes it, and appreciates it as the good
friend it has been to him deserves to be
cherished and appreciated. By its aid he
has already tided over many a time of trial.
The men of whom he has borrowed money,
140 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE *SAID/'
on account of it forgive him for forgetting to
pay it. The women to whom he has pledged
light love-vows, which he has never attempted
to redeem, forgive him for perjuring himself
when he comes before them blithe and debo-
nair. It hurts him, after all that is past,
that OUve should be in any other passion
than one of love for him.
"You are Madge's dearest friend, and
there is no treachery to her in trying to
keep your friendship for myself," he pleads,
eagerly and earnestly. " I am going down
to her to-morrow ; let me tell her that 1 met
you to-night, and that you sent a loving
message to her."
The girl is young, and full of tender-
heartedness and good feeling and gratitude
to Madge for all the kindness shown awhile
ago, when she (Olive) needed it almost as
much as she does now.
AS GOLD IS TRIED BY FIRE. 141
" You may say what you like that's loving to
Madge," she whimpers out ; "and oh! Philip,
do you be good to her always ; do love her/'
Something in the appeal goes to the very
core of his heart, and selfish Philip forgets
himself for a moment.
" Good-by, Olive ; God bless you ! " he
mutters, taking off his hat in a spasm of
deep respect ; " think of me kindly now, for
Madge's sake."
So he walks on, and leaves her out in the
turmoil of the street alone. And she can't
help contrasting this present carelessness of
his with the chivalrous devotion of other
days, when she was a rich man's reputed
heiress, and Philip would have deemed him-
self wanting in every gentlemanly attribute if
he had allowed her to walk over one yard of
the pavement of Oxford Street in the glare
of day unattended.
142 "'he COMETH XOT,' SHE SAID/'
She feels very strangely softened and
humbled, poor child, when she reaches the
door of her lodgings. And at the door she
meets Griffiths Poynter.
Griffiths Poynter, with an elderly lady
leaning on his arm, and his card-case in his
hand, calling on her properly sparing her,
soothing her, saving her in every social way.
And she contrasts that other one with him,
and in a glow finds that other one wanting.
And her fidelity to a sham yiejds, and her
faith in her own foolhardy adherence to a
failing cause yields ; and her womanly wil-
fulness in clinging to what crumbles under
her touch yields ; and she is almost as ready
in this hour to receive Griffiths Poynter as a
lover as she is to receive his aunt as her
friend.
The aunt, untroubled by the presence of
her daughter, is kindliness and cordiality
AS GOLD IS TRIED BY FIRE. 143
itself to the young lady of whom her nephew
has discreetly made mention as Miss Roden's
favourite friend. For Miss Roden is a local
power in the region in the which this kindly-
disposed old lady hopes to see one of her
daughters reigning as Griffiths's wife.
Moreover, in addition to this indisputable
fact that she is acting from interested
motives, Griffs aunt is kindly-hearted, and
there is a forlornness about the state of this
young reduced gentlewoman which is very
grievous to her. It does not occur to her
unscheming, unsophisticated mind that Olive
Aveland, the young person who exhibits
"Barr and Battle's '' jackets and mantles to ,
the best of her ability and shoulders, will
ever vault to such heights of daring, even in
imagination, as to dream of being GrilBBiths's
wife. Up to the present moment she has
not been under the influence of her daughters
144 '''HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
on the subject. She has refrained from
saying anything to them about this "un-
lucky young lady," because Grif has re-
quested her to do so, and it has always been
a habit of hers to attend to Grif 's requests,
partly because she really loves him very
much, and partly because it is expedient.
" Miss Aveland, it's the first time I ever
went into a show-room for ladies' things in
my life, and to think it should have brought
me the luck of meeting you again."
He says a portion of this speech with the
rapidity of utterance that is the result of his
earnest desire to express his pleasure in seeing
her again, and the other portion of it in the
disjointed tones which are the result of a-
rather hurried ascent of a more than rather
steep flight of stairs. They are in Olive's
small sitting-room by this time, and he knows
his aunt is thinking how small it is, and how
AS GOLD IS TRIED BY FIRE. 145
meagre its arrangements are. And he grieves
from the bottom of his honest heart for the
necessity, whatever it may be, which has
brought one who ought to be in an atmo-
sphere of perpetual " sweetness and light "
down to such a drear and dingy one as
this.
In that small, dull, confined space these
three sit for ten minutes, and make very httle
headway towards gaining a fuller knowledge
of each other. Then Olive, who has a hatred
of standing in a false light under any circum-
stances, says,
" Do you think it a very terrible descent
from educational serfdom to being a shop-
girl, Mr. Poynter 1 I can see you're full of
pity for me about something.^'
" As full of pity for you as I should be for
a sister of my own," he answers promptly.
Then, while Olive is looking him steadily iu
TOL. II. L
14.6 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
the face, in tlie endeavour to detect any sigu
of false shame in this pity, his well-meaning
aunt interposes with one of those excellently-
intentioned remarks that are veiy roots of
bitterness to those to whom they are
addressed.
" I have no doubt, Miss Aveland, but that
my nephew could find you some more genteel
employment something far more congenial
to you among his own friends ; housekeeper
to a widower and governess to his children,
or something of that sort."
" I certainly couldn't recommend anything
of that sort to Miss Aveland,^' Grif rephes
hurriedly ; " and I'm quite sure she wouldn't
attend to me if I did recommend it/' And
his face tingles with a sensation of annoyance
that is a new thing to him as he feels that
his aunt is " probably thinking how good the
odds in favour of matrimony with thp widower
AS GOLD IS TRIED JBY FIRE. 147
would be in such a case," and shyly fears
that Olive may suspect his aunt of the same
imaginative iniquity.
But Olive's thoughts are far otherwise
employed. The impulse of hospitahty is
strong upon the gii*l, and she has not the
wherewithal to obey it. She quite under-
stands that a well-arranged dinner awaits
these people at the lad/s home, and still she
does long to offer them the best she has, to
show them to the best of her ability that they
are as welcome to her as if she could receive
them! properly.
The practical need of exerting herself if
she is really to do anything at all in the way
of obeying her instinct, drives all the romance
of that last meeting with the Philip who had
been hers and is Madge's out of her mind.
She is nervous, but nervous only with house-
hold care, as she presently petitions them, in
l2
148 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
a voice that proves she means it, to " stay
and have some tea with her."
Grif is dehghted. He would gladly stay
and have a cup of hot water and a grain of
salt, so long as the partaking of it procured
him her presence. And his aunt accepts the
invitation with a beneficence and winning
condescension that is quite lost upon the
young people, the one of whom busily em-
ploys herself in preparing the refreshment
she had proffered, while the other busies him-
self equally in watching her evolutions.
There is something poetical about that tea-
making, practical GriflSths thinks. The girl
has got her lodgings in the house of an old
countrywoman who had been cook for many
years in a great county family. And during
her sojourn among them she had been given
many a quaint old piece of china, and many
a maimed and mutilated piece of silver. By
AS GOLD IS* TRIED BY FIRE. 149
these the young lady on her first floor
benefited now. Therefore there was nothing
incongruous between the girl and the articles
with which she served her guests.
As she lights the gas. at length, and the full
light streams down on her head, he sees
twisted into the crown of lustrous hair a
ribbon of the rich amber hue she had been
dressed in the first time he saw her. A
similar ribbon encircles her neck, for though
black silk dresses are the rule of Barr and
Battles' establishment, Olive clings to her
favourite colour, and wears it where she
may.
He remembers how Madge had told him
that the " Amber Witch " was a pet phrase
whereby she and some other intimate friends
were wont to designate Olive. Remem-
bering this, he worries himself by wondering
who the other intimate friends were, and
150 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
hopes heartily that there was no man among
them. And so gradually gets silent and sad^
and suffers his tea to get cold, and the spirit
of the meeting to fail and die away.
" We must be very late, my dear Grif, and
I m sure Miss Aveland must be quite tired
of us,'' his aunt says, vainly trying to-
suppress her fourth yawn, and inwardly
rather aggrieved by the fact that Olive should
seem to be sympathetic to Grif s silence and
sadness, to the degree of indulging the sam^
herself.
" Late it can't be late ! " Grif says, rising
up, nevertheless. Then he looks at his aunt
so inquiringly that that lady is utterly
bewildered by her mental efforts to try and
make out what Grif can possibly mean.
" We have had a most delightful evening,'*^
she stammers out to Olive ; " so quiet and
friendly, you know."
AS GOLD IS TRIED BY FIRE. 151
"And, though it's rather late for a call,
you must please to take it for one," Grif
hurriedly interposes. " My aunt^s address is
(by the way have you a card with you,
that's the safest way)." And again Grif
looks appealingly at his aunt.
"No, I haven't a card," she replies,
stringing her soul up to the awful thought
of hurting Grif, reminding herself of her
daughter's wrath should a shop-girl dare to
come and call on them. Why won't Grif
think of this ? Why will he put her in such a
cleft stick ? Why, when he knew how very
fastidious his cousins were, should he make
her run counter to that fastidiousness, and
then disarrange her plans for keeping her
conduct secret.
All these thoughts pass through her mind
as she stands trying to get her cloak adjusted,
and trembling so that she cannot button it.
Ib'Z "'he COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
As she is really a good and kind-hearted
woman she would go considerably out of her
way to do good in any degree to this desolate
girl whom she can see is a gentlewoman. She
would willingly go out of her own way, but she
dare not go into the way of her daughters.
Griffiths all the time thinks this reticence is
simply amiable obtuseness on the part of his
aunt. Therefore, though he would much rather
that that lady's name and address should be
courteously handed by herself to Olive, he
waives that point, writes it down, and as he
gives it to Miss Aveland says,
"You have started an at-home day,
haven't you, aunt ? Bedford Street is too far
for Miss Aveland to go and find you out."
Before Mrs. Wainwright can answer Olive
has understood the situation, accepted it, and
resolved to escape from it in a way that shall
not embarrass the poor bewildered lady.
AS GOLD IS TRIED BY FIRE. 153
whose eyes have beamed kindness only upon
her (Olive).
"It is impossible that I can come," she
says very gently, " though it is just as kind
of you to wish it ; but I am tied tightly
down to ray work all day, and when I leave
it I want rest."
She says it so unsuspiciously, she gives her
hand so cordially to Mrs. Wainwright, that she
has no idea that the fears, which even she
admits to be unworthy, have been detected
and assuaged by Olive, who, having per-
formed her part with the lady, turns to close
the scene with Griffiths.
" I shall not see you again probably, Mr.
Poynter, so I will give you a message for
Madge now. Tell her where I am, and that
I am well, and that I hope all the rest of her
life will be happier even than her bright
past. And give her my dearest love."
15* " ' HE CX)METH KOT/ SHE SAID.*"
"Ill do all that," he saj-B, with scHne
emotion ; '' but you must not cut me off like
this ; if you have no time to go out by
(lay, and no inclination to go out in the
evening, my cousins are not situated so;
they'll come with me to see you and have
tea like we have to-night, do let us 1 won't
they, aunt ? "
Emaciated as she has been for some time
past by misery, by suspense, by injustice
and insult, Olive wakes at this into something
of her old self and laughs, actually laughs
cheerfully.
" Good-night," she says, as Mrs. Wainwright
speechless from the moment of her nephew's
last observation, slides out of the room.
" Good-night ; never make plans for other
people ; it's interfering with the liberty of
the subject, and I don't approve of that"
" But I may see you again ? '*
AS GOLD IS TRIED BY FIRE. 155
*'No/^ she says, impatiently. "I am
peculiarly situated, and but I needn't ex-
plain ; good-by."
" I may write ? ^^ he pleads.
She hesitates, then says,
" Write to me when Madge marries."
He has to be content with this concession,
for his aunt is crying aloud from midway
down the stairs, that " it is quite dangerous
to leave a place like this without a light.'*
So with rather an effusive " I will," he goes,
and Olive is alone again.
Alone again, with better, truer thoughts in
her mind than filled it before these people
came. In their acknowledgment of her, in
their trust in her, in the friendship he had
displayed so ardently, and that which his
aunt had displayed to the limited extent of
her own daring, Olive derived comfort and
found baJm for her poor bruised spirit.
156 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID.
" He's worlds too good he^s too much
of a man for any woman to make a
vengeance dummy of him," she thinks, as she
takes dozens of Phihp's letters from a
corner of her desk, and proceeds resolutely
to tear each sheet in four pieces before
putting them into the fire, " I hope he will
never tempt me to marry him ; and if he
does, I pray that I may have the courage to
tell him about Philip."
With a calmer spirit than has been her
portion since the date of her ignominious
dismissal from Mrs. Wilmot*s house, with a
freer heart than has rested in her bosom
since Philip turned traitor, with a feeling of
having a portion at least of her womanly
dignity restored to her, Olive goes to bed
this night.
And as she quietly sleeps, with every
revengeftil thought exorcised, every unworthy
AS GOLD IS TRIED BY FIRE. 157
ambition cast away, Griffiths Poynter is em-
ployed upon the composition of a letter which
he means to post the instant he has finished it^
in which he urges her, by every consideration
that love can conjure up, to be his wife.
CHAPTER VIIL
"AT last!'*
Madge, turning her head round on the
pillow, with the sensations of one who wakes
from a dreamless sleep that has been too
deep to be refreshing, catches sight of
a brightly burning fire, and rises on her
elbow at once in her astonishment at a phe-
nomenon which had not been there when
last she went to bed in Moorbridge House.
The attitude (which by a vast effort she
sustains for about half a minute) affords her
a sight of more wonders that are strange
to her. Somebody's ancestors are gazing
at her from vcuious panels* All the furniture
"AT last!'' 159
of the room, which has been grand, is now
only gloomy, and large snow flakes are
floating airily past the window.
She has no recollection whatever of the
last ride she rode, and the last roof that
sheltered her in these earlier moments of her
restoration to reason and convalescence.
All her dangers, all her anxieties, all her
follies are blotted from her mind, which is
like a sheet of white paper ready to receive
the faintest impression that may be made
upon it. The first impressions that are made
have been described they are tangible. The
second is a dreamy doubt as to whether
she is in a lunatic asylum or not. The third
is that somebody she knows two somebodies
she knows are coming towards her as she
falls back, feeling hollow and very liable to
crack and crumble away, upon the pillow.
As these two somebodies come nearer md
160 *' ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.''
even lean over the bed, stronger recollections
come trooping into the mind that has been
lying fallow for so long a time, and "fond
memory" recalls to her the feet that she
frivolously opposed herself to the gentle
judgment of one of these watchers, on the
occasion of her being last awake. A twinge
of conscience renders her an easy prey to
weakness again, and she has no strength to
put her hand responsively into that loving
one of Mrs. Henderson's which is placed on
her wrist.
" Gone off again ! " Aunt Lucy suggests in
a penetrating whisper that always becomes
hissingly distinct when she is greatly agitated.
And at this despondent view of her case
Madge does rouse herself to open her eyes,
and smile with them, though the weary
corners of her mouth cannot follow their
example and say,
Am r Acim t "
AT last! 161
"No, I'm not, auntie dear/*
It is the first time she has spoken to them ;
it is the first time she has looked at them
with knowledge for a weary month, and in
their joy and gladness they would both
heartily hke to cry and call for PhiUp, who
has been most becomingly miserable during
the whole term of Madge's illness. But they
have already decided between themselves that
*' Madge must not be fluttered by the sight of
Philip until the doctor says she may be so
fluttered." Which is, on the whole, a sagacious
decision, since Philip is not one of the facts that
fond Memory has recalled to her vividly as yet.
But, in the course of a short time, he and
other persons and things come back to her,
and she learns where she is, and hears how
she came here ; and remembers everything !
remembers even the sound of the flutter
behind her which overweighed and upset the
TOL. II. H
162 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
balance of her mind. With a shudder she turns
away from that remembrance and asks,
" Where is Philip 1 how is he 1 ''
" Quite near and very anxious/' Mrs.
Heuderson says concisely.
" Intensely anxious/' Aunt Lucy adds ; "the
blow it was to him that morning when his
cousin came/'
" What morning 1 " Madge asks quickly.
'' The morning Phil brought the tidings of
your ilhiess to us at Moorbridge^'' Mrs.
Heuderson says, taking the subject into her
own hands with what she fears Aunt Lucy
will think uncourteous haste. But her dread
that Aunt Lucy, ui the innocence of her heart,
will S3iy something about Phil that had better
be left unsaid in Madge s weak state, orer-
masters her sense of courtesy. FNr she
knows Madge better than the other, knows
that the girl will h^te and leproach kerseir
a
AT last!" ' 163
keenly by-and-by, if her weakness permits
a thought that should be checked, a hope
that should be killed.
So Mrs. Henderson goes on briskly to tell
Madge that Philip her lover is, and has been
all the time, waiting for her recovery, at the
wretched shanty in the village which they
call an inn. And Madge, who does not
think so much of that part of his devotion
(women always bear the thought of bodily
discomfort better than men), is touched ' to
tears when they tell her how ill, how
subdued, how unlike himself in manner he
has been the whole time.
"He is fond of her, then,. really fond of
her ; deserving of all the love and confidence
she has in her to bestow,^' she feels, as the
tears drip down on the pillow and make
the cheek which presses it very damp and
uncomfortable. Fond enough of her to have
M 2
164 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID,"
become depressed and unlike in manner that
debonair Philip who asked for her hand
and heart before she realised (though she
had theorised about it) what it would mean
to her did she make him these gifts.
She realises what it will be now in this
hour when she is recovering from the fever.
Realises freely all that she owes to him.
More than this, she realises freely all that
she owes to herself, to her own promise, and
resolves to pay the debt howsoever heavy
a one it may prove.
" And his cousin 1 where is his cousin 1 "
she interrogates very tranquilly presently.
"He went home the same day, and we
have not heard from him since,'' with that
sort of suppressed, embarrassed feeling which
revenges itself for its suppression by making
itself manifest in an elaborate calm^ which
is to be detected as spurious instantly. .
''AT last!" 163
"Poor fellow!" Madge observes laconically,
and again for a few moments the original
quietude resumes its sway in the sick-room.
But Aunt Lucy, who has been utterly
hopeless for a month, and only partially
hopeful since Madge began to show signs of
restitution to herself Aunt Lucy, who is
hysterically grateful for the tiniest sign of
interest in anything mundane that the girl
she looked upon as moribund can show, fans
what she looks upon as a feeble earthly
flicker after the lapse of a few moments and
says gently,
"Why do you say 'poor fellow,' dear
Madge ? he didn't seem to be at all the worse
for the long ride and exposure to weather
that was enough to lay a horse up."
Madge's face is suffused in an instant
with a gleam of satisfaction that is more like
a sunbeam than a smile. From the cursory
166 ' " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
inontion made of Phil by Mrs. Henderson,
she feared that he was paying some such
penalty for their joint imprudence as she
had paid. The reHef of finding from her
aunt's words that such is not the case is
infinite, and Madge won't repent of her
pitiful ejaculation, even though her own
Philip has been loyally sufiering many
disagreeables for her sake at the village inn
the last month.
She strengthens hourly now, and begins to
take an interest in crisply narrated details
of the every-day life in this mansion on the
moor. She even asks to see Mrs. Graves,
and, when that weird old lady stands before
her, the wan wasted girl raises herself and
thanks her in words that seem to glow, for
the "countenance, the shelter, she gave on
that awful night."
Madge is hardly conscious herself of the
"AT last!" 167
fervour she throws into her thanks. Her
own friends believe that it is the enthusiasm
and emotional feeling which are the offsprings
often of fever and weakness. But her shrewd
old new acquaintance remembers the days
of her own youth to some purpose, and is
quite sure that Miss Roden is grateful for
something beyond being saved from the
cold blasts of Exmoor and the scanty
comforts of the village inn. Compassionately
she feels certain that the girl is grateful to
the circumstances which intervened and
saved her from being lead into the tempta-
tion of learning to love the cousin of her
lover.
Brisk breezes have been blowing over
Exmoor for several days. For several
days Madge has been aware of and eager to
meet their beneficial influences. She has
168 '''he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
loYed to have the window opened wide,
and the curtains pulled back. She has
exerted herself to lean forward and listen
to the voice of Nature, that sounds with
such thrilling clearness up in the rarified
atmosphere of these solitudes. The river
that rushes through the hamlet and past the
Manor House is a bubbling, bouldery, noisy
one, and in its course past her bedroom it tells
many a tale, and sings many a song in a
loud strain to Madge. Sometimes the moor-
bred girl almost shrieks out her delight
at the sight of the wild fowl that go wafting
by to some inland haunt. Her bright keen
eyes watch with the same joy she felt when a
child, for a stray heron or a circling hawk.
There is a rookery in the Manor House
grounds, and every evening the spectacle is a
fresh pleasure to her of the rooks darkening
the sky in a compact mass as they fly home.
*^AT last!" 169
She sits, propped up with pillows, to hear
her mare Brunette led past her window at
a walk first, then a trot, then a gallop. And
radiantly she acknowledges that '^ Brunette's
legs must be all right/' In fact, she has,
despite this long and trying illness, the
morning bloom of life and joy in Ufe about
her still. She is young, and fresh and happy,
and pure enough still, to go on taking interest
and pleasure in unimportant things, and
things that in themselves are not either
pleasurable, beautiful, or interesting. But
with all this keen appreciation, with all this
fervent sympathy, with all this unabated
interest in everything that has life and
motion, there is something wanting.
She has never once expressed a desire,
much less a longing, to see the man she is
going to marry.
She has not been unmindful of him ; on the
170 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAD)/'
contrary, she has been thoughtful for him ;
sending him re-assuring messages as to the
state of her health, and urgent requests that
he would try and amuse himself by snipe-
shooting or going out with the stag hounds.
And he has obeyed her, and had some very
successful nights on the moor with the wild-
fowl, and days on the moor after the red-
deer. He has brought home vivid reports of
his exploits, and Mrs. Henderson has care-
fully retailed them in a way that has often
roused Madge to animation, and admiration
of his skill, or prowess, or courage, as these
*
qualities may have been respectively called
into play. But though she has been sending
him honeyed words of encouragement to go
out and pursue these mimic wars, and to
come home and send her terse accounts of
them, she has never sighed lor, never asked
for, a sight of the hero.
"AT last!" 171
Old Miss Roden, whose experience of be-
trothed lovers, under such circumstances, has
been of a limited order, ascribes this reserve
to the most divinely maidenly delicacy.
Mrs. Henderson knows better, and aches
within herself for Madge's sake for doing so.
Philip himself having asked two or three times,
with well-portrayed ardour, if " Madge didn't
want to see him," and having been put off
each time in a lame and impotent way, re-
signed himself (as well as he could, knowing,
as he did, that those around were noticing it)
to the facts.
Therefore, he is surprised this day, when
just as he is about to mount his horse and
ride to a meet, a couple of miles off, Mrs.
Henderson hastens up to him, and says,
" Philip, will you come and see Madge ; she
wishes for you ? "
" At last,'* he says ; and he can't help say-
172 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
ing it with a half-smile and an expression
playing about his face that is not that of a
pleased and happy lover.
Rather slowly (according to Mrs. Hender-
son's way of thinking) he lifts his leg out of
the saddle again, and prepares to follow her.
The whole thing strikes him as inopportune.
His day had promised well. He had secured
a mount more entirely to his satisfaction
than any it had been his luck to get since he
had been hunting down here. The hounds
were celebrated ; the day was fine ; the field,
it had been announced, would be an exception-
ally full one. And he had to give up all
these things because it was a girl's whim that
she " wished to see him " at this exact time,
when she had so contentedly gone without
seeing him for over long.
"Remember how ill she has been," Mrs.
Henderson says warningly, as she pauses for a
"AT last!" 173
moment at the door. As he nods his head
in response she opens it, and he sees Madge
once more with all relations unchanged be-
tween them.
She is sitting in a square, high-backed
chair, wrapped up closely in a silver-grey
dressing-gown that is bordered and bright-
ened with rose pink. Her eyes are bright,
her mouth firfn and smiling, her complexion
-clear and warm. She is one of the women
who, by reason of their intense vitaUty,
always look better in health than they
actually are. It almost disappoints the man,
who has been lodging at an inconvenience to
himself for more than a month for her sake,
that she should look so little like an invalid.
He does not see the effort she makes to look
bright and move easily. He does not feel
the tension of her nerves while she constrains
herself to seem " very much better," in order
174 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
uot to distress him. He appreciates neither
her resolution nor her affectionate subtiUty ;
for he does not understand them.
The room, an anteroom to that dark
chamber wherein poor Madge had been
lying ill so long, has been carefully put at its
best by Mrs. Henderson, under Madge's
orders. It was Madge who had begged that
hyacinths and tulips might be sent for and
spotted about in hastily improvised jar-
dinieres at every turn. It was Madge who
had declared for a chair instead of a couch,
in order that he might think her strong.
And Mrs. Henderson, knowing all these
things, unjustly hates Philip when she sees
how quietly he believes all he is, and how
little grateful he is for the self-abnegation of
Madge, of which he knows nothing.
Madge will rise up as he nears her, and
when he is encirchug her with his arms, he
"AT last!" 175
repeats his own words " At last/' in a most
efectiye manner^ a manner that differs
widely from the one in which he had last
uttered them (has he not avowed a love for
dnd proficiency in amateur dramatics 1).
" Dear PhiUp, I sent for you the instant I
could the instant I came in here ; I knew
you'd Uke it," Madge says, not at all in the
tone of one who offers an explanation, but
rather in that of one who mentions a most
gratifying fact.
" And I came the instant you sent for me ;
still the time has been long enough since we
met before to justify me in saying 'at last' ?
he questions, quietly. And a sense of disap-
pointment and disapprobation of self steals
over Madge. She has evidently failed in
rendering something that she ought to render
to him.
She subsides back into her chair and puts
' jy
176 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
her hand on the sleeve of his short riding-
coat.
" You were going hunting to-day, Philip 1 "
If she had said, " You are going hunting
to-day," Philip would have offered to forego
that on which his heart had been set for the
last three days. But as she said, " You were
going," he girded against the implication.
" I was, certainly, and I scarcely thought
that, as you have done so well without me all
along, you would command my society for
more than half an hour to-day, dear.'*
He tries to say this playfully, but Madge
understands him very well, and knows that
her lot will be a hard one with this man,
whether he loves her, or whether he does
not.
"I am glad you're going," she says
quickly, but all gladness is gone from her
heart, poor child. " I am glad you're going.
"AT last!" 177
Philip, for the day is so fine, and a burst over
the moor does every one good, I think. And
I tell you what ^' (she draws nearer to him as
she says this, and snuggles her hand more
closely into his he has been holding hers all
the while) " and I tell you what. Brunette
knows the work so well, and would carry you
splendidly, and I wish you would ride
Brunette, Philip ; she's my pet horse."
"I was just getting on her when Mrs.
Henderson came and told me you wished to
see me,** he says, quite coolly ; and Madge, as
she Kes back with a beating heart and a face
that is flushed scarlet, is told by Mrs. Hen-
derson that she really must not excite her-
self any more to-day she really must let
Philip go. So Philip kisses her and goes off
on Brunette gladly enough, and for the
remainder of the day Madge is strangely
silent. " Will he always take everything for
TOL. II. N
CHAPTER IX.
POOR BRUNETTE !
** "Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day."
Hangman's Hill scowls in front of him, a
Carrier of gloom to the good stag who has run
for his life five-and-thirty miles already this
iay. The ascent begins to be more abrupt, and
only a few stragglers remain of the fine field
that started in the morning. The rest have
" fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone,'*
long before Hangman's Hill is gained.
Foremost among these stragglers, well up
with the master of the hounds himself, is
Philip. Brunette has proved her knowledge
of the country satisfectorily. She has been
K 2
180 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID.*'
in a good place all day, and still she is going
easily.
Philip Fletcher is a skilful and daring,
rather than a merciful and sparing rider.
But the evidence this day is certainly in
favour of his having ridden Brunette with
kindUness and discretion, for the bonny
brown mare is unpunished still.
Suddenly, in front of them, rises one of
the regular moorland stone fences, at a short
distance from them still, but starting sharply
out of the ground, as objects do start out in
this light. Philip feels that more than one
horse will refuse it, that more than one will
fall, but Brunette will not falter.
Nevertheless, in spite of this faith in her
pluck and her prowess, he mistakes a certain
cautiousness, with which she approaches it^
for unwillingness. Her apparent hesitation
develops his spirit of impatience, and he deals
POOR brunette! isi
her a blow and digs his spurs into her
heaving sides with a force that makes her
bound in her stride and fly the fences well in
advance of the others.
As soon as she is over, instead of continuing
the ascent in the direction he knows the stag
and hounds are going, she turns to a down-
ward incline at a pace which he speedily
realises he has no power to control. He gives
her one long, steady pull, and she flies along
the faster ; and then the mare has a second
and fiercer edition of Philip's practical ideas
as to justifiable punishment.
He has no fear for himself. With all his
faults, the man is an accomplished rider ; and
so, with a certain pleasant conviction that the
" wayward beast will get the worst of it,'* he
deals her a blow well between the ears, and
digs his spurs iiito the sides that Madge's
rosy, loving face has been laid against
182 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.''
cai'essinglj dozens of times. And he knows
this. He cares little enough for her terrific
pace. She has spoilt his fun by her burst,
and now she shall go on for his pleasure. So
she goes on till she seems to kick the moor
from behind her, and drops suddenly into one
of those wooded roads, which often rise and
stagger one on the borders of the barren
waste. And now he tries to turn her in her
stride, but she goes straight, and he repents
him of his severity a Uttle when her head
comes into furious collision l?ith a tree, and
Brunette drops down dead under him.
No thought of the sorrow for her horse
that will be Madge's portion adds poignancy
to the pain he feels at being left here in some
humanity-abandoned spot where he has no
landmarks. His brandy flask is empty.
Sandwiches, that have been made for more
than half an hour, he always looks upon as
POOR BRUNETTE ! 183
masses of corruption ; therefore, as soon as he
recollects the case he carries, he shudders
away from the recollection. He does not
possess that exhaustive capacity for cursing
which characterised the one who wrote,
"Whether he*s out, or whether he's in,
To me it matters not a pin ;
Be every curse of every sin
On Maurice Darcy, Knight of Gwynne."
But though he does not possess it in the like
degree, there is a good deal of force and
power in the curses he calls down upon those
men of North Devon and Somerset who have
gone on and left him in the wilds with no
other companion than the carcase of a dead
horse.
His only guides out of this diflSculty are
his natural intelligence and his knowledge of
the position Hangman's Hill occupies with
regard to another beacon, which has a position
he will recognise (if he ever gains it) with
i
iKi "*HE COMETH KOT/ SHE SAID."
regard to a liill on tlie Somerset botmdarj-
line. Once there, the will be in a region he
knows. 80 he strikes out bravely enough in
the direction he believes to be the right one,
without a single sad, back thought of dead
Hrunetto, beyond the natural regret any-
one must feel at the destruction of a good
liorHc.
He nmst be left to follow his path over the
weird moorland, through the rapidly darken-
ing night, alone. Another claims us for
awhile.
#
'* It is hard lines for a fellow, after being
coaxed down against his will, to be kicked
out in this way," Phil Fletcher soliloquises,
as, after that total renunciation of every
wish he had respecting Madge, which he had
offered as a voluntary sacrifice, he mounts the
top of the four-horse coach which is to
POOR brunette! 185
convey him back to the realms of railways.
He feels very much as if Philip, his cousin,
were a dishonest reproduction of Esau, feels
as if he had been defrauded of his birthright,
and given not even a mess of pottage in
exchange.
/ Mrs. Henderson's last words of advice ring
in his ears, as the horses take a perilous
descent at full gallop, and the coach swerves
from side to side like a rolling steamer in a
storm. *' Go and work, and forget her, boy.''
It is so easy to give advice, he reflects, and
so uncommonly hard to act upon it. There
is no chance of his " forgetting her " in the
work he is doing now. That has become too
purely mechanical, in spite of its being the
keeping of accounts, the disarrangement of
which would ruin a mighty house. Still,
though it exercises his calculating, it does not
exercise his intellectual qualities, and poor
i
186 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
Phil knows that there will be no " nepenthe"
for the memory of his lost Madge in it.
The way out of the western counties is a
weary one when one is longing to be in town.
And though Phil is not actually longiug to be
in town, he is longing to be on the high road
to some new and absorbing occupation.
There is no welcome pre-arranged for him
in the little house in Chelsea, for the simple
reason that his coming is unexpected. But
he has a very hearty spontaneous one from
Chrissy and Mabel, and a very softly, tender
one from his mother, whose wistful eyes
detect in a moment that there is something
amiss with her boy.
She delights in hearing details concerning
Mrs. Henderson, whom she can only re-
member as a bright, bewitching, if not, strictly
speaking, beautiful girl. She delights in
hearing details concerning Mrs. Henderson's
POOK BRUNETTE ! 187
husband, and house, and daughters, and
duties. But, to her son's surprise, she ia
unaflFectedly unconcerned about Madge.
" If she makes Philip a good wife, he will
make her a good husband," she says at last,
when Phil rather awkwardly introduces her
into the conversation ; " but I fear, poor boy,
that he has bowed his pride to his heart in tlie
matter, and that she will make him suffer in
both."
In his amazement, in his wrath, in hia
savage bewilderment at Madge being so
misplaced in any one's estimation, much more
in the estimation of one whom he loves and
esteems as he does his mother, he bursts out
with a truth,
" She's a thousand times too good for him
I've never known him do any good yet in
his Ufe, but he never did anything half sa
bad as this before."
i
188 "*HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
" As what, Phil dear ? " his mother asks in
the soothing tones in which one addresses an
incipient lunatic.
" As his engaging himself to Mad ^Miss
Koden ; she's not to be spoken of in the
same day with Philip ; you'll adore her. Mum
dear/'
" As you do already,'* his mother thinks
pityingly. But she says nothing. Only this
unspoken sorrow of her boy's sits heavy on
her heart, and her subdued manner soon calls
them all into active service about her, en-
deavouring to assuage what they believe to
be some additional bodily suflFering. But
bodily suffering she bears without wincing.
This dread that her * boys * may^ learn to do
less than love one another is harder to bear.
When she goes to bed this night Mabel
and Chrissy turn to him with more questions
concerning Madge.
POOR brunette! 189
*^ Is she a regular innocent country girl, or
will she crush us with fine-ladj airs when she
marries Philip ? Somehow, though he has said
very little about her, he has given us the im-
pression that the less she sees of us, his poor
relations, the better she'll be pleased."
" Confound him for his lying impressions ! "
Phil blurts out in a rage. "I beg your
pardon, girls ; but the whole thing is a
hideous nightmare to me, and I'm afraid if I
throw it off that the reaUty will be worse."
All this is very mysterious to Mabel and
Chrissy, as it would be to everyone else who
didn't chance to be in the secret of his
feelings respecting Madge independently of
his cousin. And he knows that it must seem
to them like the "blood and death'' at a
penny show a mockery and a sham.
Wisely they refrain from saying anything
more on that subject, and presently, in order
i
190 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
to give them something fresh to think about,
he says,
"Tm sick of that office work. I wish I
could get something that would give me
more to do and to think about."
" A certainty is always nice," Chrissy says
reflectively.
"But Phil could afiFord to do something
more congenial now," Mabel says sympa-
thetically, and this sympathy, though it does
not make him more dissatisfied with his
present position, emboldens him to talk about
altering it more openly.
He dismisses the subject until late that
night, and the end of it is that he is made to
understand that his sisters won't think him a
reckless wretch even if he does " throw up
the certainty and try for something else
that will give him more to do and to think
about " that may perchance turn out to be
POOR brunette! 191
t
the work that may enable him to forget
Madge !
But before Phil can take any definite step
himself towards altering the pattern of his
life, chance kindly steps in as he is wont to
do, and spares Phil the responsibility.
In worthy imitation of some of the nobles
of the land, a member of Parliament and
great county magnate, desiring to make his
second son a partner in a great house of
trade, comes to the very house in which Phil
is employed and Phil as representative of
the house on several occasions is thrown
much into the society of the lad, who takes a
lad's liking for him.
Before the negotiation is completed Death
intervenes and carries oflF Mr. Westcott, the
father. And then False Pride in the mother's
heart breaks it off altogether, and Ronald
Westcott is " saved from the degradation of a
1 92 "he COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
desk," as his mother terms it^ and given un-
limited time to " choose a profession.*
Finally it arranges itself in this way. The
lad bargains only for one thing, and submits
himself to his mother's judgment in all
others. " If you can get that jolly fellow
Fletcher for my tutor, I'll do as you like," he
tells his mother. So Phil is offered a stipend
that makes his renunciation of the certainty
a very minor matter, and he accepts it and
the situation after very brief deliberation.
Ronald, a handsome, thin, lithe, tawny-
haired boy, with the beauty and grace and
breeding of a greyhound, is only eighteen,
but already Mrs. Westcott believes him to be
the object of any number of matrimonial
designs. And so, when an invitation arrives
for him to spend the last weeks of the year
at his uncle's house, in what his mother calls
the " wilds of the country," she commands
POOR BRUNETTE ! 1 93
that Phil goes with him to guard hiin against
some cousinly snares which she suspects.
" My brother-in-law, Mr. Francis Westcott,
is a very good sort of man " she explains to
Phil, " but his wife is a person of whom I
never approved ; her father was the apothe-
cary who attended the servants of the family
when the Westcotts were in the country. /
acknowledged her when she married, but we
have never been intimate."
Phil accepts this information with a care-
less, amiable indifference that irritates the
lady who offers it. But " Ronald is so
absurdly fond of him " she remembers, and
she wants his restraining influence over
Ronald.
" The girls are pretty, but it is beauty of
an order that stamps them as under-bred at
once ; they are large and fair and fat by this
time, I should think ; then again they're so
TOL. II. O
194 **'HE COMETH not/ SHE SAID/'
loud and boisterous and overpowering ivt
their manner, that if one of them trapped
Konald I should never get over it ^never t
I want you to promise to see that nothing of
that sort happens ? "
"You had better let him alone, and he*
won't think of marriage for the next ten-
years ; if a word of warning is said to him,
of course he will propose to one of his cousina
at once," Phil suggested.
" But you will go with him ? "
As he has been engaged for the express-
purpose, Phil thinks this question an idle one.
Nevertheless he assents to it.
"Then I rely upon you," Mrs. Westcott
tells him with a fervent pressure of the hand^
that Phil is quite conscious he does not
deserve.
"And you. will meet him at Paddington by
the half-past eleven train on Saturday ? I
POOR BRUNETTE ! 195
shouldn't feel happy for him to arrive at
Delabourn without you ? ''
" Certainly I will ; may I ask in what
direction we go?'' Phil laughs; "when I asked
Ronald just now he said, 'Oh! on the borders
of what's his name,' which was vague."
*'It's somewhere in Somerset or Devon-
shire," Mrs. Westcott says. Then she adds,
scornfully, " Not a family place, understand ;
merely rented by Francis Westcott, because
he likes the scenery about Exmoor."
" Oh I " Phil rejoins as he takes a hasty
leave ; and he spends the rest of that day in
trying to determine whether Exmoor is a
sufficiently wide tract to justify him in ap-
proaching one of its borders again. Or
whether his promise to Mrs. Henderson ^his
vow to himself does not demand that he
should throw up this appointment, and leave
Ronald to his own devices ?
o 2
/
1 96 " * HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID.'
Ultimately he comes to the conclusion that
it is a sufficiently wide tract to justify him in
going. And so Mrs. Westcott's plans are not
deranged.
They have been at Delabourn a week.
They have gained the freedom, so to say,
of the freest house in the world. In all
respects, Phil finds himself treated like one
of the family by them all. The master and
mistress of Delabourn, are a happy, hearty
couple, who are quite on good terms with
the world that looked upon theirs as a mis-
alliance : quite on good terms with it, and
quite contented that it should think what
it pleases of them and theirs. The two
daughters are, as Mrs. Westcott insinuated,
fat, fair, large, handsome girls, full of spirits
and chaff, which they have learnt from
their two brothers, one of whom is an Eton
boy, the other an Oxford man. Phil lets
POOR brunette! 197
himself like these girls yery much, foi' they
are so utterly unlike Madge in their hoy-
denish thoughtlessness, that there is no
disloyalty to his love for her in his doing
so. He feels quite safe with them, both on
his own account and on his pupil's. They
will never either try to trap Ronald, nor
will they misunderstand him (Phil). They
call him by his christian name, and request
him to "just go and get them'' whatever
they happen to want, as readily as if they
had known him all their lives. In fact, they
regard him and disregard him, very much
in the same way they do their own elder
brother.
Delabourn, though it has not the honour
of being a " family place " of the Westcott's,
is a fine specimen of an English home. A
good granite house, grown the colour of a
Danish crow, standing in a hollow flat,
198 " * HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
almost surrounded by a belt of trees, with
a grand view of Exmoor through the opening
where the belt gapes. The air is pure,
bright, fresh, invigorating, and still they are
sheltered from the rasping moor winds. If
Phil could only cease from wondering per-
petually in which direction Halsworthy and
Moorbridge House may be, this bracing lair
in which he finds rest would, do him good.
But he does not know, and he dares not
ask, and the puzzling over the problem in
private, neutralizes the good effects of the
change.
The life they lead here is a primitive one.
They dine early, and have ponderous suppers,
which, somehow or other, do not give them
nightmares. In the matter of digestion,
indeed, "the strength of each individual
young Westcott is as the strength of ten.''
It may be because their hearts are pure, or
POOR brunette! 199
it may be because they take very violent
exercise after their latest meal.
They have a carpet-dance nearly every
evening, for their house is always full of
guests, and one night, when Phil is plung-
ing round in the trois temps with the hand-
somest and heaviest Miss Westcott, there
comes a sharp pull at the porter's bell,
and the next minute a strange gentleman,
who has lost his way hunting on the moor,
is introduced into the midst of the most
hospitable family in the world.
They are all about and around him as
Phil and his partner pull up, and with a
savage wish in his heart that he ** had never
heard of the Westcotts," Phil recognises his
cousin Madge's lover.
CHAPTER X.
grip's tkouble.
** 'Tin only bciiip; in love or debt, that robs us of onr rest."
Aftek tlio receipt of that letter from
Griflitlis Poynter, Olive is happier even than
alio was on the previous night after her
visitor's departure : happier and more de-
cided as to her own course of conduct.
She is only a woman, and, cruel as it
may seem, it is the truth she is much
happier for the knowledge that Grif wants
to marry her, though she is quite resolved
never to marry him. She is much happier
for this proof that he is ready to play the
part of King Cophetua^ though she has
grip's trouble. 201
lapsed into a position which, in her esti-
mation, is lower than that of the beggar
maid's.
She answers his letter in a flush of
grateful enthusiasm, giving him her negative
as gently as she can, but making it a clear
negative, for all its gentleness. She tries to
play the part of guide, philosopher, and
friend to him, counselling him, with no
affectation of humility, but with a good
amount of common sense, to seek a wife in
his sphere. "I know what I am, and you
know what I am," she writes these words
with a pardonable glow of pride, "but your
cousin would never forget the fact of having
seen me at * Barr and Battles,' even if I loved
you well enough to marry you. But you
deserve better love than mine, and I feel
this to be the case luckily for you." And
then she went on to tell him something of
SJ02 '* * HE (XMETH XOT/ SHE SAID/'
that cloud which Philip Fletcher had cast
ovcjr hor life.
Ah Hoori as she has time to think soberly
nfiar despatching this letter, she recalls this
confidence of hers, and thinks how sapremelj
f(ir)li.sh she has been to make it. **What
could have induced me to wear my heart on
my hIoovc in such an idiotic manner/' she
tvikn herself in the futile way in which we
all of xxH at some time or other of ^pr Kves
have to repent of similar idioticy ; " because
a inau has wanted to marry me, why must
1 go and tell him that I have wanted to
marry somebody else. I shall not be happy
now till I see Mr. Poyntor, and find out
whether ho suspects who that somebody else
was or not."
Perhaps there might have been a taint
of original sin in this desire for further com-
munion with one whom she had desired to
grif's trouble. 203
think no further about her ? Perhaps there
might have been a spice of coquetry in the
wish to see Grif again. But more probably
it was the human longing for companionship
of its own order; and Grif's is the only
companionship of that kind that she knows
will be accorded to her gladly, eagerly, now
that she has been forced to take office
that she feels to be one continual degrada-
tion to her.
Griffiths at home in his aunt's house in
Bedford Street, riding at anchor on the
bosom of that family harbour, which is land-
locked, so to say, by seven cousins, receives
his letter of rejection by the five o'clock
post, just as they are regaling him with
afternoon tea.
The Misses Wainwright rather pride them-
selves on their afternoon-tea arrangements.
They have it out of a picnic set, in which
204 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
llose-de-Barri, turquoise, blue, green, and
clear yellow hues run riot in what they
believe to be a conscientious imitation of
old Sevres. When they get Grif on a low,
fat chair in front of a big fire, with one of
those cups and saucers in his hand, they
feel as if they had him at their mercy, and
might marry him without delay. He is
always more affectionate to them at this
hour : not with any design of raising false
hopes in their expansive hearts, but because
he feels that he is a miserable impostor for
joining in this tea orgie at all, and that
they deserve some compensation for the
wretched deception he is practising on them
by professing to like it.
A wafer of bread-and-butter that melts
in his mouth and nearly makes him sick,
has just been handed to him by one sister,
and the most precious cup of all the set has
grif's trouble. 2l5
been given into his unappreciative hand,
when the postman^s knock causes his heart
to quail, and his naturally florid face to turn
as nearly white as it is possible for it to
turn. He knows that Olive will answer him
at once, and he feels that if he misses two
such girls as Madge and Olive why he
will never trv a third, that is all.
A trim parlour-maid brings him in a
letter on a salver, and his nails rattle against
its plated surface as he picks the letter up.
For a long, long time, Grif will never see
a salver without hearing that rattle, and
recalling the nervous sensations which caused
it.
He reads it : and as he reads, something
in his face convinces his cousins that it is
"from a woman,'' and they hoist family
danger-signals to one another; for it is as
if they were entering a tunnel. All is in
206 " ' HE COMETH XOT/ SHE SAID."
darkness around them! To the best of
their knowledge, Grif never in his life had
a letter from any other woman than one
of themselves before.
One of them (the same one whose shoulders
were being mantled that day in " Barr and
Battle's'' show-room, when he met Olive
for the first time in town), whose hopes are
highest respecting Grif just now, because
he has amiably suffered himself to be
dragged round shopping with her, is the
first to speak. She says, as carelessly as
she can,
" Any news from the country, Grif ? "
"It's from a friend in town," he says,
briefly, and goes on reading it.
More danger-signals are hoisted ; and one
of the sisters says,
" Do you know when Miss Roden is
coming to town 1 "
grif's trouble. 207
He shakes his head.
"I suppose she will come up before her
marriage ? '*
" I hope she will/* Grif says, heartily, for
he is thinking that he will get Madge to
^intercede for him with Olive, atid as yet,
of course, he knows nothing of Madge's
illness.
Silence glooms over the party after this,.
and at last the seven Miss Wainwrights rise,
and say they "may as well go and dress
for dinner." Grif casts a palpably appealing
glance at his aunt. It says, as plainly as
possible, " Stay ; " and some of her daughters
see it, and suspect at once "that mama
knows something, which she has not told
them, concerning this woman unknown and
Grif."
Mrs. Wainwright who has risen with her
daughters, falters under that glance, and
20S "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAH)/'
falls away back into her chair, with a vague
statement to the effect that she ^ can't bear
to move from the fire." She is intensely
miserable, for she has a presentiment that
Grif is about to repose some honourable
confidence in her, which will prove a white
elephant, not to say a bitter burden. But
she can't help herself; so she stays, and
meekly prepares to receive it.
The instant her daughters are out of the
room, her presentiment is realized.
*' Aunt,'' Grif begins, " you won't be very
much surprised to hear that I made Miss
Aveland an offer this morning 1 "
In this supreme momeM, Mrs. Wainwright
sees all the hopes her sanguine daughters
have been entertaining for years crumble
at her feet, and the dust of their ruins nearly
chokes her. She can't speak : she can only
gasp.
grif's trouble. 209
With the selfishness that a sorrow of this
kind is ahnost sure to engender, Orif sees
nothing of her emotion. He is thinking
only of Olive. Not that his thoughts of
Olive are selfish, for what good is worrying
himself about that sorrow of hers to which
she has alluded in her letter, "which can
never be blunted and never be healed,'' she
says.
"And this is her answer/' he goes on,
tapping OUve's letter; and at that, Mrs.
Wainwright's choked utterance frees itself.
" Oh I Grif,'' she says, brokenly ; " to
think you should have been led away by
a girl Kke that ; Tm sure if I'd suspected
anything of this sort, nothing would have
induced me to put my foot inside her door."
His mind is too full of his trouble for him
to take in the full meaning of the reproof, but
he does understand enough of it to say,
VOL. IL P
210 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
" What on earth are you talking about ? "
"Why about this young person," Mrs.
Wainwright answers, lashing herself up into the
display of a pretence of spirit by the thought
of her daughters' feelings and sayings on
the subject when they hear of it. ** Why
about this young person; there must be
something wrong; no respectable girl of
good family would be suffered by her friends
to be in such a position ; and to think she
should have trapped you."
Grif is very tolerant to every form of
womanly weakness. So now he only leans
forward and clasps his aunt's hand, and,
says,
'' Don't say any more, aunt dear ; she has
refused ipe."
Mrs. Wainwright disbelieved in many of the
modern articles of social faith. She dis-
believed in the education of the masses in
grif's trouble. 211
the milk of the metropoKs ^in co-operative
stores and lady doctors. But in none of
these things did she disbelieve half so heartily
as in the possibiUty of any woman who was
free, refusing to marry her nephew, GriflSiths
Poynter, the head of the house.
^' Then depend upon it, she has a husband
living, and is afraid of being had up for
bigamy," she says, with such an air of grave
conviction, that Grif, in spite of his disap-
pointment, can't help a burst of laughter,
tmder cover of which Mrs.Wainwright gladly
retires.
But when she is mid-way up the stairs she
finds herself encircled by Grif's strong arms.
" Look here, you dear old auntie," he says,
coaxingly, " of course that's all bosh that last
suggestion of yours, and I'm not going to
have a faint heart about GUve. I had it with
another girl " ('* Not with one of his cousins,
p 2
212 "*HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID.''
I'm sure,'' Mrs. Wainwright thinks) " and Tre
lost her, but I'll not lose Olive Areland for
Tvant of trying ; will you go to see her with
me to-morrow evening 1 You must."
She would rather that he asked her to go
down in a diving-bell, or to take in Mao-
miUaris Magazine for her housemaid Still
she can only say,
" If you wish it."
" I do wish it with my whole heart ; I'm
not going alone, and you can shut your eai-s,
you know, or I'll whisper," and he laughs
quite gaily, for he feels sure that his perti-
nacity will be rewarded with success. Poor
Grif I He little knows that it is not for his
coming that Olive is doomed to wait.
" If I must, I suppose I shall," she repUes^
getting herself away from Grif with an effort,
as she hears a bedroom door open. Then
she goes on to meet them, feeling that cir-
GRi/s TROUBLE. 218
cumstances have made her sin against her
daughters.
They surround her swarming in their big
dinner dresses all over her room as she
changes her cap with shaking hands, and
puts something Kght over her shoulders by
way of loloking festive. And they ask her
who that letter was from ? and what Grif
said to her when they came out 1 and if she
can imagine who the woman can be, and
when he can have met her ? '' imtil she is
harassed into making ample confession of
all she knows about it.
With all the Miss Wainwrights are practical.
So they hear the confession, and then say,
they " must speak about it after dinner ; it
won't do to keep Grif waiting.'' So they go
down to dinner, and Grif, being very much
absorbed, does not notice that they are all
more or less constrained with him.
214 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
The following day Mrs.Wainwright is torn
to pieces. Her daughters tell her that she,
" ought not to go and countenance anything
of the sort/' and the memory of her promise
to Grif lies heavy on her heart. The excite-
ment, the agitation, the disappointment make
her ill, and opportunely bring on a bilious
attack that sends her to bed completely
prostrated. And then the eldest Miss^
Wainwright the cousin who has resigned her
own honourable intentions towards him in
favour of her younger sisters approaches him.
" Grif, dear," she begins, " I am quite old
enough to speak to you on a very delicate
subject."
Grif, who is inducting himself into a pair
of faultlessly fitting, pale-grey gloves, gets
scarlet, and frees his hands at once, feeling^
that something will be said that will prevent
his taking the air with a] light heart, and in
grif's trouble. 215
gay attire this day. Instinctively he looks
round, and -sees, with dismay, that the other
six cousins have retired.
" I thought it better not to say anything
to you before the girls/' Miss Wainwright
commences, solemnly, " especially before
Arabella " (Arabella is the one whose hopes
are brightest at the present juncture), " but,
my dear Grif, I may speak to you as a sister,
may I not ? ''
Grif assures her that she may.
" Poor mama is too ill to venture to
attempt to do it, though she feels it to be
her duty, she has with much reluctance
delegated her duty to me." And then Miss
Wainwright proceeds, with much eflFusion, to
expound her views concerning the young
person at *' Barr and Battle's."
''She's as well born and bred, and a
precious deal better educated than we are,"
(
216 "*HE COMETH XOT/ SHE SAID."
Grif states. And Miss Wainwright, with
much practical, worldly wisdom, shakes her
head and answers,
" And if she were fifty times better bom
and bred and educated than we are, or than
she is, all these facts would be as nothing
compared to the one that she has been a
show-room girl in a London shop ; I can't ,
help it, Grif, neither can you ; we can't gag
people even if we tried, and people would
talk ; do give it up, dear ; she has refused
you ; why go and humble yourself to a girl
you ought not to marry."
Grif is full of good family feeling, so he
merely thanks his cousin for her kindly
interest, and refrains from telling her how
sorry she will be for this, if ever he does win
Olive for his wife.
They know that he is slipping from their
grasp when, by-and-by in the afternoon, Grif
GRIFS TROUBLE. 217
goes out telling them that he shall dine at
his club to-night, for, however things go with
Olive, he knows very well that he will be in
no mood for the home circle.
Olive has finished her day's work abroad,
and now that she has had her tea, there
remains nothing more for her to do. True
there is the real womanly panacea of needle-
work, but Olive does not care for needle- work
very much, and very rarely touches ,the little
feminine implement unless she has holes in
her gloves or collars.
The gas is lighted, and it is just seven
o'clock. Oh ! the weary hours that she will
have to pass before she will feel justified in
going to bed and striving to forget her
troubles in sleep. The long weary hours,
with no books, no music, no pleasant inter-
course with her fellow-creatures to fill them !
The prospect of her solitude overpowers her
/
21S "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
in her desolation, and she lays her arms on
the table, and her head on her arms, and is
preparing to indulge in a headache-pro-
voking, hearty cry, when,
" Mr. Poynter," is announced.
He has been inflating himself with hope
all the way as he came, and the contrast
between his appearance and the dolefulness
which she had been anticipating strikes her
joyfully, and makes her give him such a
waiTO greeting.
'" I am glad to see you, oh ! I'm so glad to
see you,'^ she says, rising up and advancing
to meet him with a fervour she had never
infused into her manner towards him before.
And then she remembers that only yesterday
she refused to marry him, and the awkward-
ness of it all embarrasses her for a moment or
two, during which time he marks all her
variations of colour, and gathers what he
grif's trouble. 219
believes to be valuable information from
them.
"I've come in spite of your prohibition,
you see, and I'm rewarded by your being the
least bit in the world glad to see me ; and
now tell me, OUve, what made you write in
that way yesterday ? "
Deep in her heart, unacknowledged even
to herself, there lives a hope that in someway
or other, Madge will find out that Philip does
not love her, and will break oflF the engage-
ment, and leave Philip honourably free to
return to her (Olive). It is there, and every
now and then it wells up and makes itself
felt, though Olive has been trying her
hardest of late to kiU it. It wells up and
makes itself felt now, and Olive could not
marry Griffiths Poynter ; no, not even if he
were three times the dear, good fellow he
is, not even to escape from the desolation
220 "'HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
which 80 overcame her previous to his
coming in.
" I wrote yesterday as I should write to-
day, or to-morrow, or every day,'* she
answers, "I'm not a bit worth your liking
in that way ; what a pity that you should
do it."
" The old love stands in my way,*' he says,
sorrowfully. " Oh, Olive ! if you would but
believe that the memory of a first love won't
last, can't last all your life ; if you would but
let me be the one to try and efface it," he
pleads, very humbly.
Olive shakes her head. "It's not that,
I'm not cherishing any folly of that sort," she
says, feeling guiltily the whole time that she
is doing the very thing she repudiates, " only
my heart went sound asleep after that early
mistake, and I'm sure that no one will ever
have the power to wake it again ; but we can
grif's trouble. 221
be friends, though we can be nothing more ;
can't we ? "
It is his turn to shake his liead now.
" I can't be anything but friendly towards
you, if you mean that," he says, "but as for
seeing you often ; no."
"No, that would be folly on second
thoughts," she says, quite calmly. And then
her desire to gain some information respect-
ing Philip overmasters her, and she says,
" When are you going home ? "
" I may as well go at once, if your not
going to haye anything to say to me."
" And when shall you see Madge?'' she goes
on, not noticing the latter part of his speech.
" Very soon ; I shall go and tell Madge my
troubles."
"You were very fond of Madge ?" she says,
in a sharp questioning way, and he replies,
"Fond of her? God bless her, I loved
i
222 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
her dearly, and thought for years that some
day or other I should ask her to be my wife ;
but I never did, you know, luckily."
" Why luckily ? "
" She would only have had the pain of
refusing me, and now there's nothing of that
sort between us. Do you know that poem
of Peacock's, ' Love and Age ? ' I often
think that when I am old 1 shall feel exactly
towards Madge Roden, as he did towards
the one he addresses in that poem."
"She won't be Madge Roden then, she'll
be Madge Fletcher,'^ Olive says, sententiously,
' and I don't remember enough of the poem
to see the application in it to your case."
" These are the verses I had in my mind,"
he says, and then he quotes :
** And 1 lived on to wed another,
No cause she gave me to repine ;
And when I heard you were a mother,
I did not wish the children mine.
tt
grif's trouble. 22^
My own young flock in fair procession,
Made up a pleasant Christmas row.
My joy in them was past expression,
But that was thirty years ago."
Olive gives an unfeigned shudder, as he
brings his quotation to an end.
" Gracious ! '^ she says, " fancy living thirty
years in this dull world without the society
of the one we love if we love anyone at all,^*
she hastily adds ; " what's the other verse ?
equally drearily resigned ? "
"Now there was no attempt at anything
like resignation in the first verse ; how you
pervert his meaning ; he plainly avows that
he has found full compensation ; the other is
the last verse of the poem, and the finest of
the lot, I think/'
" But the' first love's impassion'd blindness
Has passed away in colder light,
I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do till one last good-night "
Olive puts out her hands to avert tlio
224 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAU)/"
stream of poetry. She ib not sympathetic
with the tenderly friendly feeling that fills
Grif's heart for Madge.
" That's how you'll feel for Madge * to the
end' is it ?" she says ; " no one will feel that
for me."
* Olive, my love ! give me the right to feel
that ^and more ; give me the best right, a
husband's right."
"I told you 'No,'" Olive says, softly,
" and I meant it ; it's no use going over the
ground again and again. I shall live and die
alone.'*
And this is all the satisfaction Griffiths
has in return for making his aunt bilious,
and braving his cousins' displeasure.
CHAPTER XI.
" AND how's brunette ? "
Philip, footsore, hungry, travel-stained,
and surprised, is in one of his most uncom-
promising moods. It annoys him that any
explanation should be necessary to account
for his unexpected appearance. Not that
"these people," as he instantly dubs the
Westcotts in his mind, seem to expect any
explanation. But he feels that one is due to
them, since he has burst in upon them in this
way, and will be very glad of the shelter of
their roof for the night.
Finding Phil here too, apparently quite at
home on Exmoor on what he has come to
VOL. n. Q
226 " ' HE COMETH XOT,' SHE SAID."
regard as his own exclusive preserves, annoys
him. " What's he larking about here for ? '*
he asks himself^ suspiciously. And the sus*
picion makes itself manifest in his manner to
his cousin, in a way the Westcotts feel
inclined to resent on the spot.
" What on earth brings you here 1 ^' Philip
asks in an insolent way of Phil, the instant
the relationship between them is made clear.
And the handsomest Miss Westcott, whose
plunging waltz has been interrupted, retorta
before Phil can rejoin,
^^ He has more cause to ask that question
in that tone of you, 1 think.'*
Good-natured Mrs. Westcott quietly stand-
ii^g hy, marks that there is not a perfectly
fair understanding between these two cousina
thus strangely met under her roof, and
hastens to interpose.
"The tale of the disaster will be told
*'AND how's BRUiJETTE?" 227
more easily, Mr. Fletcher, when you haye
changed these wet clothes and had some
supper. Phil " (he is " Phil '' to the whole
family), "will you see to your cousin's
comfort 1 "
" Certainly ; weVe rigged one another
out many a time before to-day, haven't we,
old fellow," Phil answers, good-temperedly,
as he conducts his cousin from the room.
But they all see plainly that there is no
responsive good temper in that cousin's
face.
" He's a surly, ill-tempered fellow for all
his good looks," one of the girls says. "I
suppose he's the one who is going to be
married to pretty Miss Roden?"
**And on the strength of that grand
marriage he's incUned to lord it over our
Phil,'' the other girl rejoins. And they both
resolve to make more of Phil than ever,
t2
firroljr Uli^mg thai fli tbdr fimuiESi iis tai he
Atll iiimf^ff^^iiiAm Up rent.
M^/f ri^how //r //ther, ibon^ TidL Yarn soc&m^
t/^i ilo with hii MtiAge, or hm Ibdg^'^ harx,
VhiUp hfiM ti ilmdt^l repagiuakce to wratwB^
)ii($ Itnifi^Ui. And jet be knows Hat ii; wiH
Im li^tMir for liifn to tell out the irndi at
ofM^ for it will HUT^ly be dragged horn Inm
hi tlifi (HMirMO of conversation. Wbj, indeed,
aIiouM Itn hoMitato about it? NererthelesB
liM ilo^N liiiMitald ; and it U not until after he
\f* M.t'm;yil iti ono of Phil's suitB^ and is
Timdy to il(m!(!n(l to tho region from whence
msmry iuUiwvH of sialmis and broils of game
MV rUlng dp, t)m tho says, with laborious
otiralaHNnoHH,
'* ]iy tho way, tho horso that came to grief
to*day, was Madge's mare Brunette ; awful
bora altogothor/'
"AND HOVS BRUNETTE?" 229
Phil knows that he has not the slightest
right in the world to let his blood rush from
his heart to his head, and then go back again
with a flop, as it appears to do, when he
hears this. He knows that he has no business
to let indignation vex him in the way it does
at this unconcerned mention of a loss that will
be a severe one to Madge, and that will be
mourned by her as a bitter grief He knows
all this, and so he chokes back the words
that are rising the words of condemnation
and rebuke. This is all he can do.
" Poor Miss Roden," he says ; " she'll be
very much cut up, I fear."
There'll be a fuss about it, most likely,"
Philip says, drawing himself to his fine full
height, as he enters the drawing-room, and a
pleasant feeling steals over him to the effect
that the whole family must see how very
much he is like " Phil," of whom they seem
J
SSe "*HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
80 fond, and how very much better looking
he is.
.
Supper is spread in the library for him,
" in order that he may not feel cut oflF from
social intercourse, as he would if they
banished him to the dining-room,'* Mrs.
Westcott tells. For the library opens out
of the drawing-room, and as his host sits
down and takes a glass of sherry with Philip,
the young men of the party go in at intervals
and are introduced to him while he takes his
supper leisurely.
He has ascertained how far Halsworthy is
from Delabourn, and how far the Manor
House, where Madge has gone through her ill-
ness, is, and he is at rest in his mind. When
he has daintily satisfied his hunger, he goes
back to the drawing-room, and addresses Phil.
"I find I'm nearer Halsworthy than the
Manor House. I shall go over and have a
"AND how's brunette?" 231
look at the place, to-morrow ; will you come
with me, Phil r^
" A look at what place ? '' Phil asks, aggra-
Tatingly enough, it must be confessed, for he
perfectly well knows to what place his cousin
refers.
" Why, my Moorbridge House," Philip
answers ; and young Ronald Westcott flirt-
ing violently with one of his cousins in the
comer, assures that young person that he
^' can hardly stand the amount of side that
fellow puts on/'
" Oh, yes, 111 go with pleasure," Phil
says, hesitatingly. Then feeling really
anxious that nothing should be done to
make Madge anxious or uneasy, he gets
himself closer to his cousin, and says in a
low voice,
'^ Toull let Miss Koden know as soon as
possible that you're all safe, of course 1 "
2i'Z " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.**
^^ Shall I make you my messenger of good
tidings, old boy ? " Philip laughs, mockingly.
" My dear fellow, the longer I keep the fate
of that blessed mare of hiers from her, the
better for her health ; she will not kill her-
self with anxiety about me."
He speaks this last sentence in a yery low
tone of voice, and Phil has no answer for
him. Each word that PhiUp utters, each
look that Philip gives when speaking of her,
convinces Phil more and more that poor
Madge has not done well.
In pursuance of their plan of making
much of Phil, and of proving to Philip that
" they don't think so much of him, though he
is going to marry Miss Roden,*' the Miss
Westcotts volunteer to drive the two young
men over to Halsworthy in their own low,
four-wheeled dog-cart, the next morning.
The handsomest (she is also the eldest) Miss
^^AND how's brunette?'' 23{i
Westcott drives, and asks Phil to sit in front
with her. And the one who is pushed
behind with Philip, leans over the rail and
directs her conversation chiefly to Ronald's
tutor. Altogether Philip is taught by these
injudicious young ladies to feel himself of no
account, and Philip does not like it.
He regains his proper position in a
measure when he comes to Moorbridge
House, for the servants are wise in their
generation, and know well who will rule and
always give the law, when Miss Madge
marries him. So they serve him with syco-
phantish zeal ; and the housekeeper comes
forward with eager, earnest offers of lun-
cheon. And PhiUp sees with satisfaction
that "even those colts," as he calls the
ft
Westcotts, are a little impressed with the
perfect order and "good style" of every-
thing in this house, which is to be his.
#
234 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID/
The idea of its being his, and of his own
importance when it shaU be his, has grown
upon him considerably of late. He has
altered a good deal from the careless scape-
grace he was when we knew him first. He
has grown more selfish during this time of
his prospective prosperity, and woe for
Madge his temper is not as good as it used
to be. The latent arrogance is cropping up
visibly; in fact, the same arrogance that
ejected him from many a good situation in
those former days of need and poverty, when
he did not dare to display it to the same
extent that he does now.
He is a handsome, accomplished fellow,
this Philip, and now that he is king of his
own castle, as it were, he shows to great
advantage in the eyes of the Miss Westcotts.
He plays and sings well ; and though, after
the manner of colts, they laugh at first at the
"and how's brunette?" ? 235
idea "of a man sitting down to play the
piano/' they are carried by^ his powerful
baritone at once, and wish that their friend
Phil had the same gift.
After the manner of colts, too, as soon as
they are pleased with him they frisk about
him, flattering him most candidly, and unin-
tentionally causing him to feel himself a con-
quering hero in very truth. They are void
of all design, these pure-hearted hoydens ; so,
when they dance about him, begging him to
sing " one more song, only one wee bit of a
song, because they never heard anything so
lovely in their lives as his voice," they don't
mean a bit more than they say. But Philip
is not of the order to accredit girls with
meaning less.
Only Ronald, who has ridden over by the
side of the dog-cart, is undazzled. He girds
more than ever against the " amount of side
236 " ' HE COMETH/ NOT SHE SAID."
that fellow puts on," and wishes with all his
heart that pretty Miss Roden and Moor-
bridge House were going to fall to the lot of
his friend Phil.
From the opposite wall to the piano, as
Philip plays and sings, a bright girlish face,
full of hope and happiness, and radiant with
beauty, looks down upon the group, and
seems to smile merry approval of their pro-
ceedings. And Phil looks up at the pictured
Madge, and recalls every incident of that one
wretchedly happy ride he had with her, and
hates himself for loving her his cousin's
promised bride more than ever.
He is not so exclusively the object of the
Miss Westcott's devotion on the homeward
journey. Philip comes in for such a fair
share of attention that he is quite contented
to stay one more night at Delabourn. And
when the next morning he starts for the
"AND how's BRDNETTE?" 237
Manor House, the girls speed the parting
guest by accompanying him to the door-
steps, from whence they watch him ride
away, and shout farewells to him.
"Shall I give^ any message from you to
Madge V Philip asks, suddenly, of his cousin,
who accompanies the happy lover a short
distance.
"Remember me most kindly to her, and
tell her how glad I am she's better/'
" Won't that sound rather cruel ? " Philip
says, laughing, " you having been her cava-
lier on the memorable occasion, might surely
say a little more about it."
" Would you like me to send word to her
that I was a fool not to have remembered
the landmarks better, and that I have been
feeling myself a fool ever since," Phil asks in
an annoyed tone.
"Well, I think it would be more flatter-
238 " ' UK COMETH not/ SHE &AID"
ing to lior than the common place, * Glad
to hear she's bettor,' " Philip answers, care-
lessly.
'* Say what you like ^she won't misunder-
stand me," Phil says, recovering his good-
toinper, and then Philip begins to grumble.
**l hope she won't insist on heading a
crusade against the crows for the recovery
of the carcass of Brunette ; I expect to be
made to repent having touched the mare;
Madge is capable of having a relapse and
going straight off into another brain fever
when she hears of it."
** She's incapable of doing anything to
hurt you ; as she lent you the mare, she'll do
nothing to make you repent having ridden
her," Phil says, reassuringly.
^' Ah ! but the worst of it is I had taken
the mare before she offered it to me ; and
when I mentioned that trifling fact, I don't
*'and how's brunette?'' 23
think she liked it ; it's always incomprehen-
sible to me where women draw the line ; so
far and no farther you may go with safety-
after that a sudden destruction comes upon
you unawares, and a criminal is a fool to
what you feel."
To all this Phil answers not a word. He
has been listening eagerly, hoping that one
word of regret for the fate of the mare,
because she was dear to Madge, will fall from
Philip's lips. But no such word is uttered.
His sorrow for Brunette is as selfish as is
every other joy and sorrow of his.
There is something that strongly resembles '
anger between these two young men, when
they part presently, though they call each
other "old fellow," and each adds, "let's
hear of you soon." Philip's last words are,
"If I were you, I'd find out how old
Westcott will cut up ; the family's good, and
210 '' ' HE COMETH SOT,' SHE SAID.'''
the girk are passable, and joa mig^ hare
either of them*^
To thiis, Phil rouchsafes no answer, for he
\ thinking that it was in this spirit probably,
that Philip asked for Madge's hand and
heart.
It is late that night before Philip Fletcher
readies the Manor House, and instantly, on
entering the yard even, he is met by an
anxious group. Madge is distraught with
anxiety and suspense, he is told. And then
simultaneously a questioning cry arises, as
thoy detect that he is not on Brunette.
IIo answers them almost roughly, for he
is sorely perplexed and annoyed. " If you'll
only give a fellow, who has been nearly
smashed to pieces, time to draw breath, you
shall know what has happened,^' he says;
'Uhe long and the short of it is that the
mare lost her temper and killed herself, and
"and how's brunette?'' 241
nearly killed me ; but one explanation will
suffice, I think, and I'd better give that to
Madge/'
*'Go upstairs speaking cheerfully," Mrs.
Henderson suggests; "Madge is weak enough
to declare that she won't go to bed until she
has seen you," and then Mrs. Henderson
pities him, as she would anyone who was
unlucky enough to be the innocent cause of
giving intense pain to Madge.
" My dear boy," she says, " you have the
satisfaction of knowing that Madge will feel
that if anything could have spared her pet,
you would have done that thing."
And Philip winces under a conscience
prick, as he vividly remembers the way he
lashed and spurred poor Brunette into that
last fatal burst.
Her face is as pink as the border of her
dressing-gown as he goes into the room, and
VOL. II. R
242 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID.''
she comes forward to meet him with an
excited gladness gleaming in her eyes, that
makes him tremble for what he has to telL
"Lost your way, dear, I suppose,** she
cries out in her ringing tones, " like / did
with your cousin ; thank Heaven it hasn't
ended in the same way ; you're safe back,
dear Philip ; and how's Brunette 1 "
V
CHAPTER XII.
"WHY, PHILIP, YOU LOVE HER ! ''
" And how's Brunette ? ''
If she had "only given him breathing
time," he tells himself hastily, he would have
told out the tale of Brunette's death so truly,
tenderly, and well. But as it is the demand
for information strikes him dumb for a
moment or two ; and when he does speak he
can't screw his courage to the striking ^oint ;
he can't stab the girl who is hanging on his
answer, whose very eyes are questioning con-
ceming the well-being of her horse ; he can't
tell her the truth.
"Brunette? oh! she's all right; but,
r2
244 ** ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
Madge, you seem more anxious about the
mare than about me. IVe news for you,
dear," he adds, with a reckless resolve to
turn the conversation at any cost to him-
self or Madge ; " whom do you think IVe
seen ? "
Madge decUnes to guess. She dislikes
being rebuked for her loving anxiety about
the mare that was hers before she was
Philip's. But she does not decline in an
aggrieved or aggravating way.
" Tell me, Philip. I am not a good hand
at speculation.^^
There is not a grain of sulkiness in Madge
Rodents whole nature ; but in very truth now
her heart is too full for her to go into the
folly of guessing about anything. The girl
has been pondering about the possible where-
abouts of these two absentees for hours ; and
now one of them has reproved her because
"why, PHILIP, you love HER ! " 245
she has questioned him concerning his fellow-
traveller, about whom he ought to have been
interested for her sake.
So the notes in which she says " Tell me,
Philip, I am not a good hand at speculation,"
fall flatly on his ears, and hurt that sensitive
self-love, and impart just that degree of
coolness to his manner which may be felt but
not defined. It falls on the girl who has been
so very ill like a biting blast from the north.
She dreads the continuance of it so fearfully
that she does violence to the truthfulness of
her nature, and affects to fall into that
humour of his (that humour, alas ! which is
past), of guessing whom it is he has met
with.
" I feel sure it's Grif," she says ; " dear old
Grif ; why hasn't he been to see me ? "
She can't feel a genuine enthusiasm about
this friend of her youth; but she gets up
246 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
such a successful imitation of it, that Philip
feels at once that he is provided with a real
fjrievance.
"It was not ^Grif/'* he says, and his^
words fall off his lips with the distinct rattle
of shingle ; " it was not Grif, if Grif was the
person who behaved so very ^very obtrusively
that day at Winstaple."
" I called him ' Grif ' before I could speak
plainly," she says, with a mighty effort at
calmness, an effort that enables her to swallow
the mountain of indignation that has rapidly
developed from the choking ball, to which we
are all well accustomed.
She is leaning back in her chair as she says-
this, looking so fair and fragile, that he ia
almost constrained to proclaim himself in-
capable of appreciating her on the spot,
almost inclined to proclaim himself unworthy,,
and then to vanish for ever from these fetter-
"why, PHILIP, YOU LOVE HEK ! " 247
ing influences, and hold himself a free man
once more. Free to seek Olive Aveland !
Almost, but not quite. In such matters as
these Philip is a coward at heart. So he
prevaricates and persuades according to his
wont ; and as soon as expediency has forced
him back into the shallow semblance of good
humour, he says, adroitly,
*' I suppose it's the fact of my over-esti-
mating him so very highly that made me
impatient of your guessing the name of any
lesser man ; just imagine my meeting with
Phil on the moor, he's "
" Your cousin,'' she interrupts, sharply.
And then all her weariness, all her doubts,
all her fears, and all her love, conspire
together, rise up and over-master her.
" Oh ! why has he come 1 " she says.
"Apparently he entertained the notion
that he was at liberty to come without
i
248 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
rendering up bis reasons to me," Philip
answers. " Why shouldn't he be here as
well as anywhere else ? What is he to you,
that you should question "
He checks himself as he utters this word,
for even in his anger he feels he has gone too
far. But he has an uneasy feeling that Mrs.
Henderson and old Miss Roden are lying in
wait to reprove him for showing want of
consideration for Madge, and be is altogether
thrown out of gear.
** What, indeed ? " Madge suflFers herself to
sigh ; then the absurdity of it strikes her, the
absurdity and the injustice of it. Why should
she sigh ? why should she lachrymosely ask,
" What, indeed ? " Why shouldn't she take
the intelligence of Phil's near vicinity cheer-
fully and unconcernedly ?
" He's your cousin, you know, Philip, like
your brother almost," she says, in her natiiral
c
WHY, PHILIP, YOU LOVE HER ! '' 249
blithe tones. And then she holds her hands
out to him, and puts her face up towards
him, and he knows that he is dismissed for
the time, and that she is yearning for the love
and sympathy she will find when he is gone,
in the companionship of her aunt and friend.
It comes upon him strongly just now that
not so would Olive have dismissed him under
such circumstances. All Madge's sweet
patience, all Madge s innocent charms, all
Madge's delicate consideration for himself,
are as nothing to him as he contrasts her
with that other one, upon whom he had
trampled with impunity so frequently.
But the time is not ripe yet for the final
overthrow of this castle of ambition which he
has built of cards. Just a little longer he
will feign, though he fumes most tryingly
against the necessity of doing it.
" I didn't come to an end of ray explana-
250 *' * HE COMETH XOT.' SHE SAID."
tion," he begins ; " either I grew misty, or
you grew impatient, which was it, Madge \
Phils down here tutoring with a young
fellow called Ronald Westcott ; they're stay-
ing at Westcott's uncle's place, Delaboum,
and he's awfully gone on one of the girls/'
Madge listens to all this gravely, decor-
ously ; but for all this outward, grave
decorum, she is sorely disturbed within. She
does not believe that Phil is awfuUy gone on
any girl but herself and she feels a traitor to
Pliilip for believing that his cousin is thus
falsely true to her stilL Underlying this
sentiment there is a feeling that Phil is
unkind and ungenerous in coming back, and
involuntarily she prays that she may not be
led into temptation.
^^ I shall be well enough to go^ home iii a
few days," she says, making an eflFort to
detach her thoughts from the dangerous
"why, PHILIP, YOU LOVE HER ! '' 251
subject ; ** how glad I shall be, though I
have had such kindness here ; but home is
home. I shall rest and enjoy it more than
ever/'
"I should think so," Philip grumbles.
Then he can't resist the desire he has to
blame somebodv else, since he feels so
miserably to blame himself, and he adds, " I
know that I shall feel considerably relieved
when I get you out of this den, to which my
cousin's confounded imprudence consigned
you."
And then they say good-night once more
and part ; Madge calling to him, as he reaches
the door, to " be sure to order Brunette round
in front of her window early to-morrow
morning."
The ladies are all assembled in a little up-
stairs sitting-room, and they call him in as
he is passing along the corridor. Mrs.
252 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
Graves, eager, brisk, and bright-eyed, is the
one to address him first.
" Well ! she took it more quietly than I
expected ; much more quietly than I should
have taken the news of a favourite horse of
mine being done for."
'* There was no need to go into that little
matter to-night," he says as carelessly as he
can ; but his eyes rove from Mrs. Graves to
Mrs. Henderson^s face, and it stings him to
read marked disapproval there.
" It would have been wrong to disturb her
to-night, wouldn't it ? " he pleads against his
will.
" The less Madge is deceived the better for
her happiness and yoims,'' she answers, coldly,
for she has been very fond of PhiUp, and
though that fondness is decreasing rapidly,
she cannot bear that he should show himself
in his true mean colours before strangers.
" WHY, PHILIP, YOU LOVE HER ! '' 253
The reproof annoys him, partly because he
knows that he deserves it, and partly because
the friendship of the reprover stood him in
good stead in former days, and he shrinks
from casting it behind him now. But he
reminds himself that very soon he will be
master of Madge and her actions, and of
Moorbridge House.
It is absurd to start by being in awe of one
of Madge^s friends, even though she is the
best and dearest of them all. Aye ! even
though she has the mighty claim on him of
having been kind to Olive.
" Even if it were a more important matter
than it is, it rests entirely between Madge
and myself ; understand that, if you please,
entirely."
There is an unmistakable frown on Philip's
fair handsome face as he says this, and a
corresponding one darkens Mrs. Henderson's
254 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAU/'
instantly. Tender, and gentle-hearted, and
mannered as she is, she has a high spirit
that no assumption on FhiUp's part can
daunt.
** You can hardly expect me to tell her Ues
if she asks about her mare. I should dread
some awful punishment overtaking me if I
deceived the most truthful, unsuspicious
nature in this world.''
She passes from the room and takes her
way to Madge's ; but before she reaches the
door Philip, with all the winning grace that
fits him Uke a glove, and that he can assume
at any moment, is by her side.
" My punishment has commenced already,"
he whispers ; " I*m growing half-hearted about
many things, I'm losing your friendship, and
Tye lost Madge's love."
- Mrs. Henderson is gentle-hearted, as has
beea said, and now, as he speaks what she
"why, PHILIP, YOU LOVE HER ! 255
knows to be wholly true, she is full of pity for
hira.
" Poor fellow ! ^' she whispers ; " it's a
tangled yarn, I fear; but honest, straight-
forward endeavours to unravel it might bring
happiness to us all again/'
" What do you mean 1 " he asks, sus-
piciously.
'' 0, Philip ! you say you * have lost her
love ; ' has not slie lost yours, if, indeed, she
ever had it 1 Don't let the thought of position
and fortune drag you to perdition and Madge
to misery."
" Are you advising me to break the engage-
ment ? " he asks, angrily.
"God knows I'm not capable of advising
any longer ; I implore ! "
"Thanks; that my cousin, the rightful
man, may reign in my stead 1 " he responds,
savagely. " No, Mrs. Henderson, Madge shall
r
25; "'HE COMETH XOT,' SHE SArD."
pay a penalty for her fickleDess as well as
myself. You both knew the worst of me
when I proposed to Madge ; what hare I
done since to forfeit the good opinion you
then held of me, in spite of many things ?
We must both make the best of it."
With this he goes away, and Mrs. Hender-
son's heart grows heavy as she feels that she
is compelled to relinquish her last hope.
" He can't be stung into breaking it oflF/'
she sighs ; " all his nice feeling is pretence ;
he is selfish to the core of his heart."
" Who was that whispering to you in the
corridor 1 " Madge asks. " I hate people to
whisper, it always sets me wondering, and
then I hate myself for that, because it's small
curiosity. Who was it ? "
" Philip."
"0, Philip I and why didn't you both
speak out 1 Did you think I was asleep, or
"why, PHILIP, YOU LOVE HER ! " 257
didn't you want me to hear what you were
talking about ? "
"Madge, dear, the confinement of the
sick-room is telling upon you, indeed,'' Mrs.
Henderson says, with a very transparent
attempt at gaiety.
" Was Philip telling you about his cousin 1 "
" About his cousin ? no, dear."
" His cousin is down near to us," Madge
goes on, rapidly, "at least he's at Delabourn
with some people called Westcott, and ^and
I don't think Philip likes his being there."
"He said nothing to me about it," Mrs.
Henderson says, briefly. Phil is a subject on
which she will not be tempted to talk :
" Madge, dear, go to bed now, to-morrow you
are to go down stairs; the next day, pos-
sibly, you may go home."
The prospect of a change after the long
dreary confinement to her room, thrills
VOL. II. 8
238 " ^ HK WMETU yOT,' SHE SAID.
Ma^lgo with pleasure. She is still young
enougli to be liable to these abrupt changes
of feelings, still young enough to cast out
sorrow at the most distant approach of joy.
" It will be great fun going down into that
funny old room again,^ she says; "111 ask
Mrs. Graves to have her china washed, and
Philip and I will re-arrange it ; and Brunette
shall bo brought round to the window '^
11 or eyes beaming with this small excite-
ment, aro fixed on Mrs. Henderson's face,
and a wave of colour, a flicker of emotion
suddenly passes over that face, and makes
tho girl exclaim,
"What is tho matter? What have I
said 1 ''
" Nothing, nothing, Madge,'' Mrs. Hender-
son says, in that hasty tone of wishing to
drop tho subject, which invariably makes one
question more deeply and eagerly..
"why, PHILIP, YOU LOVE HER ! 259
" But I must have said something," Madge
persists ; " what could have made you look red
and put out ; was it about the china ? or (with a
quick qualm) was it about Brunette 1 "
For a full moment Mrs. Henderson hesi-
tates, hopes to think of something to say that
may avert the necessity of her dealing this
blow which will hurt both Madge and PhiKp
in different ways. Now that it has come to
this point she feels her position of witness,
and testifier against Philip's candour most
bitterly. Oh ! dear, dear 1 Her own love-
troubles had scarcely ceased to occupy a
prominent position in her mind, before she
was distracted by the love-troubles of others.
All these thoughts dart through her mind in
that moment of time, and then Madge says
again, very impatiently this time,
" Well, well ! what was it about 1 ''
" Oh, Madge ! " Mrs. Henderson says, fairly
260 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAD)/'
cornered now, " you have much to be humbly
grateful and thankful for, dear. Philip is
safe, but he met with an awful accident, and
Brunette is "
"Not 'aU right/ as Philip told me she
was," Madge interrupts, with her eyes kind-
ling, and her mouth quivering.
There is a long awkward pause afler this.
Madge leans back with her face buried in her
hands^ not crying but thinking, with horrible
intensity. "This can't go on always," she
reflects, "this system of deception would
quickly drive me mad with conjectured
With a dry sob and a gulp she rouses her-
self, and puts her two hands out to Mrs.
Henderson, who answers the appeal by tell-
ing all she knows of the end of Brunette.
Madge listens to the recital without saying
a word. She makes no show of that aching
at her heart, which is, after all, not so much
"why, PHILIP, YOU LOVE HER ! " 261
on account of the death of the horse, as it is
on account of the disposition of the man who
is to be her husband. The way in which he
has treated it ; and her in connection with it,
seems to be symptomatic of something from
which Madge recoils. He has not been
faithful and true about a thing which he may
consider small. How will it be about greater
matters ?
" Philip wished to keep it from you to-
night, he was so anxious you should have
undisturbed rest," Mrs. Henderson says,
making the best of it, and Madge answers
piteously,-r-
" We won't talk about it, please ; to-mor-
row the light will make it all clear, but to-
night I feel in a mist.'*
There is not a shadow of reproach on
Madge's face when he comes to her the next
morning. She is down stairs by this time,
2CrZ "'HE COMKTH NOT,' SHE SAID.''
dusting and to^'ing with, and arranging Mrs.
Graves's quaint old china figures, and vases,
and bowls, and tazzas. She has schooled
herself well in the night. She has tried to
put herself in Philip's place, and has resolved
to save him from feeling hurt at the cost of
any amount of trouble to herself. He is
touched into tenderness and something like
truth, by her demeanour. And the kiss he
gives her in return for the sympathetic way
her hand nestles into his when the interest of
the story of Brunette culminates, has more of
a lover's warmth in it, than any previous one
has had. And so the glow of the semblance
at least of the sun of happiness is over these
young people for awhile.
Presently Madge begins searching in her
pocket. '* I have a letter here to show you.
What can I have done with it ? 0, Philip !
I'm so shocked, and so will you be, I know.
"why, PHILIP, YOU LOVE HER ! " :!63
No 1 tliis isn't it ; I did think she'd have
confided in me. Oh ! here it is, look, from
OHve Aveland." And she hands him a letter
from the girl for whom his heart is sick, with-
out a single suspicion in her mind.
Tingling all through his veins (for his
blood is less false than his actions) Philip
takes the letter, and tries to read what Ohvc
has to say to Madge.
The characters dance before his eyes, and
Madge's words, " Oh, Philip ! Tm so shocked,
and so will you be, I know,'' keep on ringing
in his ears. Can Olive be married, or be
going to marry ? He can't control himself,
though he knows that he is cajling Madge's
keenest attention on himself. He holds the
letter with a shaking hand before eyes that
see nothing, and lets his head drop lower and
lower on his breast.
This continues for a period of time that
I
264 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID.'*
can hardly be computed. To Madge,
upon whom so many thmgs dawn while it
lasts, it seems long. But an echo would not
have had time to die away upon the ear
before Madge breaks the silence.
Breaks tlie silence with words, that, in the
midst of his anguish at the loss that will
surely ensue of so much that he keenly
appreciates, give him a certain relief.
" Why, Philip, you love her," Madge says,
" and you would have married me! ''
VOLUME III
CHAPTER I.
"HE WILL RETURN, I KNOW HIM WELL."
There is no going back after this for
Madge and Philip Fletcher. No possibility
of their resuming their former relations, after
that flash of truth has irradiated Madge's
mind. Philip, with a vivid remembrance of
the Moorbridge estate, and all the honour,
and glory, and luxury the Moorbridge estate
represents, would make a struggle to oblite-
rate the impression, and have everything as
it was before. But he reads in Madge's face
VOL. III. B
y
2 " * HE COMETH NOT," SHE SAID."
and Madge's manner that the struggle would
be a futile one. And with a biting sense
of failure upon him, he lays Olive's letter
down.
" I can't read it now/' he mutters, and his
head is bent, and his eyes are fixed on the
floor, and he knows for all these averted
looks that Madge is not the least bit in the
world angry with him. He feels that she is
fiiU of pity for him, and somehow this pity
galls him, and tries him very hardly.
"And now I know that you must have
loved her like this before ever you saw me.
Poor, poor Philip, and poor Olive, how awful
for her."
The compassionate accents, the entire ab-
negation of Madge's own right to his love
and loyalty, . make him wince. He can't
speak, or at auyrate he does not attempt to
speak, he only blinks away two tears that
*' HE WILL RETURN, I KNOW HIM WELL/^ 3
will provokingly enough well up and blur his
vision.
Madge has risen from the sofa, where she
had been seated by his side, and now she has
placed herself on a low chair just in front of
him. There is in her manner nothing but
such confidence and friendliness, that it
makes Philip feel positively abject. He feels
that she is not angry with him for having
preferred another girl to herself. He knows
that every other part of his conduct is con-
doned save this ^that loving as he does he
would have married her.
" I wish you could make up your mind to
read Olive's letter,"' Madge says, presently ;
there's no complaint in it, but, oh ! (with a
shudder) when you find what she's been
obliged to do, poor darling, your blood will
boil mine does."
He looks up at this, eagerly, questioningly.
B 2
"*HB COMETH NOt/ SHE SAID."
** Has she married ? '' he asks, finding his
Toice at last.
" Married ! no, gone into a show-room as
a "
She is checked by a sigh of relief from
him.
" Did you know that and keep it from me,
Philip ? " with quick discernment. Then, as
he does not answer, she adds, " I wish you
would try to tell me the ;" she is on the
verge of saying " the truth," but substitutes
the words " all about it,'' instead.
He tells her something, he tells her many
things about it. But he does not tell her
'^ all,'' or nearly all, that there is to tell about
poor infatuated Olive and himself But to so
much of his story as it pleases him to nar-
rate, Madge listens with her heart in her
eyes, and her mind busily at work.
" Poor, poor Olive ! fancy you're meeting
' HE WILL RETURN, I KNOW HIM WELL.^
her by accident in town, and you two being
obliged to be cool, and constrained, and con-
ventional in your behaviour to each other."
" Poor Madge," might be said with greater
accuracy, if she had only known how little
coolness, or constraint, or conventionality
there had been in that intercourse of theirs
about which she so besprinkled them with
pity. "Philip,'^ earnestly, "you can't let
this go on now ? "
" Do you mean to say that you will have
done with me altogether because of this?" he
asks ; " I have assured you that it is a thing
over and done with/'
" Your love for Olive over and done with,
is that what you mean ? "
" Yes," he says, but his voice quails as he
utters the lie.
" Oh ! Philip, how can you tell me so ?
why do you say so when you must feel that I
" ' HE CX)METH NOT/ SHE SAID.'
know better ? Philip, I couldn't marry a man
in whose face I'd seen such love for another
woman as I saw just now in yours for OUve."
Madge grows Scarlet as she says this ; but he
well understands that it is not jealousy
which is forcing the blood to her brow and
cheeks. It is not jealousy, it is some far finer
feeUng.
" It costs you very little to turn down this
page in the book of your life for ever, appa-
rently," he says, bitterly.
" No ; it costs me more than it will you,
Philip," she says, frankly; "even now I'm
tingUng with a foreshadowing of the mortifi-
cation and humiliation I shall feel when this
gets known, and all my friends will wonder,
and surmise, and so stab me unthinkingly.
But may I say something to you that's very
personal ? though the page we've read toge-
ther is turned down for ever."
HE WILL RETURN, I KNOW HIM WELL."
He nods consent, still moodily sitting
there in front of her, and now the girl grows
very earnest
"Philip, work for Olive, prove to every-
body that you're as worthy of her at last, as
you've been faithful in your heart all along.
I shall feel so proud of you when you have
won a place, and can claim OUve, and I can
turn round on everybody and say this is the
girl he loved from the first, and this is the
woman he has married, and both he and she
are very dear friends of mine."
For an answer to this Philip rises up, and
gays,
" By Jove ! there is no hope for me with
you again ; good-bye, Madge, whatever I do
in the world, whether it's good or bad, I shall
feel at least that you wished me to do what
was well."
Then they shake hands; such a long,
8 '''HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
hearty hand-clasp it is. And, somehow, (so
inconsistent are all human beings) this
moment of parting is a bitter one' to them
both.
Other eyes than Madge's see him go away.
Other eyes than Madge's notice the discomfi-
ture which is painted on his face, which is
legibly expressed in his gait and bearing.
And one and all they misjudge Madge, and
say,
" It has been too much for her. I knew
she would not be patient any longer, now
that he has killed her mare."
Madge is still sitting in that chair fronting
the sofa, when Mrs. Henderson comes in
presently with some fluid specially suited to
invalids, in a tea-cup. Rather to Mrs. Hen-
derson's surprise (and this lady has had con-
siderable experience) Madge is neither in
tears, nor in a passion. She seems absorbed
'' HE WILL RETURN, I KNOW HIM WELL/' 9
in thought, but rouses herself readily enough,
and actually broaches the topic herself.
" Did you see Philip as he went out ? ''
"Yes, I did,'' Mrs. Henderson says, "Jbut
not to speak to him ; Madge, my darling,
what has happened ? is anything wrong ? ''
" I think something will be right, at last,
that has been wrong for a long time,'* Madge
says, with a certain enthusiasm; " all that has
actually happened is this, Philip and I are not
going to be married."
This announcement is a shock to Mrs.
Henderson, although she has come in pre-
pared to hear tidings of an abnormal nature.
It is always rather shocking to hear for the
first time of the dissolution of such a partner-
ship as Philip and Madge had announced
themselves as about to enter into. For a
moment or two she cannot tell whether she
is glad or sorry. It is so utterly unlike any-
10 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
thing that she has hitherto believed Madge
to be capable of this disannulling of a bond
that she is more surprised than anything else.
Eventually she finds words to say,
" Your doing or his, dear ? "
'' Neither of us,'' Madge says, promptly,
" it did itself ; you will know all there is to
know before very long ; and now, dear, will
you go and tell Aunt Lucy, and let us get
homer'
Madge has grown pale through very
earnestness while making this appeal, and so,,
in a half-sympathetic, half-perplexed spirit,
Mrs. Henderson obeys her, and goes to Aunt
Lucy.
"Don't be agitated," she begins, "but I
must tell you that something very unforeseen
has occurred between Madge and Philip."
" Have they they haven't quarrelled ? "
Aunt Lucy gasps when Mrs Henderson has
"he will return, I KNOW HIM WELL.*' 11
brought her halting statement to a conclusion.
"Dearl dear! that it should have come to
this/' And Aunt Lucy proceeds to drop a
few silent tears over something or other, she
is not quite sure what.
"Has she broken it oflfwith the young man
because of the fatal accident to her Brunette ? "
Aunt Lucy asks with mysterious confideptial-
ness presently. Philip has sunk into a mere
" young man " again in her estimation now
that he is no longer to be looked upon as
linked to Madge.
" She says she didn't break it off,'' Mrs.
Henderson says, dubiously ; " but''
" But you don't mean to say he has jilted
herf " Aunt Lucy cries out in that holy wrath
which is apt to inflame the breast of women
when any one dear to them is accused of
being put in the position of the " left."
" Oh ! you don't mean to say he has jilted
12 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
her 1 " she repeats, wailingly. And then she
picks up heart of grace and adds, wither-
ingly,
" Well, better so, than that she should have
been linked for life to scum of the earth that
goes about without proper introductions."
Mrs. Henderson feels that this is a cut at
her for having accepted Philip so readily.
But she is not in a mood to resent such cuts
now. Her own bitter consciousness of apti-
tude for being used as a tool, is upon her to
the extent of exorcising every particle of
pride. All she says in reply therefore is,
" Better so,* better so : yes, a thousand
times ; but, dear Miss Roden, there has been
a contest, and we shall never know who gave
the sharpest strokes ; only this how shall I
word it? Madge is not wounded in the
way you fear.''
Miss Roden questions and cross-questions
"he will return, I KNOW HIM WELL." 13
and Mrs. Henderson replies and explains as
well as she is able to do. But they neither
of them come to a clearer understanding of
the case than this : namely, that the
marriage between Philip Fletcher and Madge
Roden is broken oflf. The girl who so quietly
and interestedly superintends the packing
operations presently, does not look like a
jilted woman. And yet ! she has avowed
that she did not "do it," but that it "did
itself/' which is the verbal refuge jilted
women generally take.
There was a very good parting this same
day between the strange mistress of the
manor, and the girl who had been her guest.
The old lady, too, had witnessed the manner
of Philip's exit from the place where he had
been wont to come and play the part of
"young lord-lover." And something in it
recalled to her mind an incident of the
14 "*HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
days when" she, too, " was very young and
feir."
" My dear,*' she whispers, giving Madge's
hand a final fiurewell grip, "I had a trouble
when I was young, and it went here** (and she
touches her forehead lightly as she speaks).
* Mr Graves wasn't the man I wished to
marry when I cared for any of the good that
a real marriage means. I made my mistake
at the last, my dear, ^youVe got over youn
at first ; ,yow'// end your life with somethin
better than a dumb animal to love.*'
And with this prophecy ringing in her ears.
Madge departs firom the place to which she
had come with Phil so many weeks ago
fipOTi the place in which Fate has commanded
that the bond bebroken which existed between
Riil's cousin and herself.
There is supreme diflSculty to the girl in
taking up the links of the old life at home
"HE WILL RETURN, I KNOW HIM WELL/' 15
again. The old life ! do I say ? She never
can live that again. She has had her lover
and her experiences, and her experiences
remain with her though she has lost her lover.
Remain with her, and disable her for the old
life of childish pleasure in the scenes and the
people she has known from her childhood ;
disable her for the old-absorbing enjoyment
in the quiet girlish pursuits ^in the peaceful,
uninteresting Halsworthy routine. So much
has happened since that day when she rode
away so blithely on Brunette with Phil by her
side, that she can hardly believe that she is
the same girl.
Nevertheless she makes an eflfort to be the
same, or at anyrate to do the same things as
of old. She resumes her part of young Lady
Bountiful in the parish. She again organizes
croquet parties, and Mrs Henderson is more
to her than ever, and is more sought by her
16 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID.''
than ever. But even to this dear friend
Madge says very little about Philip, and no-
thing about the real cause of the rupture. She
confesses to taking the keenest interest in him
still, and when she does mention him, does so
in a hearty, genial way that upsets the theory
of her heart being hurt, or of hate having taken
the part of love. She even avers one day thait
she " is longing to hear from Philip ; that she
thinks PhiUp unkind and thoughtless in not
writing to her."
She says this in a passion of vexation to
her aimt one morning when a budget of
letters have been turned out from the post-
bag, and her aunt is filled with bewilderment
on the spot. Aunt Lucy has no precedents
of her own to go upon, but she " knows what
is right,'* under such painful circumstances."
" My dear," she says, kindly, " is it wise of
you to permit yourself to hanker after any
" HE WILL RETURN, I KNOW HIM WELL/' 17
even the most distant ^intercourse with Mr.
Philip Fletcher any longer 1 "
" I don't know about its being wise/* Madge
says, " but it's natural surely ; at anyrate I do
long to hear from him : I'm always hoping
and expecting that Philip will write and tell
me that he has done something that will make
us all very happy again/'
" You don't mean to tell me," Aunt Lucy
says as fast as she can, but with her utter-
ance considerably impeded by her indignation
" you don't mean to tell me that, after all, you
would accept him again, 'Madge/'
There is supreme comfort and reassurance
to the old lady in Madge's stare of unfeigned
surprise at such a supposition. There is
almost joy to Aunt Lucy in the definite "No"
which follows it. And yet with it all, there
is a sort of vexation that Madge should puzzle
her so completely.
VOL. III. '
18 "'HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
" If you can feel such surprise at the mere
idea entering my mind/' she says, stiffly, " you
ought not to wish to hear from the poor
young man ; intercourse which may be sport
to you may be death to him."
At this suggestion Madge smiles sadly.
There is something touching to her in the
idea of anyone supposing there can be
" death '' or even " pain " to OUve Aveland's
passionate lover, in intercourse with herself,
Madge Roden. But a sense of respect for
her aunt causes her to offer this meagre ex-
planation.
"You'll understand why I'm longing to
hear from him by-and-by, when he does
what I hope and expect he will do ; and oh !
dear, I hope he won't be long about it, for I
do sadly want a change."
" What can she mean by it 1 " Miss Roden
asks of Mrs Henderson, after giving that lady
" HE WILL RETURN, I KNOW HIM WELL.'' 19
the heads of this conversation. And Mrs
Henderson has to confess herself as ignorant
of her young friend's meaning, as is her inter-
locutor.
Madge has written a frank, loving letter to
Olive, conjuring the latter to " come and stay
at Moorbridge House as companion, friend,
anything she likes. You may call yourself my
governess, and teach poor ignorant me anyone
of the dozens of things you know, you proud
independent thing, only come ; I should be
happier and so would you be, for we love each
other, Olive. I am lonely very often
Philip Fletcher and I have broken oflF our
engagement. He never loved me one bit;
but we shall always be friends, and when he
is the husband of the girl he loves I shall be
fonder of him than ever." " There," says
sagacious Madge, as she indites this paragraph,
" that will prepare her for the oflfer he'll make
a
20 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
her soon, and her mind will be easy about me ;
she will feel that I know all about it, and am
ready to say, ' bless ye, my children,^ when
they're united/'
This letter brings possibilities that she had
believed to be burnt out well before Olive
again. It causes her heart to throb with a
joyful hope to which that poor oft-tortured
organ had been a stranger. It sends her
down on her knees in a spasm of gratitude
in a feeble, hysterical burst of praise and
thanksgiving, for that she has been mercifully
preserved from marrying GriflBths Poynter
in her despair. It sends her to Barr and
Battle's show-room in such a glow of renewed
vigour, and beauty, and hope that she makes
the room, which is dingy by reason of a thick
fog which is reigning, almost glow. The air
of rosy happiness which she diffuses illumi-
nates the whole place, and places the mantles
" HE WILL RETURN, 1 KNOW HIM WELL." 21
in such a burning light in the eyes of
customers that she sells briskly this day, and
does not loath her occupation. For Philip is
free, and he loves her.
She is singing in her heart all day. '* He
will return, I know him well," is the burden
of her song. Her own Philip, her always
loved Philip. '* He had been true to himself
and to her, and had confessed to Madge, and
Madge had released him, like an angel as
she was.'' This is the view Olive chooses
to take of the blissful change which has come
about. She almost dances as she goes hither
and thither during her work. She almost
hears the words, the tones, in which he will
plead to put an end, at once and for ever, to
the separation which has lasted far too long
already.
Perhaps there will be a letter awaiting her
when she goes home this evening. Or
22 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
perhaps he will be there himself awaiting her,
anxious to set her heart and his own at rest
without delay. Madge does not say how
long it is since they have arrived at the clear
understanding that has brought such bliss to
OUve.
Higher and higher her heart soars into the
realms of hope, as the door is opened promptly
in answer to her knock, and her sympathetic
landlady tells her, with a face all aglow with
satisfaction, that a gentleman is in the parlour,
one youll be glad to see, Miss.'' It does not
occur to Olive that Philip is' a stranger to the
woman. *' It must be he : '^ it never enters
her head that it can be another. She bounds
upstairs, flashing out thanks from her joyful
eyes as she passes the landlady ; she glances
into the Uttle parlour, and there, sitting dole-
fully by the low burning fire, she sees Griffiths
Poynter.
(
HE WILL RETURN, I KNOW HIM WELL/' 23
In the heat of her passionate disappoint-
ment she grows unjust and ungenerous. In -
the first pang of her pain she feels as if she
must smite someone, and the first one who
comes to her hand is the faithful, inoflfensive
fellow who would save her every pain, if he
could, at any cost to himself.
" Oh ! is it only you, what did you come
for ? '* she says, and then her over-wrought
spirit gives way, and she sits down and begins
to cry, for she has not learnt the lesson yet,
she has not learnt to distinguish the right
man from the wrong ; she can't make up her
mind to " ring out the false, and ring in the
true/' And so she sits down and cries at
Griffiths Poynter. " Just as though he was
hateful to her," he feels, and shows, by the
angry reproachful fire in her eyes that finally,
bums away her tears, that she is not
feigning.
24 " ' HE COMETH KOX/ SHE SAH)."
" I have come to tell you something about
an old friend of yours. I wouldn't hare
intruded upon you after after what passed
between us the last time we met if I hadn't
thought my news would justify my intru-
sion."'
He pauses, and she looks up inquisitively.
She feels a conviction that it is something
about Philip, though Grif knows nothing of
PhiUp in connection with herself She won't
question him in words, but her eyes are full
of inquiry, and he answers them at once.
" The news is from my part of the country,
Madge Koden has been very ill ! did you know
itl"
'' I heard from Madge this morning," Olive
answers ; '' she tells me she has been ill ; but
she didn't make much of it"
" It's not her way to make much of any-
thing unpleasant that happens to hei^ell^"
"he will BETUKK, I KNOW HIM WELL.** 25
Grif responds, loyally. " Did she tell you any-
thing else ? ''
Olive knows well to what he refers now.
But she does not dare to speak. The palpita-
tion at her heart would cause her tones to
tremble, and she shrinks from speaking of
Philip in trembling tones to GriflSths Poynter.
So she only turns a flushing face towards him,
and he goes on gravely.
"Her engagement with that man that
Mr. Fletcher is broken off ; thank God."
" Thank Heaven," Olive echoes, fervently.
She has no further consideration for Griffiths.
He has dared to disparage the man she loves.
A faint glimmering of the truth flashes across
Griffiths*s mind. Then he looks at the girl,
who seems to him to be much too ei^ted
and noble a creature to care for anyone so
despicable as he firmly believes Philip to be.
He scorns himself for having entertained the
26 "*HE COMETH XOT/ SHE SAn)."
notion for an instant of Madge's recreant
lorer being dear to Olive Aveland. And so
he executes another mistake.
'* You feel as I do, glad of anything, how-
ever pamfid at the time, which has brought
this about ; marriage with a fellow without
an atom of principle to a girl Uke Madge "
" How dare you come to me and say a
word against Philip Fletcher,** she cries out,
sharply ; " how can you be so cruel and so
coarse ? whatever your jealousy may prompt
you to think, how dare you say it to me ? *'
" Oh ! Olive ! " he stammers out, over-
whelmed with sorrow for the giri who is
building upon such shifting sands, with sorrow
for the girl, and pain for himself, that such a
one as Philip should be preferred to him.
"Oh! Olive! is this the reason "
"Don't, don't, don't,** she whimpers out,
ashamed and abashed now that she has
"he will RETUKN, I KNOW HIM WELL. 27
declared herself in this way ; " isn't it bad
enough as it is without my having to talk
about it, and explain ; why did you sting me
into saying what I did 1 ^ she asked, with a
^ sudden stamp of her foot, like a petulant child,
instead of the trouble-tamed woman she was ;
" why did you come here and torment me
into proclaiming myself a fool 1 it wasn't
kind, it wasn't honest, it wasn't manly ''
** OUve ! treat me as a brother, and try to
beheve that as a brother would save you if
you had one, so I will now, if youTl let
me ; yes, in any way, however it may hurt
me.
He is desperately shocked at the open ex-
hibition of her love for the man he behoves
to be a scoundrel, for he feels that she has
been forced into making it by latent despair.
But he forces himself to offer her his aid, and
ev6n if she bids him go and bring PhiUp
28 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
from the nethermost ends of the earth, he
would do her bidding. It is a blow to her
enthusiasm, therefore, and he experiences
altogether something like the sensation a
shower-bath might give him, when Olive
(feeling ashamed of herself the whole time)
flashes at him with the words,
" Brotherly aid ! what do you mean ? Do
you suppose I want you to go and hunt up
Philip Fletcher, and ask him what his inten-
tions are? I know them well enough, thank
Heaven; I know that now he has got his
order of release he will come back to me, and
how happy I shall be at last"
For one moment there is about her an air
of irrepressible triumph. The next her head
droops low, and she murmurs,
" Forgive me, Griffiths, and if you won't
forget me altogether, forget me at any rate as
I have been to-night"
HE WILL RETURN,.! KKOW HIM WELL.*' 29
"I can do nothing for you?" he asks,
hesitatingly, "you and Mr. Fletcher under-
stand each other/'
She raises her eyes to his face, and dashes
all hope from his heart. " Yes, we under-
stand each other," she says, and shivers a
little as she commits herself to the statement,
for her fainting soul tells her that she may
have affirmed too much.
And he accepts the statement in its fiill
force without the smallest reservation, and
goes out presently, crushed and crestfallen,
firmly believing that Olive will marry Philip
Fletcher after a very brief delay, and that he
will make her miserable. ''At anyrate," Grif
thinks, humbly and mournfully, " I have no
further right to intrude myself into her life ;
that is over.''
There is no letter from Philip the following
morning. But still Olive makes an eJGfort to
80 "'he COMETH NOT,' SHE SATD."
be as she was yesterday, to be as light of
heart and foot. But the effort is beyond her.
Towards the end of the day the elasticity
goes from both, and it is a very springless
Olive who eventually obeys a call to wait a
specially hard-to-please customer.
The new comer stands with her back to
Olive as the latter comes up with a trimmed
polonaise in hand. The lady is slender,
gracefiil in figure, rather girlish and flighty
in action, as she perpetually appeals to an old
gentleman who stands by her side to endorse
her opinion about diflFerent things. As Olive
nears them they turn, and the old gentle-
man says, " Bless my soul, my dear child ! ''
and the lady's blue eyes open wide, and
Olive finds herself face to face with the
ToUingtons.
With a sob and a gulp she lets her burden
SeJI, and holds her hands out to her father's
((
HE WILL RETURN, I KNOW HIM WELL." 31
old friend. And at that moment Mrs.
ToUington frisks towards someone who is
coming into the show-room, and says,
" We won't keep you another moment, Mr.
Fletcher. I'll choose my polonaise another
day.''
So she meets Philip 'again, and there is
more than the bitterness of death in meeting
him thus in attendance on her fair foe and
traducer.
CHAPTER 11.
k VELVET PAW !
- Oh don't ask fifty questions of me all at
once: my poor little head won't stand it,'*
Mrs. Tollington pleads, shaking her fair hair,
and fluttering in her uncertainty as to
whether she shall assxmie the volatile, or the
youthfully diflBdent and bewildered air.
" How can I tell you * what it all means ' in
a minute ? Olive ! why don't you try and
explain to Admiral Tollington if you can
how you come to be here ? "
The delicate blonde woman is quite herself as
she utters this last sentence. She ceases the as-
sumption of cither the volatile or the youthfully
A VELVET paw! 33
diffident air. She is quite the spiteful elder
woman, jealous of the way in which the younger
fairer one has concentrated the interest of the
two men upon herself in an instant.
"It would be difficult for me to explain
why I'm here/' Olive answers, bending her
brows severely enough on her smiling foe.
Then with a change of expression, as she
resolves, "No, I won't tell him; fool as she
is, she is his wife and he was my father's
friend ; " she says aloud,
" I am happy enough here try to believe
that ; I haven't patience enough to be a
governess."
Admiral ToUington watches her keenly
and shakes his head, " I don't understand it,*'
he says with a sigh, and then Philip pushes
nearer and says to Olive,
" Won't you speak, to me, Miss Aveland ?
have I quite faded from your mind?"
VOL. UI. D
34 "^HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID/'
He endeavours to say this in a semi-play-
ful way, and Mrs. Tollington suspects him
vaguely, and Olive despises him for it. How
can he pretend to be any other than he is to
her, whoever may be standing by? What
are these Tollingtons to him that he should
address her as "Miss Aveland,*' and aflfect
the airs of a mere everyday acquaintance.
She looks him steadily in the face, and he
flashes an imploring glance at her from
between those lashes which so often curtain
his real feeUngs, and she lets him take her
hand.
"How should I forget you?" she asks,
simply, and Mrs. Tollington gives a bitter
little laugh,
" You have yet to learn, Mr. Fletcher, that
Miss Aveland takes everything seriously ;
she always thinks more is meant than is
said/'
A VELVET paw! 85
" My dear, where are you living ? " Admiral
Tollington asks. " I shall come and see you,
and hear from you "
"An elucidation of these mysteries," his
wife interrupts. Then she passes out of the
room with a bow, almost compelling her
husband to go with her by placing her hand
on his arm. And Olive stands back, proudly
and angrily refusing to notice the hand which
Admiral ToUington stretches out to her in
passing.
In spite of the commanding, backward
glance which Mrs. ToUington gives him, Phihp
Ungers, to say,
" Olive ! say you're glad to see me.''
"Why are you with that woman that
woman who was so cruel and insulting to
WI6?" she says, chokingly.
"He's such a nice old fellow," Philip pleads,
" such a thoroughly honest, good old fellow ;
D 2
86 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
rd drop her fast enough, but I like him too
weU."
Olive's head gives an impatient twitch.
" How long has he been home ? "
" A week or ten days," Philip says, getting
red, ** he will be a good friend to us both," he
adds. And then he tells Olive she will hear
from him soon, clasps her hand once more,
and follows his friends !
How bitter the girl is all the rest of that
day. How she loathes herself how she
despises that element of fidelity in her nature,
which makes her cling to this debilitated hope
that Philip will be true to her after all. But
she can't help it It is the strongest element
in her nature ; it is the master-passion of
her life ! If it were not^ how happy and
prosperous, and altogether successful she
might be.
It is her destiny to lose the worthy, and
A VELVET paw! 37
love the unworthy, and seek to blind herself,
and fail in doing so. And in this failure is
the sting, for if she believed in Philip as
thoroughly as she loves him, she would be
the happiest woman in the world this night,
instead of one of the saddest.
It is altogether unimportant, of course it is
altogether unimportant, yet Olive tortures
herself with futile conjectures as to why he
"was with the ToUingtons." In her helpless,
blind jealousy against anyone who keeps him
from her she is ready to accuse Admiral
Tollington himself her father's old friend
of being in league against her, of wishing to
humiliate her, and generally to make her of
no account. For he is " shorn of his strength
by that nasty affected Dalilah," she thinks,
angrily; and she hates Mrs. Tollington for her
blonde locks, and fair complexion on which
Time leaves no trace, and for her affected
88 '''*HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
youthfulness and for her apparent intimacy
with Philip Fletcher. And in her solitude
this night the memory of that meeting in the
show-room rankles horribly, and she " has no
friend to whom she can turn for solace and
sympathy," she feels in cruel forgetfulness of
Griffiths Poynter, who is quite ready to bear
the brunt of all her bitterness provided she
will rely on him as on a brother.
Meanwhile Philip is dining comfortably
with the ToUingtons at the big luxurious
West-end hotel, where they are staying until
it is settled at which port Admiral Tolling-
ton's flag shall be hoisted. Dining with
them comfortably, and speculating with con-
siderable amusement as to the special form of
absurdity which his hostess will bloom into
when she is such an acknowledged power in
a port as its Admiral's wife.
The gallant^ good, kind old sailor has had
A VELVET PAW ! 39
a hint from head-quarters as to where his
flag is to be unfurled, and, as may be sup-
posed, he has given his wife a hint in turn.
Accordingly Mrs. Tollington speaks most un-
adyisedly about **When we go to Plymouth,'^
and ** When the Admiral and I give our first
ball I shall insist on your being at it/'
Philip accepts her invitations, which partake
of the nature of a royal mandate, and de-
spises her a little for ''giving them in that
way to a fellow who doesn't care for her,^'
and dislikes her more than a Uttle for having
wounded Olive, his Olive !
A dozen packages arrive from a dozen
different shops, for Mrs. Tollington is quite
determined to hoist her flag with much
splendour and pomp. In imagination she
sees and hears people '' taking her for
Admiral Tollington^s daughter,^' and she
frames many prettily worded sentences, by
40 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID.
means of which to undeceive them. " Youth
and I parted when I married, and how
anyone can take me for Admiral Tollington's
daughter now I can't imagine/' is one of her
pet phrases. But all the while she says it
she tries to look seventeen, and flatters
herself that she succeeds in doing so.
The new and brilliant plumage in which
she is going to preen herself for her flight
into the new fields, claims her attention now,
and so the two men are left to themselves.
As her dress rustles richly out of sight, Ad-
miral Tollington dashes right into the heart
of the matter which is interesting them both.
" Why did Miss Aveland leave my wife *? "
he says, " I see you know ! '*
The impulse to tell the truth is upon
rhilip for an instant, but only for an instant.
Then he checks it, as is his wont. He assoils
his conscience for so doing by telling himself
A VELVET paw! 41
that it is morally wrong to make ill-feeling
between man and wife. Further, he tells
himself that he does not know what really
transpired when Olive left Mrs. ToUington's
house in a rage. "Olive's temperament is
always warm/* he reminds himself, "and
women always exaggerate matters of feeling.
On the whole!'' Well, on the whole, he
resolves to be strictly non-committed. It
would be inexcusable on his part to make
poor old ToUington uncomfortable, and Mrs.
ToUington is really a very nice little woman."
So he says,
"Miss Aveland is a very reserved girl, I
think, and I understood at the time from
Mrs. ToUington that the want of confidence
in her on Miss Aveland's part, distressed her ;
but I really know or remember very little
about it."
"Do you think" (and now Admiral Tol-
42 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
lington fixes a keener gaze than he has fixed
before on the open and ingenuous counte-
nance of his wife's new friend, that " charm-
ing Mr. Fletcher who had saved her life,*^)
" do you think that there is any love affair
at the bottom of it ? do you think any fellow
has being playing fast and loose with OUve
Aveland ? "
He pushes the wine with some vehemence
towards Philip as he asks this, and Philip
nonchalantly fills his glass before he replies.
"I can't fancy any fellow being such a
fool/'
" Neither can I, sir, neither can I/* the old
sailor says, lashing himself into wrath at the
bare supposition ; " but something has gone
wrong wiUi Olive Avoland, and I'll find out
what it is, and who it is, and the doer of it
shall not go unpunished^ tho' her father is
dead."
A VELVET paw! 43
Philip bows his head approvingly. The
sentiment pleases him very well, for he likes
to feel that Olive Olive who loves him with
such utter devotion is properly appreciated
by other people. He feels quite certain, too,
that no unpleasant results to himself will
attend Admiral Tollington's investigation.
For Ohve will be staunch, Olive will never
betray him, or witness against him in any
w^y. He feels almost complacent about his
own conduct when he considers how it has
won him the unswerving fidelity of such a
one as Olive Aveland.
Wrapt in his own meditations concerning
the change in the child of his old friend,
Admiral Tollington becomes silent and self-
absorbed. Therefore it is an agreeable
change presently, to go into the drawing-
room and have tea poured out for him by
the fair hands of Mrs. Tollington, PhiUp feels.
44 "'he COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
She tries to be winningly gushing to her
husband, but his attention is given rather to
the evening paper than to her. So presently
she makes a sign to Philip, and he goes and
takes a low chair by the side of her sofa.
" I want to ask you something as a friend
who has your interest very much at heart,"
she begins in a very low tone, and Philip
suppresses the laugh into which he is almost
betrayed, and asks :
"What is it V
"I could not bear to see you, the man
who saved my life, fall a victim to any
designing manoeuvrer. Why did you stay
behind when we came away from that shop
to-day ?"
" I stayed to speak to Miss Aveland,'^ he
says, boldly, for it rather pleases him to see
Mrs. ToUington grow flushed, and vexed, and
confused in her friendly eagerness to save
A VELVET paw! 45
him from every other woman's toils. A few
soft words will always bring Mrs. Tollington
round again, and the speaking of soft words
to women does not at all overtask Philip
Fletcher.
" I thought so, I feared so ; Oh ! Mr.
Fletcher I shall speak to you as a sister
might ; I can't bear to think of you as trifling
with anyone, and still less can I bear to
think that you have any serious intentions
about Miss Aveland. I have an instinct
against her Fve had it from the first," and
Mrs. Tollington tries hard to make a shudder,
convulses her frame slightly as she finishes
her sentence.
" Let us talk of something pleasanter,'' the
arch-hypocrite says ; " let us talk of the
laurels you will win, as the Naval Queen of
whatever port you're going to.''
** Which means," she says, sharply, "let us
46 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID/'
leave Miss Aveland's name out of the con-
versation ; why are you so guarded about
her 1 why can't you bear to hear me speak
the truth about her ? ''
Mrs. Tollington has unconsciously raised
her voice while asking these questions, and
to her annoyance, when she pauses for an
answer, she sees her husband's eyes fixed
upon her in undisguised amazement. Philip
sees this too, but he is neither annoyed nor
perplexed. This is not the kind of thing
that upsets Philip's equanimity.
"Ladies' instincts always amuse me," he
says, slowly rising up and strolling over
nearer to the lamp-lighted and journal-laden
table ; " my cousins have them to a great
extent, and the people they abuse most
frightfully at first generally turn out to be
their bosom friends after a time ^"
"And deceive them in the end," Mrs.
A VELVET paw! 47
TolKngton interrapts. But Philip won't pur-
sue the conversation with her. He picks up
the TimeSy which Admiral Tollington has just
thrown down, and, with a careless "Any
news to-night, sir?" begins to read it. Leav-
ing Mrs. Tollington with a feeUng of being
foiled, and of haying shown her cards too
openly.
Philip, sauntering away composedly to a
small Bohemian club soon after this^ Uttle
suspects that he is being arraigned at
the bar of the Admiral's honest opinion,
tried, and found wanting. He has scarcely
made his adieux to the Tollingtons and
bowed himself out of the room before the
Admiral opens his battery upon that fair
fortress, his wife.
** There's something about this new friend
of yours that I don't like, my dear, some-
thing I don't like at all."
48 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
"But I have no new friends/' the lady
says, languidly leaning back, and putting her
feet up on the sofa with an air that denotes
extreme lassitude. Then she makes a bold
stroke to disarm him.
" I was so glad to hear Mr. Fletcher say
good-night ; he might have seen an hour ago
how wearied I [was ; but young men are so
inconsiderate ; because it pleased him to stay
and talk to you "
" It seemed to me that it pleased him to
stay and talk to you^' Admiral Tollington
grunts. Not that he does himself or any-
body else the injustice of disliking to see the
wife he looks upon as young, and pretty, and
attractive, the recipient of attentions from
men who are like unto her in that they are
young, and attractive too. But he has a well-
grounded and justifiable horror of any at-
tempt being made to hoodwink him. And
A VELVET paw! 49
it certainly has appeared to him to-night
that the low tones, and the lady's reproof to
her guest savours of greater intimacy than
he had been told existed between the pleasant-
looking pair.
Mrs. ToUington pulls the filmy handker-
chief with which she has been veiling her
eyes from the light, off her face, and placidly
regards her husband.
"My dear,'' she says, in gentle, deprecating
remonstrance, " you forget ! he is not a new
friend : it is some months since he saved my
life at the peril of his own : Oh! that terrible
day ; don't let me speak about it," and Mrs.
Tollington heaves a thrilling, sighing sob,
which she hopes will close the conversation.
**I can believe that the fellow is plucky
enough," Admiral Tollington says, heartily.
He would feel heartily grateful to any man,
however much of a miscreant that man might
TOL. IIL I
50 *"HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
be, who had saved Mrs. ToUington's life.
But, yes, he can't help feeling that there is a
* but ' about this young man, and he can't
resist the inclination to word his feeling.
*' But he didn't speak out about Miss Ave-
land in a straight-forward way ; / overheard
your conversation with him of course, my
dear; and, moreover, I had been questioning
him concerning the cause of her cutting her-
self adrift from you in the way she did. I
fancied he knew something about it, and now
I'm sure.^^
" Are you 1 " Mrs ToUington says, faintly,
"why? how?"
" He knows all about it," Admiral Tolling-
ton persists, clinging to the portion of the
tiubjeot that is most interesting to himself, as
it (^a(?^vu8 01ive,^and disregarding his wife's
^umUqu. " He knows all about it, and he's
i^ itti^K (vf a sea-lawyer to answer me
A VELVET paw! 51
plainly : so, my dear, I must come to you for
all the information you can give me about
that poor child, whose father was as good a
seaman, and as gallant an officer as ever trod
the quarter-deck. Many*s the boat-action,
and cutting-out-expedition that poor Ave-
land and I have been in together," Admiral
Tollington continues, with a lapse into the
tenderly reminiscent frame of mind that
leaves him unprotected, and shows Mrs.
Tollington where the weak places are in his
armour.
" Do tell me about some of those exploits,"
she says, rousing herself up, and leaning on
her elbow, and making her eyes sparkle with
enthusiasm. "I have always been half crazy
about naval adventures and anecdotes ; I
used to worry papa dreadfully to get him to
tell me about the storms and engagements
he had been in. Do you know papa got
K 2
62 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.''
fifteen awful wounds in one action ^a boat-
action I think it was thirteen on one leg, and
four on his back and shoulders, and two
frightful ones on his head "
" That makes nineteen ! you said fifteen,"
Admiral Tollington interrupts. He is
interested in the story of the mutilated
condition of Mrs. ToUington's papa, but
above all things he likes accuracy when
dealing with facts !
"I niade a mistake ^it was nineteen,"
Mrs. Tollington replies, promptly ; " how he
lived through it was a marvel to everyone ;
the doctors said his tenacity of life was
surprising."
" What was it in 1 " Admiral Tollington
asks, paying the fair biographer the compli-
ment of taking off his glasses, and settling
himself near the fire to listen comfortably.
" Oh ! a boat-action I "
A VELVET PAW I 68
''But where?"
"Somewhere off the North Americau
station/' Mrs, Tollington answers, yawning.
She has turned the edge of the sword ^her
Admiral has forgotten Philip and Olive, and
so her naval enthusiasm is waning fast.
"Never mind, never mind," Admiral
Tollington says, complacently, nodding his
head ; " 111 look it out in * James's Naval
History ' to-morrow ; probably there is an
honourable mention made of such an affair
as that. FU make an extract of it for you,
my dear.''
For a moment Mrs. Tollington permits
herself to feel furious with her painstaking
practical spouse. Why will he persist in
tracing things to their sources. " It's utterly
impossible," she feels, "to talk civilly and
gracefully to a man who will have every
lightly mentioned detail authenticated. But
54 *"HE COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
having involved herself in a web, it behoves
her to wriggle out of it, so she says,
*' I daresay I have made more of it than
it actually was, blundered in some way or
other. I was always so enthusiastic and
imaginative that poor papa couldn't recognise
his own stories very often when I told them
back to him again. So I won't be dis-
appointed, dear, if you don't bring me a very
gratifying extract from * James's History'
after all ; but do tell me some of your own
escapes and adventures. I want to know
all that youVe ever done : I'm not one of the
fashionably cold indifferent wives, dear, who
know little and care less about the means
by which their husbands have won distinc-
tion ; tell me."
So she purrs upon him, making him believe
that she is hungering to hear how he has
fought^ won, and made a name she is proud of.
CHAPTER III.
MISS WESTCOTT INTERVENES:
The sun rises upon the first day of the
" Winstaple week," and the Winstaple week
is a period from which men date events in
this border-land district. Two balls are given
in it. The hunt ball, which is good, and the
county ball, which is better, the privileged
say, because it is so hedged in with patrician
traditions and rules and regulations, that all
respectable people who are not "county
people " are miserable at it.
These balls belong rather to the order of
old-world festivities. The potentates of the
land drive in from long distances, and put up
56 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
for two or three days at one or other of the
ancient inns of the place, where they are
treated to rather more ceremonial, and re-
garded with rather more outward awe, than
falls to the lot of crowned heads travelling
through the busier haunts of men now-a-
days.
The hunt ball is by far the gayer affair of
the two, for it falls on the night of the day
of the best meet of the season, and nearly the
whole of the crowded field attend the ball at
night. And they are all in most sportsman-
like and justifiable high spirits, for the run
has been a tremendous one, and one of the
monarchs of Exmoor held out till he reached
the very heart of Winstaple, where he died
like a king facing his foes. The prettiest
Miss Westcott has the honour of being men-
tioned as the only lady out who rode well up
the whole day, and was in at the death after
MISS WESTCOTT INTERVENES. 57
all. Ardent admirers of the chase are very
much at the feet of this young Diana to-
night. They are in ecstacies about her pluck
and her prowess. "It would have been
nothing if it had been a quick thing," they
say ; " but it had been anything but a * quick
thing/ and yet she and her horse came up
fresh and full of anxiety at the finish. It is
a full and sufficient proof that she knows
what she is about in the saddle, and " doesn't
go fooling about^ and bucketting her horse to
pieces for a show-off."
The fresh, fair, handsome, light-haired girl
is the Queen of the Revels indisputably. In
spite of the severe run through the biting air,
she does not seem one whit fatigued, but is
leaping through every round dance like a
young leopardess. And her Eivourite and
most frequent partner is Phil Fletcher her
cousin Ronald's tutor.
58 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
There is no guile about Miss Westcott, and
unquestionably there is nothing secretive nor
underhand. She tells Phil that she "likes
dancing with him better than any of the rest"
so openly and earnestly, that Sir Galahad
himself could have done no other than Phil
does namely, ask her again and again. The
goddess of the chase doesn't mind his ab-
sorbed silence in the least. How can he
talk, poor fellow, when all his attention is
given to the grand entrance door through
which it is possible Madge Roden may enter
at any moment.
His good-tempered young partner takes
a hearty interest in life all round, and so,
though she hasn't the slightest objection to
Phil's silence, she wonders at the imwonted
taciturnity, and can't help noticing the direc-
tion his eyes take perpetually. Presently she
indicates a spot into which she desires to be
MISS WESTCOTT INTERVENES. 59
propelled, in order to recover the breath
which has ebbed away to the strains of the
La belle fielen6 Waltz. As Fate wills it, this
spot is near the door.
Certainly a handsome, striking girl is Mi&s
Westcott. Bather redundant, perhaps, but
not too much so for a big ball-room. Her
bright crepe hair would look tangled and
untidy, probably, if things about her were on
a smaller scale. But as it is, fluffiness and
puffiness predominate, and her hair only
strikes one as being the most luxuriant in
the room. Altogether, with her bright, laugh-
ing, up-turned face, her tall full figure, and
that irrepressible air of hers, which is as
natural to her as shining is. to the sun, she
is a very prominent figure in the ever-
changing view of the ball-room. And the
man who is most frequently by her side is
handsome and distinguished.
60 " * HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
" Are you looking for anyone, Phil ? " she
asks, presently, when her breath has come
back sufficiently to enable her to articulate.
" Are you anxious about Ronald ? My sister
is keeping him out of mischief/'
" I think when this waltz is over I'll look
him up though,'* Phil answers ; " a hunt
dinner, and a hunt dance "
" To say nothing of so many pretty faces,
may prove too much for Master Ronald's
head, mayn't they ? " she interrupts, laugh-
ingly. " What would my august aunt say if
Ronald fell in love with some pretty unknown
here to-night P she'd e^spire if she thought
my sister indulged his boyish propensity to
flirt ; but if he married beneath him ! oh I
poor Phil, you'd have a time of it."
Miss Westcott laughs out in genuine enjoy-
ment of her own conceit as she says this, and
in her exuberance of spirit places her hand
MISS WESTCOTT INTERVENES. 61
on Phil's shoulder, and gives the signal for
one more round, and they go off together, a
handsome, much-observed pair.
She calls him " Phil " in mere thoughtless-
ness, as girls do so many things which they
had better leave undone ; and though he
has never wished her to do it, it cannot be
said that he actually dislikes it, for it drops
with most friendly, and " nothing more,"
naturalness from Miss Westcott's tongue. So
they swing round together, her draperies
swirling out in the unfluttering way that tells
one that the " waltzers are waltzing in time,"
and with the same look of " zest " about her
with which she had followed the hounds the
whole day. And uninterested people look at
them, and think " they're a fine looking pair,"
and that is all.
But one interested person, who has come
into the room just before this pair started
62 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
from the doorway, just in time to hear that
last sentence of the young lady's, " poor Phil !
you'd have a time of it," stands still, heart-
smitten at once, though she knows it not
herself, by the words and the sight.
To other people, Phil and Miss Westcott
are a pair of ordinary good-looking mortals,
and that they should dance a great deal
together, and that the girl should c^U him
" Phil," are matters of very little moment to
anybody. But to this new-comer they mean
so much. Madge Roden feels instinctively
that the large blonde with ruffled hair who
addresses him famiUarly by his christian
name is the special Miss Westcott at whose
feet PhiUp affirmed his cousin to be the
same whose clever riding to-day is the theme
of the hour.
Miss Roden, senior, and the Hendersons
are close by her, and Madge can't help won-
MISS WESTCOTT INTERVENES. 63
dering whether or not they heard the words
that will go on ringing in her ears whether
or not they are noticing the air of intimacy
which is the only thing she sees in this bril-
liantly-lighted room? Before she can solve
these doubts, a variety of men are undulating
before her, programmes and pencils in hand,
and Madge has pledged herself for all the
best dances before she realizes that by so
doing she has cut herself off from all chances
of having a few quiet words with Phil.
The waltz ends, and the waltzers either
patrol solemnly well in view of their seniors,
or vanish into some kindly obscurity, where
every whispered word is not noticed and
commented upon by the many who have had
their day, and are grievously pained to see
others having it. We who are in the sear,
we who are waning, can well understand the
feeling, and ought to be lenient to it. All
64 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
the glory of a " ball '' is over for a woman
when men no longer jostle one another in
their haste to secure her for so many dances.
There comes, indeed, later on, a time of fuller
and more perfect triumph than we could ever
have known in our self-absorbed youth, and
that is when our daughters take the field !
Madge is sitting down ; her dress a
French combination of blue velvet and blue
tulle (composed in such a way that beholders
wonder that they haven't always thought
"velvet proper ball-room wear for a girl'')
half concealed by the ampler trains and laces
of her aunt and Mrs. Henderson, who are on
either side of her. Her face' wholly concealed
by the rather massive figure of the member
for the division of the county, who is to be
her partner in the ensuing gallop. But
though she cannot be seen, she can see and
hear !
MISS WESTCOTT INTERVENES. 65
Distinct from the tramp of the multitude
she hears one voice, and she loses the whole
gist of an intelligent remark that the afore-
said member is making to her, in her anxiety
to hear what that voice says.
" I shall try to get Ronald away when IVe
found your mamma for you ; the long run
and this hot room have been too much for
the boy's head/'
" Nonsense ! " the Diana of the day re-
sponds promptly ; " the boy's head isn't
worth thinking about if it can't stand a long
run and a hot room : look at me."
Phil laughs, and utters some meaningless,
semi-gallant words, that are accepted by the
girl herself, and by uninterested listeners
around her, as Society's small verbal change.
But they are not so accepted by Madge.
Phil has found his fate in this big, rather
boisterous blonde ! She is sure of it ; and
VOL. III. F
66 "'he COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
SO she makes a struggle to magnanimously*
consider Miss Westcott " a very fine, hand-
some girl."
Simultaneously, she perceives that Mrs..
Henderson and Phil have recognised one
another, and that Phil is advancing to speak
to that lady. The next moment Madge is
shaking hands with him herself, and the
next she is whisked off by her partner, for
the gallop has begun, and then, as Miss
Westcott is claimed and carried off, Phil
forgets his anxiety about his pupil, and
places himself between Aunt Lucy and Mrs.
Henderson.
The memories of her parting scene, and
her parting injunctions to the young fellow,
are very present with Mrs. Henderson as
he sits down, and asks her eagerly for
" news." She knows what he wants to hear.
She knows that the rumour of the breaking
MISS WESTCOTT INTERVENES. 67
oflF of Madge^s engagement has gone abroad,
and that he is asking to have it verified. But
she has scorched her fingers once, and she
will be very chary how she fans love-flames
for the future.
But she answers him very gently,
" News ! my dear boy, if I gave you my
news what a bore you would think me ; it
would be all about the village joys, and woes,
and clubs. Tell me news, rather; tell me
about your mother and sisters.'"
" They are quite well," he answers, coolly,
for he considers that she is repelling him
unjustly. So he turns to Aunt Lucy.
"How well Miss Roden is looking," he
says.
"Yes," Aunt Lucy answers hurriedly,
thinking of the fever this young man's im-
prudence brought upon her beloved niece,
and wishing, with all her heart, that there
F 2
68 " -HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.*'
were no young men in the world to upset
existing and agreeable arrangements. " Yes,
poor dear child ; she was sadly shattered by
that terrible affair, and it will leave its traces
on her for life, I fear," and Aunt Lucy
gathers her garments more closely about her,
and fans herself vigorously, as though she
would put the remains of the fever to flight
by that means. And Phil feels strangely
downcast, for he thinks that the "terrible
affair " to which Aunt Lucy alludes with
such ireful impatience is the breaking off of
the engagement with his cousin.
" But it's past and over now," Mrs. Hen-
derson puts in kindly, for she too is thinking
of Madge's illness," and we'll agree never to
speak of it again. Who is that fine-looking
girl you were dancing with when we came in,
Phiir'
" Miss Westcott, the cousin of my pupil."
MISS WESTOOTT INTERVENES. 69
" Oh ! ** Mrs. Henderson says her " Oh ! ''
so significantly that Philip blushes with an-
noyance, as he feels that Mrs. Henderson is
thinking what is not the case. Before he
can master this annoyance, and say some-
thing coolly critical about Miss Westcott that
shall imdeceive his hearers, the gallop comes
to a clattering end, and Madge is restored to
her place.
Now is his time, and he seizes it. He
pleads with an eagerness he can t subdue for
the next dance for any for one at least.
And Madge has to shake her head, and
declare herself " engaged for all.''
He looks round hopelessly, wondering
whether any one of the men who have so
unwarrantably stolen a march on him, will
hare the decent feeling to renounce her to
him. And Madge meanwhile looks down
and plays with her programme as it dangles
70 '''he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
from her fan ; and wonders whether or not
Phil will "arrange it"" with some one to
whom a dance with her will be but as water
unto wme, compared to what it will be to
Phil.
But he does not read the truth in her face,
and so the opportunity slips, as does many a
prized one from us all in life, and Madge gets
into a vortex of other men, and for all the
good Phil gains from her society, he might
have stayed away from the hunt ball this
night.
But there comes a moment when an un-
wary man leaves her on a fruitless errand
after her cloak, in which she wants to wrap
herself, as she proceeds down to supper.
And in that moment Phil is by her side.
" I want to hear you say, that you forgive
me evert/thing that happened the last time
I saw you,*' he says eagerly, " and I want
MISS WESTCOTT INTERVENES. 71
you to tell me if the friendship I so proudly
thought I had gained then is to be ivith-
drawn from me altogether now."
" I have nothing to forgive if I had I'd do
it, and as for the rest everything is altered
you know, and so perhaps we had better not
try to go on building up, when the very
foundation of what we built upon is broken
4own.*'
She hardly knows why she says this.
She is only certain that she wishes him to
know that PhiUp and herself have severed
their bonds, and that she will not hastily
form another bond even of friendship. So
she dispirits and unwittingly deceives him.
Still he follows her down, and gets close to
her at supper, and is preparing to try to
touch once more the old spring of interest
in himself, to wake the chords that have
made the only music of his life, when Miss
72 "'he COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
Westcott and a boy partner who bores her
take up a position next to him.
Miss Westcott is really "fond of Phil
Fletcher." She would use these very words
in speaking of him to anyone, use them
openly, and believe in very truth that they
exactly expressed her unsentimental regard
for him. We know so Uttle of ourselves,
even the most self-analytically disposed of us.
She is frank to a fault, this boisterous
young being with the blonde hair, and so
now directly she finds herself next to Phil
who never bores her, she audibly expresses
her delight, for she will be able to get away
from the boy who does. And Madge listens
to the effusive words that bespeak such well-
grounded intimacy, and that so fatally confirm
the statement Philip had made about his
cousin being awfully gone on one of these
&;irls. Listens, and lets the scorn in her heart
MISS WESTC50TT INTERVENES. 73
for the facility with which people love and
unlove, and for the fickleness of herself and
others, display itself in her averted face, and
her cool manner.
"I knew you wouldn't go, Phil," Miss
Westcott begins, " I felt sure of you for the
after supper round dances ; they're always
the best, and we always belong to each other
for them, don't we ? "
Madge tingles. She does not know that
this remark is made by Miss Westcott for
the purpose of ridding herself for the rest of
the night of her youthful attache, in whose
mind calf-love had just developed the know-
ledge that he is as his sisters have often
told him, "but an awkward hobble-de-hoy."
Poor fellow ! He too has his strictly private
miseries, even as he stands here smiUng the
uneasy loose kind of smile, that will not limit
itself, of indecision and awkwardness. He has
74 ' "he COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
Buddenly become conscious of so many things
of which he had been happily oblivious. He
knows that he has nothing to say for himself,
nothing, that is, that a girl can care to hear ;
he knows that the line of scarlet flesh
between his cuflF and his glove, which won't
keep buttoned, is a hideous thing in woman's
eyes. He knows that when he flops about
in a gallop, or conducts himself hke a surging
wave in a waltz, that his partner must think
him a mere bungling boy. He could almost
have cried just now when he found himself
panting, and heard himself puffing, after two
sharp rounds, at the end of which Diana^s
breathing powers were in as perfect order
as when they started. He is nineteen, and
Ronald Westcott is only nineteen, but Miss
Westcott's young adorer knows well that
neither she nor any other woman would
venture to treat Ronald with the mixture of
MISS WESTCOTT INTERVENES. 75
familiarity and unconcern with which they
treat himself. He can't understand it, and
he is miserable, even as he stands bearing
the burden of Miss Westcott's fan and
bouquet (he has sent her the bouquet himself),
and handkerchief, and wine glass while that
young being calmly disposes of her mayon-
aise and gives all her attention to Phil
Fletcher.
Presently Madge feels that Miss Westcott
is whispering to Phil. She cannot hear a
word, she would not'hear a word if she could.
But she is annoyed at the mere fact, and it
must be conceded that she is unwarrantably
annoyed, for has she not done her best to
3hill him oflF to-night ?
" Who's the pretty girl in blue ? '' Miss
Westcott asks "bewitching dress too, how
well it would suit me ! '' Not the least of
the young Diana's charms is her open and
76 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.''
undisguised pleasure in her own appearance.
You cannot call it vanity.
" It is Miss Roden," Phil mutters, fervently
hoping that Madge will not hear him.
" Oh ! the one who was engaged to your
cousin ; a shame to have broken with such
a nice fellow,'' and now she addresses the
youthful victim of her bow and spear aloud,
" Mr. Mervyn, may I ask you to go aud see
where mamma is ? I won't wander about
in search of her till I know exactly where
she is."
He feebly shakes his chains. " Shall I
find you here again if I do go ?"
"Well yes, you'll find me if my partner has
not claimed me," she says blithely, and as he
goes on her mission she turns to Phil, and
laughs out unguardedly.
" Under the circumstances, I don't suppose
it will be very shocking, if I ask you to take
MISS WESTCOTT INTERVENES. 77
a turn or two with me, Phil. I can't stand
that boy any longer.'* And she rises as she
says it, and Phil is obliged to go off with her,
without another word from Madge, without
even a look.
The circumstances to which Miss Westcott
has so carelessly referred, are simply these :
that he has been Kving in her father's house
for many weeks, that they are as intimate
as brother and sister, and that they dance
together nearly every night. But Madge
feels sure that by " under the circumstances "
"that overpowering girl" means their
engagement. And the glory of the ball
is gone.
She goes rather languidly through the rest
of her engagements, but still she finds greater
pleasure no ! not pleasure, but greater peace
in dancing than in sitting down, for she is
shrinkingly afraid of the remarks that may
78 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
ei11 from Aunt Lucy and Mrs. Henderson.
Everything connected with the one subject
has stood out in such vivid colours before
Madge this night, that she thinks the others
must have seen it also. Naturally she has
no admiration left for Miss Westcott. But
she could ill bear to hear Phil's choice
criticised by those two friends of hers.
At length she makes the very young lady-
like plea to her partner, of requiring change
of air, and indicates a wish to go out into one
of the bench-lined corridors, and sit down
out of the whirl. She feels that she may do
this with impunity, for her partner is that
same Mr. Mervyn who is wearing his heart
upon his sleeve for Miss Westcott. Madge
knows well that there will be no trouble with
him. She has not " ridden to hounds all day,
and come as fresh as paint to the ball to-
night,'' as he enthusiastically describes Miss
MISS WESTCOTT INTERVENES. 79
Westcott having done. And she is right. All
his soul is with the young Diana of the day,
though his body reposes upon the hard bench
at Madge's side.
Presently she begs him "not to stay with
her, but to get another partner and finish it.''
And this she does really in mercy to the boy,
who keeps on craning his neck to look through
the doorway, at the gyrating form of his
love's young dream. He obeys her with an
obedient haste that he is heartily ashamed of,
but that he is quite powerless to repress.
The fact is he has stimulated himself to the
point of determining to " put it to the test "
this night. His hand, heart, and possessions
will be offered to Miss Westcott before the
*' Kghts are* dead, the garlands shed," in the
waxing Ught of day.
Wearily Madge sits there alone, her eyes
fixed on the changing figures, but not seeing
80 '"HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
one of them. Suddenly the seat by her side
is taken, and Phil Fletcher asks :
" I have watched for this moment to find
you disengaged ; do give me a turn."
" I have dismissed my partner on the plea
of being too tired to dance any more," she.
says evasively, and Phil lowers his head and
plead;s,
" Not with me, as a proof to me that you
haven't altogether ceased to take a little
friendly interest in me ? "
*' Friendly interest ! Under the circum-
stances even that is impossible."
For an instant he harbours the delusion
that the girl loved Philip too well to endure
any communication with Philip's relations
now. Then he banishes it, and is about to
say something, which shall prove to her at
least jthait his interest in her is deeper than
ever, when again Miss Westcott intervenes.
MISS WESTCOTT INTERVENES. 81
This time she comes flying up with real
dismay on her face, and does not even see
Madge. " Dear Phil," she begins, " do come ;
Eonald has taken too much wine, Vm afraid,
and he's broken a big looking-glass ; Papa
can't manage him."
It was true. Ronald and a big cavalry
sword, with which he had been practising a
little harmless fencing, were the innocent
means of deepening Madge's conviction of
Phil being Miss Westcott's "dear Phil" in
very truth. " I will be back directly," are
his parting words as he goes off in search of
his charge, and even at the door] he turns
round and gives her a look that plainly en-
treats her to ** wait for him."
VOL. III.
CHAPTER IV.
"HOPE TELLS A FLATTERING TALE."
For three wofuUy expectant days, Olive
Aveland has endured the suspense now she
simply lives through it. All of us know the
difference that exists between these two
passive forms of misery, or, if we have not
learnt it already, we shall learn it by-and-by.
But I believe that the last-named stage is,
in reality, the stagnant period that must
intervene before the death of any great
suffering.
The fourth day dawns, and, as Olive
wearily raises herself and prepares for the
day, the wicked prayer is on her lips that she
"hope tells a FLATTERINa TALE." 88
^^may not live to see another." In that
same moment she is helped and forgiven ; for
the prayer that she utters, which really comes
from her heart, is that "she may live to
jknow how wise it all is."
" Oh, happiness ! our being's end and aim/'
What servile misery we all go through in
seeking to make you our own familiar friend.
And you shun us the more determinately, the
more we pursue you, and force upon us the
conviction that you are very much like the
lenizens of this wicked world, after all,
never accessible to those who really need
you.
No letter from Philip rests on her breakfast
table, throwing a halo over it. Her rather
dry bread and butter nearly chokes her as
she tries to begin that "crushing out"
system which she has half vowed to carry
through. He is free, and he does not use his
G 2
84 "'HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID/'
freedom to come near her. " If he does not
seek me, I will not let my life be laid waste
by thoughts of him any longer/' she says in
her heart, with fierce determination.
Weak, weak " as the first that fell of wo-
mankind," as she is, she does really make
strong and earnest efforts, all this day, to
forget that this man lives, corroding her life !
She endeavours, with all her power of
argument, to prove to herself that he is a
common-place character enough, selfish, and
not too largely endowed with principle. She
accepts the truth of the statements she makes
to herself concerning him, and loves him just
as well as if she disbelieved them all.
Olive, in short, belongs to that order of
women and it is not a small one, unfor-
tunately, who do not fall in love with the
good qualities of men. Women of this type
detect the " one virtue " (overlaid as it may
be by a thousand crimes), and justify their
affection by it. Or they fail in detecting any
virtue at all, and still love the poor sinner out
of very pity.
As she goes into her lodgings this night,
she tells herself that henceforth Philip's reign
over her heart shall be a secret and unac-
knowledged one. He shall never have the
satisfaction of feeling that he may leave her
for any length of time, and always be sure of
a welcome when it pleases him to come.
" Grood-by, my dear dead hope," she says ;
" Tve not even you left to me in the world
now." And, as she so resigns herself, he
comes across the room to her.
These three days, that have been so
desperately long, and fiill of painful un-
certainty to Olive, have been days of tempta-
tion and struggle to Philip. He knows what
Olive does not realize, that it would be a
86 "'HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
greater cruelty, on his part, to marry her,,
than to part with her at once and for ever.
He knows that poverty with a wife and
children, however much he loved them, would
brutalize him. And he knows that, being
what he is, he has no reasonable hope of ever
emerging out of poverty by his own exertions.
Further, he knows that, in the presence of
the girl, all this knowledge is likely to prove
vain.
So, for three days, he has been struggling
against his inclination to be soothed by a
sight of the one being in the world to whom
he is the first and the dearest. But a sight
of her woe-lined face, as she went to work
this morning (he has waited for an hour each
day to see her come out), has toppled down
his resolution. And so behold him here at
the eleventh hour !
Here as her friend only, not as her lover.
a
HOPE TELLS A FLATTERING TALE." 87
He has sworn solemnly to himself that
nothmg shall tempt him to the injustice of
being more than calmly friendly with Olive
Aveland. He has some vain and feeble
notion " that, in turn, her own good sense
will tell her that it is folly for them never to
see one another, and to be apparently at feud,
though marriage is out of the question." He
never pauses to consider, as he himself will
not be injured by the arrangement, that it
is one to ruin Ohve in people's estimation.
There will be comfort to him in her society.
What does it matter to PhiHp at what cost to
the girl this comfort is purchased ?
" I should have called on you before," he
glibly and falsely explains, as soon as they
have shaken hands coldly ; " but Tve been
looking about to find employment." Then,
as Ohve vouchsafes no answer, does not even
look at him, he goes on : " My prospects have
8S "'HE COMETH KOT, SHE SAID.
altered very much since I saw you last ; do
you know in what way ? ''
She turns her face towards him now, and
it is steady as a rock as she says,
" I have heard from Madge Roden/'
'* Then you know that my engagement with
her is broken oflF?"
*' Yes,'' OHve says. "Why?''
She is hungering for him to say, ** Because
I love you, OUve." But he is a wise young
man. Such a speech would mean a wedding-
ring very soon ; and, very soon after that, all
the subterfuges, and woes, and petty miseries
of a ton-pound householder. So he saga-
ciously does violence to his inclinations, which
would lead him to make the very speech
Olive is vainly imagining, and answers
instead,
" Miss Roden grew tired of me, I
suppose."
The bitterness which he infuses into these
words for it is his present design to play the
part of a jilted and consequently embittered
lover almost convinces Olive that they are
true. She makes a great effort to be
decently sorry for him outwardly.
" I can hardly think that of Madge," she
says, slowly ; " she is such a faithful-hearted
girl.'
" It's mortifying to have to acknowledge
it/' Philip says, with a short, harsh laugh ;
*' but I am obliged to believe that her heart
had nothing to do with it from the first ; it
was habit and her friend Mrs. Henderson. It's
a blow to a fellow," he goes on appeal-
ingly to Olive, " after it has gone on for so
long."
She presses a ring cruelly into her finger
to keep herself from crying out in her pain.
It is intolerable that he should come to her
90 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
and regret and lament another woman, even
though that other woman is Madge. But
there is nothing abject or reproachful in the
way she says, presently,
" It is human, I suppose, to value a thing
more highly when we have lost it ; there was
a time when you certainly did not duly prize
Madge Roden or her love."
" Don't you reproach me for that, Olive,"
he cries, quickly. Then he feels that these
words may be taken ^s the advanced guard
of a whole regiment of " follies/' if he does
not neutralize thieir impression, and adds,
" To be perfectly candid with you " (how
natural it is to distrust the veracity of words
that are* prefaced in this way), "I did not
value what I have lost highly enough until I
lost it ; but I'm making up for that careless
appreciation now. You mustn't be hard on
me, Olive ; I have a horrible feeling of
"HOPE TELLS A FLATTE4UNG TALE." 91
isolation upon me ; my own people have
cooled considerably towards me of late, and, if
they hadn't, I am not sufficiently pleased with
my cousin Phil's conduct to risk meeting him.
If it were not for the ToUingtons and you/*
he says, hesitatingly, "I should be as
solitary a fellow as there is in London/'
Again there is silence on Olive's part. She
is most profoundly perplexed by Philip's
manner and his words. But, in the midst of
her cruel perplexity, she stands fast to her
determination to make no sign that shall
show him she is still his to torture as he likes.
That he will torture her horribly, she knows ;
but he shall not know it.
" Admiral Tollington is coming to see you,"
he presently jerks out ; " how fond he seems
of you, Ohve."
A softer look one of gratitude gleams
in Olive's eyes, ^poor, tear-stiffened eyes that
92 ''*HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
have been, for many a long day, set in circles
of pain and she says warmly,
" Tm glad he is coming ; I hope he won't
bring that woman with him."
" Do you mean Mrs. Tollington ? ''
" Of course I mean Mrs. Tollington ;
Philip, I hate her ! ''
** She s a good little creature enough, too/'
he says, deprecatingly. " Frivolous and a
little vain, perhaps, but not a person to call
such a passion as hate into existence, any
more than she is one to call such a passion
as love into existence."
He throws this last sentence as a sop to
the Cerberus of Olive's animus. Instead of
being appeased by it, however, Olive is
aggravated into saying,
" Love ! don't speak of anything so holy
as * love,' in connection with such a creature
as that," and she lets go her lax hold of
the slender rope of dignity in a moment.
Then she checks herself, and adds, more
moderately,
" Tm neither generous nor just, I know it
very well, when that woman is my topic,
Philip. She did not wrong and misjudge me
through obtuseness and stupidity, she did it
with low cunning and carefully regulated spite ;
but you're right, she is not a person to call
such a passion as hate into existence. For the
future, FU only despise her as I don't
despise anything else on earth," she winds
up, vehemently.
"She's not worth talking about," Philip
is beginning, but Olive interrupts him by
saying calmly,
** Don't shelve the subject in that way ; I
should like it better if you said, * Mrs. Tolling-
ton is a friend of mine, and I won't stay here
and hear her abused.' "
94 '"he COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
" And you would take advantage of that
rash threat, and would go on abusing her in
order to rid yourself of my society 1 '^ he
questions, laughingly. " Oh yes ! I know
what women are."
" You know what women are ! '^ she repeats,
with infinite scorn infinite, assumed scorn,
that is, for her heart is melting to his looks
and tones with ignominious speed. " You
know what women are ! do you really think
you do ? Why, you know nothing about
them ; you only understand shallow, puerile
natures like Mrs. Tollington's."
She is so ashamed of herself for having
fallen back upon this unworthy subject of
dispute, that she hastens to create a diversion
directly the words are out of her lips, by
making tea and offering Philip some. But
Philip is not like Griffiths Poynter, who would
have swallowed boilinix water if offered to
"hope tells a flattering tale/' 93
him by her fair hand. Philip detests tea at
the hour when civilized man should be dining.
He reminds himself that the Tollingtons
that " hospitable little woman, wlio has given
him a general invitation, and her husband "
^will be sitting down to a dinner that would
be more appetising to the lady certainly if
partaken of in company with someone besides
her legal lord. And he has risen and said
" Good evening " to Olive before he re-
members that he dares not present himself,
an unbidden guest, to the TolUngtons, in
morning dress. Still he goes, for there is
nothing in Olive's manner to detain him.
He has not transgressed the prudent
bounds of friendship. He has been un-
demonstrative, self-possessed, and perfectly
kind in his manner towards her. On no
pretext whatever can she, without open
confession of disappointment, and consequent
96 "*HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
loss of dignity, forbid his again seeking her
in this quiet, merely friendly way ! She
knows this well as he bids her good-by, and
promises *^ another call soon/' She knows
this well, and writhes under the knowledge.
She sits for hours over her untasted tea,
trying to take in the facts and to face them.
It has come to this, she realises. Philip
takes a cool, mental pleasure in her society,
and means to have it on serenely friendly
terms. She is to be the sympathetic and
intelligent repository of all his hopes, and
fears and struggles, and schemes. And she
is obliged to accept the situation.
By-and-by, after she has looked at the
subject from every side, a faint colour flushes
her face, corresponding to a faint flicker of
hope in her heart. While he sees her often
he will not care for any other woman ! There
is comfort in that thought, the only comfort
left to her. And so she resigns herself to
walking on the dubious neutral ground over
which Philip has indicated that he intends
leading her.
Days pass and lengthen into weeks, and
Philip continues calling on her fitfully, and
making himself and his poor prospects his
chief topics. So far these visits resemble the
first one, each detail of which has been
described. But they differ in some respects.
A change is creeping over Philip insensibly,
for he does desire, above all things, to be
prudent. But he finds it a more difficult
task than he had at first imagined it to be,
to be much with Olive without showing her
that he loves her still.
The girl has schooled herself sharply, and
never, by conscious look or word, does she
attempt to break down the barrier he has
created. But her heart swells with a
VOL. III. H
98 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
stronger - hope after each visit, as the possi-
bility, which has been her blessing and her
bane for so many years, presents itself more
and more definitely. She knows what
PhiUp will not acknowledge to himself, that
the firm ground he determined to stand upon
is sUpping from under his feet, that her
presence is a trying temptation to him to-
i*eHnquish the resolve he has made, and that,,
though he will not permit himself to utter a
single soft word, every glance that he gives
her is a message straight from his heart to
hers.
His hand lingers longer and longer in
giving the greeting and parting clasp. He-
defers to her opinion as to the way in which
he shall go to work in trying to procure
remunerative employment. And finally, he
rushes to tell her of his first success with a
return of all his old affectionate ardour,.
"hope tells a flattering tale/ 99
when he has secured the post of private
secretary and amanuensis to Admiral Tol-
lington.
The news cuts like a knife. All this time
the ToUingtons have never been mentioned.
Mutely they had agreed it seemed, after that
one outbreak on Olive's part against Mrs.
Tollington, to say nothing more about either
the husband or wife. Secretly, Olive thought
a great deal about her father's old friend, the
frank, cordial, apparently kind-hearted man
who had promised to come and see her, and
had failed to keep his promise.
"We go down to Government House at
to-morrow," PhiUp goes on explaining ;
" it's a good thing for a fellow with absolutely
nothing of his own to start with, and with
old Tollington's interest will lead to some-
thing better."
" What has kept who has kept Admiral
H 2
100 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
Tollington from coming to see me ? " Olive
asks, bluntly.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you ! he has been out
of town, up in Scotland, for some time. An
uncle of his died lately and left him a large
property, a place called Auchtarroch, up in
the Highlands they only came back yester^
day." ^
" Has she been with him 1 "
" To be sure she has," Philip laughs; " you
don't suppose that our essentially feminine
friend would miss the earliest opportunity
of displaying herself as the chieftainess ; she's
absolutely magnificent now ; began calling
her husband ' Auchtarroch,' can't you fancy
her?"
" I can fancy her making a fool of herself
in any and every way," Olive says, calmly.
" She'll disappear from mortal sight in a
blaze of glory soon," Philip says, with a burst
*'hope tells a flattering tale/' 101
of laughter at the expense of the fair being
who has won him the appointment. " Old
Tollington is to be knighted for the prompti-
tude with which he resented something or
other that was supposed to be an insult to
the British flag. OUve, you must let me
write to you constantly, if it's only to tell you
how Lady Tojlington handles her sceptre,
and wears hr crown.''
"You may write to me as often as you
will, PhiUp,'' Olive says, with her eyes gUsten-
ing, " but if you ever mention that woman,
I'll burn your letter without reading it.''
"I won't, then," he promises, cheerfully ;
" and you'll answer my letters 1 "
She is heartily ashamed of herself as she
nods assent, and whispers, " Yes."
If any one despises Olive for these conces-
sions which she makes, and considers her
pusillanimous for her " Philip at any price "
102 "'HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
conduct, let that person remember that the
quality which is most highly prized in a
woman is "fidelity,'' and this fidelity was the
strongest element in Olive's nature.
He takes leave of Olive this evening with
more tenderness than he has allowed himself
to exhibit before. Suddenly, when he reaches
the door, he turns back, seizes her hand and
kisses it desperately. " We go down by an
early train to-morrow morning," he explains.
" I shall not see you for six weeks, Olive.''
" The time will be longer to me than to
you," she murmurs. But she feels sure now,
he is, he will be her own Philip at last.
After all, there is a delay of a week or ten
days in the ToUington departure. The
admiral receives the honour of knighthood,
and remains to attend a levee before going
down to his port. And Lady ToUington gets
herself presented, and from the moment she
"hope tells a flattering tale/' 103
passes out from the presence of royalty, feels
a withering contempt for everyone who
*' hasn't a title, and doesn't visit at court.'^
Never did the prefix of " Lady " give such
entire happiness to a human being before.
For a moment her heart is as light as her
head ; it would not astonish her at all, nor
would it, indeed, seem other than a perfectly
natural proceeding, if, as she descends from
her carriage in all the glory of her court
train, Philip Fletcher were to fling his cloak
on the pavement for her to trample on.
Happily for himself Philip has a fair sense
of humour, and Lady ToUington is a per-
petual source of purest joy to him for many
s. long day.
CHAPTER V.
MISS WESTCOTT "THINKS."
Phil's whisper to Madge is perfectly
audible to her. Unluckily as she feels
it is perfectly audible to Miss Westcott also.
Phil, making oflF to discharge a duty that
his conscience tells him has been too long
neglected, leaves the two girls almost alone
together, for the few saunterers in the
corridors are strangers to them both. For
a moment Madge thinks that she will get up
and walk away without a word, but she re-
members in time that such a proceeding will
have the air of fleeing before the face of an
enemy. So she remains quiescent, and can
MISlS WESTCOTT "THINKS." 105
think of nothing easy to say that may break
the spell of silence naturally.
Miss Westcott presently saves her further
trouble on that score. Miss Westcott, in a
perfectly unembarrassed way, has been stand-
ing by the side of the young heiress " who
has jilted that handsome fellow, PhiFs cousin,"
looking down with good-natured, lively in-
terest on the graceful head and pretty face
that are so steadily averted from her. As
soon as she has made herself thoroughly ac-
quainted with the details of Madge's dress,
and the way in which Madge's hair is
arranged, she says,
"How silly boys are to take too much
champagne, are they not 1 Here my cousin
Ronald has spoilt the evening for Phil by his
stupidity ; isn't it silly of him 1 "
" Rather more than silly, I think,'* Madge
says, stiflBy. She is rather offended, to tell
106 '''he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
the truth, by this familiar address. " Why
should she force me into conversation because
she's engaged to Phil ? " Madge asks herself,
leaping to an erroneous conclusion after the
manner of women ; " perhaps he has desired
her to cultivate me. Oh ! '' there is much
\\rrath in the way she says " oh ! " half-aloud,
and the tone catches Miss Westcott's ear.
Miss Westcott is one of those happy-hearted
creatures who are troubled with very few
scruples about anything on earth, and who
have no scruples at all about obeying their
friendly instincts. So now . when Madge
seems impatient and vexed, her companion
says, amiably,
" Shall I go into the room with you, and
look for your friends ; Fm due to some one
for the next dance, and it won't be nice for
you to wait here alone. Phil will be sure to
find you in the room."
MISS WESTCOTT "THINKS." 107
"I had no intention of waiting here for
Mr. Fletcher," Madge says, rising up, and
knowing that the unwonted colour in her face
is painting her story vividly.
" Oh ! but he asked you ! " Miss Westcott
says, in some surprise, as if it were altogether
beyond her conception that anyone could
disregard a request of Phil's. '' How in-
fatuated she must be to think that everyone
worships him, because she does," Madge
says to herself. And then she tries to gentle
her thoughts, and can only succeed in think-
ing that " the girl Phil has chosen, ought to
be more dignified and reserved."
Poor Madge ! she does not understand her
own feelings, and she does not dare to analyse
them. Jealousy is bhnding her eyes, or she
would see that there is no tender interest in
Phil, in the manner or tone of the elastic-
footed young lady, stepping along so gaily by
108 "*HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
her side. As it is, it is a positive relief to
Madge when a mighty hunter swoops down
upon the young Diana, and the pair go off
just as she reaches Mrs. Henderson and
Aunt Lucy.
" You haven't been dancing lately,'^ Aunt
Lucy says ; " Madge, I know you want to
get home shall we go at once ? "
Poor Madge professes herself " ready to
go," with a faltering tongue. It is hard to
be taken away before Phil can come and
speak to her once more, for the last time
perhaps: it is very, very hard; a minute
before and she had been indignant at it being
supposed possible that she would "wait for
Phil," now it seems to her that it will be ill-
bred, unfriendly, heartless, and insulting on
her part to go, after having consented by her
silence to stay. What has he done that she
should treat him with scantier courtesy than
MISS WESTCOTT "THINKS." 109
she would show to any other former friend,
even if he is going to commit the enormity of
marrying Miss Westcott.
As she stands, putting it to herself thus,
Mrs. Henderson watches and reads something
of the real state of the case.
" I don't think Madge ought to be one of
the first to go," she says; "let it be felt
that she takes a hearty interest in the hunt
ball." And so it is settled, and Aunt Lucy
yawningly resigns herself to wait another
hour, in order that her niece may portray a
proper interest in the festival held in honour
of the grandest sport of her native county.
After some time, during which Madge has
felt that she is lowering her flag considerably,
and that many of those about her must know
why she so pertinaciously refuses to dance,
though she stays on, Phil comes up breath-
less from the exertions he has used in subdu-
110 "*HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
ing his pupil's riotous spirits. His face lights
up as he notices the irrepressible " welcome "
that beams from her eyes at sight of him,
and the way in which he offers her his arm,
and she instantly takes it, suggests to lookers-
on a previous understanding.
" You did wait/' he says, gratefully, as he
hurries her on to a clearer corner ; " how
good of you ! "
"It was the commonest civility, as you
asked me to do it," she answers ; and then she
nerves herself to add, " I wanted to tell you,
that I hope you will be very happy/'
There is broad amazement in his face as he
bends down to look at her.
" Thank you ; but what calls forth the
hope just now ? "
" She seems to be a very nice girl," Madge
goes on, nearly choking over each word
congratulating a man one loves on his en-
Ill
gagement to another woman, is not the
pleasantest thing in life, *' a very nice girl
indeed. I hope I shall know her better by-
and-by/'
"What are you talking about V he in-
terrupts.
'' About Miss WestGOtt, of course! *'
"Ah! yes, she is a very nice girl,'' he says,
carelessly, looking round him as he speaks
for a spot where they will not be jostled
by the wild waltzers.
"Perhaps they're engaged privately, and
he doesn't wish to speak about it ; well I
if that's the case, the young lady should be a
little more discreet,'* Madge thinks resent-
fully, little knowing that discretion and Miss
Westcott will never have anything to do with
one another; and by this time Phil has
selected his spot, and is conveying her to it.
And once more they are, comparatively
112 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
speaking, isolated and far from observation.
As soon as they stand still, he asks,
" Shall I meet with a welcome if I come
to Halsworthy ? ''
" Yes ; and so you will if you come
to Moorbridge House," Madge responds
promptly, though she is thinking the while,
" how odious it will be if he rides over with
that overpowering girl, and expects me to
admire her feats of noble horsewomanship !"
"Then I shall come," Phil says, gravely
and steadily ; " it was for this that I asked
you to wait. Perhaps I am not justified in
what I have done, under all circumstances ;
perhaps I have taken an unwarrantable
liberty, as you made no sign of wishing to
continue on friendly terms with me; tell me?
have I ? "
" How can he dare to suppose that his en-
gagement makes any diflFerence in my feelings
MISS WESTCOTT "THINKS/' 113
towards him!" Madge thinks, angrily, and her
anger makes her tone cold, and her words
tart.
" You forget that I have had no oppor-
tunity of making such a sign ; however, now
I tell you, I shall be very glad to see you if
I'm at home when you visit Mrs. Henderson ;
and now I must release Aunt Lucy, if you
please/'
Her words and manner damp him dread-
fuljy ; he leads her to her friends, cloaks
her, takes her to her carriage in glum, un-
happy silence. He considers that she has
pointedly expressed to him her desire that
they should be on merely friendly terms, and
these are not nearly sufficient to content him
as he thinks of her and her pleasant beauty
and sweetness.
Altogether the hunt ball is a failure as far
as these two young people are concerned ;
VOL. III. I
114 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID.''
but it has been one of long-continued triumph
to Miss Westcott.
The Westcotts are going to stay in Win-
staple until after the county- ball, which is to
take place two days after the hunt ball. The
Westcotts' home life is easy and unfettered
enough, but they seem to revel in greater
freedom still, now that they are staying away,
with all the conditions of their daily life
altered. Miss Westcott makes her own
arrajpgements at the hunt ball, and informs
her friends what they (the arrangements) are,
the next morning at breakfast.
" We shall be out nearly all day, mamma,"
she begins ; " we arranged a riding party last
night to start at eleven this morning."
" Who is going ? '' Phil asks.
" Why you, of course, and six other men,
and my sister and myself."
" Are you the only ladies ? "
MISS WESTCOTT "THINKS. 115
" Happily we are," Miss Westcott laughs
out merrily.
Now Phil has made up his mind that he
will go to Halsworthy this morning, thfere-
fore the plan Miss Westcott has made for
him is obnoxious ; but he has a dread of
rousing suspicion, and of hearing any chaff-
ing allusion made to Madge, and he knows
well that the Miss Westcotts are proficients
in the art of chaff, and fearless in their use of
that art, therefore he is in a cleft stick.
" I shall not be able to go at eleven, for I
shall be engaged with Ronald till long after
that/'
" Poor boy ! are you going to punish him
for his ebullition of last night, by making
him work to-day ? If I were Ronald, Fd
rebel; you wouldn't get me to work, Phil,
during the Winstaple week."
" Don't incite him to rebellion, that's all I
116 '''HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
ask of you/' Phil says, getting up, and walk-
ing away to the door to avoid further discus-
sion ; but before he can get himself out of
the room, Miss Westcott is gaily dancing
after him.
"My dear Phil, I'll wait till one rather
than go ivithout you ; come! that's a conces-
sion you wouldn't get your grand Miss
Roden to make ; she was absolutely huffy
at your asking her to wait a minute in the
corridor last night, when you were called to
put a stop to Ronald's war-dance. Fll wait
till one, and disappoint the rest for you
there!''
" My dear," her mother says, when the girl
returns after having wrung an ungracious
assent from Phil, "Phil Fletcher will think
you value his society very highly, and other
people will think something else."
It is the most direct reproof the girl has
MISS WESTCOTT "THINKS. 117
ever received from her mother, and it has
the surprising eflfect on Miss Westcott, of
making her " think."
Now the result of "thought'' on such a
subject in a vigorous young mind like Miss
Westcott's, is often extremely deleterious to
others. She sums up the whole business
succinctly and speedily. She is in love with
Phil Fletcher, and of course " Phil Fletcher
is in love with her ! "
Naturally, having come to this conclusion,
when she next meets Phil ^which is just as
they are about to start for their ride she
behaves like the pure-minded, honest-hearted
young idiot she is ; blushes scarlet, and fears
in her confused enlightenment that he must
have thought her very bold and forward for
asking him to come to-day, and her blushing
embarrassment is contagious; Phil catches it,
wonders what the girl is thinking of, and why
118 "'HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.
she drops her eyes before his in a way she
never did before, and wishes, with all his
power of wishing, that he had stood to his
guns, and refused to have joined the riding-
party this day.
He has a fair excuse for keeping rather
aloof from the rest, in the presence of his
pupil, by whose side he rides slightly in the
rear of the others. Ronald has a headache^
and is generally low and penitential. He is
the son of a rich mother, but he has not the
money to pay for his escapade of last night,,
and Phil has insisted that Ronald shall tell
the whole truth about the broken looking-
glass, when he makes the application to Mrs.
Westcott for money to pay for it.
It is a bright, crisp winter day, and the
atmosphere has such an exhilarating eiSect
on Miss Westcott, that the girl forgets her
embarrassment, and the cause of it, and
MISS. WESTCOTT " THINKS." il
resumes her normal mamier to the extent of
reining up for Phil to ride by her. " I do
like this kind of thing," she says, in a glow ;
" riding through villages that we don't know
the names of that we've never seen before,
and probably shall never see again I d
like it, don't you ? "
" Yes," Phil answers, hesitatingly ; " but I
think why surely, yes, I have seen this one
before."
"We are in the High-street of Hals-
worthy," one of the men in advance shouts
back. And then they both remember the
place, and the occasion of their former visit
to it.
" We drove your cousin and you once to
Moorbridge House, to be sure, and regarded
him as the master of it almost ; how could
that girl break it off; 1 do think it cruel^
don't you, Phil 1 "
120 '^'HE COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
" I know nothing of the circumstances of
the case/' he says, tersely. "I only know
that she is incapable of cruelty."
"It's such a charming old house, full of
carvings and pictures, and all sorts of queer
old things," Miss Westcott kindly explains to
anyone who will listen to her ; " we had
such a jolly lunch there when Mr. Fletcher
did the honours to us. Look here, Phil/' she
adds, suddenly, "why shouldn't we call on
Miss Roden now ? '*
" Such a party of us," Phil protests, a
thrill of utter aversion to the plan she has
mooted, possessing him. But Miss Westcott
is pertinacious.
" The size of the party is nothing against
our going. I should be delighted to see a
regiment ride up to our house any day and
every day as far as that goes ; and I do
want to see if she's quite in harmony with
MISS WESTCOTT "THINKS/' 121
her house ; besides, we're neighbours ; we
ought to call ; give me a pencil and Til write
mamma's name on my card and please make
haste/'
Unwillingly enough he gives her the
pencil, but he cannot prevent Miss Westcott
from calling on anyone she pleases he
realises this truth perfectly. As he returns
his pencil to his pocket, be says,
" Ronald and I will ride on/'
" If you do I shall think you very unkind ;
and surely Miss Eoden will think it very
impoUte when I tell her that you came
actually to her gates, and wouldn't come in."
" You wouldn't tell her."
" Yes, I would, Phil ; I shall be vexed
enough to say anything if you don't come.
/ ought to call, you know," she adds, per-
suasively, "because when we were left
together last night, we quite made friends."
122 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
It is Miss Westcott's happy idiosyncrasy
to believe invariably that she quite " makes
friends " with everyone she meets, and as a
rule she is justified in her belie
Carried by her eloquence, or her will, or
by some imknown force in his own nature
which he cannot gainsay, Phil rides on into
the grounds of Moorbridge House. Rides on
in front with brilliant Miss Westcott, and the
rest of the cavalcade follow them along the
avenue.
Madge has stayed at home all this morn-
ing. It is in vain that her aunt has im-
pressed upon her at brief intervals that there
is nothing Uke a brisk walk for wearing off
fatigue. Madge declares that she is not in
the least fatigued, and that therefore the
walk would be a work of supererogation.
She does not even go down to the village.
She does not even go to the big pond that is
MISS WESTCOTT "THINKS. 12a
frozen over, and which is out of sight of the
house. "And all the winter you've been
wishing for a good frost that you might.
have some skating!" Aunt Lucy complains
pathetically.
Phil has asked her for a welcome, and she
has promised him one ; and after a night's
meditation she is not sorry for it. No false
shame shall keep her from giving him a full
and hearty one whenever he comes, and
something tells her he will come to-day.
She and her golden greyhound, and her
three peacocks, as they strut round her for
food, make a bright picture enough on the
terrace. Madge is in green velvet (that
gleams like an emerald when the sun shines
on it), and beaver-skin to-day, and in her
Tyrolean hat one metaUic-looking feather
glistens. She is all warmth and hght as she
hears the sound of horses' feet. She looks
124 '^'HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
up with a face fair as the day, and rosy as
the mom, and sees Phil and Miss Westcott
riding towards her.
CHAPTER VI.
"WHO LOVES YET DOUBTS."
Madge makes no sign of being punished
by the spectacle advancing at a hand canter
towards her. She is punished horribly ; but
she is as game as one of her own Exmoor red-
deer, or as one of the best of the hounds that
are always hungering for the destruction of
the aforesaid red-deer. There is no shadow
of the exquisite pain at her heart, tinging
either her face or her manners, as she quietly
frees herself from the greyhound and the
peacocks that are parading around her, and
advances to offer greetings to her guests.
It is the most crushing, convincing proof
126 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
that could have been oflfered her of Phil's
allegiance being due to this frank-faced
young lady, who so cheerfully takes it for
granted that Madge is as delighted to see
her, as she is to come to Moorbridge House.
By the time the vanguard have come up, and
Madge has ascertained something of the
nature of the honour thus thrust upon her,
all doubts (they were very few and weak at
first) as to the propriety of her conduct have
fled from Miss Westcott's mind. In her
young, strong, hearty appreciation of the
out-of-course character of the proceeding, she
a on the brink of explaining to Madge how
and with whom she had last entered the
house. She gets as far, in fact, as " Oh !
Miss Roden, do you know when I came
here " and then she stops abruptly, and
colours freely, and looks in helpless appeal to
Phil to come to the rescue.
"WHO LOVES, YET DOUBTS." 127
But Madge does not catch the sentiment,
she fails even to catch the sense of this
speech. All her faculties are fully engaged
in the task of subduing the slightest sign of
the suflFering she is enduring. And she
masters her task gallantly, as only a
thorough-bred creature can.' The recollec-
tion that she is the sole representative of a
race that has been honoured and honourable
in the county for generations, comes to her
as a timely aid. She is all the '* young
lady of the land" she is all that the
most jealous lover of Madge Roden could
desire her to be and nothing more, as she
makes a graceful welcome for these unbidden
guests.
There is not the slightest doubt about her
being in harmony with her house, as she
leads the way into it with Miss Westcott by
her side. This young girl of twenty-one has
128 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID/'
all the machinery of hospitality ready to her
hand ; but what is even more, she ' has the
talent and the tact to work it well. "It's
just time for luncheon/' she says to Miss
Westcott, as she walks on, and then she
looks and nods slightly to the servant who is
holding the door. In that nod there is a
whole volume of directions, for in this house
the servants catch the spirit of the wishes of
their young mistress with marvellous promp-
titude.
" Thank you ; it would be delightful to
lunch here again I mean it would be de-
lightful, but we're such a throng," Miss
Westcott says, tripping up in her speech and
reminiscences. And then Madge offers a
comprehensive explanation that it will be
"delightful to her too."
She takes her guests into the room where
her own portrait hangs, and where Aunt
"who loves, yet doubts."' 129
Lucy is sitting, a little out of gear already,
by reason of the re-appearanco of a Philip
Fletcher ^it doesn't much matter which it is
they have both been disturbing elements
in Madge's life.
When she sees the troop by whom he is
accompanied, her sense of the untowarduess
of it all deepens. A hoard of barbarians
from the hills would have been as welcome
to Aunt Lucy, who looked upon casual
people as a branch of human suflfering
from which the upper classes should be
exempt.
But ner conventional ice has to thaw, her
conservatism has to give way before the
warm and steady way in which poor Madge
decides on carrying on the war. Aunt Luc}^
is always made of full account in the house
by her niece, but there is not the slightest
doubt in the minds of anyone of those who
VOL. in. K
130 "*HE COMETH ^'0T/ SHE SAID."
have invaded this territory, as to which is^
the reigning queen of it.
" Aunt/' she says, as Phil goes up to shake^
hands with the old lady, " Mr. Fletcher and
his friends will lunch with us presently ; '*
and while Aunt Lucy is still writhing under
this intelligence, for her gloomy imagination
foresees more love-making, more engage-
ments, and, j&nally, more abrupt and inex^
pUcable terminations to the same ; while
she wrestles unsuccessfully with these dark
prophetic pangs, Madge carries her visitors^
oflf to the "observatory^' in a whirl, from
which she does not dare to cease.
" It would be odious to fall flat, because
someone has done something I never thought
he would do," Madge tells herself ; but all
the while she is taking Miss Westcott's
measure most accurately, and cannot find
that young lady deserving mentally of her
"who loves, yet doubts/' 131
friend Phil. ** She would do so well for
Grif/' Madge thinks ; " why won't the right
people come together."
The " observatory/' as it is euphemistically
called at Moorbridge House, is simply a
square planked surface, guarded by wide-
apart rails, and protruding from one of the
shelving sides of the house. The ascent to
it is by a wide, flat-stepped ladder outside
the house. Altogether it is a perilous-look-
ing place, fragile and steep, and as such
Miss Westcott feels disinclined to scale it.
" I think I don't care for views," she says,
in a tone that is both deprecating and ex-
planatory. "I don't care for views, and I
get giddy if I go up ladders, so don't mind
me.
She shouts this to Madge, who is already
half way up the " look out," or observatory ;
and Madge smiles a bland assent, and
K 2
132 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
graciously continues to lead the way for
those whose love of scenery or sensation will
take them up to one of the best artificial
"look-outs" in this boundary land. It is
not until she gains the summit, that she
realises that she is alone here with Phil ;
that all the rest have elected to remain
below with their liege lady of the hunt.
She commences doing the honours in a
hurried manner, that is neither polite nor
politic, for it proves her ill at ease, and Phil
all the while is most mournfully self-pos-
sessed like one unto whom Fate has done
her worst.
Madge turns from side to side, and airily
indicates everything, or rather endeavours to
indicate everything that is within their range
of vision. And Phil doubles her difficulties
by abstractedly gazing at her, and her only.
Presently the frosty air, and the tension of
"who loves, yet doubts/' 133
her nerves, causes a perceptible shiver to run
through her frame, which she tries to explain
away by drawing back abruptly from the
rail she has been leaning against, and
saying,
" Awful a fall would be from here down
into that knobly stony courtyard."
"Are you getting giddy V he asks, coming
a step nearer to her.
" No ; but cold, and whenever Tm cold
I'm depressed ; let us go down."
" I am giddy with a vengeance," he says,
making a movement to stop her ; " the air
has intoxicated me, I suppose, given me the
false futile courage to tell you that I love
you. Miss Roden, though I'm not mad
enough to ask you to love me in return."
He ceases; and Madge stands, her head
slightly raised, though her eyes are bent
down in order to avoid a gaze whose ardour
134 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID/
she believes to be an insult to her. He can
dare to tell her this, while the girl to whom
he is engaged is at the foot of the ladder
waiting for them. Farewell the cherished
romance. Indeed, he is as far from being
the realization of her high ideal, as was his
cousin. Her inward cry must still be *' He
Cometh not" the high-souled, honest lover
she had taught herself to wait for.
It never enters her mind that it is the
view he is having of the extent of the terri-
tory over which she reigns, which has
impressed him with a sense of his own
madness in letting himself love her. Madge
is a thorough woman ; she is so much more
to herself, than her fat productive acres are
to her. She Hkes being the lady of the
land ; but above all things she is Madge.
There is a very brief pause, but it seems a
long one to the young man, who is conscious
(
WHO LOVES, YET DOUBTS/' 135
of his own presumption, not to put the most
humiliating interpretation on her silence.
Then she says and her heart does ache to
Jiave to say it,
" You must be giddy, indeed. I am more
hurt than I can tell you that you should
have thought so lowly of me and yourself,
as to have said that ; for I did hope to keep
friends with you/'
The sensations which may be supposed to
have beset the bold page who loved the ,
kings daughter, set in strongly in Phil's
breast. He had not anticipated such a
crushing rebuff as this, though he had told
himself repeatedly that he had " no hope."
*' And now have I forfeited your friend-
ship?"
She tries to lash herself into anger in
order that she may not break down and
feebly cry over the downfall of her belief in
136 "*HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
his being better, and nobler, and truer alto-
gether than any other man.
" Yes, you have," she says, distinctly ;
" you know, all things considered, that your
words were an insult ; how could you dare
to talk of love to me situated as you are ? "
"How could I, indeed. I am punished
very properly ; Miss Roden you have given
me a sharp lesson ; be assured I shall not
offend again."
They have succeeded in perfectly bewilder-
ing and mystifying one another, and they
both go down smarting and tingling with
mortification. " That he should think so
badly of me as to believe Td let another
girl's lover talk of loving me,'' Madge thinks.
** That she of all girls in the world should
come down and crush me with the facts of
my position, and pennilessness, and presump-
tion," poor Phil feels. And he hates beam-
"who loves, yet doubts." 137
iiig, bright, boisterous Miss Westcott for
having brought him into this valley of degra-
dation, forgetting that he would have come
alone if she had not captured him, and tied
him to her chariot wheel.
As far as the two chief actors in the piece
are concerned, it moves along very heavily
after this. Phil is sick with mortification
and disappointment. Madge is shattered by
this rude awakening from her day-dream.
The others, to be sure, are perfectly at their
ease, and seem well able to enjoy their
luncheon, in spite of that abstraction on
Madge's part which renders her all at once
a limp, and inefficient hostess.
His parting words, uttered in haste, but
coming as they do, straight from his heart,
wring hers horribly, both for him and for
herself. Unluckily they only confirm her in
her previous beUef.
HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
" Forgive me," he says, " I only remem-
bered that you were a woman to be won,
and that I was a man who might win ; you
have made me repent my want of memory
bitterly enough."
" Not more than I do," she answers,
softened in spite of her sense of outrage ;
"ifc has shocked me more than I can tell
you."
And with these words of doom and dis-
missal ringing in his ears, he rides away
from Moorbridge House by Miss Westcott's
side.
By the day of the county ball, Madge is
unfit to go to it. " A feverish cold in my
head, I think," she says to Mrs. Henderson.
" I suppose after that bad attack I wanted a
more thorough change of air than I have got
by coming from one part of the moor to
another." And when she says this, Mrs.
WHO LOVES, YET DOUBTS." 139
Henderson fully understands that the fever
is in Madge's heart. *
It is painful to see how the girl wanes
after this. How she wearies over the very
things that have been wont to interest and
amuse her hitherto. The change is not
sudden ; but it is anything but slow. A
fortnight has not elapsed since those miser-
able five minutes on the observatory, before
the palpable decrease in Madge's bounding
vitality startles Mrs. Henderson into making
a plan, and wheedling Madge into the belief
that she is essential to the proper carrying
out of it.
" I am obliged to spend a couple of months
in town, dear," she says to Madge as care-
lessly as she can ; " business takes me up,
and I shall take the opportunity of getting
good music lessons for Florry ; you must
come with us ? "
1 tU '' ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
And after a slight opposition on Madge's
part the plan is put into execution, and she
goes up to town the end of March.
CHAPTER VII.
LADY TOLLINGTON.
** What matters a little more waiting to one who has waited
for years ?"
The six weeks, at the end of which Philip
has promised Olive and himself the dubious
delight of another meeting, have elapsed,
have nearly doubled themselves, in fact,
and his onerous duties chain Philip to his
post.
But his letters keep -alive the flame of her
faith in him she does not even need them to
keep alight the fire of her love for him ; but
her faith would probably flicker out if he
never wrote to her. But he does write, and
write very tenderly too, calling her his
142 '''he COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
" darling" constantly, and constantly entreat-
ing her to tell him that her anxiety to meet
him again equals his to meet her. But fail-
ing failing always to say, " Will you marry
me, OUve ? " or, " Will you be my wife ? " or
any other definite sentence on which she
can lean her tired heart, and let the poor
thing be at rest.
She, sitting alone night after night in the
dull and Uttle room, which is the only home
she has now, draws endless mind-pictures of
" Philip, and of what he is doing." The one
she likes best is of him sitting alone in Sir
John Tollington's library, burning the mid-
night oil as be has described himself doing
more than once. There is an endless round
of gaiety in this garrison and sea-port town,
he has told her, but he keeps aloof firom it as
much as he can, tor ske is not there.
In one leeqpect Olire is happier than she
LADY TOLLINGTON. 143
was when we last saw her, for Madge Roden
has sought her out, and compelled her to be
glad and rejoice to a certain degree. All
bonds of reserve have been burst between the
two girls, and it is Olive's greatest pleasure
now to hear how it was PhiUp's irrepressible
expression of deep love for herself which
brought about the severance between Madge
and himself. But though Madge knows
OUve^s story, Olive does not know Madge's.
The Phil episode has been fraught with too
much hopeless agony for her to care or to
dare to talk about it.
Madge has been in town a month now,
hearing almost daily of Phil's mother and
sisters from Mrs. Henderson, who visits her
old friend constantly. But never hearing
Phil's name even ; that, by mutual consent,
is sedulously avoided. The hero is fallen, the
idol is shattered; but Madge has not the
144 "*HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
courage to question " how far ? " or to " what
extent 1 ''
The Fletchers, in their humble little homo
in the unimportant street in Chelsea, get all
their convictions on the subject of Madge's
arrogance, and proud sense of her own
position, strengthened, as they hear of her
being in London, and day after day passes
without her crossing their threshold.
" It is evident that she will have nothing
to do with any of Philip's relations, tho'
weVe friends of her friend/* the old lady says
with a sigh, for she has an old lady-like
curiosity to see this queen of her nephew's
ill-fated romance. And Mrs. Henderson can
only speak a platitude by way of replj^, for
she is feeling sure that Madge does not dare
to have anything to do with Phil's mother
and sisters, and that Philip has nothing what-
ever to do with it
LADY TOLLINGTON. 145
Meanwhile Philip is making the best of the
miserable circumstances which keep him from
OUre. His onerous oflBcial duties occupy but
a small portion of the time. But his ex-
official duties are never ending.
Lady ToUington is constantly mounting her
throne and waving her sceptre, and her
household have a hard time of it. She will
insist on being younger, prettier, more
attractive, more popular, more hospitable,
more talked about, than any one else in the
place. She wears the most conspicuous
dresses in this place, where the majority
seem to aim at dressing conspicuously. She
compasses the purchase of a pair of the most
striking and spirited cobs to be had in the
region round about. Her driving powers are
very limited. Even her adoring husband sees
and acknowledges to himself that they are.
Consequently he gives up a portion of his
146 "*HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID/'
secretary's time in order that Lady Tolling-
ton may be spared the shock of driving over
countless multitudes of the Queen's lieges, or
of being upset ignominiously through con-
fiision of mind and the reins.
This post of honour, to do him justice, is
not coveted by Philip. But he suflfers him-
self to be thrust into it, partly because the
supreme vanity of the woman amuses him,
and partly because it is about half a degree
less wearisome to him than his proper work.
After all, and considerably to her own
surprise, Philip Fletcher is the only young
man from whom the Queen of the Port can
exact homage. The only young man that is
of mark either in manner or appearance. She
is too well acquainted with the "quarter-
deck " feeling, which obtains in the service
for the young commanders and lieutenants
who swarm about the place, to think of her
LADY TOLLINGTON. 147
as a desirable shrine. She never for a single
instant forgets that she is the much-deferred
wife of the Port-admiral ; and so her dream
of a perpetually reinforced body-guard
of promising young officers, is proved a
fallacious one.
In fact, the shallow, vain creature is a
failure in this sphere^ in spite of her power of
enteriiaining, and her frantic eflforts to main-
tain the supremacy. Prettier women, more
fascinating women, attend her reunions^ and
take oflF the attention which she too palpably
demands. In her mean vexation very often
she administers undefinable slights and humi-
liations to these ladies, which, undefinable as
they are, are resented by the brother officers
of the ladies' husbands. In a short time
there are two distinct parties in the place :
the Port-admiral's wife against the most
shining lights in the company of the wives of
L 2
148 '^*HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID/'
the juniors. And Lady ToUington s party is
far from being the strongest, for it is com-
posed of the men who have given up all
hopes of fair promotion men who are de-
moralised, in short, by long careers of dis-
appointment and neglect. These bow the
knee low enough ; but it is neither the
homage of the heart, nor the homage of
taste. It is simply the homage that Failure,
crushed down into mean-spiritedness, pays to
Success, and Lady ToUington does not value
it one jot or tittle.
So in her abandonment by those members
of the service to whom she had intended
being benignant, she falls back upon Philip
with the soothing conviction that, at any rate,
he is as handsome, as clever, as entertaining,
and distinguished altogether, as any one of
those who will not fight under her banner.
She makes his position of account in her
LADY TOLLINGTON. 149
house, as only the mistress of a house can
make it; and remembers, for everyone^s
benefit, how "gallantly he had saved her life
at the risk of his own/' .
And Phihp, who has no dislike to her, who
has, on the contrary, rather a feeling of grati-
tude towards her for amusing him by her
kind and inordinate vanity, allows himself to
be mercifuUy treated, and made of much
account in Sir John ToUington^s establish-
ment.
" Sir John looks upon him as a son quite,
and as for myself, I regard him as a brother,"
she tells people. And so between the paternal
and fraternal feelings which he has brought
into play, Philip has a pleasant time of it
although he knows that hope is making the
heart of the only woman he loves in the world
sick unto death.
For some reason or other, the subtle force
150 "'he COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
of which he cannot discern, because he is too
indiflferent to trouble himself about it, Lady
ToUington distinguishes Mr. PhiHp Fletcher
even more in public than she does in private.
It seems to be her object to make people
understand that it is by her own choice that
Philip is her sole aide-de-camp. And though
Philip knows better, still he accepts the
situation, for he likes to feel the ball at his
feet.
He talks openly enough (when it suits him)
to Lady ToUington of \^ engagement to Miss
Roden, and of the narrow escape Moorbridge
House has had from having him as its master*
But never a word (no one is wholly bad),
never a word does he say, or permit Lady
ToUington to say, about OKve. And Lady
ToUington most thoroughly understands that
though Philip values her patronage to a
certain degree, because it keeps him in the
LADY TOLLINGTON. 151
quarters he likes, that he would throw it
away without an efiFort if she gave her tongue
Hberty to utter one slighting, much more one
evil, word of Olive.
There is much that is uncongenial to Philip
in his easy berth and luxurious home. In
the first place, he knows that his position
depends on the will of a woman who is as
vain as a peacock, and as unstable as water.
The lady's talent for ruling developes as
opportunities of exercising it are given to her,
according to the merciful system of supply
and demand. Without any heart, and with
very little head, with meagre natural abilities,
and absolutely no cultivation, her feminine love
of sway enables her to detect and play upon
the weakest points of all who come within
her jurisdiction. Sir John Tollington un-
questionably is good, and brave, and honour-
able ; but he does come within the jurisdiction
152 ***HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
of the lady who owes her greatness to him,
{ and being human he has weak points in his
character.
Clear-sighted outsiders, whose daily comfort
does not depend upon this lady, sneer con-
temptuously enough at the old oflBcer's in-
fatuation for the frivolous woman whose
frivolity has the demerit of not being
designed to please them. But Sir John
ToUington only sees in it an ever-changing
form of the youthfully exuberant spirit which
charmed him into marrying her. And though
she is incapable of forming clear and just
estimates concerning anything that is a little
outside the commonest experience, though she
is shallow, though her likes and dislikes are
all founded on fancy and never on fact, still
he defers to the one, and consults the other,
and is generally well-pleased to be guided by
that weather-cock, her will.
LADY TOLLINGTON. 153
And it is her will that Philip Fletcher shall
hold a post of her gaining, and occupy a
position which she has the power of rendering
comfortable or comfortless, just as the whim
may seize her. " It must be so mortifying to
that upstart, OKve Aveland," she feels, " to
know that the man she is foolishly in love
with is living by the favour and patronage of
her former mistress." She sometimesxhardly
knows whether it was liking for Philip or
hatred of Olive, which made her win this
secretaryship for him.
But the chains are very light with which
she has shackled him as yet. It is only when
he proposes " running up to town for a few
days," that she makes him feel them. And
then she is too cunning to compromise her-
self. It is always Sir John who reminds
Philip that his presence will be needed at a
luncheon or reception. " I am not quite up
154 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
to the mark of exerting myself just now," Sir
John has fallen into the habit of saying, " and
I can't leave it all to Lady Tollington, as it is
in her anxiety to save me she never spares
herself."
So gradually it comes about that Philip has
the management of most things, for Sir John
(old brother officers remark with sympathy
and sorrow) is less and less " up to the mark "
day by day.
In spite of the caution which he exercises
in his correspondence with her, in spite of the
easy selfishness and love of luxury which
permits him to leave her so long in doubt,
Philip has the thought of marrying thatt
faithful old love of his very frequently in his
mind. He believes himself that he is only
waiting on here in order to win a stronger
interest from Sir John. When that is secured
he beUeves that he will ask for some better
LADY TOLLINGTON. 155
and more independent post, and that when
such an one is secured, he will seek Olive
fairly and honestly, and marry her. He
really believes that he will do this ; but still
he holds back from committing himself to
any definite line of action, and refrains from
any definite form of words.
And so the weeks pass on, and he reads
her letters, and thrills to their tone of sup-
pressed tenderness, and longs to see her as
he never has longed, and never will long, to
see any other woman in this world. .And
while he is hesitating and procrastinating, in
a way that is wicked by reason of its extreme
weakness, a great crash comes, and whatever
interest he may have created in Sir John^s
kindly heart is of no avail.
For Sir John ToUington has died of one of
the hidden diseases that make no sign until
they have gathered strength to kill without
150 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
giving their victims time to make one struggle
against them. And Philip Fletcher is again
cast out of a situation, and again made to
feel himself the veriest foot-ball of fortune.
CHAPTER VIII.
" THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER ! ''
It is a softly brilliant May morning.
Sunny reflections, undisturbed even by passing
clouds, are lying in broad flashes of golden
radiance on the white pavements of the
streets, and the tender young greensward
of the parks. There is misery, and dimness,
'and dirt enough not very far from them,
lurking in many an unsuspected spot. But
from the Apsley House gate down to
Kensington Gore, all looks happy, and
bright, and clean, and prosperous. And it
is between these two places, that Mrs. Hen-
derson and Madge have been walking up
and down for an hour.
158 '''he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
" The day is so much more beautiful than
any we have had yet," Madge says, " that
I should like to do something quite diflFerent
with it, to anything we have done yet.''
" What would you like to do with it ! ^'
" I don't know ; we are two lone, lorn
women, and so we must go on doing the
cut and dried things, I suppose. But if
Mr. Henderson were here, I'd make him
take me for a prowl."
" Where would you like to go, Madge ;
I can take you anywhere you like."
" No, you can't, not where I want to go,
I'm sure. I only know the bright side of
London : now I want to see some of the
"haunts" that people shake their heads
about : I want to go where there is misery
and vice "
" You needn't stir a step for that," Mrs.
Henderson interrupts.
"the only son of his mother!" 159
"I know that," Madge says, softly and
pathetically ; " but I want to see some of
the people who haven't money and friends,
and social excitements, to make their trials
endurable."
Mrs. Henderson keeps thoughtfully on her
way in silence for a time. Presently she
says,
" I can take you to a house, the inhabi-
tants of which have a heavy trial laid upon
them ; and you will see how bravely they
bear it, though they have very little money,
and very few friends, and certainly no social
excitements to make it endurable."
" I should like to go home and get some
money first," Madge begins, and Mrs. Hen-
dersoii seems embarrassed as she answers,
" It's not a case of that kind, dear ; it's
not destitution and want in a shocking and
repulsive form ; how shall I explain it 1 it's
160 "'he COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
middle-class need and anxiety, Madge, things
that you cannot possibly understand."
Madge nods her head sagaciously.
" I see," she says, " the father, the bread-
winner, has fallen ill."
" It's a marvel that the bread-winner has
not died," Mrs. Henderson says, almost
passionately. Then she adds more calmly,
" But he is not the father of the family."
Madge gives an uneasy, interrogatory
glance.
" You will not see him, he is away ; that
he is so is half of their trial ; but, Madge,
you won't shrink from seeing his mother and
sisters ? "
And then Madge knows that she is being
taken to see Phil's family.
It is an experiment, and a doubtful one.
Had it been suggested to Mrs. Henderson
an hour ago, that she should try it, she
''the only son of his mother!'^ 161
would have disregarded the suggestion, and
shrank from the responsibility. But Madge's
yearning on this bright day to see some-
thing of the darker aspects of life, Madge's
craving, when the golden side of the shield
was well before her vision, to look at the
leaden side also, have melted away all Mrs.
Henderson's prudent resolves. "He is not
there, and it is well she should see his
people exactly as they are; it may rob
him of a little of the romance with which
she has. unconsciously invested him, but
on the other she'll know him as the man
he is the better for it : and they know
nothing."
There is comfort and safety in their
ignorance, she firmly believes. To old Mrs.
Fletcher, Madge will be simply the young
lady her nephew won under false pretences,
and who finally failed to love him ; that
VOL. III. M
162 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID/'
Madge is an object of the dearest, tenderest
interest to her son ; that Madge would like
nothing better than to ask for a maternal
blessing kneeling at hei: feet; that Madge
has not looked at a newspaper for weeks,
for the dread she has of the news of Phil's
marriage with Miss Westcott being given,
to her by some one of their unsympathetic
columns; of all these things which might
tend to create confusion, Mrs. Fletcher is
blissfully ignorant. And in the knowledge
that she is this, Mrs. Henderson is com-
paratively happy.
The change from flashing fashion, from
unmistakable wealth and splendour, to
struggling respectability, and then on to
actual squalor, can be made in five minutes
in any part of London. But in no part
of it, I think, can we step from restless,
seething To-day, back into quiet, peacefiil
"the only son of his mother!" 163
Long Ago, so quickly as we can in the
Chelsea and Kensington districts. The city
is too full of bustle for its antiquity ever
to be apparent to us, save on Winter Sunday
afternoons. But let us traverse the byways
of Old Chelsea or Kensington when we will,
the fact of their being places of the Past
left far behind by this whirUng age, is always
kept steadily before us.
An abrupt turn takes them out of an
auriferous square, into a solid sombre-looking
street of houses, that from attic to basement
speak of monotony, and dulness, and comfort.
They have as little to do with the flashing,
dashing, whirHng, never-at-rest element of
the Belgravian square, as they have to do
with that which impregnates the little street
on the other side of them, into which Madge
and her friend are now turning.
A Uttle street that must have been born
H 2
164 "/he COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
about the same time as Hans Place, but
bom of far poorer parents. A little street
full of picturesque inequalities, built of time-
browned red brick. A little street that is
gently shaken to its centre if a cab drives
up to one of its doors, and that would be
dangerously agitated if a private carriage
rolled through it. A little street that, it is
conceded at once, looks as if its inhabitants
had never served Mammon with success.
But about which there is nothing vulgar,
nothing squalid, nothing repulsive.
Mrs. Henderson stops in front of three
steep steps, guarded by twisted iron railings,
and surmounted by a door, adorned with the
traditional brass knocker a bright, gleaming
brass knocker, that betrays no lack of
service in the house. And before Madge
can make up her mind as to whether she
is glad or sorry that she has come, they are
"THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER!'' 165
ushered into a room where an elderly lady
and two younger ones are sitting.
It is a shock to Madge, for a moment, to
see Phil's mother the one she has learnt
to think of as Mrs. Henderson's contem-
porary as well as her friend look so very
old ! Then she reaUzes that it is ill-health
and anxiety that have crushed the middle-
aged woman into this semblance of old
age. And instantly after this, she rea-
lizes that the kind eyes smiling at her,
the kind voice welcoming her, are just hke
PhiFs.
The girl feels like an impostor, when Mrs.
Henderson introduces her to them. She
knows that Ghrissy and Mabel are attri-
buting the changing colour in hei* face, to
her remorseful recollections of their Cousin
Philip. " If they only knew ; if they could
only guess " who it was, the thought of
166 ''*HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
Tfhom was making her tingle with mingled
love and humiliation.
Whatever the trouble that may be pressing
upon them and that trouble in some form
or other is pressing upon tbem heavily, is
evident from that air of sorrowful suspense
which hangs about them like a cloud but
whatever it may be, they do not bring it to
the fore. They are all three of them taken
by that air of deprecation which Madge
cannot help infusing into her manner. They
think her penitent about the broken en-
gagement, and anxious to make them like
her for Philip's sake. "Perhaps," Chrissy
whispers to Mabel, " this is but a preUminary
step ; no doubt it will come on again."
By tacit consent they all avoid mentioning
Philip. In fact, to tell the truth, it would
be hard for them to mention him, for
they love the ne'er-do-well heartily still.
^'THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER!" 167
und he has shunned them, and cut himself
oflF from them in a way that each one of
these three women has been weak enough
to weep about. They belong to the order
who cannot endure to see Time treading on
the graves of aflfection. He has bruised their
hearts horribly, but he has failed in harden*
ing theln.
Presently ^choosing it in the beautiftd
faith of its being the one topic in the world
in which there cannot be pain to any human
being Mrs. Fletcher introduces the subject
of her son.
" Chrissy goes to her brother to-morrow,"
she says in a tone that tells a Uttle of the
enormous amount of calculation and resolu-
tion which has been brought to bear on the
final decision.
" You have not heard fi-om him, then ? "
Mrs. Henderson says so sympathetically.
168 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID.
that Madge looks up questioningly, startled,
smitten with a sudden conviction that it is
some " evil which has happened to Phil ! "
this trial which the Fletchers are bearing
bravely.
Her whole face works with piteous emo-
tion, and in the midst of her generous
agitation, ' she is horribly perplexed as to
what she "shall do with a big tear that
will joll down presently, and be an imbe-
coming inconvenience/' His mother sees
something of all this : for Madge is not one
of the vapid, colourless, bloodless creatures
who fail in portraying agitation ; she does it
only too vividly, only too well.
"My dear,'' Mrs. Fletcher says, won to
familiar tenderness by the girl's sympathetic
jBice, "you know my son a Uttle, don't you?
I suppose Mrs. Henderson has told you of
our unhappiness ; he is dangerously ill.''
"the only son of his mother!'' 169
Madge is not the type of girl who gurgles
herself oflF into hysterics, or falls senseless at
the feet of the person nearest to her.
" The sun is in my face," she says, rising
up with dazzled eyes and a dazed brain,
but speaking steadily and stepping firmly ;
then she seats herself by Mrs. Fletcher, and
says, " tell me about it ; yes, I know him
very well."
A succession of quick questioning glances
are flashed from the mother and two sisters
at Mrs. Henderson. They say plainly, as
words can say, "Why have you kept this
from her ; you seemed to feel keen interest."
But Mrs. Henderson cannot make answer.
She cannot tell them that she does not dare
speak about a sorrow that is very near to
her to this daughter of her love, because
she is in a mist as to why the girl never
names him, and why he has withdrawn
170 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAW.''
himself so utterly from them. She dares
not tell them this : and so she only says in
reply to their half-reproachful looks
'' It is a relief to me, it must be an intense
one to you, that Chrissy has made up her
mind to go to her brother; you will be
spared the racking suspense you're suflFering
from now at any rate."
" Yes, Chris has promised to write every
day,'' Mabel says.
''And I shall send a telegram as soon
as I get down to him," Chrissy adds. And
then Madge screws up her courage to the
point of asking,
" Is he at Delaboum, still ? " .
" Oh, no ! 'V Mrs. Fletcher says, shaking
her head, regretfully ; " was it there you saw
him last ? "
*' No," Madge interrupts, hastily ; " I
never saw him there; the last time I saw
"the only son of his mother!" 171
him, he came to call on me with '' (and now
her face flames) " Miss Westcott"
"Ah, yes,'^ Mrs. Fletcher resumes, "he
was with them then, and very happy and
comfortable he must have been with them,
Tm sure, dear boy, from all I heard of their
kindness ; but there was an unpleasantness
between the mother of his pupil and Phil ;
something happened at a ball, that she didn't
like, and she accused Phil of neglect ; and
he gave up his appointment and poor
fellow " there is a pause, and the mother
is crying.
^ " And ^^ Madge says, suggestively and
breathlessly,
"And he hasn't been fortunate enough
to secure another as yet'* Chrissy says,
quietly. " Mamma, dear, don't give way ; let
us hope for better days ; I feel we shall see
some of the silver lining soon."
172 "^HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
"The cloud has overshadowed us for a
long time," Mrs. Fletcher says, trying to
subdue her inclination to go on raining down
these idle tears ; " it's hard, terribly hard to
feel I can do nothing for my boy," she cries,
catching hold of Mrs. Henderson's hand,
"my dear, you're mercifully spared this
you'll never be a weight on a child you love."
" If I had a son Uke Phil, I should be glad
to be dependent on him," Mrs. Henderson
says, calmly, as the two daughters press
round Mrs. Fletcher, and strive to soothe her
out of her unwonted excitement. And then,
as the mother lies back sobbing, broken down
by her own words, and by the superb, loving
sympathy that gleams in Madge's eyes, Mrs.
Henderson takes up the thread of the story,
and tells it briefly and succinctly.
" He came up to town and reUnquished his
charge of the lad who broke the looking-
"the only son of his mother!" 173
glass, and tried for one or two things in the
city, but failed in getting either of them, for
some reason or other. Then he went down
to Ilfracombe, in answer to an advertisement
for a secretary: got it, and set to work on
his recognised duties by day, and on Uterary
work at night : he did too much, poor boy,
broke down, and has been dangerously ill for
weeks"
Madge gasps, " Where is Miss Westcott ? "
" I really cannot tell you," Mrs. Henderson
says, coldly, for she is beginning to understand
some things that have been mysterious to her
hitherto. It grieves her to do so, but she can
no longer doubt that her clever, keen-sighted,
superior Madge has fallen into the error of
being jealous of the overwhelming young colt
who treated Phil with the freedom of a big
boy.
The question seems altogether irrelevant to
174 *"HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
the Fletchers. What can it possibly matter
to any of them where Miss Westcott is ? It
seems almost indifferent apathy on Miss
Roden to ask them about an outsider, whom
they neither know nor care about, while Phil,
the best and dearest son and brother in the
world, is ill and away from them is dying
and desolate for aught they know.
But Madge is pertinacious.
" She knows of his illness, doesn't she ? "
she falters out. At tlie moment she feels
capable of any amount of self-abnegation.
She could almost bring herself to write a
gentle letter of information concerning him
to the girl whom she believes will be PhiFs
wife if he lives.
If he lives ! And if he dies, she (Madge)
will have to bear the bitter knowledge that
another woman will have a closer right to
mourn for him thanshe has. Nevertheless,
''THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER!*' 175
feeling this thrillingly as she does, she
says,
" She knows of his illness, doesn't she 1 ''
"No ^that is, not that we know of; why
should they ? Phil's connection with the
family was broken off naturally when Ronald
ceased to be his pupil."
Madge wonders vaguely for half a moment,
then her perplexity words itself
" You don't mean to say that his engage-
ment was broken off when his pupil left
him?"
"Why of course it was," Chrissy says,
beginning to think that Madge is rather an
obtuse young person. And then, as poor
Madge ponders upon this enigma, Chrissy
and her sister resume the important subject
of the journey that is to be taken to-morrow.
" You see it hasn't been convenient to get
summer things yet," Chrissy says naturally
176 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
oflFering the excuse that need usually makes
for inadequate supplies. " We all thought a
black alpaca the very best thing for a sick-
room, so Mabel and I have run one up."
" Won't black alpaca be rather a gloomy
dress?'' Madge says, unthinkingly. She
remembers Phil's ardent, genuine admiration
for all the brightness with which she was
wont to surround herself, and she throbs
with pained pity for his weary eyes, if they
are condemned to open with returning health
on Chrissy in black alpaca.
"We have brightened it up with blue/'
Chrissy goes on explaining, and Madge
thinks the dress must closely resemble a
bruise in its worst stage. But she throws
this minor consideration aside in order to
listen with absorbed attention to the detailed
narration of Chrissy 's contemplated plan of
action.
"the only son of his mother!'' 177
" I shall tell them honestly at the hotel
that a room on the top story will suit me
very well," Chrissy declares prudentially.
" I shall be in it very little wherever it is ; for
the few minutes I shall be out of Phil's room
it won't matter where I am, will it ? "
She appeals in a flush of sisterly love,
anxiety, and sympathy to her audience,
embracing them all as it w^ere. And Madge
loses her head Closes her self-command
loses her fortifying thoughts of Miss West-
cott's rights, and responds for everyone with
a gracious abandonment that only belongs
to Madge,
" No, no, no, it won't matter to you, you
love him so ; and we will go down with you,
won't we 1 " (appealing to Mrs. Henderson) ;
"you sha'n't take that journey in despair
alone." And in this unpremeditated way,
as much to her own surprise as to anyone
VOL. III. N
178 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID.
else's, Madge stands forth as the friend of
the family she has this day seen for the first
time.
There would be something narrow, meagre,
uncharitable, Mrs. Henderson feels, in check-
ing such an outburst. So she assents with
moderation.
"I shall be glad to go and -get the latest
news of Phil," she says, " and if you're as
tired of town as I am, Madge "
"Tired I'm sick of it."
"Then," the elder lady goes on, "Ilfra-
combe will be as good as any other place for
you, and Chrissy will have a less wretched
journey if we a the subject, and goes on,
" I know so well the sort of girl to suit
you much better than you know yourself, '
"worse than *a mistake/'' 197
though perhaps you don't think so ; it would
have been a great mistake if Madge had
married you ''
" It would/' he interrupts, " for I shouldn't
have given dear Madge the love another
woman has won for me/'
" And / should have been worse than a
mistake, I should have been a ghastly error/**
she goes on with cutting emphasis. Then
her face softens and saddens, and she adds
almost tenderly,
"Don't you see that I'm wretched,
Griffiths ? Wretched, and uncertain, and
afraid to think of what I may have to bear ;
don't you add to my wretchedness by having
a relapse ; let me drift quite away from you ;
it worries me to think that you should take
more thought and trouble about me than
other people do/'
These are her last words before his cousins
198 "'HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID/'
come to the rescue. They need not, in very
truth, grudge him those five miserable
minutes.
The luncheon might be a funeral feast for
the gloom that overspreads it. Griffiths is
so palpably dejected that his relations are
justified in their supposition that he has
proposed to, and been accepted by, Olive.
It is a relief to everyone of them when the
blissful moment arrives for Olive to take her
departure.
There is balm of Gilead still for the Miss
Wainwrights in the way in which Griffiths
refrains from offering to be OKve's escort. It
dispels their doubts. It relights the torch of
hope in their virgin hearts. It causes them
to be in charity with all men for an hour or
two, and emboldens to put a leading question
or two to moody, subdued Grif.
" Doesn't it strike you that there is some-
"worse than 'a mistake/" 199
thing very odd in Miss Aveland's manner,
Grif ? ^that cloak of reserve is worn to con-
ceal something depend upon it."
" If I were a man I should so dread marry-
ing a girl who seemed to have a secret," the
practical Miss Wainwright observes ; " when I
asked Miss Aveland just now how long she
should remain in London, she said there was
no more certainty about her future, than[
there is about the fate of a piece of thistle-
down ; fancy a woman confessing herself to
be such a mere foot-ball of fortune/'
" Did you say anything to her, Grif, about
going down to the country with us ? "
" Yes," Griffiths answers, curtly.
" And she ? "
' Most distinctly refused to go."
'^ Ah I Well Fm glad she has so much
discretion ; it would have been a most com-
promising step for you, and might have led
200 " ' HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
to remarks that would have made you feel as
if you ought to take a step that you never
contemplated : don't you agree with me,
mamma ? '*
There is angry contempt on Griffiths's face,
and his aunt is a wise woman.
" We may be quite sure, my dear, that
your cousin will never be hurried into any
line of conduct that is not most judicious ;
and as regards Miss Aveland, I regret very
much indeed that we shall not have her
society.''
Poor Mrs. Wainwright has served a sharp
apprenticeship to the trade of watching the
way the wind blows 1
CHAPTER X.
BROKEN DOWN !
The Doctor, who has been in constant
attendance on Phil from the commencement
of the latter^s illness, is coming down stairs
hastily as Chrissy, stultified by the news
abruptly rendered up to her by the hall-
porter, stumbles up. As he passes her, in
utter unconsciousness of her being the sister
of his patient, words of life fall from his
lips upon the ears of the three women who
have just been crushed by the words of
doom.
"Stop that infernal clanging, for mercy^s
sake ; if Mr. Fletcher is roused from his first
202 "*HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID.''
natural sleep, Fll charge the whole concern
with manslaughter.''
He is a large-framed, hard-faced, ungainly
man, but to Madge he looks like an angel of
mercy, as he catches the waiter, who is bang-
ing the gong, by the shoulder and propels
him several yards away from that instrument
of horror. There is hope in his energetic
manner ; there is a promise of life in his wrath
at the untoward row! In another moment the
prettiest girl Dr. Vincent has seen for many
a long day is lifting an eager, supplicating
face to him, as she questions him about Phil.
He is an elderly man, one who has been
accustomed to witness every form and degree
of anxiety that the probable approach of
death, the destroyer, can cause. As he
glances keenly down into {he up-turned fiice,
he words his conviction :
" You are not his sister ? "
BROKEN down! 203
" No, no ; that was his sister you passed
on the stairs," Madge answers, impatiently ;
and then Dr. Vincent scans her companion,
Mrs. Henderson, and says, coolly, it seems to
them both,
" Come into the saloon," and as soon as he
has got them there he cuts off all the rough
edges of his manner, and adds, very kindly,
" Mr. Fletcher is no longer hopelessly ill."
Then, as Madge collapses under the sudden-
ness of the relief, and subsides on to an otto-*
man, he says,
" That's right ; take it quietly, and Til tell
you all I know about the case ; it's the old story
incessant mental labour, incessant failure,
incessant alternations of hope and despair; it's
the history of the majority of literary men
the many fail, the one succeeds ; the recog-
nised term is the only one that expresses the
nature of the disease he's ' broken down.' "
204 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID.
They learn now, what they have never
known before that Phil has been a press-
man and magazinist for years. That he has
been successful as far as success goes, suc-
cessful in a way that has stimulated him to
go on labouring without cessation for the
gain that was so needful. Then had C)me a
time when the strain began to be painful,
'*when, if it could have been relaxed, all
would have been well with him," the doctor
thought ; " and he has had some shock out-
side his professional career,"' Dr. Vincent
adds, looking steadily at Madge, "and the
result of it was that he broke down with a
crash ; but I see hope for him to-day ; and
now Fll go up and speak to his sister."
As he leaves them, Madge looks almost
supplicatingly at Mrs. Henderson.
"Are you not going to say anything?"
she asks.
BROKEN down! 205
Mrs. Henderson shakes her head. " Silence
is golden in such cases as yours, my dear,'*
she says.
" Are you not going to think anything 1 "
Madge persists.
" You know that the sweetest-natured,
brightest malcontent that ever existed came
to the conclusion that 'nought is worth a
thought, and I'm a fool for thinking ! ^ Shall
I tell you that I have come to the same con-
clusion, Madge 1 "
" You may and I won't believe you ;
you're worrying yourself about the way in
which you shall make me *see a little' of
the hope that dear old doctor sees just a
glimpse of it, not enough to make me too
expectant, but just a ray."
Mrs. Henderson shakes her head in a feebly
negative manner.
" After what you saw of his mother's deep
206 "'he COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID/'
affliction and awful anxiety yesterday, you
wouldn't be Madge if you were not sighing
to see such a ray, even if you did not know
poor Phil at all ; that is all natural, to be
looked for, indeed ; but how about the im-
pression it may create in Phil's mind? he
will not realise that it is only sympathy with
his mother that has brought you to him
now/'
"Can't I explain that by-and-by, if he
ever hves to ask me 1 '' Madge says, with a
shiver.
" Don't stay here splitting straws ; go up,
and bring me fuller news than Chrissy will ;
and if he wakes, and knows you, say that I
am here."
It is a tremendous responsibiUty, and Mrs
Henderson has vivid recollections of the
many vows she has made never again to
assume any responsibihty at all in connection
jfenoKEN down! 207
with these two young people.' But kindly-
heartedness carries the day against prudence,
as it is always meet and right that it should,
and in place of the stern refusal which she
ought to word, she says,
" Here ! and ready to take up the burden
of all that your being here means 1 "
"Yes exactly, it won't be a burden
though ; don't look as if you were afraid
that I am going to confer the honour of
myself on anyone who hasn't asked me/'
So sped on her mission by Madge, Mrs.
Henderson is arrested in it by meeting with
Chrissy and the Doctor on the stairs.
Chrissy is crying industriously, with the
earnestness that is characteristic of the
woman who has forcibly learnt the lesson
that it behoves her to do all things
thoroughly. And over Doctor Vincent's
hard visage there is spread a film of pity.
208 '* ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
In her dread of it, in her repugnance to it
in her agonized sense of its being capriciously
unjust, Mrs. Henderson craves eagerly for
** news/'
"What is it? tell me T'
" We shall soon have that fine young fellow
off the sick-list, the doctor says, cheerfully,
pulling off his true expression as easily as if
it had been a mask ; and then, as he bowed
good-by to them, Chrissy becomes a mere
inert mass of over-wrought affectionate
feeling, as she sobs out,
"He is better and will get over this;
but how will he bear the truth I have just
heard ? "
" What is it ? Chrissy, just listen ! what-
ever tidings of sorrow you have to give,
Madge Roden will suffer in hearing them,
more than anyone else ; remember that."
" Oh ! how can I," poor Chrissy cries, "I'm
BROKEN down! 209
his sister, and have been proud of him from
the day he began taking care of us ; I can't
remember the time he didn't take care of us :
don't talk of anyone else's sorrow I'm his
sister."
"And you're overcome by learning that
though he will live he may be long in
recovering ? " Mrs. Henderson questions.
" No, no, not that ; but who wouldn't be
overcome by hearing that, though he will
recover his health perfectly, please God,
his brain will never be able to stand what
it has stood 1 he must rest, and take things
easily, the doctor said ; and I know what
that means ; and Phil's brain-work has been
his life."
'' And it will be a large portion of his Ufe
again, when another portion of which you
know nothing is made clear, and straight
before him." Then in her fear that she has
VOL. III. P
210 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
said too much said enough to compromise
Madge Mrs. Henderson grows unreasonable
and imperious after her own benevolent
fashion.
" Go to your room at once, and stay there
until I send for you ; meanwhile I will stay
with Phil."
" That's very kind, though the nurse seems
a most excellent person, and I should think
could be thoroughly trusted ; but what will
Miss Roden do ? ''
Clearly Chrissy has not quite compre-
hended that indiscreet statement about Madge
suffering more than anyone else, in hearing
evil tidings of Phil. The sister's anxiety for
her brother is of a sort that no other, no
mere acquaintance of yesterday, such as Miss
Roden is, can possibly have a share in, or
understand in any way. **His brain- work
has been his life," poor Chrissy says, piteously.
BROKEN down! 211
And ia her heart she knows that it has been
their hfe too. The good son and brother ! She,
knowing him well, knows how it will be with
hira, when with returning health there will
be no returning mental vigour. "Don't
think me weak and ungrateful for him," she
pleads, apologetically, " but he will think so
much of mamma ! Mabel and I aro young
and capable, but mamma "
She breaks off, briefly trying to wipe away
the despondent tears that well out so quickly,
and Mrs. Henderson, as it were, sweeps
Chrissy away out of the public saloon, to the
room which she has apportioned to her.
" Crying, and a cold bath, and some dinner
by-and-by, will refresh you, dear Chrissy, and
as soon as you're refreshed you'll scout the
id^a of your brother being one atom less able in
any way than he ever has been ; we will take
care that he does not go into harness again
r 2
212 "'he COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
too soon ; now mind that you follow out all
my directions; cry by all means if you like,
but don't forget to dine/'
Two minutes after this Mrs. Henderson
is bending down looking at the still sleeping
man. The fever has raged over him like a
burning blast. She marks that in a moment,
as he lies there unconscious, but at rest, at
ease, with the pores of his skin, and all his
muscles and joints relaxed again from
that cruel, scorching strain which has been
upon them so long. His hair has been
shaved on the temples, and cut close all over
his head. There are Unes visible between the
round of the cheek and the heavy drooping
moustache. The hand that hes outside the
counterpane is attenuated and nerveless. He
looks six or seven years older than he did
the night of the Winstaple ball, when he
came up to claim Madge for the promised
BROKEN down! 213
few words that he had begged her to wait
for. ' Sh6 realizes it all all the inevitable
changes that a furious fever of the mind and
body make in a man. He has been through
a fiery furnace, and the marks of it are still
upon him. Whether they will ever be eflFaced
under the sweet softening influence of an
atmosphere of satisfied love and freedom
from anxiety, remains to be proved.
In her pitifulness for the avowed and
acknowledged suflFerer she does not forget
that unacknowledged one who is awaiting her
below, in the gaunt^ unhomelike-looking
saloon. And so she goes back to find Madge
the object of much thought and consideration
to the scattered groups who have come
back from the table d'hdte, to spend a dis-
trustful evening together.
Most of the current distrust is felt about
Madge. Apparently she, "a young and
214
" ^ HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID.''
moderately good-looking girl/' as more thar
one of her surveyors and assessors says to her
self, " is here in this very publie place alone.'
It has been remarked, that she does not weai
a wedding-ring, and that she does not appea]
desirous of apologizing for her existence, noi
at all embarrassed by a sense of her solitud
among them. Her clear, undrooping eyej
rove over each one as he or she enters. Anc
the majority of those who enter, fidget undo:
the gaze, and conceive an instantaneous
and faint aversion to the gazer. Unconscioui
of the fact, that the self-possessed girl^who
never by so much as a gesture of impatience
or nervousness, betrays that she is vibrat
ing with anxiety, does not see anything
just now but a long future of remorsefu
misery for herself, if Phil should nevei
come out of the valley of the Shadow a
Death.
fm-
BROKEN down! 215
As Mrs. Henderson comes swiftly across
from the door, Madge starts from her half-
recumbent position on a sofa, and asks aloud,
without the slightest regard for other people
being present,
" How is he 1 does he know I am here ? '^
With half a glance, Mrs. Henderson takes
in the meaning smiles that are being smiled
to the right and left of her takes them m,
and smarts under them. But Madge does
not even see them. " How is he ? " she
repeats impatiently ; *' have you been talk-
ing to him all this long time youVe been
The answers are given with rapidity now.
What there is to tell Mrs. Henderson tells
quickly, ^the story tells as they go out and
walk up and down the esplanade, between
the hotel and the sea.
It is late, and the moon is sailing over the
I
216 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
water, and millions of stars are brightening the
sky, by the time the tale told with many a
tender interpretation and addition has come
to an end. And Madge hears it all in wrapt
silence, with downcast eyes, and drooping
head. For her " there is no light in heaven
or earth,^' during the first few moments
after the possibility, which is so appalling, has
been put before her : the possibiUty that
Phil may never be restored to those who love
him, as those who love him must crave to see
him.
" I have told you all the worst the worst
that may be," Mrs. Henderson says, after a
long interval, during which poor Madge has
kept silence with her lips, but has been cry-
ing aloud in her soul. " I have told you all
the worst that may be ; and now, Madge,
what will you do ? it will wear your spirit
down, poor child, to stay here, and be told of
BKOKEN down! 217
hourly fluctuations which you may not wit-
ness ; will you go home to-morrow, dear, and
wait the issue 1 "
" No," Madge says, and she has to collect
all her strength to utter even that one word.
But the utterance breaks the spell of mingled
awe and pain which has been chaining her
for several minutes. And presently she finds
words to say,
" No ; ^' I will wait for him here ; however
he may come to me, whether as a lover, or
as a friend only, he shall know that I have
not been ashamed to show the interest I feel
in him. I will wait for him here."
"But, Madge," Mrs. Henderson begins
^protesting, as a dozen complications arise and
present themselves in all their native ugliness
before her mental vision ; " has Phil never
given you to understand clearly that he loves
you 1 is it a doubt of him that is weighing
218 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
upon youl because, let me assure you, that
he has told me "
" Oh ! he's told me ten times more than
ever he can have told you or anyone else,"
Madge interrupts; "it's no doubt of him as
he was; it's the doubt that the doctor has
put before us in awfully veiled language ; it's
the doubt that he may come out of this
another man, with his love for me burnt out
of him, with lowered aspirations about every-
thing."
" Would you care for him still if this pos-
sible worst were the case ? " Mrs. Henderson
asks.
" Care for him ! yes, to the end of my life,
even if he's broken down more thoroughly
than I'll let myself think he will be. I shall
always find my hero in Phil; but he may
remember that none of this would have hap-
pened if I had not said some biting words
BROKEN DOWN ! 219
one day under a delusion. And, as he didn^t
know what my delusion was, those words
may have rankled and corroded all care for
me out of his heart."
'' Then you wish to stay here ? " Mrs.
Henderson says, disregarding this burst.
She knows that it is the oflFspring of keen,
faithful, self-reproach which is exaggerating
everything, "IVe no doubt but that the
dear child is picturing him to herself as a
mild, and melancholy incapable, to whom she
may devote herself in her bloom and bright-
ness, and so expiate her sin of non-accept-
ance of him at the first. Poor Madge !
Thank heaven the reaUty in this case is likely
to be far better than the romance. Still,
she's right in a measure. He will never be
the ' man he was ^ again though he may be
something infinitely better and worthier."
" Yes : I wish to stay here, I promised
220 "*HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
his mother to write to her by every post, and
I shall do it."
**Aiid now it seems to me that supper
would be better for you than moonlight,
Madge.''
"I think so, too," Madge answers, promptly,
though all her being revolts at the idea of
food, until she has heard how he takes the
news of her being near him of her own
choice and will So they turn and walk
towards the entrance-door, and as they gain
it, a blaze of Ught falls upon a group that is
entering by the opposite door, the one facing
the town.
There is a certain sparkle and excitement
about the ones who are coming in, and the
manager and waiters who are revolving
round them. An ordinary travellmg party
too, apparently. A gentleman and lady, man
and wife evidently, bride and bridegroom
BROKEN DOWN I 221
presumably, followed by a ralet, and a knaid^
and a van-load of imperials and trunks.
The lady stands in the centre of the hall
for a minute or two, waiting, while her
husband gives directions to the manager.
Madge's eyes rest listlessly on the new comer,
who is fair, slender, exquisitely dressed, and
steeped in an atmostphere of self-satisfied
consciousness. Her eyes meet Madge's with
a half look of recognition, as the thought
goes through her mind, " I've seen that face
before." Then, as Madge passes on and goes
upstairs with no recognition in her eyes, the
lady calls to her husband.
" Did you see that pretty girl who passed
in, while you were speaking to that other
man ? " she says, as she passes her arm
through his and he leads her on to the
private sitting-room they have engaged.
And then, as he answers " No," she adds, " I
222 ''*HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
wish you would go back and find out who she
is ? I know IVe seen her before/'
He speeds on his mission, and comes back
with the intelligence that " the young lady is
Miss' Roden/'
" Ah ! then I have seen her face in Olive
Aveland's photograph album," the lady
says.
Meanwhile, one or two pertinent questions
are being asked both of valet and maid, as to
the reason why " the late arrivals, being, as
they are, husband and wife, do not bear the
same name ? '^
" My lady having the superior rank as well
as all the money choose to keep it to herself,"
the maid says, and the man further explains
very kindly and clearly,
^^He haven't a brass farthing; my lady
provides everything for him, just as if he was
a real swell she provides my and so of
BROKEN down! 223
course she has her own way about her title,
and quite right too/^
" This young man belonged to the house-
hold in my late lord's time/' the female
portion of the domestic chorus graciously
adds, as she reflects, " Who's to know here
that he was only a, ' sir ; ' my lady couldn't
be called higher if he had been a lord."
'* Only one of the household, eh ? " the man
responds, thoughtfully, " really, now, there's
no knowing what any of us may come to."
CHAPTER XL
HOW OLIVE HEABS IT.
Madge's departure leaves a very dull blank
in Olive Aveland's life. The hours filled as
they are with the thoughts of Philip, and the
expectation which is continually being disap-
pointed, of seeing him drag heavily along.
Sometimes, when the burden of them be-
comes almost unbearable, the girl is half
inclined to wish herself back in the uncon-
genial atmosphere of Barr and Battle's show-
room. But when his letters come, breathing,
as they do something of life in a higher
social scale, she rejoices that she is free of it
and its associations, and prizes her 100 a
HOW OLIVE SEARS IT. 225
year, which enables her to keep herself apart,
more than ever for Philip's sake.
It is just about this time that Philip pays
a visit to his relations in the little street in
Chelsea, and hears for the first time of his
cousin Phil's serious illness.
Philip from his boyhood has been wont to
come to these relations of his, and inflict
either his high spirits or his low spirits upon
them whenever it has pleased him. Further,
he has never thought it necessary to oflFer the
smallest explanation as to the cause of either.
And though in their sympathetic hearts they
have often yearned to know the reason why,
they have been taught to refrain "from
bothering him," in a perfect way that does
credit to his talent as a teacher.
It is a long, long time since they have seen
him, and gloomy as he appears, they give
him a cordial greeting, and then gulp out
226 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
with loving pain with loving reliance on his
perfect sympathy also ^the story of Phirs
physical downfall. At the same time, with a
delicacy he does not deserve, they abstain
from making any mention of Madge Roden.
He has always been fond of his cousin in
a way, and now at this juncture he feels
specially affected by the ill news concerning
him. " There is always some hitch or other,
in everything that concerns me," he says
complainingly. But they, Phil's mother and
sister, forgive the selfishness of his complaint,
for they notice that his face has blanched,
and his eyes reddened when he hears of Phil's
extremity.
" Tell us about yourself, Philip,'^ Mabel sug-
gests; " don't think that our misery about Phil
makes us careless of you, dear ; it did grieve
us so much when we saw Sir John Tolling-
ton's death ! such a nice appointment as you
HOW OLIVE HEARS IT. 227
found it ; and appointments are so hard to
get "
She pauses suddenly, arrested in her sym-
pathetic prosings by a queer expression of
mingled amusement and embarrassment
which flits over Philip's face.
" Tm not thinking about another appoint-
ment/' he says, hesitatingly. " Fve come to
tell you something, which you'll be very glad
to hear, I know. I am going to marry Lady
ToUington, and you may congratulate me
very warmly, for I am a very lucky fellow, I
-can tell you."
'' My dear Philip ! I do indeed," bursts
from them both. But somehow there is un-
intentionally more amazement than dehght
in their accents, for Philip's face behes his
words when he says he "is a very lucky
fellow."
Mabel presses him with questions presently,
q2
228 "'HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
and he answers them with a fair amount of
enthusiasm. "She looks quite young/' he
says, refraining from dating her ladyship,
" very fair and deUcate looking ; she's con-
sidered a remarkably pretty woman, and no
one can doubt her attachment to me, for she
will gain nothing by the move."
"She has a little money, then," Mrs,
Fletcher remarks in a tone of pleased sur-
prise ; " I am glad to hear it. Naval men, as
a rule, can't leave their wives very well
off."
"She has one of the finest properties in
the Highlands," Philip says, trying not to let
his voice ring with exultation, "besides a
good income from funded property."
" When shall we see her, Philip ? " Mabel
asks, anxiously.
Philip winces. "Well, to tell the truth
she rather wishes the engagement to be kept
HOW OLIVE HEARS IT. 229
quiet just at present. You see Sir John has
not been dead the traditional twelve months
that are conventionally devoted to widowed
despair ; and the world is so narrow-minded
it won't remember how unnatural it would be
for May to mourn for December in reality."
" Then you won't be married just yet 1"
" In about a fortnight/' Philip says, awk-
wardly ; " when once we are married every
one may hear of it, but we both rather wish
to be spared the preUminary pulling to
pieces."
"Then we shall not see Mrs, Philip
Fletcher, I suppose, until you come back to
town after your bridal tour 1 "
Now it must be understood that though
Philip's affection for these relatives of his
does not equal tiieirs for him, he has a
thorough and perfect respect for their inte-
grity, their honourable conscientiousness, and
230 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
their just judgment. He is desperately
deficient in all these qualities himself, but he
respects them in " his people/' Farther, he
has a hearty, thorough deep-seated contempt
for his bride-elect. And so he has no desire
to submit himself to the ordeal of their meet-^
ing with and sounding her.
Accordingly he says,
"Town won't see us till next season, 1
fancy, then of course we shall look you up
directly we arrive; we go west first, and then
on the continent for a few weeks, and we
shall try the winter at Auchtarroch."
"Is that the name of her place, Philip 1 '*^
Mabel asks. And on the subject of the
property Philip wa^es eloquent. He can
speak of Auchtarroch aud the money that is
in the funds without fear or shame.
" Well," Mabel says when her cousin liaa
made a ground plan of the Auchtarroch
HOW OLIVE HEARS IT. 231
property on the table with books and reels
of cotton for their benefit. "I shall write
and offer my cousinly congratulations to your
bride the day you're married. I'll be one of
the first to wish her joy under her new name,
Philip."
" She won't have a new name," Philip says,
stumbling over his words, and upsetting the
plan of Auchtarrooh by pushing his chair
back suddenly and jerking the table, "she
will still keep her title ^be Lady ToUing-
ton!"
" Oh ! why ! he was only a knight," Mabel
says, " and I am sure the name of Fletcher is
as good as that of ToUington," Mrs. Fletcher
says, flushing rosy red at the intended slight
to the family patronymic. I'm sure if I
were in your case, Philip, I would not agree
to my wife bearing another man's name."
Philip gets up petulantly : it is always a
23Ji " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
temper-trying thing to have other people
wording your feelings, when you have
already proved yourself powerless to get
those feelings attended to.
*' Never mind his having been only a
knight, Mabel ; I think, aunt, that I am
bound to concede something such a trifle
too to a woman who gives so much and
will get only my worthless self in return."
Then he stoops to kiss them both, and say
" good-bye," and they understand pretty well
that they are seeing the last of Philip for
he will want nothing more of them !
During the fortnight that follows this
announcement, Lady ToUington, whose town
circle is not a large one, drags her handsome
young betrothed round it, until he is giddy.
But he reels along without a single demur.
His time will set in when the vows are
spoken, and the ring is on. ' Lady Tolling-
HOW OLIVE HEARS IT. 23S
ton's airs of being a great enchantress, will
die a sudden death then, though he submits
to them patiently enough now, for he has no
intention of seeing Auchtarroch slip through
his fingers, as the Moorbridge property did.
His greatest trouble as he is whirled along, is
that Olive may see him.
At last he has the common humanity to
cease writing to Olive. Purposely he has
filled his two latest letters with misty
allusions to " inevitable changes," and " stern
necessities." But he has been unable (he
is as great a coward as he is a liar) to tell
her what the change is, and why he makes
it. " She will hear it soon enough," he tells
himself, and his false heart aches as he
pictures that woman's anguish when she does
hear it.
The marriage day comes, and Lady Tolling-
ton, in the midst of all the excitement of
234 ' " HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
dressing, has time to write one letter. Her
dress is just as grey as a pearl! ("No one
shall say I was absurd enough to be married
a second time in white," she says to her maid)
and this dress is covered with Mechlin lace,
that falls about her in such graceful folds as
to make her appear a very pretty woman
when she practises ** the glide " up the centre
of Saint George's.
She is rather particular about this letter.
She will not trust it to the post, but sends it by
private messenger just before she goes to the
church. " And be sure he leaves word that
I was on the point of starting to be married
when I wrote it ! '' she says, giving a final
direction ; " if one does a Christian thing, do
it thoroughly."
The bridal pair need not be followed.
The letter and its recipient are far more
interesting.
HOW OLIVE HEARS IT. 235
Olive is sitting alone, alone as usual ; alone
with her own dreary thoughts when that
letter is handed to her. A golden mono-
gram gleams at her from the envelope. A
golden crest and quarterings, and motto
flame at her from the top of the epistle. A
heavy perfume diffuses itself from the paper
generally as she opens it and reads,
*' My dear Miss Aveland :
" Since my late lamented husband's death
I have thought deeply on the subject of our
mutual misunderstanding. The death of a
friend purifies and clears the mind. I see
now that we misjudged each other; and as I
desire to be at peace with everyone on this
happy day, I write to tell you that you have
my best wishes for your future happiness and
prosperity. Doubtless you will have heard
from Philip of our engagement ? he has, I
2a6 " * HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
know, a sincere friendship for you. We
ratify this engagement this morning. I pen
these lines just before starting for Saint
George's, Hanover Square. By the time you
read this I shall be Philip Fletcher's wife.
But if you write to congratulate me, address
me as ' Lady Tollington.^ I retain my title.
*' Your sincere friend and well-wisher,
"Julie Tollington."
She reads every word of it. More than
this, she fully takes in the meaning of every
word. And then for an hour ! Heaven help
us, too many of us go through such hours as
these. There is no need to write about them.
At the end of that hour she moves from
the position she has ^ever altered once
during all the time, and the words,
" She hath a devil," fall from her lips.
HOW OLIVE HEARS IT. 237
Some few days after this, as Olive is trying
to make out what she will do with the rest of
her life, GriflSths Poynter comes in.
" Of course it's jou" she says, scarcely
turning her head, but putting out her hand
instantly (he notices that) to welcome him.
" Of course it's you ; no one else would come
at the right time,"
" Have I come at the right time !
Olive "
" Oh ! don't think that, please/' OUve in-
terrupts; '*I mean that no one but you would
come just when I was wanting to speak to a
fellow-creature about what I am to do with
my life."
" What you're to do with it ! '' he repeats
wonderingly.
" Yes don't look perplexed ; it's quite a
common occurrence, I assure you, that a
woman should feel the need of a definite plan
288 "'HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
of life while she lives, however little she may
desire to live at all. Griffiths ! " she adds,
suddenly handing him the letter which Lady
Tollington so carefully constructed on her
bridal day. " Griffiths ! read that ; the man
she speaks of is the man I have loved ever
since I was capable of loving anyone outside
the circle of my relations and my dolls ; read
that ! and then tell me what I can do with
what's left of my life.''
He reads it in a paroxysm of pity, love,
and indignation. And when he has finished
it, he says nothing !
" Why don't you speak ?" she asks presently.
" There jis nothing left to say,'' he says
humbly.
" I knew that. There is nothing left to
say, and there is nothing left to do ; and
still I shall go on for perhaps another forty
years ; isn't it awful ? "
HOW OLIVE HEABS IT. 239
Roused out of all the reticence he has been
vowing to observe, GriflBths is goaded into
saying,
" Forget the hound ! how can you allow
yourself to believe that you'll go on thinking
about him 1"
" Why don't you forget me ? why do you
allow yourself to think so kindly of me still
that you keep on coming to try and comfort
me, and do me good ? why do you do it ?
you're weaker than I am, for I never even
pretend to love you, and Philip did does
love me with his whole heart."
" Oh, Olive ! '* he says pleadingly, " why
will you speak these horrible truths ? they're
not * truths ' either, for if you were married,
dear, I'd never allow myself to think of you ;
while now I love you so, that I'll ask you,
pray you, to let me take care of the life you
value so lightly "
240 "'HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAD)/'
" What a pity it is I can't do it ! '^ she in-
terrupts. " I know that it would be such a
comfortable arrangement, and I know that
I should always like you into the bargain,
Griffiths ; but I wouldn't marry a man I dis-
liked even, much less you; and after all, what
is it ? " she strives to say calmly. " I shall
only add one more to the long list of thrown-
aside women ; do believe me, it's all over."
" I do believe you," he says ; and then he
goes away to follow out his path in life, which
will from this moment diverge widely from
hers.
" At least, I have the satisfaction of know-
ing that I have been candid with him through-
out/' she thinks, as she hears his footsteps re-
verberating for the last time on the staircase;
** but he is my last friend."
The woman who says these words is in the
bloom of her youth, and has probably (as she
HOW OLIVE HEARS IT. 241
has just suggested), a long lease of life before
her still. As we look at her, her young head
bent in dogged, faithful, despairing regret, let
us remember, pitifully, that this life will in all
human probability be spent alone. For the
only one whose advent could rejoice her, can
never come to Olive Aveland.
TOL. in.
CHAPTER XII.
INTO THE SILENT POOL.
A SOFT, low-lying purple haze hangs over
everything; it has been intensely hot all day,
and the evening breeze has not sprung up yet.
By and by when the sun (now making a sea
of heather on fire in the west) has quite set,,
it will be refreshing, but just now the air is
caressing and lulling, rather than bracing, and
one likes to be silent and still in it.
They are on the borders of Exmoor again,
and Exmoor is in great glory now. The
purple heather, and the waxlike pink heath,
are clothing every bit and boulder of the
great uncultivated moor; the streams are
INTO THE SILENT POOL. 243
swollen by the late rains, and the bracken is
beginning to change to that golden brown
which harmonises so well with the purple
heather.
Phil Fletcher has advanced so far towards
recovery as to be at the stage of being con-
sidered invalid enough to be the chief object
of consideration to all his friends, and well
enough to avail himself of their attentions.
But this stage, so delightful to a woman, is one
that speedily palls upon a man. In short,
Phil is still suflBlciently ill to need a great deal
of attention, and sufficiently well and true to
his sex to be worried by it.
The old order of things, the order that had
been established just before Madge and Phil
went forth on that riding expedition, during
which the scales fell from their eyes concern-
ing each other, was re-established now, just
as though it' had never been interrupted.
R 2
244 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
Once more Madge is back in her own home,
regulating the daily round of life in Moor-
bridge House, as she always has regulated it
since first she took the reins into her own
hands; and once more Phil is the Hendersons'
guest, and once more it is an understood
thing that the occupants of the two houses
are to be rarely apart.
Chrissy has gone back to her home duties,
for Phil no longer has need of the sisterly care
and devotion which Chrissy gave him, and
which has made Chrissy very dear to Madge
Roden. And so once more the two young
people are necessarily thrown together a great
deal, but still, wonderfully as he has rallied,
Phil has evidently not quite recovered his
former energy yet. He accepts the fact of
being almost perpetually in Madge's presence
with evident pleasure, but he does not take
advantage of it. As he says himself sometimes
INTO THE SILENT POOL. 245
to Mrs. Henderson, " All he desires now is to
rest on his oars until he dare venture out to
sea again." Of course he says this openly in
reference to the exertion of that brain-power
which has failed him once, but it applies to
other adventures also. Of all the shipwrecks
which he dreads, a repetition of that one
wherein he was so sadly battered on the
observatory, would be the worst for him.
Prom the first moment of his convalescence ,
at Ilfracombe, he has been accustomed to see
Madge's graceful figure, and Madge's blithe
face about him. He is accustomed to be the
recipient of dainty kindnesses and attentions
from her that the others never think of ren-
dering him. " It is her nature to be kind,
and to try to give pleasure. If the pleasure
she gives this man is a little too exquisite,
she is not to blame ; she merely obeys
her instincts shines and dazzles him ; but
246 "'HE COMETH XOT/ SHE SAID."
though he is dazzled he is not going to pre-
sume on his privileges again/' He tells him-
self these truths often, and his heart forebodes
that vfhen the exquisite pleasure eeases, a
more exquisite pain will be his portion.
He has heard from Mrs. Henderson of
Madge's anxiety and sympathy for him and
with his people, when the news of his illness
first reached her. But Mrs. Henderson has
been careful to tell the tale calmly, and in
a matter-of-course way. " It was too kind
of you both to come down with my sister/' Phil
had said when the recital came to a close.
And Mrs. Henderson had merely answered,
' My dear boy, considering all things / could
have done no less, and Madge couldn't have
remained in London without me."
Phil was not in the mood at this time to
take advantage of or even to be made hope-
ful by anything like encouragement on the
INTO THE SILENT POOL. 247
subject of his love. But it did dishearten
him to hear this solution given of the sweet
mystery Madge's being there had been to
him. It disheartened him so, that at first he
refused Mrs. Henderson's invitation to go
tack to Halsworthy with her. He knew
Tiimself that "it would be useless, for him even
to put his fate to the touch again; he had no
intention of ever doing so ; still to have the
inutility of anything of the kind pointed out to
him was hard and was unnecessarily hard.''
Nevertheless, when the time came he did
go back to Halsworthy, where he is this
gorgeous August day reading a letter he has
just received from his cousin Philip.
A fortnight ago, Phil heard of his cousin's
marriage from one of his sisters, but up to
the present time he has said nothing about
it. He has an undefined idea that Madge
Roden will not like to hear of it ; and though
248 "'HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
Madge Roden is nothing to him never can
be anything to him he shrinks (not un-
naturally) from the thought of seeing her
pained by another man's marriage.
But this letter makes him comprehend
clearly that he can shun the subject no
longer. Philip tells his cousin in an
afiectedly easy way (Phil almost fancies he
sees the falsity of that ease in the wavering
strokes of the pen that has palpably not been
the pen of a ready writer) that "Lady Tolling-
ton has expressed such a desire to see that
part of Exmoor that he (Philip) does not
feel justified in permitting any associations of
his own to thwart her/' " Look out for us,
therefore, in a day or two," he concludes ; " I
know there is a decent inn in Halsworthy
and I know that Miss Roden is far too
sensible a girl to imaginet hat there is any-
thing like a vaunt in my coming."
INTO THE SILENT POOL. 249
Phil is sitting on a chair on the Hender-
sons' lawn as he reads this, and just as he
conies to a conclusion, Mrs. Henderson strolls
slowly out from the dining-room window and
comes across to join him.
"Your correspondence absorbs you this
morning, Phil," she says. And then she
ventures on to a topic that has never been
broached since his illness : " Are you behind-
hand with 'copy/ poor boy, and are they
worrying you ? "
" Oh, no ! '^ Phil answers quite cheerfully,
in a way that makes Mrs. Henderson's heart
thump with reUef " I got into harness some
days ago, and ^there's not such a demand for
me," he adds with a laugh, "that I need
burst my brains to supply it."
" Got into harness some days ago wasn't
that rather soon ^wasn't it rash ? "
She asks it with a ring of such genuine
250 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
anxiety in her voice that Phil, instead of
answering " Oh, no ! I don't think so " (in a
way that half admits the accusation, as
people usually do who are charged with rash-
ness in a friendly way) says,
" What makes you say that ? you're not
a croaker from an empty sense of civility."
" No, I am not ; I mean it thoroughly, I
put it to your common-sense. Are you not
rash in flinging yourself into arduous brain-
work again before your brain has properly
recovered its spring and balance? "
" I hope not," he says gravely ; *' I under-
stand what you mean, and fear, now; don^t
think me idly rash ; I know that it has been
touch and go with me. Mrs. Henderson, the
pressure upon me for the last few months
has been intolerable ; it is well for me that I
gave way physically ; it was inevitable that
there should be a crash somewhere ; you see
INTO THE SILENT POOL. 251
I fell into the whirl of feeling that if I paused
for a moment if I was not at the wheel
constantly that there would be wreck and
confusion in my life, and not in my life only
but in the lives of others ; that was one
cause, "
*' And there was another ? " Mrs. Hender-
son interposes.
" There was ; but Tm not going to talk of
that now : don't distress yourself about me.
Tm out of the whirl ; the enforced inaction
and quiet of the last few weeks have wrought,
the good work of teaching me that I shall do
more if I go at it coolly than if I work at
white-heat, but work I must ^you know
that."
Having got him on the topic, she, with a
woman's adroitness, keeps him to it, till she
has got him to express his regret that he
should ever have been led into the folly of
252 "*HE COMETH NOT/ SHE SAID."
relinquishing his clerkship, and trusting wholly
to literature and tutoring for a livelihood.
And at last he adverts to another foUj.
''It wasn't disappointed ambition that
made me lose my head eventually," he says ;
" I made a mistake one day when I was here
last, and Miss Roden acted the part of a
true friend, and told me of ray fault and folly
in a way that in curing pretty nearly
killed/'
" Madge told me she had made a mistake in
imagining you to be engaged to Miss West-
cott,'' Mrs. Henderson says quietly. Then she
resolves that she will not add another ingre-
dient to the potent charm of that statement,
but will let it seethe and seethe in his mind,
unadulterated with any minor matter. So
she turns from the topic with easy determina-
tion, just as he feels that it would be Paradise
to pursue it.
INTO THE SILENT POOL. 2;);5
"You waved your letter at me when 1
came up in a way that made me think
there was something in it that I was to
hear?"
" So there is : Philip has married Lady
ToUington,"
** That woman whose husband died two or
three months ago 1 "
" The same : I heard of it from Chrissy a
fortnight ago, but I didn't care to speak of it ;
and here's worse to follow ; he writes to me
himself now, saying that they are coming
here in a few days ; how will Miss Roden
take it r '
" Madge is too well-bred to show her con-
tempt for them ; you needn't be alarmed
either on their account or hers."
" It's the woman making him come I'm
sure of that," Phil says, waxing wrath ; " I
can't stop them the Inn is open to man and
254. " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
beast ; Miss Roden will be justified in
thinking lowly indeed of the Fletcher
family."
" She will never identify you with your
cousin in any way, be sure of that," Mrs.
Henderson says. And then she adds im-
pressively, " The difference between you two
men was clear to Madge at a tune when it
must have given her pain at a time when
she was paying the penalty of my mistake
and her own; don't distress yourself about
what Madge will feel in seeing your
cousin."
There is more satisfaction for Phil after this
in his rides with Madge Roden. There is
more satisfaction for him in the frank, unaf-
fected way in which she shows her pleasure
in his society, and her joy in his rapidly return-
ing health. Those bitter words of hers that
had rankled in his mind so long, had been
INTO THE SILENT POOL. 255
uttered under a delusion ! She had believed
him to be engaged to great, good-natured
Miss Westcott, and the belief had made her
bitter. There is no longer pain and humilia-
tion to Phil in the memory of them, now that
he knows the cause of them.
She hears the news of Philip's marriage
with Lady ToUington with an amount of in-
credulity that staggers Phil for a while. He
cannot help feehng that her unwilling belief
her surprise ^her evident distress betokens
some smouldering fire of regard for PhiUp.
But presently she undeceives him.
They are alone riding through the bloom-
ing purple heather as she does it, on the free
wild border of the Moor. As they pull up on
the brow of a slope and look away over the
wide expanse of undulating'ground, the desire
to be as open as the scene -possesses
her.
t^6 " ' HE C03CEIH JKn^ SBZ SAJIK
''Shall I tell jou whj I am heart-Mce and
horrified to hear of Fbifip's marriage with
Ladjr Tollington ? " she aaka, lajing her whq
on huarm to command his attrition.
** Heartrflore ! " the words hmt him.
^ Yes so heart-sore, and hurt ! oh ! Phil,
I dooH think eren jrou will understand how I
dread what is before me. / shall have to tell
this news to some one else who may die
of it/'
Her own voice melts into tears as she sajs
this. And then clearly, sadly, and mercifully
she tolls him the stor}' of Olire Aveland and
his cousiiL
They grow very sympathetic and confiden-
tial over the plans for the preservation of
everybody's peace of mind, and finally
Madge says,
'' I tell you what it is, Phil I as soon as
Lady Tollington (disgusting of a woman not
INTO THE SILENT POOL. 257
to call herself by her husband's name) is tired
of exhibiting her last purchase here as
soon as ever they are gone you tnust go up
and bring Olive down to rae ; she shall see
more of Griffiths Poynter, she shall learn how
much better he is worth living for, than
Philip is worth dying for."
This is the last definite plan they make
this afternoon before going home. The next
morning's post brings a letter; that upsets it
altogether.
Madge is the recipient of this letter, and
with a sorrowfiil face, and a throbbing heart,
she takes it to Mrs. Henderson and Phil at
once.
" Read it,^' she says, sobbing ; " what shall
we do r '
The letter is from Olive. It is very simple,
very short, very eloquenTof the girl's smarting
condition. '
VOL. III. 8
253 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID."
" Dear Madge :
" You have told me often to come to
you in any trouble. My trouble is come
now in the shape of the feeling that I'm
utterly desolate. I shall be at Moorbridge
House to-moiTow, if you will have me. I'm
not dying ; but I have neuralgia in the soul
and mind and heart. Will you have me ?
" Your affectionate
" Olive."
" She knows it/' Phil says ; " you will be
spared that, you will not have to tell her, she
knows it already.^'
"But she may see him here don't you
see the new misery 1 " Madge cries.
" She must not see him ; we must all
combine to avoid that complication/' Phil
says quickly. " I should think that a word
to Philip, when he comes, will be sufficient to
send him straight away again."
INTO THE SILENT POOL. 259
"It won't be sufficient to send Lady
ToUington straight away again/^ Madge
says, with an impatient shake of her head.
" I have heard something of her from Olive
already ; she is a clever fool/'
"One thing is certain, as we don't know
where they are, we must wait until they come
here to make an appeal to their better feel-
ings, if they have any ; besides, let us hope
that we are magnifying the evil ; Olive, when
she comes under our influence, may be per-
suaded to find her hero in Griffiths Poynter,"
Mrs. Henderson says hopefully. But Madge
only shakes her head more despondingly than
before ; she has heard Olive speak of Philip,
and the hope Mrs. Henderson has put forth
does not lighten Madge's breast for a moment.
It is late in the afternoon of the day
following this on which this discussion took
place, when Olive reaches the haven of peace
8 2
260 *"HE COMETH not/ SHE SAID.'*
she has selected^ Madge meets her at the
little road-side hostelry, where the coach
horses bait, and carries her back in the little
snug brougham to Moorbridge House. There
is nothing wanted in the tender thoughtfiil-
ness of Madge's manner. There is nothing
wanting in the hearty fond welcome she gives
this poor sad girl, who is so pitifully conscious
of her weakness, and so utterly powerless to
combat it. ** You know that he is married ! "
are the first words OUve finds breath to
utter. And Madge knows that she can say
nothing ! nothing that will by any chance
alleviate this woman's pain.
Olive soon learns that Phil, that cousin
Phil " of whom in the old days she heard so
much, but whom she has never seen, is
staying at the Hendersons. And she soon
learns something else concerning him, though
Madge says nothing more. " Her hero has
INTO THE SILENT POOL. 261
come/* poor Olive thinks after looking
wistfully at her bright-faced friend for a few
moments. And then she feels she should
like to see him.
" Madge, dear/' she says, *' let us walk down
to Mrs. Henderson's dear, kind, Mrs. Hen-
derson I want to see her as soon as possible/'
Madge assents, indeed she rather catches
at the idea. It is well that Olive should go
there this evening, for after to-morrow her
progress through the village might be an
unsafe one, and liable to painful interruption.
Accordingly they put on their hats, and white-
faced Olive wraps a silver-grey cloud over
her shoulders and the thick dull black silk
dress (which had been of great efficacy in
*sho wing-off' various splendours at Barr and
Battles, and which she now wears in memory
of the uncle who has left her 100/. a year)^
and they saunter slowly down through the
262 '"HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
grounds to the Tillage* Then they go through
the village street a little more hurriedly, and
presently find themselves in the Vicarage
garden, where Mrs. Henderson greets them
with the words,
" My girls, I was coming up to you with
Phil ; why did you drag Olive out to-night,
Madge ? "
It seems to Madge that Mrs. Henderson
has some communication to make, that she is
trying to send a telegram from her own eyes
to Madge's mind. But bewildered Madge
can make nothing of it. Olive has the eye of
a falcon, and sees presently what is going on.
" Do you want to speak to Madge alone ? "
she asks abruptly, and Mrs. Henderson is
so overwhelmed by the suddenness of the
question, and by many other things, that she
says, " Oh ! no, I was only afraid you were
sitting in a draught."
INTO THE SILENT POOL. 268
" And didn't like to let me see that you
thought I required care ; my dear Mrs. Hen-
derson, if I heard anyone discuss the size of
my coffin, and the quality of my shroud, it
would have no effect on me."
" But this is morbid, Olive ! "
" Morbid ! it may : I only know it's the
case ; it would have no eflFect on me, for I
don't think for a moment that I shall die for
many a long year. I've a weary time to go
through yet; I am young and strong just
as strong as I was when I was happy; my
pale face means nothing ; 1 am really strong,
I may sit in this draught with impunity."
There is something in the quiet reckless-
ness of the girl's tone and manner that
actually hurts those who are listening to her.
For diversion's sake, Madge says,
"Where is Phil? I have told Olive that
he is here."
264 "'HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
" Gone out," is the brief answer.
"Let us go on your lovely lawn," Olive
says, rising up and passing out through the
window ; " how exactly it all is like what
it used to be when I was here before, and
my sorrow was sleeping. Oh ! what sense
and mercy there is in those words, * When
sorrow sleepeth, wake it not.' Mine has
been roused up effectually ; and oh, dear me,
how many weary years it will have to be
awake I am so young and strong."
Her words are not such as incline one
to answer them. Therefore her two com-
panions keep silence till they find themselves
on the lawn. But Madge has managed to
slip her hand through Olive's arm, and give
her a pressure that is as full of human love
and sympathy, as the most eloquent words
could be.
*' Look at my Osmunda regalis," Mrs.
INTO THE SILENT POOL. 265
Henderson says, pointing out a flourishing
group of the royal monster fern ; " that dull,
silent pool that I hated so much when I
came here first, is turning out the most
ornamental spot in my garden, now that
it is fringed with these ferns. I used to
be so dreadfully afraid that my children
would tumble in ; but now they're growing
up, its banks are the favourite family re-
sort."
"So I. should think," OKve says, "judging
from the well-worn appearance of the rustic
chairs." And then they all seat themselves
on these chairs, which are placed on the smooth
elastic turf close to the edge of the pond,
and amuse themselves with looking at the
reflection of the stars as they flash out, in
the motionless, dark waters.
"It's sweet enough to induce one to sit
here all night," Madge says ; " nevertheless'
266 ** ^ HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
as soon as Phil comes in, he must be our
escort home."
Meanwhile, the Halsworthy Inn is in a
state of chaos. Lady TolUngton and Mr.
Fletcher have arrived, with their man and
maid, and these two are making Ufe a
horrible burden to the flustered landlady by
their dissatisfaction. Maddened by their
complaints and suggestions, the worthy
woman forgets her cunning, and overseasons
some viands, and under-cooks others, and
finally serves up a complete failure of three
courses to a hungry, tired, and irritable pair.
" I shall not stay in this hole to be
starved," Lady ToUington says in fiery tones,
as the last remnants of the ill-starred feast
vanish from the table.
INTO THE SILEKT POOL. 267
" The sQoner we go, the better I shall be
pleased/' her husband rejoins ; ^ you may do
me the favour of remembering that I was
opposed to coming here from the first."
" Absurd sentimentality, and false too/'
Lady TolUngton says in a white rage, rising
and going to the window; "you're weak
enough, I know that; but I am not going
to believe that you're weak enough to have
any feeling left for this Miss Roden, who
threw you oflF like an old glove directly she
was tired of you, and had seen your cousin."
As Philip does not answer her, she is
about to turn round with an unmistakable
scowl on her fair, tired-looking face. But
before she can do it, her glance is arrested
by the sight of Olive Aveland and another
young lady walking down the street. She
guesses at once that they are going to
the Vicarage, to see that Mrs. Henderson
2G8 " ' HE COMETH NOT,' SHE SAID."
of wliom Philip has made frequent mention.
And she resolves that she too, and Philip,
shall follow with little delay.
Accordingly, a smile is the mask she wears,
instead of a scowl, when she does turn round.
" Philip,'* she begins, with the fawning air
she can adopt at a moment's notice ; " for-
give my petulance, hunger is gnawing every
bit of the courtier out of me; accept the
amende I am going to make : take me to
see your friend, Mrs. Henderson ? "
Philip has nothing reasonable to urge
against this request. He has not seen that
graceful figure in the grey cloud, therefore
he infinitely prefers the idea of going and
having a pleasant evening at the Vicarage
with Mrs. Henderson and his cousin Phil,
and possibly Madge Roden, to that of spend-
ing the evening alone with his spouse in a
dull village inn. One very soon comes to
DTTO THE SILENT POOL. 269
the end of vivacious, vain Lady Tollington.
And having come to the end of her, one has
not the faintest desire to retrace one's steps.
Accordingly when the stars come out and
jewel the skies, Lady Tollington puts on a
youthful hat, and a "real cashmere," and
Philip attends her with a careless indifference
as to what will happen next, that will never
be his portion again.
The talk between the three women on the
border of the silent, black pool, often flags ;
but they sit on contentedl}^ for there is a
certain pleasurable sense of rest to each one
of them in being together in this way,
Madge is by feir the most silent of the three,
and when she does speak it is only to wonder
" Why Phil has not come back yet/' When
270 "*H C-031ETH NOT,' SHE SAD)/'
she has expressed this wonder several times,
she feels that an explanation is dne to OUre.
" Phil and I are going to be married soon,**
she says ; and then she goes on to inform
Oliye that as he is going to the Bar his time
must be principally spent in London. ** And
Aunt Lucy won't be dull at all, because,
luckily, Phil's mother and sisters have agreed
to come and live at Moorbridge House ; and
we shall run down whenever Phil can spare
time, for he won't let me be away from my
kingdom long/'
"Dear Madge/' Olive says aflFectionately,
" how good it is when the real Happy Prince
comes at last instead of at first." And then
she goes on to talk freely with Madge of the
latter's future, until it seems to both her
hearers that her own heart has grown
lighter.
The stars keep on breaking out on the sur-
INTO THE SILENT POOL. 271
face of the dark pool in greater beauty each
moment, and the reflection of a splendid one
gets broken and shattered into a myriad
diamonds by the light ripple that is caused
by the movement of the big fronds of the
royal fern. In order to watch it Olive draws
her chair nearer and nearer to the edge, and
Mr, Henderson comes out, and they are all
as much interested in the heavenly bodies as
if there were no such things as false and
absent lovers in the world.
Presently through the still night air the
parlour-maid's voice comes to them saying,
" My mistress and the young ladies are out
on the lawn, sir,'' and now figures loom tall
as they approach them in the star-hght, and
presently Philip Fletcher is in their midst,
saying,
" I have brought my wife to introduce to
you, Mrs, Henderson."
272 " ' HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.
It is all SO sudden, it is so much like an
awful nightmare from which if she moves she
may free herself, that Olive does move, and
does free herself, poor thing.
Forgetful of the water that is behind her,
as she has turned her head to see-him coming,
she rises, steps back, and then there is a dull
clashing sound in the pool, and OUve is no
longer one of them.
Cry upon cry is raised, for the pool is
known to be terribly deep, and the stars are
twinkling confusedly on its broken surface.
Philip Fletcher has not seen the fece of the
woman who has disappeared, but in the
midst of the panic he only is prompt. He
has sprung in before he knows what he is
springing after.
Vain assistance is rendered to him by those
who rush frantically round the margin, declar-
ing that they are sure " she is rising tiiere.*
INTO THE SILENT POOL. 273
When she does rise it is far from the spot any
one has indicated ; and when Philip, nearly
exhausted himself, bears her to the bank in
his arms^ it is a dead face that the stars look
down upon.
"Such an awful thing to have happened
on our wedding-tour," Lady ToUington says ;
"quite like a bad omen. TU never como
near the West of England again." Lady
ToUington looks quite old as she says this to
Mrs. Henderson, a day or two after the oc-
currence old, and worn, and disappointed.
And Mrs. Henderson, who does not know all
the facts of the case, pities the living wife,
who knows that she will never have a place in
her husband's heart, more than she does the
dead love, who has done with all the toil and
endeavour now.
VOL. III. T
274 "'he COMETH not/ SHE SAID.''
" For after all," as Madge says to Phil the
day before their own marriage, "he came to
her at the last; she knew (I hke to feel sure
of that^) that he was trying to save her."