 CHAPTER II Until of late there had existed a bear acquaintance between Jessica and the Barbie family. The two or three hours which she perforced spent in Samuel's company on Jubilee night caused Jessica no little embarrassment. As a natural result, their meetings after that had a color of intimacy, and it was not long before Miss Morgan and the Miss Barbies began to see more of each other. Nancy, on a motive correspondent with that which actuated her guardians, desired Jessica's familiarity with the household in Dagmar Road. Her friend could best learn and communicate sundry facts of importance, else hidden from her and the retirement to which she was now condemned. How did the Barbies regard her behavior to them? Did they, in their questioning, the train of suspicion fraught with danger? Jessica enjoyed the possession of the most important secret which she had religiously guarded, even from her mother, made time to accept the Barbies' invitations pretty frequently, and invited the girls to her own home as often as she could afford a little outlay on cakes and preserves. It made a solitary distraction in her life. As December, junior, she exhibited alarming symptoms of overwork, and but for the romance which assured to her an occasional hour of idleness, she must have collapsed before the date of her examination. As it was, she frightened one of her pupils at the end of a long lesson by falling to the floor and lying there for ten minutes in unconsciousness. The warning passed unheeded. Day and night she toiled at her insupperable task, at times half frenzied by the strangest lapses of memory, and feeling the more she labored, only the more convinced that at the last moment every fact she had acquired would ruthlessly desert her. Her place of abode favored neither health nor mental tranquility. It was one of a row of new houses in a new quarter. A year or two ago, the site had been an enclosed meadow, portion of the land attached to what was once a country mansion. London devoured rural limits, of a sudden made hideous encroachment upon the old estate, now held by a speculative builder. With many streets to be constructed, three or four had already come into being, and others were mapped out, in mud and inchoate masonry, a thwart the ravaged field. Great elms, the pride of generations passed away, fell before the speculative acts, or were left standing in mournful isolation, to please a speculative architect. Places of hoistite hedged still shivered in fog and wind, amid hoardings variegated with placards, and scaffolding black against the sky. The very earth had lost its wholesome odor, trampled in a mire, fouled with builders' refuse, and the noisome drift from adjacent streets. It sent forth, under the sooty rain, a smell of corruption, of all the towns, un-cleanliness. On this rising locality had been bestowed the title of park. Mrs. Morgan was decided, in her choice of a dwelling, here by the euphonious address, Merton Avenue, something or other park. The old mansion, not very old and far from beautiful, but stoutly built, stood grim and desolate, long dismantled, and waiting only to be torn down for the behoof of speculative dealers and old material. What a foretime was a tree-border drive, now curved between dead stumps, a mere slushy cartway, the stone-pillars which had marked the entrance, damaged in the rending away of metal with a market value, drooped sideways, ready to touch to bury themselves in slime. Through summer months the Morgans had suffered sufficiently from the defects of their house, with the coming on of winter, they found themselves exposed to miseries barely indurable. At the first light-frost, cistern and water-pipes went to ruin. Already so damp, that unlovely vegetation had cropped up on cellar-walls. The edifice was now drenched with torrents of water. Plaster fell from the ceilings, paper-pilled away down the staircase. Some portions of the front began to crack and molder. Not a door that would close as a door should. Not a window that would open in the way expected of it. Not a fireplace, but discharged its smoke into the room, rather than by the approved channel. Everywhere, piercing drafts, which often entered by orifices unexplained and unexplainable. From cellar floor to chimney-pot, no square inch of honest or trustworthy workmanship. So thin were the party-walls that conversation not only might but must be distinctly heard from room to room, and from house to house. The Morgans learned to subdue their voices, lest all they said should become common property of the neighborhood. For the privilege of occupying such a residence, the interior, said advertisement, handsomely decorated. They were racked with an expenditure which, away in the sweet-scented country, would have housed them amid garden graces and orchard fruitfulness. At this time Mr. Morgan joined in acquaintance in the establishment of a debt-collecting agency. His partner provided the modest capital, needful for such an enterprise, and upon himself fell the disagreeable work. A man of mild temper and humane instincts, he spent his day in hunting people who would not or could not pay the money they owed, straining his wits to circumvent the fraudulent, and swooping relentlessly upon the victims of misfortune. The occupation revolted him, but at present he saw no other way of supporting the gentile appearances, which, he knew not why, were indispensable to his life. He subsisted, like a bird of prey. He was ever on the lookout for carrion, which the law permitted him to seize. From the point of view forced upon him, society became a mere system of legalized rapping. You are in debt, behold the bond. Behold, too, my authority, for squeezing out of you the uttermost farthing. You must beg or starve. I deplore it, but I, for my part, have a gentile family to maintain on what I rend from your grip. He set his forehead against shame. He stooped to the basis, chicanery. He exposed himself to insult, to curses, to threats of violence. Sometimes a whole day of inconceivably sorted toil resulted in the pouching of a few pence. Sometimes his reward was a substantial sum. He knew himself despised by many of the creditors who employed him. Bad debts? For how much will you sell them to me? And as often as not, he took away with his bargain a glance which was equivalent to a kick. The gentile family knew nothing of these expedients. Mrs. Morgan talked dolerously to her friends of commercial depression, and gave it to be vaguely understood that her husband had suffered great losses because he conducted his affairs in the spirit of a gentleman. Her son was in an office. Her elder daughter was attempting the art of fiction, which did not promise to be lucrative. Jessica, more highly educated, would shortly matriculate at the University of London, a consoling prospect but involving the payment of a fee that could with difficulty be afforded. Every friend of the family held in a matter of course that Jessica would succeed in the examination. It seemed probable that she would have a place in honors. And meanwhile the poor girl herself was repenting of the indiscreet boastfulness with which she had made known her purpose. To come out in an inferior class would be painful enough. How support the possibility of absolute failure. Yet she knew only too well that in certain subjects she was worse than shaky. Her Greek, her chemistry, her algebra. By way of propitiating the stern faiths, she began to talk with Lucy and Amelia Barnby in a tone of diffidence. Half a year ago she would have held her head very high in such company. Now the simple goodness of the old fashioned girls made an appeal to her aching heart. And their homely talk soothed her exhausted brain. It's fearfully difficult. She said to them one evening, as she sat in their parlor. And I lose so much time with my pupils. Really, you know, I have a fair chance. I was showing Nancy Lorde the algebra papers at last summer, and she confessed she could hardly do a single question. She couldn't. Exlaimed one of the sisters in astonishment, but we always thought she was so very clever. So she is in many things, but she never dreamt of going in for such an examination as this. And do you really know more than she does? Jessica smiled with affected modesty. Oh, I've studied so much more. It was sweet to gain this triumph over her friend, whose progress in the School of Life she watched with the jealousy of a girl condemned to sterile passions. Their talk was interrupted by the entrance of Samuel Barnby and his elder sister, addressing him without reflection, said wonderingly. Sam, did you know that Nancy Lorde couldn't pass the examination that Miss Morgan is going in for? Jessica blushed, and hastened to extenuate this crude statement. Oh, I didn't say that, only that she would have to study very hard if she went in for the matriculation. Of course she would, Samuel assented largely, as he took the stand before the fireplace and beamed upon the female trio. Miss Lorde goes in for broad culture. That's quite a different thing from studying for examinations. To the hearers, Jessica, not accepted, this seemed to argue the spirit of broad culture in Samuel himself. Miss Morgan pursued nervously. Examinations are nothing. I believe very stupid people often do well in them, and clever people often fail. Her voice sank on the last word, and she tried to read Barnby's face without meeting his look. Of late, a change had come about in her, estimation of Samuel. Formerly she spoke of him with contemptuous amusement, in the tone set by Nancy, since she'd become a friend of the family. His sister's profound respect had influenced her way of thinking, and in secret she was disposed rather to admire the prophet. He'd always struck her as a comely man, and her education notwithstanding. She never perceived in his remarks that downright in facility which excited Nancy's derision. On Jubilee night he was anything but a tedious companion. Apart from her critical friend, Jessica had listened without impatience to his jests, his instructive facts, his flowing rhetoric. Nowadays, in her enfeebled state of body and mind, she began to look forward with distinct pleasure to her occasional meetings with Samuel, the pleasure which, perhaps, was enhanced by the era of condescension, wherewith he tempered his courtesy. Morbid miseries brought out the frailty of her character. Desiring to be highly esteemed by Mr. Barnby, she found herself no less willing to join his sisters in a course of humbly feminine admiration. We need discourse to them from an altitude. At moments, after gazing upon his eloquent countenance, she was beset by strange impulses which brought blood to her cheeks and made her dread the Miss Barnby's scrutiny. I look upon examinations, Samuel was saying, as a professional matter. I never went in for them myself, simply because I turned my energies in another direction. You could have passed them, remarked one of his sisters easily enough. In Miss Morgan's presence, he stroked his chin and smiled with delicious fatuity. I prefer to say nothing on that point. Oh, but, of course, you could, Mr. Barnby, sound to Jessica's voice, in an unsteady falsetto, whilst her eyes were turned upon the floor. You would have thought nothing of this matriculation, which seems to me so dreadful. Profoundly flattered, Samuel addressed the girl in his swavest tones. I have a theory, Miss Morgan, that young ladies ought not tend to go these ordeals. The delicacy of their nervous system unfits them for such a strain. I'm sure we shall all feel very glad when you are successfully through the trial. After it, you ought to have a long rest. Oh, you ought, indeed you ought, assented the girls. By the by, said Samuel, my father has heard from Miss Lord that she is going away for a month or two. She says her health requires it. Jessica sat silent, still with downcast eyes. But it's a new thing, isn't it? remarked Amelia, from Miss Lord to be in bad health. She has suffered a good deal, I'm afraid, said Jessica, since her father's death. The doctor tells her she oughtn't to live in that doll house through the winter. In that case, Samuel exclaimed, of course she must go at once, of course. He never spoke of Nancy but with stress of unctuous generosity. This, if his hearers knew what he had suffered at her hands, must tell greatly to his credit. If they were not aware of the circumstances, such a tone would become him as the young lady's hopeful admirer. I fear her nerves are affected, pursued Jessica. She can't bear society, so unlike her, isn't it? She goes out very little indeed, sometimes not for days together. And really she sees nobody. I'm getting quite anxious about her. The subject was an awkward one in this house, and it soon gave place to free her conversation. On her way home, though mechanically repeating dates and formulae, Jessica could not resist the tendency of her thoughts to dwell on Samuel's features and Samuel's eloquence. This was a new danger. She had now little more than a fortnight for her final cram, and any serious distraction meant ruin. In her day or two she took leave of Nancy, who had chosen for her winter retreat no less remote a spot than Falmouth. Horace having settled himself in lodgings, the house was to be shut up. Mary Woodruff, of course, went down into Cornwall. Nancy had written a letter to Mr. Barnby, Sr., excusing herself for not being able to see him before departure. It was an amiable letter, but contained Franka Val of pain and discontent at the prospect of her long pupilage. Of course I submit to the burden my father chose to lay upon me, and before long I hope I shall be able to take things in a better spirit. All I ask of you, dear Mr. Barnby, is to have forbearance with me until I get back my health and feel more cheerful. You know that I could not be in better hands whilst Mary is with me. I shall write frequently and give you an account of myself. Let me hear sometimes and show me that you make allowance for my very trying position. Jessica heard the letter discussed by its recipient and his family. Samuel spoke with his wanted magnanimity. His father took a liberal view of the matter. And in writing to her friend a few days later, Jessica was able to say, I think you may safely say, at Falmouth, for the whole winter, you will not be interfered with if you write nicely. I shouldn't wonder if they would let you keep out of their reach, as long as it is necessary. The week of Jessica's ordeal was now at hand. She had had another feigning fit. Her sleep was broken every night with hideous dreams. She ate scarce enough to keep herself alive. A perpetual fever parched her throat and burned at her temples. On the last day of cram, she sat from morning tonight in her comfortless little bedroom, bending over the smoky fire, reading desperately through a pile of notebooks. The motive of vanity no longer supported her. Gladly, she would have crept away into a life of insignificance. But the fee for the examination was paid, and she must face the terrors, the shame, that weighted her at Burlington House. No hope of passing. Perhaps at the last moment a stroke of mortal illness would come to her relief. Not so. She found herself in the ghastly torture hall and a desk on which lay sheets of paper not wider than her face. Somebody gave her a scroll, stereotyped in imitation of manuscript. The questions to be answered. For a quarter of an hour she could not understand a word. She saw the face of Samuel Barnby and heard his tones. The delicacy of a young lady's nervous system unfits her for such a strain. That evening she went home with a half-formed intention of poisoning herself. But the morrow saw her seated again before another scroll of stereotype, still thinking of Samuel Barnby, still hearing his voice. The man was grown hateful to her. He seemed to haunt her brain malignantly and to paralyze her hand, day after day in the room of torture, until all was done. Then upon her long despair followed a wild, unreasoning hope. Though it rained, she walked all the way home, singing, chattering to herself, and reached the house door without consciousness of the distance she had traversed. Her mother and sister came out into the hall. They had been watching for her. I did a good paper today. I think I've passed, after all. Yes, I feel sure I've passed. You look dreadful, as claim is with Morgan, and you're wet through. I did a good paper today. I feel sure I've passed. She sat down to a mule, but could not swallow. I feel sure I've passed. I feel sure. And she fell from the chair, to all appearances, stoned dead. They took her upstairs and dressed her, sent for the doctor. When he came, she had been lying for half an hour conscious, but mute. She looked gravely at him and said, as if repeating the lesson, the delicacy of a young lady's nervous system unfits her for such a strain. Undoubtedly repeated the doctor with equal gravity. But she added eagerly, let Mr. Barnby know at once that I have passed. He shall know at once, said the doctor. CHAPTER III A lady who lived at Kilburn, and entertained largely, and a house not designed for large entertainment, was at home this evening. At eleven o'clock the two drawing-rooms contained as many people, as could sit and stand, with semblance of comfort. Around the hostess, on the landing, pressed a crowd which grew constantly thicker by affluence from the staircase. In the hall below a Hungarian band, discourse very loud music. Among recent arrivals appeared a troupe of nigger minstrels, engaged to give their exhilarating entertainment. A space could be found for them. Burst of laughter from the dining-room announced the success of an American joker, who, in return for a substantial check, provided amusement in fashionable gatherings. A brilliant scene. The air, which encouraged perspiration, was rich with many odors. Voices endeavoring to make themselves audible and colloquy, swelled to a tumultuous volume that vied with the Hungarian clangers. In a corner of the staircase, squeezed behind two very fat women in very low dresses, stood Horace Lord. His heated countenance wore a look of fretful impatience. He kept rising upon his toes in an endeavor to distinguish faces down in the hall. At length his expression changed, and with eager eyes, he began to force away for himself between the fat women. Not unrewarded with glaring glances, and even with severe remarks, he succeeded in gaining the foot of the staircase, and came within reach of the persons for whom he had been waiting. These were Mrs. Damruel and Fanny French. The elder lady exhibited a toilette of opulence, corresponding with her mature charms. The younger, as became a debutante, wore graceful white, symbol of her maiden modesty. You promised to be early, said Horace, addressing Mrs. Damruel, but regarding Fanny, whose student conversation with a floored man of uncertain age. Couldn't get here before, my dear boy. Surely you haven't brought that fellow with you. Hush, you mustn't talk in that way. We met at the door. Mrs. Day knows him. What does it matter? Horace moved aside to Fanny. Flushed with excitement, her hair adorned with flowers. She looked very pretty. Come along, he said, gripping her hand more violently than he intended. Let us get upstairs. Oh, you hurt me. Don't be so silly. The man beside her gave Horace a friendly nod. His name was Mancolo. Horace met him once or twice, of late, at Mrs. Damruel's, but did not like him, and felt still less disposed to do so, now that Mancolo was acquainted with Fanny French. He suspected that the two were more familiar than Fanny pretended. With little ceremony, he interposed himself between the girl and this possible rival. Why didn't you make her come earlier? He said to Fanny, as they began the slow upward struggle in the rear of Mrs. Damruel. It isn't fashionable to come early. Nonsense. Look at the people here already. Fanny threw up her chin and glanced back to see that Mancolo was following. In his vexation, Horace was seized with a cough. A cough several times repeated before he could check it. Your colds no better, said Fanny. You oughtn't to have come out at night. It is better, he replied sharply. That's the first time I've coughed today. Do you mean you would rather not have found me here? How silly you are. People will hear what you're saying. It was Fanny's first season, but not her first at home. Mrs. Damruel seemed to be taking an affectionate interest in her and had introduced her to several people. Horace, gratified in the beginning, now suffered from jealousy. It tortured him to observe Fanny when she talked with men, that her breeding was defective, mattered nothing in this composite world of pseudo-elegance. Young Lord, who did not lack native intelligence, understood by this time that Mrs. Damruel and her friends were far from belonging to a high order of society. He saw vulgarity rampant in every drawing room to which he was admitted, and occasionally heard things which startled his suburban prejudices. But Fanny, in her wild enjoyment of these novel splendors, appeared to lose all self-control. She flirted, outrageously, and before his very eyes. If he reproached her, she laughed at him. If he threatened to free himself, she returned to look which impunately made him try. Horace had all her faults by heart and no longer tried to think that he respected her, or that, if he married such a girl, his life could possibly be a happy one. But she still played upon his passions, and at her back he followed, like a dog. The hostess, Mrs. Dane, a woman who looked as if she had once been superior to the kind of life she now led, welcomed him with peculiar warmth, and, in a quick, confidential voice, bade him keep near her for a few minutes. There's someone I want to introduce you to, someone I'm sure you will like to know. Obeying her, he soon lost sight of Fanny. But Mrs. Dane continued to talk, at intervals, in such a flattering tone, that his turbid emotions were soothed. He had heard of the chiddles? No? They were very old friends of hers, said Mrs. Dane, and she particularly wanted him to know them. Ah, here they came, mother and daughter, Horace observed them. Mrs. Chiddle was a frail, worn, nervous woman, who must once have been comely. Her daughter, a girl of two and twenty, had a pale, thin face of much sweetness and gentleness. They seemed by no means at home in this company, but Mrs. Chiddle, when she conversed, assumed a vivacious air. The daughter, trying to follow her example, strove vainly against an excessive bashfulness, and seldom raised her eyes. Why, he should be expected to pay special attention to these people, Horace was at a loss to understand. But Mrs. Chiddle attached herself to him, and soon led him into familiar dialogue. He learned from her that they had lived for two or three years in a very quiet country place. They had come up for the season, but did not know many people. She spoke of her daughter, who stood just out of ear-shot, her eyes cast down, on her face a sad, fixed smile, and said that it had been necessary almost to force her into society. She loves the country, and is so fond of books, but at her age it's really a shame to live like a nun. Don't you think so, Mr. Lord? Decidedly it was, said Horace. I'm doing my best, pursued Mrs. Chiddle, to cure her of her shyness. She's really afraid of people, and it's such a pity. She says that the things people talk about don't interest her, but all people are not frivolous, are they, Mr. Lord? Horace hoped not, and presently, out of mere good nature, he tried to converse with the young lady in a way that should neither alarm her shyness, nor proved his tasteful to her intelligence, but with very little success. From time to time the girl glanced at him with strange timidity, yet seemed quite willing to listen as long as he chose to talk. Fanny, being at a considerable distance from home, was to return to the boarding house where her chaperone now lived, and have a room there for the night. Horace disliked this arrangement, for the ejectionable mangaloe lived in the same house. When he was able to get speech with Fanny, he tried to persuade her to go with him all the way home to Camberwell in a cab. Ms. French would not listen to the suggestion. Whoever heard of such a thing? It wouldn't be proper. Proper? Oh, I like that, he replied, with scathing irony. You can either like it or not. Mrs. Damo wouldn't dream of allowing it. I think she's quite as good a judge of propriety as you are. They were in a corner of the dining room, Fanny, having subbed much to her satisfaction, had a high color and treated her lover with more than usual insolence. Horace had eaten little, but had not refrained from beverages. He was disposed to assert himself. It seems to me that we ought to have an understanding. You never do as I wish in a single thing. What do you mean by it? Oh, if you're going to be nasty. She made the gesture of a serving girl who crawls with her young man at the street corner. I can't stand the kind of treatment you've given me lately, said Horace, with muffled anger. I've told you, I shall do just as I like. Very well. That's as much as to say that you care nothing about me. I'm not going to be the slave of a girl who has no sense of honor, not even a decency. If you wish me to speak to you again, you must speak first. And he loved her, Fanny, laughing scornfully. It drew towards one o'clock when having exhausted the delights of the evening and being in a decidedly limp condition, Mrs. Damrell and her protégé drove home. Fanny said nothing of what had passed between her and Horace. The elder lady, after keeping silence for half the drive, spoke at length in a tone of indulgent playfulness. So you talked a good deal with Mr. Mangolo. Not for long. Now and then he took me down to supper the first time. I'm afraid somebody will be a little jealous. I shall get into trouble. I didn't foresee this. Somebody must treat me in a reasonable way, Fanny answered, with a dry laugh. I'm quite sure he will, said Mrs. Damrell, swobbly. But I feel myself a little responsible, you know. Let me put you on your guard against Mr. Mangolo. I'm afraid he's rather a dangerous man. I have heard rather alarming stories about him. You see, he's very rich and very rich men, if they're rather handsome as well. Say and do things you understand. Is he really very rich? Well, several thousands a year and a prospect of more when relatives die. I don't mean to say that he is a bad man. He belongs to a very good family and I believe him perfectly honorable. He would never do anyone any harm. Or if he happened to without meaning it, I'm quite sure he'd repair it in the honorable way. You said he was dangerous. To a young lady who was already engaged, confess that you think him rather good looking. Having inflamed the girl's imagination, Mrs. Damrell presently dropped the subject and fell again into weary silence. At noon of the next day she received a call from Horace who found her over tea and toast in her private city room. The young man looked billy-ous. He coughed, too, and said that he must have caught fresh cold last night. That house was like an oven. I won't go to any more such places. That isn't my idea of enjoying myself. Mrs. Damrell examined him with affectionate solicitude and reflected before speaking. Haven't you been living rather fast lately? He avoided her eyes, not at all. Quite sure. How much money have you spent this last month? Not much. By careful interrogation, the caressing notes of her voice seemed to convey a genuine feeling. Mrs. Damrell elicited the fact that he had spent not less than 50 pounds in a few weeks. She looked very grave. What would our little fanny say to this? I don't care what she would say. And he had burdened himself with his complaints against the frivolous charmer. Mrs. Damrell listening with a compassionate smile. I'm afraid it's all too true, dear boy. But didn't I warn you? You have made her worse. And I more than half believe you have purposely put her in the way of that fellow Mancolo. Now I tell you plainly. His voice quivered. If I lose her, I'll raise all the money I can and play the very devil. Hush, no naughty words. Let us talk about something else till you require her. What did you think of Mrs. Chiddle? I thought nothing of her. Good or bad. Of her daughter, then? Isn't she a sweet, quiet girl? Do you know that she is rich? It's perfectly true. Mrs. Chiddle is the widow of a man who made a big fortune out of a kind of imitation velvet. It sold only for a few years. Then something else drove it out of the market. But the money was made. I know all about it from Mrs. Dane. It's nothing to me, said Horace, peevishly. But Mrs. Dane will continue. The poor girl has been very unfortunate. In the last year of her father's life, they lived in good style, townhouse and country house. And she fell in love with somebody who, who treated her badly, broke it off in fact, just before the wedding. She had a bad illness and since then she has lived as her mother told you. How do you know she told me? I, I took it for granted. She said you would have a long talk. You can see of course that they're not ordinary people. Didn't Winifred, her name is Winifred, strike you as very refined and ladylike. Sure how they spoke, have a dozen words. That's her nervousness. She's quite gone out of the habit of society. But she's very clever and so good. I want you to see more of her. If she comes here to tea, will you just to please me? Look in for half an hour. She bent her head aside wistfully. Horace felt safe, no reply. Dear boy, I know very well what a disappointment you are suffering. Why not be quite open with me? Though I'm only a tiresome old ant, I feel every bit is anxious for your happiness as if I were your mother. I do indeed, Horace. You believe me, don't you? You have been very kind in many ways, but you've done harm to Fanny. No harm would ever, Horace, believe me. I've only given her an opportunity of showing what she really is. You see now that she thinks of nothing at all, but money and selfish pleasures. Compare her, my dear, with such a girl as Winifred Chiddle. I only mean just to show you the difference between a lady and such a girl as Fanny. She has treated you abominably, my poor boy. And what would she bring you? Not that I wish you to marry for money. I've seen too much of the world to be so foolish, so wicked. But when there are sweet, clever, ladylike girls with large incomes, and a handsome boy like you, you may blush, but there's no harm in telling the truth. You are far too modest. You don't know how you look in the eyes of an affectionate, thoughtful girl, like Winifred, for instance. Instead, we'll think of you throwing yourself away. My dear, it may sound shocking to you, but Fanny French isn't the sort of girl that men marry. Horace showed himself startled. You are so young. Pursue the mature lady with an indulgent smile. You need the advice of someone who knows the world. In years to come, you will feel very grateful to me. Now don't let us talk any more of that just now. But tell me something about Nancy. How much longer does she mean to stay in Cornwall? He answered, absently. She talks of another month or two. But what of her guardians to say that? Why, she's been away for nearly half a year. How can that be called living at the old house? It's no business of mine. Nor of mine, you mean to say. Still, it does seem rather strange. I suppose she is quite to be trusted. Trusted? What harm can come to her? She's keeping out of Sam Barby's way, that's all. I believe he plagued her to marry him. A nice husband for Nancy. I wish we had taken to each other, said Mrs. Damrell amusingly. I think she was a little jealous of the attention I had paid to you. But perhaps we shall do better someday. And I'm quite content so long as you care a little for me, dear boy. You'll never give me up, will you? It was asked with unusual show of feeling. She leaned forward, her eyes fixed tenderly upon the boy's face. You never let a fanny French come between us, Horace dear. I only wish you hadn't brought her among your friends. Someday you will be glad of what I did. Whatever happens, I am your best friend, the best and truest friend you will ever have. You will know it someday. The voice impressed Horace. Its emotion was so true. Several times through the day, he recalled and thought of it. As yet he had felt nothing like affection for Mrs. Damrell, but before the next meeting and impulse he did not try to account for, caused him to write her letter, simply to assure her that he was not ungrateful for her kindness. The reply that came in a few hours surprised and touched him for it repeated in yet warmer words all she had spoken. Let me be in the place of a mother to you, dear Horace. Think of me as if I were your mother. If I were your mother indeed, I could not love you more. He mused over this and received from it a sense of comfort which was quite new to him. All through the winter he had been living as a gentleman of assured independence. This was managed very simply. Acting on Mrs. Damrell's counsel, he insured his life and straight away used the policy of security for a loan of 500 pounds from a friend of Mrs. Damrell's. The insurance itself was not affected without a disagreeable little episode. As a result of the medical examination, Horace learned greatly to a surprise that he would have to pay a premium somewhat higher than the ordinary. Unpleasant questions were asked. Was he quite sure that he knew of no case of consumption in his family? Quite sure he answered stoutly and sincerely. Why? Did the doctor think him consumptive? Oh dear no, but us like constitutional weakness. In fine, the higher premium must be exacted. He paid it with the indifference of his years but said nothing to Mrs. Damrell. And thereupon began the sewing of wild oats. At two and twenty after domestic restraint and occupations that he detested, he was let loose upon life. 500 pounds seemed to him practically inexhaustible. He did not wish to indulge in great extravagance, merely to see and to taste the world. Ah, the rapture of those first nights when he reveled amid the tumult of London. Pursuing joy with a pocket full of sovereigns. Theaters, music halls, restaurants, and public houses. He had seen so little of these things that they excited him as they do a lad fresh from the country. He drew the line nowhere. Love of a worthy woman tells for chastity even in the young and the sensual. Love of a fanny French merely debauches the mind and inflames the passions. Securing his paganism, Horace followed where the lures of London beckoned him. He knew not reproach of conscience. Shame offered but thin resistance to his boiling blood. By a miracle, he had yet escaped worse damage to health than to severe cold, caught one night after heroic drinking. That laid him by the heels for a time and the cough still clung to him. In less than two years he would command 7,000 pounds and a share in the business now conducted by Samuel Barnby. What need to stint himself? Whilst he felt able to enjoy life. If fanny deceived him, were there not, after all, other and better fannies to be won by his money? For it was a result of this girl's worthlessness that Horace, in most things so ingenuous, had come to regard women with unconscious cynicism. He did not think he could be loved for his own sake but he believed that at any time the show of love, perhaps his ultimate sincerity, might be won by display of cash. Midway in the month of May he again caught a severe cold and was confined to the house for nearly three weeks. Mrs. Damrell, who nursed him well and tenderly, proposed that he should go down for change of air to Falmouth. He wrote to Nancy, asking whether she would care to see him. A prompt reply informed him that his sister was on the point of returning to London so that he had better choose some nearer seaside resort. He went to Hastings for a few days, but worried of the place and came back to his London excitements. Nancy, however, had not yet returned, nor did she until the beginning of July. End Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Part 4 The Veiled Figure of In the Year of Jubilee by George Kissing. This labor box recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4 This winter saw the establishment of the South London Fashionable Dress Supply Association. The name finally selected by Beatrice French and her advisors. It was an undertaking truly conceived, skillfully planned and energetically set going. Beatrice knew the public to which her advertisements appealed. She understood exactly the baits that would prove irresistible to its folly and greed. In respect that it was a public of average mortals, it would believe that business might be conducted to the sole advantage of the customer. In respect that it consisted of women, it would give eager attention to a scheme that permitted each customer to spend her money and yet to have it. In respect that it consisted of ignorant and pretentious women, this public could be counted upon to deceive itself in the service of its own vanity and maintain against all opposition that the garments obtained on this soothing system were supremely good and fashionable. On a basis of assumptions such as these, there was every possibility of profitable commerce without any approach to technical fraud. By means of the familiar goose club, licensed victualers make themselves the bankers of people who are too weak-minded to save their own money until they wish to spend it and who are quite content to receive an ultimate return, goods worth something less than half the deposit. By means of the familiar teapot, grocers persuade their customers that an excellent trade can be done by giving away the whole profit on each transaction. Beatrice French, an observant young woman with a head for figures, had often noted and reflected upon these two egregious illustrations of human absurdity. Her dressmaking enterprise assimilated the features of both and added novel devices that sprang from her own fruitful brain. The fashion club, a wheel within a wheel, was merely the goose club, strictly a goose club, for the licensed victualer addressed himself to the male of the species. The larger net cast for those who lacked money or a spirit of speculation, caught all who in the realm of grocery are lured by the teapot. Every sovereign spent with the association carried a bonus, pay not in cash, but in kind. These startling advantages were made known through the medium of handbills, leaflets, nicely printed little pamphlets, gorgeous design placards. The publicity department, being in the hands of Mr. Luckworth Crue, of Farrington Street, was most ably and vigorously conducted. Thanks also to Luckworth Crue, Beatrice had allied herself with partners who brought to the affair capital, experience and activity. Before Christmas, an important point, the scene of operations was ready. They had some shop with the new and attractive appendages, so called clubroom, refreshment bar, et cetera, which Crue and Beatrice had visioned in their prophetic minds. Before the close of the year, substantial business had been done and 1888 opened with exhilarating prospects. The ineptitude of uneducated English women and all that relates to their attire is the fact that it boots not to enlarge upon. Beatrice French could not be regarded as an exception. For though she recognized monstrosities, she very reasonably distrusted her own taste in the choice of a garment. For her sisters, monstrosities had a distinct charm and to this class of women belonged all customers of the association, who pretended to think for themselves as to wear with all, they should be clothed. But women in general came to the shop with confessed blankness of mind, beyond the desire to buy something that was modish, and to pay for it in a minus quantity. They knew, felt, thought nothing, whatever. Greener violet, cerulean, or magenta, all was one to them. In the matter of shape, they sought merely a confident assurance from articulate man or woman, themselves being somewhat less articulate than Jay or Jackdaw, that this or that was the feature of the season. They could not distinguish between a becoming garment and one that called for the consuming fires of heaven. It is often assumed, as a commonplace, that women, whatever else they cannot do, may be trusted to make up their minds about habiliments. Nothing more false as Beatrice French was abundantly aware. A very large proportion of the servant keeping females in Brixton, Camberwell, and Peckham could not, with any confidence, buy a chemise or a pair of stockings. And when it came to garments visible, they were lost indeed. Fanny French began to regret that she had not realized her capital and put it into the association. Wishing at length to do so, she met with a scornful rebuff. Beatrice would have none of her money, but told her she might use the shop like any other customer, which of course Fanny did. Mrs. Peachy, meanwhile, kept declaring to both their sisters that they must not expect to live henceforth in De Crespany Park on the old nominal terms. Beatrice was on the way to wealth. Fanny moved in West End Society under the chaperonage of a rich woman. They ought to be ashamed of themselves for not volunteering handsome recognition of the benefits they had received beneath their sister's roof. But neither Beatrice nor Fanny appeared to see the matter in this light. The truth was that they both had in view a change of domicile. The elder desired more comfort and more independence than De Crespany Park could afford her. The younger desired a great many things and flattered herself that a very simple step would put her in possession of them. The master of the house no longer took any interest in the fortunes of his sisters-in-law. He would not bid them to part. He would not bid them stay. Least of all would he demand money from them. Of money, he had no need. And he was the hapless possessor of a characteristic not to be found in any other member of his household. Natural delicacy. Arthur Peachy lived only for his child, the little boy, whose newly proudly tongue made the soul welcome he expected or cared for on his return from a hard day's work. Happily the child had good health, but he never left home without dread of perils that might befall it in his absence. On the mother he counted, not at all. A good tempered cow might with more confidence have been set to watch over the little one's safety. The nurse-girl Emma, retained in spite of her mistress's malice, still seemed to discharge her duties faithfully but being mortal, she demanded intervals of leisure from time to time and, at such seasons, as Peachy too well knew, the child was uncared for. Had his heart been resolute as it was tender, he would long ago have carried out a project which haunted him at every moment of anger or fear. In the town of Canterbury lived a sister of his who for several years had been happily wedded but remained childless. If the worst came to the worst, if his wife compelled him to the breaking up of a home which was no home, this married sister would gladly take the little boy into her motherly care. He never dared to propose a step, but Ada might perchance to give ready assent to it even now. For motherhood she had no single qualification but the physical. Before her child's coming into the world, she snarled at the restraints and imposed upon her. At its birth she clamored against nature for the pain she had to undergo and hated her husband because he was the intermediate cause of them. The helpless infant gave her no pleasure, touched no emotion in her heart, saved when she saw it in the nurse's care and received female compliments upon its beauty. She rejected it at night because it broke her sleep in the day because she could not handle it without making it cry. When Peachy remonstrated with her, she stared an insolent surprise and wished that he had had to suffer all her hardships of the past year. Peachy could not be said to have any leisure. On returning from business he was involved forthwith in domestic troubles and broils which consumed the jury evening and invaded even his sleep. Thus it happened that at long intervals he was tempted instead of going home to dinner to spend a couple of hours at a certain small eating-house, a resort of his bachelor days, where he could read the newspapers, have a well-cooked chop in quietude, and afterwards, if acquaintances were here, play a game of chess. Of course he had to shield this modest dissipation with a flat falsehood, alleging to his wife that business had kept him late. Thus on an evening of June, when the soft air and the mellow sunlight overcame him with a longing for rest, he dispatched a telegram to DeCrestmony Park and strolled quietly about the streets until the hour and his appetite pointed in table words. The pity of it was that he could not dismiss anxieties. He loathed the coward falsehood and thought more of home than of his present freedom. But at least at his tongue was silent. He seen himself in the familiar corner and turned over illustrated papers whilst his chop hissed on the grid. Ah, if he were but unmarried, what a life he might make for himself now that the day's laborer brought its ample reward. He would have rooms in London and is still clean lodging somewhere among the lanes and fields. His ideals expressed the homeliness of the man. On intellect he could not pride himself. His education had been but of the commercial order. He liked to meditate rather than to read. Questions of the day concerned him not at all. A weak man but of clean and kindly instincts. In mercentile life he had succeeded by virtue of his intensely methodical habits. The characteristic which made himself or so from his wife's indolence in capacity and vicious or humor. Before his marriage he had thought of women as domestic beings. A wife was the genius of home. He knew men who thanked their wives for all the prosperity and content that they enjoyed. Others he knew who told quite a different tale but these surely were sorrowful exceptions. Nowadays he saw the matter in a light of fuller experience. In his rank of life married happiness was a rare thing and the fault could generally be traced to wives who had no sense of responsibility, no understanding of household duties, no love of simple pleasures, no religion. Yes, there was the point, no religion. Ada had grown up to regard churchgoing as a sign of respectability but without a shadow of religious faith. Her incredible ignorance of the Bible story of Christian dogmas often amazed him. Himself a believer though careless in the practice of conforms, he was not disturbed by the modern tendency to look for morals apart from faith. He had not the trouble reflecting that an ignorant woman is the last creature to be moralized by anything but the Christian code. He saw straight into the fact that there was no hope of impressing Ada with ideas of goodness, truthfulness, purity, simply because she recognized no moral authority. For such minds no moral authority merely as a moral authority is or can be valid. Such natures are ruled only by superstition, the representative of reasoned faith in noble beings. Rob them of their superstition and they perish amid all uncleanliness. Thou shalt not lie, for God consumes a lie in the flames of hell. Ada Peachy could lend ear to no admonition short of that and living when she did, bred as she was, only a John Knox could have impressed her with this menace to be forgotten when the echoes of his voice had failed. He did not enjoy his trough this evening. In the game of chess that followed, he played idly with absent thoughts and before the glow of sunset had died from the calm heaven, he set out to walk homeward, anxious, melancholy. On approaching the house he suffered as always from quick and pulse and heart constricted with fear until he knew that all was well, he looked like a man who anticipates dread calamity. This evening on opening the door, he fell back, terror-stricken. In the hall stood a police constable surrounded by a group of women, Mrs. Peachy, her sisters, Emma, the nurse girl and two other servants. Oh, here you are at last, exclaimed his wife in a voice exhausted with rage. You're just in time to see this beast taken off to the lockup. Perhaps you'll believe me now. What is it? What has she done? Stolen money, that's what she's done. You are precious, Emma. She's been at it for a long time. I've told you someone was robbing me, so I marked some coins in my purse and left it in the bedroom whilst we were at dinner and then when I found half a crown gone and it was her evening out too, I sent for a policeman before she knew anything and we made her turn out her pockets and there's the half-crown. Perhaps she'll believe it this time. The girl's face declared her guilt. She had hardly attempted denial. Then with a clamor of furious verbosity, Adam enlightened her husband on other points of Emma's behavior. It was a long story, gathered in the last few minutes, partly from the culprit herself, partly from her fellow servants. Emma had gone into the clutches of a jewelry tallyman, one of the fellows who sells trinkets to serving girls on the pay by installment system. She had made several purchases of gougas and had already paid three or four times their value but was still in debt to the tallyman who threatened all manner of impossible proceedings if she did not make up her arrears. Bottomless ignorance and imbecile vanity had been the girl's ruin, aided by a grave indiscretion on Pichu's part of which she was to hear presently. Someone must go to the police station and make a formal charge. Adam would undertake this duty with pious eagerness enjoying it all the more because of loud wailings and entreaties which the girl now addressed to her master. Pichu looked at his sisters-in-law and in neither face perceived a compassionate softening. Fanny stood by, as at a spectacle provided for her amusement, without rancor but equally without pity. Beatrice was contemptuous. What right, said her countenance, had a servant girl to covet jewelry and how pretty will the spirit that prompted to a fill chain of half-crowns. For the criminals of finance who devastate a thousand homes, Miss French had no small admiration. Crimes such as the present were mean and dirty. Adam reappeared, hurriedly clad for going forth but no one had fetched a cab. Incensed, she ordered her husband to do so. "'Who are you speaking to?' he replied rapidly. "'I'm not your servant.'" Fanny laughed. The policeman, professionally calm, averted a smiling face. "'It is nothing to me,' said Mrs. Pichu. "'I'm quite willing to walk. "'Come along, Constable.'" Her husband, interposed. The girl doesn't go from my house until she's properly dressed. He turned to the other servants. Pleased to blow the whistle at the door or get a cab somehow. Emma, go upstairs and put your things on. It was about time you behaved like a man. Fell quietly from Beatrice. "'You're right,' he looked sternly at the speaker. "'It is time, and that you shall all know.'" The culprit, suddenly silent, obeyed his order. The constable went out at the front door and there waited whilst a cab-summoning whistle shilled along to Cressmany Park. Adam had ascended to the first landing to make sure that the culprit did not escape her. Beatrice and Fanny retired into the drawing room. After a lapse of some 10 minutes, two cabs rattled up to the door from opposite directions, each driver lashing his horse to gain the advantage. So nearly were they matched that with difficulty the vehicles avoided a collision. The man who had secured a place immediately in front of the doorsteps waved his whip and uttered a shout of insulting triumph. His rival answered with ballies of abuse and drove round as if meditating an assault. It was necessary for the policeman to interfere. Whereupon the defeated competitor vowed that it was a sanguinary hard lines, that for the sanguinary whole of this sanguinary day had he waited vainly for a sanguinary fair, and but for a sanguinary stumble of his sanguinary horse. Tired of waiting and suspicious of the delay, Adam went up to the room where the servant was supposed to be making ready. It was the little room which served as night nursery. By the girl's bed stood a cot occupied by the child. Adam exclaiming, now come along, open the door violently. A candle was burning, the boy awake but silent, sat up in his cot and looked about with sleepy, yet frightened eyes. Where are you? Emma could not be seen. Astonished and enraged, Adam rushed forward. She found the girl lying on the floor and after bending over her, started back with a cry half of alarm, half of a disgust. Come up here at once, she screamed on the staircase, come up, the wretches cut her throat. There was a rush of feet. Peachy, the first to enter, saw a gash on the neck of the insensible girl. In her hand she held a pair of scissors. I hope you're satisfied, he said to his wife. The police officer animated by a brisk succession of events such as you could not hope for every day, raised the pro straight figure and speedily announced that the wound was not mortal. She's fainted, that's all, tried to do for herself with them scissors and didn't know the way to go about it. We'll get her off sharp to the surgeon. It'll be a tendered suicide now, as well as stealing, cried Adam. Terrified by the crowd of noisy people, the child began to cry loudly. Peachy lifted him out of the cot, wrapped a blanket about him and carried him down to his own bedroom. There, heedless of what was going on above, he tried to soothe little fellow, lavishing caresses and tender words. My little boy will be good. He'll wait here quietly until father comes back. Only a few minutes and father will come back and sit by him. Yes, he shall sleep here all night. Add a burst into the room. I should think you'd better go and look after your dear Emma, as if I didn't know what's been going on. It's all come out, so you needn't tell me any lies. You've been giving her money. The other servants knew of it. She confested herself. Oh, you're a nice sort of man you are. Many of your sort are always good at preaching other people. You've given her money. What does that mean? I suspected it all along. You wouldn't have her sent away, oh no. She was so good to the child and so good to somebody else, a dirty servant. I'd choose someone better than that if I was a man. How much has she cost you? As much, no doubt, is one of the swell women in Piccadilly Circus. Pichu turned upon her, the sweat beating on his ghastly face. Go, out of this room, or by God I shall do something fearful. Out! She backed before him. He seized her by the shoulders and flung her forth, then locked the door. From without, she railed at him in the language of the gutter and the brothel. Presently, her shouts were mingled with piercing treaks. They came from the would-be suicide who, restored to consciousness, was being carried down for removal in the cab. Pichu, looking and feeling like a man whom passion had brought within sight of murder, stopped his ears and huddled himself against the bedside. The child screamed in terror. At length came silence. Pichu opened the door and listened. Below, voices sounded in quiet conversation. Who's down there, he called. All of us except Ada, replied Beatrice. The policeman said she needed to go unless she liked, but she did like. Very well. He ran up to the deserted bedroom, carefully gathered together his child's day garments and brought them down. Then, as well as he could, he dressed the boy. Is it time to get up? Inquired the little three-year-old, astonished at all that was happening, but soothed and amused by the thought that his father had turned nurse. It isn't light yet. You are going somewhere with father, dear, somewhere nice. The dialogue between them in sweet broken words, such as the child had not yet outgrown, and the parent did not wish to abandon for common speech, went on until the dressing was completed. Now, when my boy showed me where his clothes are for going out, his cap and his coat. Oh yes, they were up in the nursery. Boy would show father and laughed merrily that he knew something father didn't. A few minutes more and the equipment was completed. Now wait for me here, only a minute. My boy won't cry if I leave him for a minute. Cry, of course not. Peachy descended to the drawing-room, closed the door behind him and stared facing the sisters-in-law. I want to tell you that I'm going away and taking the child with me. I didn't need it, expect me back tonight, nor ever. As long as I live, I will never again be under the same roof with her. You, Beatrice, said it was about time I behaved like a man. You were right. I've put up long and up with things such as no man ought to endure for a day. Tell your sister that she may go on living here if she chooses for another six months to the end of the year, not longer. She shall be supplied with sufficient money. After Christmas, she may find a home for herself where she likes. Money will be paid to her through a lawyer, but from this day, I will neither speak nor write to her. You two must make your own arrangements. You have means enough. You know very well both of you why I'm taking this step. Think and say about me what you like. I have no time to talk and so I bid you goodbye. They did not seek to detain him, but stood mute whilst he left the room. The little boy, timid and impatient, was at the head of the stairs. His father enveloped him warmly in a shawl and so they went forth. It was not long before they met with the vacant cab. Half an hour's drive brought them to the eating house where Peachy had had his chop that evening. And here he obtained a bedroom for the night. By eleven o'clock the child slept peacefully. The father, seated at a table, was engaged in writing to a solicitor. At midnight he lay softly down by the child's side and there until dawn listened to the low breathing of his innocent little bedfellow. Though he could not sleep, it was joy, rather than any painful excitement that kept him wakeful. A grade in lowsome burden had fallen from him. In the same moment he rescued his boy out of an atmosphere of hated impurity. A lengthy could respect himself and for the first time in four long years he looked to the future with tranquil hope. Careless of the frank curiosity with which the people of the house regarded him, he went down at seven o'clock and asked for a railway timetable. Having found a convenient train to Canterbury, he ordered breakfast for himself and the child to be laid in a private room. It was a merry meal. Sunshine of midsummer fell warm and bright upon the table. The street below was so full of busy life that the little boy must need to have his breakfast by the window, where he could eat and look forth at the same time. No such delightful holiday had he ever enjoyed, alone with the father and going away by train into wonderful new worlds. "'Is Emma coming?' he asked. It was significant that he did not speak of his mother. They drove to the railway station, peachy no less excited than the child. From here he dispatched a telegram to his partners, saying that he should be absent for a day or two. Then the train, struggling slowly out of London's Walter, through the newest outposts of gloom and grime, bore them, hearts, companioned in love and blamelessness to the broad sunny meadows and the sweet hop gardens of Kent. End Chapter 4. Chapter 5, Part 4, The Veiled Figure, of In the Year of Jubilee, by George Kissing. The sleeper-box recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5. Serves her jolly while right, said Beatrice. A lot she'll care, said Fanny. I should think myself precious lucky. She gets rid of him and of the kid, too, and has as much as she wants to live on. It's better than she deserves. Do you believe he's been carrying on with that girl? Miss French laughed contemptuously, not he. Well, there's been a jolly good row tonight if we never see another. We shall all be in the papers. The prospect had charms for Fanny. What are you going to do? Live here till Christmas? Beatrice was quietly reviewing the situation. She kept silence, and her sister also became meditative. Suddenly Fanny inquired. What sort of a place is Brussels? Brussels? Why? I know nothing about it. Not much of a place, I think. Sprouts come from there, don't they? It's a big town, said the other, and a lively sort of place, they say. Why do you ask me if you know? What about it? As usual, when performing the operation, which in her answered to thought, Fanny shuffled with her hands on her waist. At a distance from Beatrice, she stood still and said, "'Someone I know is going there. I have a good mind to go to. I want to see abroad.'" Her sister asked several searching questions, but Fanny would not make known whether the friend was male or female. I shouldn't be much surprised, remarked the woman at business, indifferently, if you go and make a fool of yourself before long. That Mrs. Damrell is up to some game with you. Anyone could see it with half an eye. I suppose it isn't Lord that's going to Brussels? Fanny sputtered her disdain. If you had any common sense, pursued her sister, you'd stick to him, but you haven't. Oh yes, you think you can do better. Very well, we shall see. If you find yourself in a hole one of these days, don't expect me to pull you out. I wouldn't give you a penny to save you from the workhouse. Wait till you're asked. I know where all your money will go to, and that's in the cruise pocket. He'll fool you out of all you have. Beatrice readened with wrath, but unlike the other members of her family, she could command her tongue. Fanny found it impossible to draw another word from her. On returning from the police station, haggard and faint with excitement, but supported by the anticipation of fresh attacks upon her husband, Ada immediately learned what had happened. For the first moment, she could hardly believe it. She rushed upstairs and saw that the child was really gone. Then a blind frenzy took hold upon her. A marmin and inexplicable sounds drew her sisters from below. They found her armed with something heavy, smashing every breakable object in her bedroom, mirrors, toiletware, pictures, chimney piece ornaments. She's gone mad, shrieked Fanny, she'll kill us. That bee shall pay for it, yelled Ada with a frantic blow at the dressing table. Wanton destruction of property revolted all Beatrice's instincts. Courageous enough, she sprang upon the wild animal and flung her down. Now, indeed, the last trace of veneer was gone. The last rag of pseudo-civilization was ran off these young women. In physical conflict, vilifying each other like the female spawn of Whitechapel, they revealed themselves as born raw material in which the middle of education is supposed to convert into middle-class ladyhood. As a result of being held still by superior strength, Ada fell into convulsions, foamed at the mouth, her eyes starting from their sockets. Then she lay as one dead. You've killed her, cried the terrified Fanny. No fear, give me some water to pitch over her. With a full jog from another bedroom, she drenched the prostrate figure. When Ada came round, she was powerless. Even her anchorless lips could utter only a sound of moaning. The sister stripped her stark naked on the floor, made a show of drying her with towels, and tumbled her into bed. Then Beatrice brewed a great joram of hot whiskey punch. And after drinking freely to steady her shakin' nerves, poured a pine or so down Mrs. Peachy's throat. There won't be a funeral just yet, she remarked with a laugh. Now we'll have supper, I feel hungry. They went to bed at something after midnight. The servants, having stolen a bottle of spirits from the cupboard, which Beatrice slept open, both got drunk and slept till morning upon the kitchen floor. On the morrow, Miss French, attired as a walking advertisement of the South London Fashionable Dress Supply Association, but took herself to Farrington Street for an interview with her commercial friend. Crew was absent, but one of three clerks who occupied his largest room informed her that it could not be very long before he returned. And being so familiar a figure here, she was permitted to wait in the agent's sanctum. When the door closed upon her, the three young men discussed her character with sprightly freedom. Beatrice the while, splendidly indifferent to the remark she could easily divine, made a rapid examination of loose papers lying on crew's desk, read several letters, opened several books, and found nothing that interested her until, unturning over a slip of paper with penciled figures upon it, she discovered a hotel bill, the heading, Royal Hotel, Thalmyth. It was for a day and night's entertainment, the debtor, Mr. Crew, the date less than a week on by. This document she considered attentively, her brows knitted, her eyes wide. But a sound caused her to drop it upon the desk again. Another moment and crew entered. He looked keenly at her, and less good-humoredly than of want. These persons never shook hands, and indeed dispensed as a rule with all forms of civility. What are you staring at? Asked Crew, lovely. What are you staring at? Nothing that I know. He hung up his hat and sat down. I have a note to write, wait a minute. The note written, and given to a clerk, Crew seemed to recover equanimity. His visitor told him all that happened in Crespany Park, even to the crew's details, and they laughed together, uproariously. I'm going to take a flat, Beatrice then informed him. Just find me something convenient and moderate, will you? A bachelor's flat. What about Fanny? She has something on, I don't know what it is. Talks about going to Brussels with a friend. Crew looked astonished. You ought to see after her. I know what the end will be. Brussels? I've heard of English girls going there, but they don't usually come back. What can I do? I'm pretty certain that damneral woman has a game on hand. She doesn't want Fanny to marry her nephew. If Lorde is her nephew. She wants his money, that's my idea. Mine too, remarked the other quietly. Look here, old chap, it's your duty to look after your little damned fool of a sister. I tell you that, friendly. I shan't think well of you if you don't. Beatrice displayed eagerness to defend herself. She had done her best, Fanny scorned all advice and could not be held against her will. Has she given up all thought of Lorde? I'm not sure, but I think so. And it looks as if he was going his own way and didn't care much. He never writes for now. Of course it's that woman's doing. Crew reflected, I shall have to look into Mrs. Damnerals affairs. It might be worthwhile. Where is she living? He made a note of the information. Well, anything else to tell me. Beatrice spoke of business matters, then asked him if he had been out of town lately. The question sounded rather abrupt and caused Crew to regard her with an expression she privately interpreted. A few short runs, no where particular. Oh, not been down into Cornwall. He lost his temper. What are you after? What business is it of yours? If you're going to spy on me, I'll soon let you know that I won't stand that kind of thing. Don't disturb yourself, said Beatrice with a cold smile. I haven't been spying and you can go where you like for anything I care. I guess you had been down there, that's all. Crew kept silence, his look betraying uneasiness as well as anger. Speaking at length, he fixed her with keen eyes. If it's any satisfaction to you, you're welcome to know that I have been into Cornwall and to Falmouth. Beatrice merely nodded and still he searched her face. Just answer me a plain question, old chap. Come, there's no nonsense between us. We know each other, eh? Oh, yes, we know each other. Miss French answered, her lips puckering a little. What do you know about her? What has she been doing all this time? Beatrice laughed. I know just as little about her as I care. You care a good deal more than you'll confess. I wouldn't be up to women's chicks if I were you. She revolted. After all, I suppose I am a woman. Well, I suppose so. Crew grinned, good-naturedly. But that isn't in the terms of our partnership, you remember. You can be a reasonable fellow enough when you like. Just tell me the truth, what you know about Nancy-Lord. Beatrice assumed an air of mystery. I'll tell you that, if you tell me what it is you want of her. Is it her money? Her money be damned. It's herself then. And what if it is? What have you to say to it? Her eyes found she muttered, nothing. Just spare that in mind then. And now that I've answered your question, answer mine. What have you heard about her? Or what have you found out? She raised her eyes again and again, but in a mocking voice said, nothing. You're telling me a lie. You are brute to say so. They exchanged fierce glances, but could not meet each other's eyes steadily. Crew, mastering his irritation, said with a careless laugh, all right, I believe you. Didn't mean to offend you, old chap. I won't be called that. She was trembling with stormy emotions. You shall treat me decently. Very well, old girl then. I'm a good deal younger than you are, and I'm a good deal better than you in every way. I'm a lady at all events, and you can't pretend to be a gentleman. You are rough, common fellow. Hello, hello. Draw it mild. He was startled, and in some degree abashed. His eyes traveling to the door indicated a fear that this singular business colloquy might be overheard. But Beatrice went on, without subduing her voice, and, having delivered herself of much plain language, walked from the room, leaving the door open behind her. As a rule, she returned from her day's occupations to dinner in De Crespany Park at seven o'clock. Today her arrival at home was considerably later. About three o'clock she made a call at the boarding-house where Mrs. Damrell lived, but was disappointed in her wish to see that lady, who would not be in before the hour of dining. She called again at seven, and Mrs. Damrell received her very graciously. It was the first time they had met. Beatrice, in no mood for a polite grimaces, at once disclosed the object of her visit. She wanted to talk about Fanny. Did Mrs. Damrell know anything about proposed journey to Brussels? The lady professed utter ignorance of any such intention on Fanny's part. She had not seen Fanny for at least a fortnight. How can that be? She told me she dined here last Sunday. That's very strange, answered Mrs. Damrell, with suave concern. She certainly did not dine here. And the Sunday before. Your sister has dined here only once, Miss French, and that was three months ago. Then I don't understand it. Haven't you been taking her to theatres and parties, and that kind of thing? I've taken her once to a theatre and twice to evening at homes. The last time we were together, anywhere, was at Mrs. Danes, about the middle of May. Since then I've seen her hardly at all. I'm very much afraid you are under some misconception. Thinking your sister was engaged to marry my nephew, Mr. Lord, I naturally desired to offer her a few friendly attentions. But it came out at length that she did not regard the engagement as serious. I was obliged to speak greatly to my young nephew and beg him to consider his position. There is the second dinner bell, but I'm quite at your service, Miss French, if you wish to question me further. Beatrice was much inclined to resent this tone and to use her vernacular. But it seemed only too probable that Fanny had been deceiving her. And as she really feared for the girl's safety, Prudence bade her be civil with Mrs. Damrell. Can't you help me to find out what Fanny has really been doing? I'm afraid it's quite out of my power. She never confided in me, and is so long since I've seen anything of her at all. It's best to speak plainly, said Beatrice, in her business tone. Can't you think of any man in the society you introduced her to who may be trying to lead her astray? Really, Miss French. The society in which I move is not what you seem to suppose. If your sister is in any danger of that kind, you must make your inquiries elsewhere in an inferior rank of life. Beatrice no longer contained herself. Perhaps I know rather more than you think about your kind of society. There's not much to choose between the men and the women. Miss French, I believe you reside in a part of London called Camberwell, and I believe you are engaged in some kind of millenary business. This excuses you for ill manners. All the same, I must beg you to relieve me of your presence. She rang the bell. Good evening. I dare say we shall see each other again, replied Beatrice, with an insulting laugh. I heard some one say today that it might be as well to find out who you really are. And if any harm comes to fanny, I shall take a little trouble about that inquiry myself. Mrs. Damruel changed color, but no movement betrayed anxiety. In the attitude of dignified disdain, she kept her eyes on a point above Miss French's head, and stood so until the plebeian adversary had withdrawn. Then she sat down and for a few minutes communed with herself. In the end, instead of going to dinner, she rang her bell again. A servant appeared. Is Mr. Mancolo in the dining room? Yes, ma'am. Ask him to be kind enough to come here for a moment. With little delay, Mr. Mancolo answered the summons, which called him from his soup. He wore a evening dress. His thin hair was parted down the middle. His smooth shave and her mother's forehead face expressed the annoyance of a hungry man at so unseasonable an interruption. Do forgive me, began Mrs. Damruel in a pathetic falsetto. I have been so upset, I felt obliged to seek advice immediately, and no one seemed so likely to be of help to me as you, a man of the world. Would you believe that a sister of that silly little Miss French has just been here? I downright Virago. Declaring that the girl has been led astray and that I am responsible for it. Can you imagine such impertinence? She is fibbed shockingly to the people at home. I told them she was constantly here with me in the evenings when she must have been, who knows where? It will teach me to meddle again with girls of that class. Mancolo stood with his hands behind him and legs apart, regarding the speaker with a comically puzzled air. My dear Mrs. Damruel. He had a thick military sort of voice. Why in the world should this interpose between us and dinner? Afterwards we might, but I am really anxious about the solutile creature. It would be extremely disagreeable if my name got mixed up in a scandal of any kind. You remember my telling you that she didn't belong exactly to the working class. She has even a little property of her own and I shouldn't wonder if she has friends who might make a disturbance of her. Her vagaries could be in any way connected with me in my circle. Something was mentioned about Brussels. She's been chattering about someone who wanted to take her to Brussels. The listener arched his eyebrows more and more. What can it matter to you? To be sure I have no acquaintance with anyone who could do such things. Why, of course not. And even if you had, I understand that the girl is long out of her teens. Long since. Then it's her own affair. And that of the man who cares to purchase such amusement. By the by, it happens rather oddly that I myself have to run over to Brussels on business, but I trust, he laughed, that my years and my character, oh, Mr. Megalo, absurd. It's probably some commercial traveler or man of that sort, don't you think? The one thing I do hope is that if anything like this happens, the girl will somehow make it clear to her friends that I had no knowledge, whatever, of what was going on. But that can hardly be hoped, I fear. Their eyes crossed. They stood for a moment, perusing vacancy. Yes, I think it might be hoped, said Megalo, eerily. She seemed to me a rather reckless sort of young person. It's highly probable she will write letters which release everyone but herself from responsibility. In fact, he gazed at her with a cynical smile. My knowledge of human nature disposes me to assure you that she certainly will. She might even, I should say, write a letter to you, perhaps a cheeky sort of letter which wouldn't once set your mind at ease. Oh, if you really take that view. I do indeed. Don't you think we might dismiss the matter and dine? They did so. Until noon of today, Mrs. Peachy had kept her bed, lying amid the wreck wrought by last night's madness. She then felt well enough to rise and after refreshment, but took herself by cab to the offices of missers, ducker, blunt, and company, manufacturers of disinfectants, where she conversed with one of the partners, and looked that her husband had telegraphed his intention to be absent for a day or two. Having, with the self-respect which distinguished her, related her story from the most collumnius point of view. She went home again to nurse her headache and quarrel with Fanny. But Fanny had, in the meantime, left home, and, an accountable fact, had taken with her a large tin box and a dress basket. Heavily packed, said the servants. Her direction to the cab man was merely Westminster Bridge, which conveyed to Mrs. Peachy no sort of suggestion. When Beatrice came back and learned this event, she went apart in wrathful gloom. Atta could not engage her in a quarrel. It was a wretchedly dull evening. They talked next morning and Beatrice denounced her purpose of going to live by herself as soon as possible. But she would not quarrel. Left alone, Atta prepared to visit certain of their relatives in different parts of London to spread among them the news of her husband's infamy. End Chapter 5.