George Manville Fenn (continued 3)

There was no difficulty about getting leave, for Fanny took the first opportunity of asking her mistress, and that first opportunity was one day when Lady Scarlett was busy in the study with Arthur Prayle.

Lady Scarlett looked up as the girl paused and hesitated, after taking in a letter; and Arthur Prayle also looked up and gazed calmly at the changing colour in the handsome face.

“What is it, Fanny?” said Lady Scarlett.

“I was going to ask, ma’am, if I might go with Martha—on Friday—to my brother’s farm—to tea. My brother would bring us back by ten; or if you liked, ma’am, I could come back alone much sooner, if you wanted me.”

“Oh, certainly, Fanny. You can go. I like you to have a change sometimes.”

“And shall I come back, ma’am—about nine?” said the girl eagerly.

“O no; certainly not,” replied Lady Scarlett. “Come back with Martha, under your brother’s charge. I don’t think you ought to come back alone.”

Lady Scarlett inadvertently turned her face in the direction of Prayle, as she spoke, and found his eyes fixed upon her gravely, as he rested his elbows on the table and kept his finger-tips together.

“Certainly not,” he said softly. “You are quite right, I think;” and he bowed his head in a quiet serious manner, as if giving the matter his entire approval.

Fanny said, “Thank you, ma’am;” and it might have been supposed that this extension of time would have afforded her gratification; but an analyst of the human countenance would have said that there was something almost spiteful in the look which she bestowed upon Arthur Prayle, as she was about to leave the room.

In due time the visit was paid, Fanny and Martha bestowing no little attention on their outward appearance; and upon crossing the bridge and taking the meadow-path, they were some little distance from the farm, when Brother William encountered them, with a very shiny face, as if polished for the occasion, and a rose in the button-hole of his velveteen coat.

“How are you, Martha Betts?” he said, with a very bountiful smile; and he shook hands almost too heartily to be pleasant, even to one whose fingers were pretty well hardened with work.—“How are you, Fanny, lass?” he continued; and he was about to bestow upon the graceful well-dressed little body a fraternal hug and a kiss, but she repelled him.

“No; don’t, William. There that will do. I’m very glad to see you; but I wish you wouldn’t be such a bear.”

“Bear, eh?” said Brother William, with a disappointed look. “Why, I was only going to kiss you, lass. All right,” he said, smiling again. “But she mustn’t think of having a sweetheart, Martha Betts, or he’ll be wanting to hug her too.”

Brother William’s face was a study as he let off this, to his way of thinking, very facetious remark. His bountiful smile expanded into an extremely broad grin, and he looked to Martha Betts for approval, but only to encounter so stern and grave a look, that his smile grew stiff, then hard, then faded away into an expression of pain, which in turn gave way to one that was stolid solemnity frozen hard.

“It’s a nice day, ain’t it?” he said at last, to break the unpleasant silence that had fallen upon the little group, as they walked on between hedges bright with wild-roses, and over which the briony twined its long strands and spread its arrowy leaves. There was the scent of the sweet meadow-plant as it raised its creamy blossoms from every moist ditch; and borne on the breeze came the low sweet music of the weir.

But somehow these various scents, sights, and sounds had grown common to the little party, or else their thoughts were on other matters, for Fanny the pretty seemed to be looking eagerly across the meadow towards the river and down every lane, as if expecting to see some one on the way towards them. From time to time she hung back, to pick and make little bouquets of wild-flowers, but only to throw them pettishly away, as she found that her brother and fellow-servant kept coming to a full stop till she rejoined them, when they went on once more.

As for Brother William and Martha, they diligently avoided looking at one another, while their conversation was confined to a few words, and those were mostly from Brother William, who said on each of these occasions: “Hadn’t we best wait for Fanny?”

To which Martha Betts responded: “Well, I suppose we had.”

Martha seemed in nowise delighted with the appearance of the pretty cottage farm, with its low thick thatch and dense ivy, which covered the walls like a cloak. Neither was she excited by the sight of the old-fashioned garden, gay with homely flowers; but she did accept a rosebud, and a sprig of that pleasant herbaceous plant which Brother William called “Old Man,” pinning them tightly at the top of her dress with a very large pin, which her host took out of the edge of his waistcoat.

“That is a pretty dress,” he said admiringly. “One o’ my favourite colours. There’s nowt like laylock and plum.”

“I’m glad you like it,” said Martha quietly; and she then followed Brother William into the clean, homely keeping-room, where Joe’s wife—Joe being one of Brother William’s labourers—who did for him, as he expressed it, had prepared the tea, which was spread upon one of the whitest of cloths. Beside the ordinary preparations for the infusion of the Chinese leaf, there was an abundance of country delicacies—ham of the host’s own growing and curing; rich moist radishes; the yellowest of butter, so sweetly fresh as to be scented; the brownest of loaves, and the thickest of cream.

Martha looked round at the bright homely furniture of the room, the bees’-waxed chairs, the polished bureau of walnut inlaid with brass, the ancient eight-day clock, and the side-table with its grey-and-red check cotton cover, highly decorated tea-tray, set up picture-fashion, and a few books.

“Ah,” said Brother William, seeing the direction of his visitor’s eyes, “I haven’t got many books. That’s the owd Bible. Got mine and Fanny’s birthdays in. That’s mother’s owd hymn-book; and here’s a book here, if you like. If Fanny would lay that up by heart, ’stead o’ reading them penny gimcracks, she’d be a-doing herself some good.” As he spoke, he took up a well-used old book in a brown cover, which opened easily in his hand. “That’s Bowcroft’s Farmer’s Compendium, that is. I’ll lend it to you, if you like. Stodge-full of receipts for cattle-drinks and sheep-dressings; and there’s a gardener’s calendar in it too. I wouldn’t take fi’ pound for that book, Martha. There ain’t many like it, even up at Sir James Scarlett’s, I’ll be bound. That’s litrichur, that is.”

Fanny did not enter with them. She preferred to have a good look at the garden, she said; and she lingered there for some time, her “good look at the garden” taking in a great many protracted looks up and down the lane, each of which was followed by a disappointed frown and a sigh.

“Won’t you take off your bonnet and jacket, Martha Betts?” said Brother William. “You can go up to Fanny’s old bedroom, or you can hang ’em up behind the door on the Peg.”

Martha thought she would hang them up on the peg that was behind the door; and Brother William looked stolidly on, but in an admiring way, as he saw the quick deft manner in which his visitor divested herself of these outdoor articles of garb, made her hair smooth with a touch, and then brought out an apron from her pocket, unrolled it, and from within, neatly folded so that it should not crease, one of those natty little scraps of lace that are pinned upon the top of the head and called by courtesy a cap.

“Hah!” said Brother William, as the cap was adjusted and the apron fastened on; “the kettle is byling, but we may as well look round before you make the tea.”

“Thank you,” said Martha calmly.

“This is the washus,” said Brother William, opening a door to display a particularly clean whitewashed place, with red—brick floor. There was a copper in one corner; at one side, a great old-fashioned open fireplace with clumsy iron dogs, and within this fireplace, in what should have been the chimney corner, an iron door, nearly breast high.

“That’s the brick oven,” said Brother William, noticing the bent of his visitor’s eyes. “We burn fuzz in it mostly; but any wood does. Them hooks is when we kill a pig. The water in that there pump over the sink’s soft: there’s a big tank outside. That other pump you see through the window’s the drinking-water. It never gets dry. Nice convenient washus; isn’t it?”

“Very,” said Martha quietly; “only there ought to be a board put down front of the sink, for a body to stand on.”

“There is one outside. Mrs Badley must ha’ left it there when she cleaned up,” cried Brother William eagerly; and Martha said “Oh!”

Then he led the way back into the keeping-room, and opened a second door, while Martha’s quick eyes were taking in everything, not an article of furniture escaping her gaze; not that she was admiring or calculating their quality or value, but as if she were in search of some particular thing that so far she had found absent; this object being a spot of dirt.

“This here’s the dairy,” said Brother William, entering, and holding open the double doors of the cool, dark, shady place—brick-floored, like the washhouse, but with a broad erection of red-brick all round like a rough dresser, upon which stood rows of white-lined pans, with a large white table in the middle, and the churn, scales, and beaters, and other utensils used in the preparation of the butter, along with the milk-pails at one end.

Martha’s wandering eyes were as badly off as Noah’s dove in the early days after the flood; they could find no place to rest, for everything was scrupulously clean. The cream looked thick and heavy and almost tawny in its yellowness; and upon two large dishes were a couple of dozen rolls of delicious-looking butter, reposing beneath a piece of while muslin, ready for taking to market on the following day.

“Myste and cool, isn’t it?” said Brother William. “You see it’s torst the north, and I’ve got elder-trees to shade the window as well.”

Martha nodded, and continued her search for that spot of dirt which her reason told her must be somewhere; but certainly it was not hiding there.

“There’s four cows in full milk now, Martha. Cream’s rich; isn’t it? Wait a moment.”

“Where do you get your hot-water to scald the churn and things?” said Martha sharply, checking Brother William as he was moving towards the open door.

“There’s a big byler in the kitchen,” said Brother William, eager to make the best of things; and then, as Martha said no more, but went on with her dirt quest, he left the dairy, and came back directly after with an old-fashioned, much worn, silver tablespoon.

“I thought you wouldn’t mind tasting the cream, Martha. This here is ’bout the freshest,” he said, going to one of the broad shallow pans, inserting the spoon, which, Martha had seen at a glance, was beautifully clean, and gently drawing the cream sidewise, so that it crinkled all over, so thick was it and rich, and the spoon came out piled up as it were with the luscious produce of the little farm.

Martha’s face was perfectly solemn, as she watched Brother William’s acts, and she did not move a muscle till he spoke.

“Open your mouth,” he said seriously—“Wide.”

Martha obeyed, and did open her mouth—wide, for it was rather a large mouth; but the lips were well shaped and red, and the teeth within were even and white.

Brother William carefully placed the spoonful of cream within; and Martha closed her lips, solemnly imbibing the luscious spoonful, when, as a small portion was left visible at one corner, Brother William carefully removed it with an orange silk pocket-handkerchief; and Martha quietly said: “Thank you.”

“Would you like to look at the cows now, or have tea?” said Brother William; whereupon Martha opined that it would be better to have tea, as Fanny would be expecting them.

But Fanny was evidently not expecting them, and did not come in until Martha had made the tea and cut the bread-and-butter, Brother William leaning his arms on the back of the big, well bees’-waxed Windsor chair, and gazing at her busy fingers, as she spread the yellow butter and cut a plateful of slices.

“Seems just as if you were doing it at home,” said Brother William; “only it looks nicer here.”

Then Fanny was summoned, and Martha made way for her to preside at the tea-tray.

“No; you’d better pour out,” the girl said absently. “I’d rather sit here.”

“Here” was where she could see through the open window out into the road; and there she sat while the meal was discussed, little attention being paid to her by her brother, who divided his time between eating heartily himself, and pressing slices of ham upon Martha, who took her place in the most matter-of-fact way, and supplied her host’s wants, which were frequent, as the teacups were very small. In fact, so occupied with their meal were Brother William and Martha, that they did not notice a slow, deliberate step in the road, passing evidently down the lane; neither did they see that Fanny’s face, as she bent lower over her cup, became deeply suffused, and that she did not look up till the step had died away, when she uttered a low sigh, as if a burden had been removed from her breast.

After that, though, they did notice that she became brighter and more willing to enter into conversation, seeming at last to take quite an interest in her brother’s account of the loss of a sheep through its getting upside down in a ditch; and she also expressed a feeling of satisfaction upon hearing that hay would fetch a good price in the autumn, so many people having had theirs spoiled.

“Never mind me,” said Fanny, as soon as, between them, she and Martha had put away the tea-things: “I shall go into the garden and look round.”

Brother William evidently did not mind her, for, in his slow deliberate way, he took off Martha to introduce her to the cows; after which she had to scrape acquaintance with the pigs, visit the poultry, who were somewhat disturbed, inasmuch as they were settling themselves in the positions that they were to occupy for the night, and made no little outcry in consequence. Then there were the sheep; and there was last year’s haystack, and this year’s, both of which had to be smelt, Brother William pulling out a good handful from each, to show Martha that there was not a trace of damp in either. This done, a happy thought seemed to strike Brother William, who turned to Martha and exclaimed: “I wonder whether you could churn?”

“Let’s try,” said Martha, with the air of one who would have made the same answer if it had been the question of making a steam-engine or a watch.

Brother William gave one of his legs a vigorous slap, and marched Martha back into the house, through into the dairy. Then he fetched a can of hot-water to rinse out and warm the churn. There was a pot of lumpy cream already waiting, and this was carefully poured in, the lid duly replaced, with the addition of a cloth, to keep the cream from splashing out, and then he stood and watched Martha, who was busily pinning up her dress all round. She then turned up her sleeves and took out a clean pocket-handkerchief, which she folded by laying one corner across to the other, and then tied it over her head and under her chin, making her pleasant comely face look so provocative, that Brother William drew a long breath, took a step forward, and was going to catch Martha in his arms; but he recollected himself in time, gave a slew round, and caught hold of the churn handle instead, and this he began to turn steadily round and round, as if intending to play a tune.

“I thought I was to make it,” said Martha quietly.

“Oh, ah, yes, of course,” he said, resigning the handle; and then he drew back, as if it was not safe for him to stand there and watch, while Martha steadily turned and turned, and the cream within the snowy white sycamore box went “wish-wash, wish-wash, wish-wash,” playing, after all, a very delicious tune in the young farmer’s ears, for it suggested yellow butter, and yellow butter suggested sovereigns, and sovereigns suggested borne comforts and savings, and above all, the turning of that handle suggested the winning of just the very wife to occupy that home.

Five minutes, and there was a glow of colour in Martha’s cheeks. Five minutes more, and the colour was in her brow as well.

“You are tired now,” said Brother William. “Let me turn.”

“No; I mean to make it,” she replied, tightening her lips and turning steadily away.

Another five minutes, and there was a very red spot on Martha’s chin, and her lips were apart; but she turned away, with Brother William quite rapt in admiration at the patient perseverance displayed; and in fact, if it had been a question of another hour, Martha would have kept on turning till she dropped. She did not speak, neither did Brother William; but his admiration increased. Their eyes never met, for Martha’s were fixed steadfastly upon one particular red-brick; not that it was dirty, for it was of a brighter red than the others; and she turned and turned, first with one hand, then with the other, till there was a change in the “wish-wash, wish-wash” in the churn, and then Brother William exclaimed: “That’s done it! Butter!”

“Hah!” ejaculated Martha, with a heavy sigh, and her breath came all the faster for the exertion.

“Look at it!” cried Brother William, taking the lid off the churn. “Can you see?”

Martha was rather short; hence, perhaps, it was that Brother William placed his arm round her waist to raise her slightly; and he was not looking at the butter, and Martha was not looking at it either, but up at him, as he bent down a little lower, and somehow, without having had the slightest intention of doing so the moment before, Brother William gave Martha a very long and solemn kiss.

She shrank away from him the next moment, and looked up at him reproachfully. “You shouldn’t,” she said. “It’s so wrong.”

“Is it?” he said dolefully. “I’m very sorry. I couldn’t help it, Martha. You made the butter so beautifully. Don’t be cross.”

“I’m not cross,” she said, untying the handkerchief, and then proceeding to take out the pins from her dress, holding them between her lips, points outwards; “only you mustn’t do so again.”

Brother William said: “Well, I won’t;” and then, as the pins were taken from Martha’s red lips—so great is the falsity of man—he bent down and let his lips take the place of the pins, and Martha said never a word.

“Joe’s wife said yesterday that she didn’t mean to come and do for me much longer,” said Brother William suddenly.

“Why not?” said Martha.

“Because she said I’d best ask you.”

“And are you going to ask me, William?”

“Yes. When will you come altogether?” he said softly.

Martha glanced round once more, as if in search of that spot of dirt which would keep eluding her search. Then she raised her eyes to Brother William’s shirt front with a triumphant flash, feeling sure that she would see a button off, or a worn hole; but there was neither; and when she turned her eyes upon his hands, the wristbands were not a bit frayed.

“I don’t know,” she said dubiously. “Do you want me to come?”

He nodded, and they went out of the dairy into the sitting room.

“I’ll tell Fanny,” he said. “I hope she’ll be pleased.”

But Fanny was not there; and when they went into the garden, she was not there either, nor yet in the orchard.

“She must have gone down the lane,” said Brother William—“down towards the river. Let’s go and see.”

They went out together, with Martha making no scruple now about holding on by Brother William’s sturdy arm. But though they walked nearly down to the river, Fanny was not there.

“She’ll be cross, and think we neglected her,” said Martha. “I am sorry we went away.”

“I’m not,” said Brother William, trying to be facetious for the second time that evening. “We’ve made half a dozen pounds o’ butter, and a match.”

Martha shook her head.

“Let’s go back and see if she went up to the wood,” cried Brother William.

“She’s reading somewhere,” said Martha as they walked back, to find Fanny standing by the gate, looking slightly flushed and very pretty, ready to smile and banter them for being away so long.

They soon ended the visit to the farm; for, after partaking of supper, and eating one of Brother William’s own carefully grown lettuces, they walked slowly back, in the soft moist evening air, to the Rosery, when, during the leave-takings, Brother William said: “Fanny, Martha’s going to be my wife.”

“Is she?” said Fanny indifferently. “Oh!” And then to herself: “Poor things! What a common, ordinary-looking woman Martha is. And Brother William—Ah, what a degrading life this is!”

The degradation did not seem to affect the others, for Brother William’s cheeks quite shone, and the high lights on Martha’s two glossy smooth hands of hair seemed to be brighter than ever.

“Good-night,” said Brother William. “Good-night, Martha.”

“Good-night, William.”

“You’ll keep a sharp eye on Fanny till I fetch you away; won’t you?”

“I always do, William; but I’m afraid her eyes are sharper than mine.”

“What do you mean?” he said quietly.

“I’m afraid she’s got a sweetheart.”

“Who is it?” said Brother William sternly.

“I don’t know yet. Sometimes I think it’s a real one, and sometimes I think it’s all sham—only one out of her magazines that she talks about; but I’m not sure.”

“Then look here, Martha: you’ve got to be sure,” said Brother William, who was as business-like now as if he had been selling his hay. “You’ve got to make sure, and tell me, for I’m not going to have anybody play the fool with her. If any one does, there’ll be something the matter somewhere;” and shaking his head very fiercely, Brother William strode away, giving a thump with his stick at every step along the road.

End of Volume One.

Volume Two—Chapter One.

Aunt Sophia Visits the City.

Mr Fred. Saxby stopped in front of the Royal Exchange one morning to buy a rose, and spent some time in selecting it. Red ones would not do; yellow he despised. He wanted a delicate white rose, with a dash of blush pink upon its petals; and when he had discovered one, he made no scruple about paying the flower-girl sixpence and carrying it off with the greatest care to deposit in a glass upon his desk, for reasons known only to himself.

He had rather a busy morning in his close, cool, dark office, in a court out of Throgmorton Street—an office where the light of day had a struggle every morning to get down between two tall piles of building, and illumine the room, failing dismally seven or eight months out of the twelve, and leaving the stockbroker to the tender mercies of his gas company and the yellow flame that danced within a globe.

Mr Saxby’s room was “as clean as hands could make it,”—the housekeeper’s words—but all the same it did not seem clean. There was a dingy look about everything, excepting the rose he bought every morning, and himself. In one part of the room was a tiny machine, untouched save by electricity, which went on, unwinding, inking its letters and stamping mile after mile of tape-like paper, informing the reader the while that the shares of this railway were up, of that down; that foreign stocks had made this change, consols were at that, and so on, and so on, while the occupant of the office paid not the slightest heed, but divided his attention between the Times and the rose.

Just in the midst of one of his most earnest inspections of the flower, during which he took a long soft inhalation of its odorous breath, a clerk entered with a card. “Miss Raleigh, sir.”

“Bless my heart!” ejaculated the stockbroker, hastily setting down the rose, for the act of smelling it had taken him down to a velvet lawn, sloping to the riverside; and upon that lawn he had seemed to see some one walking, wearing a similar rose; but it was not the lady who now entered, and of whom he had heard nothing since he warned her not to venture in the Cornish mine.

“Good-morning, Miss Raleigh,” he exclaimed, placing a chair. “I hardly expected to see you.”

“Why not?” said Aunt Sophia shortly. “Where did you expect I should go?”

“I hope you are well, ma’am, and—Sir James and Lady Scarlett?”

“No; I’m not well; I’m worried,” said the lady. “Sir James and Lady Scarlett are both ill. Has—But never mind that now. Look here, Mr Saxby; you always give me very bad advice, and you seem determined not to let me get good interest for my money. Now, tell me this, sir. I have been receiving a great many circulars lately about different excellent investments; above all, several about gold mines in the north of India.”

“So I suppose, ma’am,” said Mr Saxby rubbing his hands softly.

“And I suppose you will say that they are not good; but here is one that I received yesterday which cannot fail to be right. I want some shares in that.”

“And you won’t have one, ma’am,” said Mr Saxby, who was far more autocratic in his own office than at a friend’s house.

“What! are they all sold?”

“Sold? Pooh! ma’am, hardly any. There are not many people lunatics enough to throw their money into an Indian gold mine.”

“Saxby, you are the most obstinate, aggravating man I ever did know. Look here; will not these figures convince you?”

“No, ma’am; only make me more obstinate—more aggravating still.”

“Then what do these figures mean?”

“Mean, madam? To trap spinster ladies with small incomes, half-pay officers, poor clergymen with miserable livings—the whole lot of poor genteel people, and those who like to dabble in investments—people who can’t afford to lose, and people who can. Why, my dear madam, use your own judgment. If there were a safe fifteen per cent, there, the shares would be gone in one hour, and at a heavy premium the next.”

“Humph!” said Aunt Sophia. “Of course you do all my nephew’s business?”

“Yes, madam; it all comes here.”

“You know what shares he holds?”

“I think so. Of course, he may have been to other brokers; but he would not have done so without good reason.”

“As far as you can, then,” said Aunt Sophia, “keep an eye upon what are sold, and I should like to be made acquainted with any sales that may take place.”

“Well, really, my dear Miss Raleigh, such a proceeding—”

“Yes, yes, man; I know all about that; but you know to what a state he has been reduced. I love him like a son, and I—Now look here, Saxby; I’m telling you this, because I think you are an honest man.”

“Well, I hope I am, ma’am.”

“Then look here; I will speak out. I won’t mention any names; but I am afraid that designing people are at work to get possession of some of his property, and I want it watched.”

“Rather a serious charge, Miss Raleigh.”

“Stuff and nonsense, man! Not half serious enough. Just look at this prospectus for a moment. There are some good names to it. I’ll talk about those other matters afterwards.”

Aunt Sophia fixed her double glasses upon her nose, and stared through them upon the neat and dapper stockbroker, who stared in return, and frowned, otherwise he would have laughed, for the spring of Aunt Sophia’s pince-nez was very strong, and its effect was to compress the organ upon which it rested, so that the ordinarily thin sharp point of the lady’s nose was turned into a sickly-looking bulb, that was, to say the least, grotesque.

“Halt!” said Mr Saxby, reading quickly: “Society for the Elevation of the Human Race in large and Crowded Towns; patrons, the Right Hon.—hum-ha-hum; his Grace the—hum-ha-hum; the Lord Bishop of—hum-ha-hum; directors—hum-ha-hum; M.P.—hum—Mr—hum,”—Mr Saxby’s voice grew less and less distinct, becoming at last a continuance of the sound expressed in letters by hum, but he finished off sharply with: “Secretary, Mr Arthur Prayle!—Well, ma’am, and what of this?”

“What of it, Saxby? Why, wouldn’t it be a most admirable thing to invest in a Society which will benefit my fellow-creatures and bring in a large percentage as well?”

“Admirable, my dear madam,” said Saxby; “but you don’t quite express the result.”

“What do you mean?”

“Singular, ma’am, not plural, and no percentage.”

“Now, look here, Saxby: I have come here on business, if you please, not to hear you discuss points of grammar. What do you mean by your singular and plural?”

“I mean, my dear madam,” said Saxby, with a chuckle, “that this Society,”—he flipped the prospectus with his finger as he spoke—“would benefit one fellow-creature only, and give no percentage at all. What is more, you would never see your money back.”

“Ho!” ejaculated Aunt Sophia. “And pray, who would be the fellow-creature?”

“Well, ma’am, it is being rather hard upon a gentleman whom I have had the pleasure of meeting, and who is no doubt acting in the best of faith; but the secretary is the only fellow-creature who will get anything out of that affair. He will of course take care that the office expenses are paid, he is an office expense. There will be nothing for a soul beside.”

“Oh, this is prejudice, Mr Saxby.”

“Business prejudice, perhaps, ma’am; but, to my mind, this is only one of many Societies that are constantly springing up like toadstools—that kind that comes up fair and white, looks very much like a good mushroom for a time, and then dissolves into a nasty black inky fluid, and is gone.”

“It is prejudice,” said Aunt Sophia.

“Maybe, ma’am; but there are numbers of silly Societies got up, such as appeal to weak sensitive people; the secretary gets a few letters in the daily papers, and plenty of ladies like yourself subscribe their money, say, for the Suppression of Sunday Labour amongst Cabhorses, the Society for Dieting Destitute Blackbeetles, and the Provident Home for Canaries whose Patrons are out of Town. These, my dear madam, are exaggerations, but only slight ones, of many Societies got up by ingenious secretaries, who turn a bottle of ink, a ream of neatly headed note-paper, and some cleverly monogrammed envelopes, into a comfortable income.”

“That will do,” said Aunt Sophia shortly as she took off her pince-nez and allowed the blood to resume its circulation—“that will do, Mr Saxby.—Then you will not buy the shares for me?”

“No, ma’am, not a share. I should deserve to be kicked out of the Stock Exchange, if I did.”

“Very well, sir—very well, sir,” said the lady, rising and tightening her lips. “That will do.”

“And now, as business is over, my dear madam, may I ask for the latest report concerning our friend Scarlett’s health?”

“Yes, sir, you may,” said Aunt Sophia shortly. “It is very bad. His nerve is completely gone.”

“Ah, but I hope it will return,” said Saxby. “Patience, ma’am, patience. When stocks in a good thing, mind, I say a good thing, are at their lowest, they take a turn, and become often enough better than ever. And—er—may I ask how—how Miss Raleigh junior is?”

“No, sir; you may not,” said Aunt Sophia shortly. “Good-morning!”

“Phe-ew! What an old she-dragon it is!” said Mr Saxby to himself as the door closed upon Aunt Sophia’s angular form.

“I am right!” said Aunt Sophia to herself as she got into the hansom cab that she had waiting. “Here!—hi!” she cried, poking at the little trapdoor in the roof with her parasol. “Waterloo Station.”

Then, as the cab rattled along: “Arthur Prayle is a smooth-looking, smooth-tongued scoundrel; I know he is, and I’ve a good mind to let him have a few hundreds, so as to take off his mask. I won’t mistrust Saxby any more. He’s as honest as the day, and I’m glad I’ve put him on his guard. But he must be snubbed, very hard, and I must speak to Naomi. I do believe the hard, money-grubbing, fog-breathing creature thinks that he is in love!”

Volume Two—Chapter Two.

Sir James Scarlett’s Nerves.

“Come, old fellow; I think you are better now,” said the doctor, as he took Scarlett’s arm and walked with him down the garden. They had just been standing upon the lawn, where, in a group, Lady Scarlett, Lady Martlett, Naomi, and Aunt Sophia were with Arthur Prayle. The doctor had been irritated, though he would not own it, by the cool, haughty indifference of Lady Martlett, and it had cost him an effort to tear his thoughts from his own affairs to the troubles of his friend; but upon twice waking up to the fact that Scarlett was growing excited, and that he had displayed a disposition to what the doctor called “break out,” he suggested a stroll down the grounds.

Scarlett eagerly agreed; and after a solemn exchange of courtesies with Lady Martlett, the doctor took his friend away.

“Confound her!” muttered the doctor; “the others must have wondered whether I was going to hand her out for a minuet. I wish the woman would keep away.”

They strolled about for some few minutes, and twice came to a halt; but the first time, as they seated themselves in a couple of garden-chairs, the voice of Arthur Prayle came in a low deep murmur from the lawn as he was saying something earnestly, and the doctor saw his patient’s eyes flash, and then, us he watched him curiously, contract in an unpleasant way.

“Prayle seems to be working very hard for you, old fellow.”

“Yes.”

“You trust him, I suppose, with all the settlement of your London affairs?”

“Yes: everything.”

“Thoroughly trustworthy fellow, of course?”

“Yes, yes, I tell you,” cried Scarlett angrily. “He is my cousin.”

“Yes, of course,” said the doctor, quietly noting every change in his friend the while.

“Come somewhere else,” said Scarlett, leaping up in an excited manner. “I can’t bear to sit here.”

“All right—all right,” said the doctor cheerily. “Let’s go down to the waterside.”

“No, no!” exclaimed Scarlett, with a shudder. “Come to the rhododendrons.”

“By all means. But I say, old fellow, you must fight down this weakness.”

“Weakness? What weakness? Is it a weakness to prefer one part of the garden to the other?”

“O no; of course not. Let’s go down there.”

They strolled down between two great banks of the grand flowering shrubs, now rich with the glossy green of their summer growth, and sat down, when a new trouble assailed Scarlett, and he sprang up impatiently. “Hah!” he exclaimed. “I can’t bear it.”

“Why, what’s the matter now?”

“Those blue-bottles buzzing about me like that; just as if they expected I should soon be carrion.”

“Pooh! What an absurd idea! But you are wrong, old fellow, as usual. I am the more fleshy subject, and they would be after me. Let’s go down yonder under the firs.”

“Why? What is there there, that you should choose that part?” said Scarlett, with a quick suspicious glance.

“Fir-trees, shade, seats to sit down,” said the doctor quietly.

“Yes, yes, of course; that will do,” said Scarlett hastily. “Let’s go there.”

They strolled along a sun-burned path; and the doctor had just made the remark that commences this chapter, when there was a rustling noise among the shrubs, a whining yelp, and Scarlett’s favourite dog, a little white fox-terrier, rushed out at them, to leap up at its master, barking with delight. It came upon them so suddenly, that Scarlett uttered a wild cry, caught at the doctor’s arm, screened himself behind his sturdy body, and stood there trembling like a leaf.

“Why, it’s only Fritz!” cried the doctor, smiling.

“He startled me so—so sudden,” panted Scarlett. “Drive the brute away.”

“Ist! Go home; go back!” cried the doctor; and, as if understanding the state of affairs, and dejected and wretched at being treated like this, where he had expected to be patted and caressed, the dog drooped his head and tail, looked wistfully up at his master, and slowly trotted away. He turned at the end of the path, and looked back at them, as if half expecting to be recalled, and then went on out of sight.

“I’ll sell that dog, Jack; he’s growing vicious,” said Scarlett, speaking in an excited tone. “I’ve watched him a good deal lately. What are the first signs of hydrophobia?”

“Hydrophobia,” said the doctor smiling—“water-hating; but I have never studied the diseases of dogs—only sad dogs.”

“I wish you would not be so flippant, Jack, I’m sure that dog is going mad. He hates water now.”

“Don’t agree with you, old fellow,” said the doctor, throwing himself upon a great rustic seal beneath some pines; “the dog was quite wet, and I saw him, an hour ago, plashing about after the rats.”

“Ah, but he avoids it sometimes. I have a horror of mad dogs.”

Scarlett settled himself down in the seat in a moody, excitable way, looking uneasily round; and the doctor offered him a cigar, which he took and lit, Scales also lighting one, and the friends sat smoking in the delicious pine-scented shade.

“I wish that woman would not be so fond of coming over here,” said Scarlett suddenly.

“What woman?”

“That Lady Martlett. Coarse, masculine, horsy creature. She is spoiling Kate.”

The doctor’s countenance grew lowering, and there was a red spot on either cheek, but he only said quietly: “Think so?”

“Yes. I shall put a stop to the intimacy.”

“I’m not going to have my home-life spoiled. Her coming makes me nervous.”

“Does it?” said the doctor cheerfully. “I’ll soon put that right for you.”

“How?” said Scarlett suspiciously.

“You shall have a shower-bath every morning, old fellow.”

“Water? ah!” The poor fellow shuddered, and started up. “Here, let’s have a stroll down by the meadow-side.”

“All right!” cried the doctor with alacrity, “What a glorious day it is!”

“Glorious? Ah, yes. Not breeze enough though. Now, let’s go back to the lawn.”

“As you like, old fellow; but I don’t think Lady Martlett has gone.”

“Why, what a dislike you seem to have taken to Lady Martlett, Jack!”

“Well, you know what a woman-hater I am.”

“Yes, of course. Let’s go on down by the meadow. Perhaps it will be best.”

They strolled down a green path separated from the meadow, where the cows were placidly grazing, by an iron fence; and as they went slowly on, two of the soft mousy-coloured creatures came slowly from the middle of the field, blinking their eyes to get rid of the clustering black flies, and giving a pendulum-like swing to their long tails. They timed their approach so accurately, that as the doctor and his patient reached the corner, they were there, with their heads stretched over the railings, ready for the caress and scrap of oilcake which they expected to receive.

Scarlett’s attention was so taken up by his thoughts, that he came upon the two patient animals quite suddenly, stopping as if paralysed, and trembling like one afflicted with the palsy. He did not speak, but stood staring, fascinated as it were by the great soft eyes gazing at him; but he stretched out one hand slowly and cautiously behind him, feeling about for his friend, till Scales placed his hand within. Then the poor fellow clasped the fingers with a sob of relief, shuddering as he tore himself away from the inoffensive beasts, and suffering himself to be led back to the seat they had quitted, where he sank down shivering, and covered his face with his hands, sobbing like a child.

The doctor sat gazing at him gravely thinking it better to let him give free vent to his emotion; but, as it grew more and more intense, he laid his hand upon his friend’s shoulder, saying nothing, but firmly pressing it; the effect of which was to make Scarlett snatch at his hand and grasp it passionately, as he panted out in a voice choked with sobs: “It’s a judgment on me, Jack. I’ve been living here in wealth and idleness, thinking of nothing but self and my own enjoyment. I have not had a thought of anything but pleasure, and I felt so strong and well, that it did not seem possible for a cloud to come across my life. Now, look at me! One stroke, and I have been taught what a poor frail helpless worm I am. Jack, Jack! my nerve is gone. I hate everything. I mistrust every one, even my poor wife, and I see danger everywhere. I daren’t stir a step. You pretend not to see it; but you are always reading me. Jack, old man, I’m afraid of you sometimes, but I do believe in and trust you. I’ll obey you; I’ll do every thing you want, even if it kills me with fear. I will—I will indeed; but, for God’s sake, don’t let them take me away. Don’t leave me. Don’t trust anybody. Don’t get any other advice. Go by your own judgment, old fellow, and no matter what I say or do, don’t let me drive you away. You are the only one I can trust.”

“My dear Scarlett, be calm.”

“I can’t—I can’t!” cried the wretched man passionately, “knowing what I do—knowing what I am; but I will—I will try so—so hard.”

“Of course; and you’ll succeed.”

“No—no! I’m getting worse—much worse, and I can see what everybody thinks. Kate sees it, and has turned from me in horror. You see it; I can read it in your eyes. You wouldn’t say so, but you know it as well as can be. Tell me; isn’t it true?”

“What, that the shock of that half-drowning has upset your nerves, so that you are weak, and have developed a temper that would try an angel? Yes; that’s true enough.”

“No—no! I mean the other—that horror—that dreadful thought that makes me lie and shudder, and ask myself whether I had not better,”—He stopped short and crouched away in the corner of the seat, his face ghastly, his eyes wild and staring, till the doctor spoke in a firm imperious voice, that made him reply, as it were, in spite of himself. “Better what?”

“End it all, and be at rest.”

“Why?” said the doctor, bending towards him as if about to drag forth an answer.

“Because—”

“Well? Speak. I know what you are going to say, but speak out.”

“Because,” said Scarlett, in a low hoarse whisper, as if he dreaded that the very breeze might bear away his confession—“I know it—I feel it—I can tell as well as can be, without something always seeming to whisper it in my ears—I am going mad!” He covered his face with his hands, and sank lower in his seat, panting heavily, and his breath coming and going each minute in a piteous sigh; while, after watching him intently for a few moments, the doctor rose and stood by his side.

Volume Two—Chapter Three.

Doctor and Friend.

A wonderful stillness seemed to have fallen, and not even a bird twittered or uttered a note in the hot midsummer sunshine. Once from the distance came the low soft murmur of the weir, but that died away, and scarcely a leaf rustled, so that when the doctor spoke, his firm deep tones sounded as if all nature in that lovely country-home were listening for the verdict he was about to deliver to the stricken man.

“James Scarlett,” he said firmly, “I hold a double position here: I am your old friend—I am your doctor.”

“Yes,” said Scarlett in a whisper, but without changing his position.

“I am going to speak the simple truth; I am going to hide nothing. I am about to give you plain facts. Will you trust me?”

“Yes. I have always trusted you.”

“Will you believe me? I need not swear?”

“No, Jack, no,” said Scarlett, letting his hands fall from his haggard face. “I believe your word: I do indeed.”

“You asked me not to leave you.”

“Yes: for heaven’s sake, stay.”

“I will not leave you; and if I can, I’ll bring you back to health.”

“Yes,” said Scarlett, shuddering. “And you will not let them drag me away. Jack!—Kate has been planning it with Arthur—an asylum—and I dare not speak, I should be so violent, and make it worse.”

“You shan’t be dragged away, old man, and you need not fancy that any such plans are being made.”

“Even if it came to the worst,” said Scarlett pitifully, “you could keep me down. O Jack, I could not bear it; I’d sooner die!”

“Let me speak out at once, my dear boy,” said the doctor. “The terrible shock to your nerves has made you so weak that you fancy all these things. It is the natural outcome of such a state as yours. Now, listen: you said you would believe me.”

“Yes, yes; and I will.”

“I am glad you have spoken. I knew all this; but I am not sorry you indorsed it. You are haunted by a horrible dread that you are about to lose your reason.”

“Yes,” moaned Scarlett; “and it is so hard—so hard!”

“Then you may take this comfort to your heart: you are not in the slightest degree likely to become insane; and, what is more, I am as good as certain that, sooner or later, you will recover your health.”

“Jack!”

“You said that you would trust in me.”

“Yes—I did—and I will try—so hard. There, I am trying—you see how I am trying. Stand by me, Jack, and help me. Tell me what to do—do you hear! Tell me what to do!”

“I will,” cried Scales. “Give me your hand. Stand up—like a man. Now, grasp it firmly. Firmly, man; a good grip.—That’s better. Now, listen! What are you to do?”

“Yes: tell me quickly. My own strength is gone.”

“I’ll tell you, then,” said the doctor. “Give yourself up to me as if you were a man who could not swim.”

“Don’t talk about the water, Jack. For God’s sake, don’t!”

“I will talk about the water, and you shall listen. Now, then, you must act as if you were helpless and I a strong swimmer. You must trust to me. Recollect, if you struggle and fight against me, you must drown—morally drown: the black waters will close over your spirit, and nothing that I can do will save you. Now, then, drowning man, is it to be trust in the swimmer?—That’s right!” he cried, as Scarlett placed his hands upon his arm—“that’s well. I won’t leave you, James Scarlett, till you are sound and strong as I am now!”

The stricken man made an effort to speak, but the words would not come. He could only gaze wistfully in his friend’s face, his wild eyes looking his gratitude, while they seemed to promise the fidelity of a dog.

“That’s right, old fellow. Now, we pretty well understand each other, only I’ve got to preach at you a little. First of all, I must have full confidence, you know. You must come to me with every symptom and sensation.”

“I will tell you everything,” said Scarlett humbly.

“And I would just make up my mind to meet my troubles like a man. You have yours now; and they come the more painfully after a long course of prosperity and happiness; but even then, old fellow, life is too good a gift to talk of throwing it away.”

Scarlett shuddered, and the doctor watched him narrowly.

“Existence accompanied by a most awful fit of neuralgia would not be pleasant; but all the same I would not refuse it, even with those conditions, for the intervals when the neuralgia is not stinging you are about the most delicious moments by contrast that can be imagined.”

“Yes, yes; of course.”

“Well, then, now let us go and join them on the lawn. What do you say to beginning to fight the nervous foe at once?”

“Yes, at once,” said Scarlett, speaking as if under the influence of the doctor.

“Come along, then; and we shall master yet.”

Scarlett hesitated and hung back; but the doctor did not speak. He could see that his patient was trying to avoid his eye. Once Scarlett glanced up, but the look was rapid as lightning. He saw that the doctor was watching him, and he avoided his look again instantly, like a schoolboy who had committed some fault. At the end of a minute, though, he gradually raised his eyes again, slowly and furtively, and in a way that troubled the doctor more than he would have cared to own; but he had his consolation directly in finding his patient gazing fully at him while Scarlett uttered a low sigh of satisfaction, as if he rejoiced at being in charge of a stronger will than his own; and then, without a word, they moved towards the lawn.

“I must do my bit of fighting too,” said the doctor to himself, as his eyes fell upon Lady Martlett. “She’s very handsome; she knows it; and she wants to make me feel it; but she shall not.—Humph! How that fellow Prayle hangs about Lady Scarlett’s side. They can’t always be wanting to talk over business matters.”

“Well, James, have you had a pleasant stroll?” said Aunt Sophia, as the two men joined the group.

“Yes—very,” he answered quietly.

“Have you seen how the peaches are getting on upon the little bush?” she continued.

“I? No. I have not been in the peach-house for days.”

“You don’t go half often enough. Let’s go now.”

“What, I? N—” The poor fellow met the doctor’s eye, and said hastily: “Well, yes; I will, aunt.—Will you come too, Naomi?”

“O yes,” cried the girl eagerly.

“Perhaps Lady Martlett will come and see the rosy-cheeked beauties of the peach-house?” said the doctor half-mockingly.—“She’ll give me such a snub,” he added to himself.

“Yes; I should like to see them,” said her Ladyship quietly; “my gardener tells me that they are far more beautiful than mine.”

“I should have thought it impossible,” cried the doctor. “Your Ladyship’s wealth and position ought to be able to secure for you everything.”

“But it does not,” said Lady Martlett; “not even such a simple thing as deference or respect.”

“Ah, but money could not buy those—at least not genuine, sterling qualities of that kind, Lady Martlett,” said the doctor, as they moved towards the end of the garden.

“So it seems, Doctor Scales.”

“There are some people who even have the impertinence to look down upon the rich who do not carry their honours with graceful humility.”

“How dares he speak to me like this!” thought Lady Martlett; “but I’ll humble him yet.”

“Let me see,” she replied coolly; “what do you cull that class of person—a radical, is it not?”

“Yes; I suppose that is the term.”

“And I understand that there are radicals of all kinds: in politics; in those who pass judgment on social behaviour; and even in medicine.”

“That’s a clever thrust,” thought the doctor.—“Just so, Lady Martlett; and I am one of the radicals in medicine.”

“Of course, then, not in social matters, Doctor Scales?”

“Will your Ladyship deign to notice the tints upon these peaches?” said the doctor evasively.—“Here is one,” he said, lowering his voice, “that seems as if it had been mocking you, when your cheek is flushed with the exercise of riding, and you imperiously command the first poor wretch who passes your way to open the gate.”

“The peaches look very fine,” said her Ladyship, refusing to notice the remark—“much finer than mine, dear Lady Scarlett. My head-gardener says that some disease has attacked the leaves.”

“You should invite Doctor Scales over to treat the ailment,” said Aunt Sophia archly.—“My dear James, what is the matter?”

“It is too bad—it is disgraceful!” cried Scarlett, stamping his foot. “Because I am weak and ill, every one imposes on me. That old scoundrel has been neglecting everything.”

“What! Monnick?” cried Aunt Sophia.

“Yes. No one else has the key. Ah! here you are,” he said more angrily, “look, Kate, you ought to be more particular. These keys should be brought to you.”

“What is wrong, dear?” said Lady Scarlett anxiously, as she came down that side of the peach-house, closely followed by Prayle.

“Everything is wrong,” cried the unhappy man, gazing at her wildly. “I cannot bear it.” He hurried from the peach-house, followed by the doctor, who calmed him by degrees.

“Some of the best peaches stolen,” he cried. “It is too bad; I set such a store by them.”

“And I set such store by your recovery, old fellow,” said the doctor. “That was a wretched fit of temper; but it’s over now. Don’t worry about it, man; and now go and lie down till dinner-time.”

“No—no: I have no wish to—”

“Mind what I say.—Yes, you have, my dear boy. Come: a quiet nap till dinner-time, and then you will have forgotten this petty trouble, and be fresh and cool.”

Scarlett sighed and walked slowly to the house, his companion seeing him lie down before going to his own room, and taking up a book which he read till it was time to get ready for the evening meal. Then he made his few simple preparations and strolled out into the garden again, to think out his plans and go over the events of the day and the possibility of his effecting a permanent cure. Item: to think a little about his own sore place, and how long it would take to heal up so thoroughly that he could always with impunity look Lady Martlett in the face.

Volume Two—Chapter Four.

Mr Saxby has Aspirations.

A couple of months had passed.

“Mr Saxby wants to speak to you, ma’am,” said Fanny; and Aunt Sophia jumped up in a pet. “What does he want now? This is four times he has been down this month. Where is he?”

“In the study, ma’am. He wouldn’t come in here.”

Aunt Sophia entered the study to find quite a strong odour in the room. It was something between lemon-scented verbena and magnolia; and as soon as she noticed it, she began to sniff, with the result that the busy City man, so strong in his office, so weak outside, began to turn red.

“Well, Mr Saxby,” said Aunt Sophia, “have you sold those consols for me?”

“Yes, ma’am, as you insisted; but you’ll excuse me, I’m sure, when I tell you that—”

“There, there, there, man! I know what you are going to say; but it is my own money, and I shall do with it what I please, and—” Sniff, sniff, sniff. “Whatever is it smells so strong?”

“Strong, ma’am, strong?” said Mr Saxby, wiping his brow, for Aunt Sophia had a peculiar effect upon him, causing him to grow moist about the palms of his hands and dew to form upon his temples.

“Why, it’s that handkerchief, man: and you’ve been putting scent upon your hair!”

“Well, a little, ma’am, just a little,” said Saxby, with a smile that was more indicative of feebleness than strength. “I was coming into the country, you see, and, ahem!—sweets to the sweet.”

“Stuff!—How about that money.”

“There’s the cheque, ma’am,” said Mr Saxby, taking out his pocket-book; “but I give it to you with regret; and—let me beg of you, my dear madam, to be guided by me.”

“That will do, Saxby. I know what I am about; and now, I suppose, you have some eligible investment to propose?”

“Well, no, my dear madam; no. Things are very quiet. Money’s cheap as dirt.”

“May I ask, then, why you have come down?”

“The—er—the cheque, my dear madam.”

“Might very well have come by post, Mr Saxby.”

“Yes, but I was anxious to see and hear about how poor Sir James is getting on; to say a few words of condolence to Lady Scarlett. I esteem them both very highly, Miss Raleigh; I do indeed.”

“Dear me! Ah!” said Aunt Sophia; “and—Shall I finish for you, Saxby?”

“Finish for me, my dear madam? I do not understand.”

“Then I will, Saxby: you thought that if you came down and brought the cheque, you might perhaps see my niece.”

“My dear madam! My dear Miss Raleigh! Really, my dear madam!”

“Don’t be a sham, Saxby. Own it like a man.”

Mr Saxby looked helplessly round the room, as if in search of help, even of an open door through which he could escape; but there was none; and whenever he looked straight before him, there was the unrelenting eye of the elderly maiden lady fixed upon him, and seeming to read him through and through. He wished that he had not come; he wished that he could bring his office effrontery down with him; he wished that he could make Aunt Sophia quail, as he could his clerks; but all in vain. Aunt Sophia, to use her own words, could turn him round her finger when she had him there, and at last he gasped out:

“Well, there, I’ll be honest about it—I did.”

“I didn’t need telling,” said Aunt Sophia. “I believe, Saxby, I could even tell you what you are thinking now.”

“Oh nonsense, ma’am—nonsense!”

“Oh yes, I could,” said Aunt Sophia sharply. “You were thinking that I was a wretched old griffin, and you wished I was dead.”

“Wrong!” cried Saxby triumphantly, and speaking more like himself. “I’ll own to the griffin; but hang me if I will to the wishing you dead!”

“Why, you know you think she’ll have my money, Saxby.”

“Hang your money, ma’am!” cried the stockbroker sharply. “I’ve got plenty of my own, and can make more; and as to yours—why, if it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have a penny. It would be all gone in some swindling company. I—I beg your pardon, Miss Raleigh; I—ah—really—ah—I’m afraid I rather forgot myself—I—”

“You’re quite right, Saxby, quite right,” said Aunt Sophia quietly. “I’m afraid I am a very stupid, sanguine old woman over money matters, and you have saved me several times. But now about Naomi. Whatever is it you want?”

“What do I want?” said Saxby.

“Yes. Why do you come hanging about here like this? Do you want to marry the girl?”

“Well—er—yes, my dear madam; to be candid, that is what I thought. For ever since the day when I first set—”

“Thank you: that will do, Saxby. Rhapsodies do sound such silly stuff to people at my age. Really, if you talk like that, I shall feel as if it would be madness to come to consult you again on business.”

“But really, my dear madam—”

“Yes,” said Aunt Sophia, interrupting; “I know. Well, then, we’ll grant that you like her.”

“Like her, madam? I worship her?”

“No: don’t, my good man. Let’s be sensible, if we can. My niece Naomi is a very nice, amiable, good girl.”

“She’s an angel, ma’am!”

“No; she is not,” said Aunt Sophia stiffly; “and so the man who marries her will find. She’s only a nice English girl, and I don’t want her feelings hurt by any one.”

“Miss Raleigh, it would be my study to spare her feelings in every way.”

“If you had the opportunity, my good man. As it happens, I must speak plainly to you, and tell you that I am afraid she has formed an attachment to Mr Prayle.”

“To him!” groaned Saxby.

“Now, look here, Mr Saxby; if you are going to act sensibly, I’ll talk to you; if you are going on like that, I’ve done. This is not part of a play.”

“Yes, ma’am, it is,” said Saxby dolefully; “the tragedy of my life.”

“Now, don’t be a goose, Saxby. If the girl likes somebody else better than you, don’t go making yourself miserable about it. Have some common-sense.”

Saxby shook his head.

“There’s no common-sense in love.”

Aunt Sophia looked at him in a half-pitying, half-contemptuous manner. “It isn’t very deep, is it?” she said good-humouredly.

“I don’t know,” he said; “only, that somehow she’s seemed to me to be like the flowers; and when I’ve gone to my office every morning, I’ve bought a rose or something of that kind, and put it in water, and it’s been company to me, as if she were there all the time. And now, after what you’ve told me, ma’am, I don’t think I shall ever buy a rose again.” He got up, walked to the window and looked out, so that Aunt Sophia should not see his face.

“Poor fellow!” she said softly to herself, and it was evident that her sympathies were touched.

“Mr Prayle has not spoken to Naomi yet,” she said, and there was a smile in her eye as she saw the sudden start that Saxby gave, and the look of hope that came back into his countenance as he turned round and faced her.

“Does he—does he—care for her very much?” said Saxby.

Aunt Sophia hesitated for a few moments, and then seemed to make up her mind. “I don’t know,” she said; “but I’ll speak plainly to you, Saxby, for I like you.”

“You—Miss Raleigh!—you—like—me?”

“Yes. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because—because—”

“Yes; I know. Because you opposed me sometimes. Well, a woman likes to be opposed. Some stupid people say that a woman likes to have her own way in everything. It isn’t true. She likes to find some one who will and who does master her. It’s her nature, Saxby, and whenever you find anyone who asserts the contrary, set him or her down as ignorant or an impostor.”

“But don’t raise my hopes, Miss Raleigh, don’t, pray, if there’s no chance for me.”

“I’m not going to raise your hopes—not much. I shall only say to you, that I am sorry about my niece’s leanings, and that, perhaps, after all, it is but a girlish fancy. If I were a man—”

“Yes, Miss Raleigh, if you were a man?”

“And cared for a woman, I should never give her up till I saw that my case was quite hopeless.”

“Miss Raleigh,” cried the stockbroker excitedly, “your words are like fresh air in a hot office. One thinks more clearly; life seems better worth living for; and there’s a general rise of one’s natural stock all over a fellow’s market.—Might I kiss your hand?”

“No,” cried Aunt Sophia; “but you may behave sensibly. Stop down a day or two, and see how the land lies.”

“May I?”

“Yes; I’ll answer for your welcome.—And now, mind this: I’m not going to interfere with my niece and her likes and dislikes; but let me give you a bit of advice.”

“If you would!” exclaimed Saxby.

“Then don’t go about sighing like a bull-goose. Women don’t care for such weak silly creatures. Naomi’s naturally weak, and what she looks for in a man is strength both in brain and body.”

“Yes, I see,” said Saxby sadly. “I under stand stocks and shares, but I don’t understand women.”

“Of course you don’t. No man yet ever did; not even Solomon, with all his experience; and no man ever will.”

“But, I thought, Miss Raleigh—I hoped—”

“Well, what did you think and hope?”

“That you might help me—as an old and trustworthy friend—about Miss Naomi.”

“Why, bless the boy—man, I mean—if I were to tell Naomi to love you, or that she was to be your wife, she’d do as all girls do.”

“What’s that, Miss Raleigh?”

“What’s that? Why, go off at a tangent, whatever that may be, and marry Prayle at once.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose so,” faltered Saxby.

“Well, well, pluck up your spirits, man, and be what you are at your office. I do trust you Saxby; and to show you my confidence, I’ll tell you frankly that I should be deeply grieved if anything came of her leanings towards that smooth, good-looking fellow.—There, what stuff I am talking. You ought to be able to get on without advice from me.”

Then Aunt Sophia smiled and nodded her head at the stockbroker, after which she sailed out of the room, leaving him hopeful and ready to take heart of grace, even though just then he saw Arthur Prayle go by in company with the object of his aspirations. Certainly, though, Lady Scarlett, was with them; while directly after, Sir James Scarlett passed, hanging upon Scales’s arm; and the aspect of the baronet’s face startled Saxby, who was clever enough at reading countenances, possessing as he did all the shrewdness of the dealer in questions of the purse. For in that face he read, or fancied he read, hopeless misery, jealousy, and distrust mingled in one.

“Why,” exclaimed Saxby, as they passed out of sight beyond the bushes, “the poor fellow looks worse than ever; and—everything—is drifting into the hands of that Prayle. I hope he’s honest. Hang him! I hate him.

“Well, I must be civil to him while I’m here. But I’ll wager he hates me too; and knows that I have stood in his way just the same as he does in mine. No, not the same,” he added, as he opened the French window to go out on the lawn. “In my case it is a lady, in his money. Which of us will win?”

Volume Two—Chapter Five.

Although an Old Maid.

“Well, doctor?”

“Well, Miss Raleigh.”

“You do not bring him round.”

“I don’t. He is worried mentally, and I can’t get at his complaint.”

“Why not take him away, and give him a complete change?”

Doctor Scales injured John Monnick’s beautiful turf, that he had been at such trouble to make grow under the big mulberry tree, by suddenly screwing round his garden-seat, to stare in Aunt Sophia’s face. “I say,” he exclaimed, “are you a reader of thoughts or a prophetess?”

“Neither. Why?”

“Because you are proposing what I have planned.”

“Indeed! Well, is it not a good proposal?”

“Excellent; but he will not listen to it. He dare not go outside the place, he says; and I believe that at first he would suffer terribly, for it is quite shocking how weak his nerves have become. He has a horror of the most trivial things; and above all, there is something troubling the brain.”

“What can it be?” said Aunt Sophia.

“Well—I’m speaking very plainly to you, Miss Raleigh.”

“Of course. We trust each other, doctor.”

“Exactly. Well, in a case like this, it is only natural that the poor fellow should feel his position deeply, and be troubling himself about his wife.”

“But she seems to be most attentive to him.”

“O yes; she never neglects him,” replied the doctor, hurriedly going into another branch of his subject. “His money affairs, too, seem to worry him a great deal; and I know it causes him intense agony to be compelled by his weakness to leave so much to other hands.”

“But his cousin—Mr Prayle—seems to be devoting himself heart and soul to their management.”

“O yes; he seems indefatigable; and Lady Scarlett is always watching over his interests; but no man can find an adequate substitute for himself.”

Aunt Sophia watched the doctor anxiously, asking herself what he really thought, and then half bitterly reflecting how very shallow after all their trust was of each other upon this delicate question of Sir James Scarlett’s health. As she looked, she could not help seeing that the doctor’s eyes were fixed upon hers with a close scrutiny; and it was with almost a malicious pleasure that she said quietly a few words, and watched the result: “You know, I suppose, that Lady Martlett is coming here to dinner this evening?”

“Coming here? To dinner? This evening?”

“Yes. Is there anything so wonderful in that?”

“O no; of course not. Only—that is—I am a little surprised.”

“I don’t see why you should be surprised. Lady Martlett always made a great friend of Lady Scarlett, from the time she first came down.”

“Yes; I think I have heard so. Of course, there is nothing surprising, except in their great diversity of tastes.”

“Extremes meet, doctor,” said Aunt Sophia, smiling; “and that will be the case when you take her Ladyship down to dinner.”

“I? Take her down?—No, not I,” said Scales quickly. “In fact, I was thinking of running up to town to-day. There is an old friend of mine, who has studied nervous diseases a great deal in the Paris hospitals; he is over for a few weeks, and I thought I would consult him.”

“At the expense of running away, and making it appear to be because Lady Martlett is coming to dinner.”

“Oh; but that idea would be absurd.”

“I don’t know that, doctor, because, you see, it would be so true. There, there: don’t look cross. I am not an obstinate patient. Why, doctor, are you afraid of her?”

“No; I am more afraid of myself,” he said bitterly; “and I have some pride, Miss Raleigh.”

“Too much—far too much.—Do you know, doctor, I am turning match-maker in my old age?”

“A worthy pursuit, if you could make good matches.”

“Well, would it not be a good one between you and Lady Martlett?”

“Admirable!” he cried, in a bitterly ironical tone. “The union of a wealthy woman, who has a right to make a brilliant contract with some one of her own class, to a beggarly, penniless doctor, whose head is full of absurd crotchets.—Miss Raleigh, Miss Raleigh, where is your discrimination!”

“In my brains, I suppose,” said Aunt Sophia; “though I do not see how that portion of our organisation can make plans and plots.”

“Then you are plotting and planning to marry me to Lady Martlett.”

“It needed neither,” said Aunt Sophia. “You worked out the union yourselves. She is very fond of you.”

“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the doctor harshly. “And you think her the most attractive woman you ever saw.”

“Granted. But that does not prove that I love her. No; I love my profession. James Scarlett’s health is my idol, until I have cured him—if I ever do. Then I shall look out for another patient, Miss Raleigh.”

“It is my turn now to laugh, doctor. Why, what a transparent man you are!”

“I hope so,” he replied. “But you will stay to dinner this evening?”

“No, madam; I shall go to town.”

“You will not!” said Aunt Sophia, smiling. “It would be too cowardly for you.”

“No, no; I must go,” he said. “She would make me her slave, and trample upon my best instincts. It would not do, Miss Raleigh. As it is, I am free. Poor enough, heaven knows! but independent, and—I hope—a gentleman.”

“Of course,” said Aunt Sophia gravely.

“Granting that I could win her—the idea seems contemptible presumption—what would follow? In her eyes, as well as in those of the whole world, I should have sacrificed my independence. I should have degraded myself; and in place of being spoken of in future as a slightly clever, eccentric doctor, I should sink into a successful fortune-hunter—a man admitted into the society that receives his wife, as her lapdog would be, at the end of a string. I couldn’t do it, my dear madam; I could not bear it; for the galling part would be that I deserved my fate.”

“I hope you do not exaggerate your patients’ cases as you do your own, doctor.”

“No exaggeration, my dear madam. Take another side of the question. Suppose I did sink my pride—suppose my lady did condescend from her high pedestal to put a collar round my neck—how then? What should I be worth, leading such a lapdog existence? What would become of my theories, my efforts to make discoveries in our grand profession? Oh, Miss Raleigh, Miss Raleigh, I did think I had won some little respect from you! What would you say if you saw me lower myself to such an extent as that?”

Aunt Sophia smiled. “There would be something extremely droll to a bystander, if he heard all this. You talking of stooping!”

“Well, would it not be?” he cried. “With some women, yes; but you don’t yet know Lady Martlett.—Oh, most apropos: she has come early, so as to have a pleasant afternoon without form. Doctor Scales, you are too late; you will have to stay.”

“Confound the woman!” cried the doctor, as he saw Lady Martlett, very simply dressed, coming towards the lawn in company with Scarlett and his wife.

“I’ll tell her you said so.”

“I’ll tell her myself.”

“No; you will not,” said Aunt Sophia quietly. “At one time, I thought that you needed a rival to bring you to your senses, but I venture to say that it will not be necessary.” As she spoke, she advanced to meet the visitor, who embraced her cordially, and then bowed coldly to the doctor, as he raised his straw hat and then walked away.

Lady Martlett bit her lip, but took no further notice, devoting herself to her hostess, and talking a great deal to Scarlett, who, however, met her advances only peevishly, and seemed as if he found some under-thought in everything that was said, watching Lady Scarlett suspiciously, and whenever he left the group, hanging about so as to be within hearing and then suddenly rejoining them. This went on for some time, and then they adjourned to the house, where Lady Scarlett was soon after called away, and the visitor was left alone.

Volume Two—Chapter Six.

How Lady Martlett Humbled the Doctor.

“I hate him, and I’ll humble him yet!” said Lady Martlett, with her eyes flashing, as she saw Jack Scales coming along the path towards the drawing-room window. “How dares he assume such a high tone towards me! How dares he speak to me as if I were an inferior, or a woman at whom he laughs as unworthy of his notice! I will humble him, proud as he may be.” She watched him through the window as he walked very thoughtfully along the path; and probably it was anger that made her countenance show a higher colour than usual. The visit did not seem pleasant. The weather was all that could be desired; but there was to her something unrestful in the atmosphere. Kate Scarlett was nervous and excited, for some reason or other, and was constantly leaving her alone. Aunt Sophia had seemed more touchy than usual; and Naomi looked as if she were afraid of the visitor.

Lady Martlett had come, telling herself that she wanted company; now she was at The Rosery, she felt that she wanted to be alone. And now that, for the second time, Lady Scarlett had left her alone, she had been sitting fretfully, and thinking it very tiresome that she should be left.

Then came the sound of the footsteps of the doctor—a doctor who would have treated her complaint to perfection, had she not scornfully declared to herself that it was out of his power, and that he was an ignorant pretender, who did not understand her ailment in the least; and at last her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m a miserable woman!” she said to herself, as she called to mind the fact that she was a very rich young widow with beauty and a title; that there were scores of opportunities for making a good match, did she wish to wed; that she had only to give an order to have it obeyed; and—yes—here was this careless, indifferent young doctor, always ready to insult her, always treating her with a cool flippancy of manner, metaphorically snapping his fingers at her beauty of person, her title, and her wealth, and all the time utterly refusing to become her slave.

Just then, Lady Martlett uttered a low sigh, biting her lip directly after, in vexation at her weakness, for Scales had sauntered by the French window, engagingly open as it was like a trap, with her inside as a most attractive bait, and without so much as once glancing in.

“I believe he knows I’m in here alone,” she said to herself angrily; “and he has gone by on purpose to pique me. It is his conceit. He thinks I care for him. Oh, it is unbearable!” she cried impetuously. “I’ll bring him as a supplicant to my knees; and when I do,” she continued, with a flash of triumph in her dark eyes, “he shall know what it is to have slighted and laughed at me!”

She fanned her flaming cheeks, and started up to pace the room, when once more there was the sound of the doctor’s footsteps, as, in utter ignorance of Lady Martlett’s presence, he returned along the gravel walk, thinking deeply over the knotty points of his patient’s case.

Lady Martlett threw herself back in her seat, composed her features, but could not chase away the warm flush of resentment upon her checks. She, however, assumed an air of haughty languor, and appeared to be gazing at the landscape framed in by the open window.

“Heigh-ho-ha-hum!” sighed, or rather half-yawned Jack Scales, as he turned in at the window very slowly and thoughtfully, and for the moment did not see that the room was occupied.

Lady Martlett put her own interpretation upon the noise made by the doctor—she mentally called it a sigh, and her heart gave a satisfied throb as she told herself that he was touched—that her triumph was near at hand when she would humble him; and then—well, cast him off.

“Ah, Lady Martlett, you here?” he said coolly.—“What a lovely day!”

“Yes, doctor; charming,” she said, softening her voice.

“And this is a lovely place.—Your home, the Court, is, of course, far more pretentious.”

“I was not aware that there was anything pretentious about Leigh Court,” said Lady Martlett coldly.

“Well, pretentious is perhaps not the word,” said Jack, “I mean big and important, and solid and wealthy, and that sort of thing.”

“Oh, I see,” said Lady Martlett.

“And what I meant was, that this place is so much more charming, with its undulating lawn, its bosky clumps of evergreens, the pillar roses, and that wonderful clematis of which poor Scarlett is so fond.”

“You speak like a house-agent’s catalogue. Doctor Scales,” said Lady Martlett scornfully.

“Yes, I do; don’t I?” said Jack quietly, “But do you know, Lady Martlett, I often think that I could turn out a better description of a country estate than some of those fellows do?”

“Indeed?” said her Ladyship. “Yes, indeed,” said Jack, who eagerly assumed his bantering tones as soon as he was alone with Lady Martlett, telling himself it was a rest, and that it was a necessity to bring down her Ladyship’s haughtiness.

“Dang her! I’ll make her thoroughly disgusted with me,” he said to himself. “I hate the handsome Semiramis!—She’d like to drag me at her chariot-wheels, and she shall not.”

“I believe,” he continued, “that I could do something far better than the well-known specimen about the litter of rose-leaves and the noise of the nightingales.”

“Indeed, doctor,” said her Ladyship, with a curl of her lip.

“O yes,” cried Scales. “Now, for instance, suppose that Leigh Court were to be let.”

“Leigh Court is not likely to be let,” said her Ladyship haughtily.

“No?” said the doctor, raising his eyebrows slightly. “Well, perhaps not, though one never knows. Your Ladyship might take a dislike to it, say; and if it were to go into the estate-agent’s list—”

“It never will, Doctor Scales! I should consider it a profanation,” said her Ladyship haughtily. “Pray, change the subject.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Scales politely.—“Been up to the Academy, of course?”

“Yes,” said Lady Martlett coldly. “There was nothing, though, worth looking at. I was terribly bored.”

“Hah! I suppose you would be. I had a couple of hours. All I could spare. There is some admirable work there, all the same.”

“I was not aware that Doctor Scales was an art critic.”

“Neither was I; but when I see a landscape that is a faithful rendering of nature in some beautiful or terrible mood, I cannot help admiring it.”

“Some people profess to be very fond of pictures.”

“I am one of those foolish people, Lady Martlett.”

“And have you a valuable collection, Doctor Scales?”

“Collection? Well, I have a folio with a few water-colours in it, given me by artist friends instead of fees, and I have a few photographs; that is about all. As to their value—well, if sold, they would perhaps fetch thirty shillings.”

Lady Martlett looked at him angrily, for she felt that he was assuming poverty to annoy her.

“Your Ladyship looks astonished; but I can assure you that a poor crotchety physician does not get much besides the thanks of grateful patients.”

“I noticed that there were a great many portraits at the Academy,” said her Ladyship, “portraits of great and famous men.”

“Yes; of men, too, who are famous without being great,” said the doctor, laughing.

“Indeed!” said Lady Martlett. “I thought the two qualities went together.”

“In anyone else,” said Jack, “that would be a vulgar error: in your Ladyship, of course, though it may be an error, it cannot be vulgar.”

“How dearly I should like to box your ears!” thought Lady Martlett, as she gazed at the provoking face before her. “He doesn’t respect me a bit. He doesn’t care for me. The man is a very stone.”

“Did you notice the portraits of some of the fashionable beauties, Doctor Scales?” she continued, ignoring his compliment, and leading him back to the topic on hand.

“O yes,” he said; “several of them, and it set me thinking.”

“No? Really!” said her Ladyship, with a mocking laugh. “Was Doctor Scales touched by the beauty of some of the painted canvases with speaking eyes?”

“No; not a bit,” he said cheerily—“not a bit. It set me wondering how it was that Lady Martlett’s portrait was not on the walls.”

“I am not a fashionable beauty,” said the lady haughtily.

“Well, let us say a beauty, and not fashionable.”

A flash of triumph darted from Lady Martlett’s eyes. He had granted, then, that she was beautiful—at last.

But Jack Scales saw the look.

“I have no desire to be painted for an exhibition,” said Lady Martlett quietly.

“But I thought all ladies loved to be admired.”

“Surely not all,” she replied. “Are all women so weak?”

“Well, I don’t know. That is a question that needs discussing. I am disposed to think they are. It is a woman’s nature; and when she does not care for admiration, she is either very old, or there is something wrong.”

“Why, you libel our sex.”

“By no means, madam. I did not say that they love the admiration of many. Surely she must be a very unpleasant woman indeed who does not care for the admiration of one man.”

“He is caught!” thought Lady Martlett, with a strange feeling of triumph. Perhaps there was something else in her sensation, but she would not own it then.

“Perhaps you are right,” she said quietly. “It may be natural; but in these days, Doctor Scales, education teaches us to master our weakness.”

“Which most of us do,” he said, with a bow, “But really, if your Ladyship’s portrait, painted by a masterly hand, had been hung.”—He stopped short, as if thinking how to say his next words.

“Well, doctor?” she said, giving him a look that he caught, weighed, and valued on the instant at its true worth.

“It would have had a crowd around it to admire.”

“The artist’s work, doctor?”

“No, madam; the beauty of the features the artist had set himself to limn.”

“Is this a compliment, doctor, or a new form of bantering Lady Scarlett’s guest?” said the visitor, rather bitterly.

“Neither the one nor the other, but the simple truth.”

Lady Martlett fought hard to conceal the exultation; nay, more, the thrill of pleasure that ran through her nerves as she heard these words; but though outwardly she seemed quite calm, her cheeks were more highly coloured than usual, and her voice sounded deeper and more rich.

Jack Scales told himself she was plotting to humble him to the very dust, so he stood upon his guard.

Perhaps he did not know himself. Who does? If he had, he might have acted differently as he met Lady Martlett’s eyes when she raised hers and said; “Ah, then, Doctor Scales has turned courtier and flatterer.”

“No; I was speaking very sincerely.”

“Ought I to sit here,” said Lady Martlett, “and listen to a gentleman who tells me I am more handsome than one of the fashionable beauties of the season?”

“Why not?” he said, smiling. “Is the truthful compliment so displeasing?”

“No,” she said softly; “I do not think it is;” and beneath her lowered lashes, the look of triumph intensified as she led him on to speak more plainly.

“It ought not to be,” he said, speaking warmly now. “I have paid you a compliment, Lady Martlett, but it is in all sincerity.”

“He will be on his knees to me directly,” she thought, “and then—”

“For,” he continued, “woman generally is a very beautiful work of creation: complicated, wonderful—mentally and corporeally—perfect.”

“Perfect, Doctor Scales?”

“Yes, madam; perfect. Your Ladyship, for instance, is one of the most—I think I may say the most perfect woman I ever saw.”

“Doctor Scales?” she said quickly, as she drew herself up, half-angry, but thoroughly endorsing his words; and then to herself, in the triumph that flushed her as she saw the animation in his eyes and the colour in his checks: “At last he is moved; he never spoke or looked like that before.” Then aloud: “You are really very complimentary, Doctor Scales;” and she gave him a sharp arrow-like glance, that he saw was barbed with contempt.

“Well, yes, Lady Martlett, I suppose I am,” he said; “but it was truly honest, and I will be frank with you. Really, I never come into your presence—I never see you—But no; I ought not to venture to say so much.”

“Why not?” she said, with an arch look. “I am not a silly young girl, but a woman who has seen something of the world.”

“True, yes,” he said, as if encouraged; and Lady Martlett’s bosom rose and fell with the excitement of her expected triumph.

Still he hesitated, and asked himself whether he was misjudging her in his belief that she intended to lead him on to a confession of his love, and then cast him off with scorn and insult; but as he looked at her handsome face and shifting eager eyes, he told himself that there was something mingled with the partiality for him which she might possess, and he became hard as steel.

“Well,” she said, smiling, and that smile had in it a power that nearly brought him to her feet; “you were saying: ‘I never see you’—”

“Exactly. Yes,” he said quickly; “I will say it. You’ll pardon me, I know. I am but a weak man, with an intense love—”

She drew a long breath, and half turned away her head.

“For the better parts of my profession.” Lady Martlett’s face became fixed, and she listened to him intently.

“Yes; I confess I do love my profession, and I never see you in your perfection of womanly beauty, without feeling an intense desire to dissect you.”

Lady Martlett started up from the seat, where, in a studied attitude, she had well displayed the graceful undulations of her figure, and stood before Jack Scales, proud, haughty, and indignant. Her eyes flashed; there was an ardent colour in her cheeks, which then seemed to flood back to her heart, leaving her white with anger.

“How dare you!” she began, in the mortification and passion that came upon her; and then, thoroughly mastered, and unable to control herself longer, she burst into a wild hysterical fit of laughter and hurried out of the room.

Jack Scales rose and stood watching the door as it swung to, and there was a look of tenderness and regret in his countenance as he muttered: “Too bad—too bad! Brutal and insulting! And to a woman—a lady of her position and refinement! I’ll go and beg her pardon—ask her to forgive me—make confession of why I spoke so.—No. Put my head beneath her heel, to be crushed by her contempt! It wouldn’t do. She goaded me to it. She wants to triumph over me. I could read her looks. If she cared for me, and those looks were real, I’d go down upon my knees humbly and tell her my sorrow; and then—then—then—What should I do then?

“Hah!” he cried, after a pause, “what would you do then, Jack Scales! Go away, and never set eyes upon her again, for it would not do. It is impossible, and I am a fool.” He stood with his brows knit for a few minutes, and then said, in quite a different mood: “And now I am a man of the world again. Yes; you are about the most handsome woman I ever saw; but a woman is but a woman to a doctor, be she titled or only a farmer’s lass. Blue blood is only a fiction after all; for if I blooded my lady there, pretty Fanny Cressy, and one of Brother William Cressy’s pigs into separate test tubes, and placed them in a rack; and if, furthermore, I left them for a few minutes, and some busybody took them up and changed their places, I might, when I returned, fiddle about for long enough with the various corpuscles, but I could not tell which was which.—Lady Martlett, I am your very obedient servant, but I am not going to be your rejected slave.”

Volume Two—Chapter Seven.

The Doctor Discourses.

“My back’s a sight better, sir, wi’ that stuff you said I was to get, and I thank you kindly for it,” said John Monnick, as the doctor seated himself one day close by where the old man was busy weeding a bed in the flower-garden—a special task that he would not entrust to any one else.

“I’m glad of it, Monnick—very glad.”

“But master don’t seem no better, sir, if you’ll excuse me for saying so.”

“Yes, Monnick, I’ll excuse you,” said the doctor sadly. “As you say, he is very little better if any. I’m afraid that pond emptying began the work the accident finished.”

“It frets me, sir, it do—it do indeed. For only to think of it: him so stout and straight and hearty one day, and as wan and thin and bad the next as an old basket. Ah! it’s a strange life this here.”

“True Monnick, true,” said the doctor.

“I felt a bit cut up when his father died, sir, but thank the Lord he aren’t here now to see the boy as he ’most worshipped pulled down as he be. Why, I were down in Sucksix, sir, in the marshes, for two years, ’twix’ Hastings and Rye, and I had the ager awful bad, but it never pulled me down like this. Do try your best with Sir James, do, pray.”

“I will, Monnick, I will,” said the doctor.

Monnick went on with his weeding, and the doctor sat watching in a low-spirited way the motions of a beautiful little robin that kept popping down and seizing some worm which, alarmed by the disturbance of the ground, was trying to escape.

“What humbug popular favouritism is,” he exclaimed suddenly.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said Monnick, glad of an excuse to straighten his back.

“I say what humbug there is in the world,” said the doctor. “Look at that robin, Monnick.”

“Yes, sir; he be a pretty one too. There’s lots on ’em here, and welcome as rain.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, “but what humbug it is.”

Monnick stared, and the robin hopped on the top of a garden stick and chirruped a few notes.

“Just imagine,” said the doctor, who was in a didactic mood; “try and imagine a stout, well-built man, six feet high, a fine, handsome brawny savage, seizing a boa constrictor in his teeth, shaking the, say, eighteen feet of writhing bone and muscle till it had grown weak and limp, and, by a complete reverse of all rule, swallowing the lengthy monster without an effort. The idea partakes of the nature of the serpent, and is monstrous; but all the same, that little petted and be-praised impostor will hop up to a great earthworm three times his length, give it a few digs with his sharp beak, and then—as the Americans would say—get outside it apparently without effort or ruffling a feather, after which he will hop away, flit to a twig, and indulge in a short, sharp song of triumph over his deed. It is his nature to, no doubt, and so are a good many more of his acts; but in these days, when it has grown to be the custom to run tilt at no end of our cherished notions; when we are taught that Alfred did not burn the cakes; that Caractacus never made that pathetic speech about the wealth of Rome: it is only fair to strip the hypocritical feather cloak of hypocrisy off that flagrant little impostor, the robin.”

“The robin and the wren be God’s cock and hen,” said John Monnick solemnly, pairing according to old custom two birds of different kinds.

“Yes,” said the doctor, “and terrible are the penalties supposed to attach to the man or boy who takes the nest, steals the egg, or destroys old or young of their sacred progeny. As a matter of course, no one ever did take egg, nest, or destroy the young of this couple, inasmuch as they are two distinct birds.”

“Yes, sir, two of ’em,” said John Monnick solemnly. “The robin and the wren be God’s cock and hen, and nobody never takes their eggs but jays and magpies and such like, robins is always the friends of man.”