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SPINSTER  OP  THIS  PARISH 


SPINSTER 
OF  THIS  PARISH 


BY 

W.   B.  MAXWELL 


AUTHOR  OF 

THE  RAGGED  MESSENGER 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


COPYRIGHT,    1922 
BY  DODD,    MEAD  &   COMPANY,    JSC 

PUBLISHED,  AUGUST,  1922 
SECOND  PRINTING,  SEPTEMBER,  1922 
TKIHD    PBIMINQ,    OCTOBEB,     1922 
FOUBTH    PHTNTTKa,    NOVEMBEB,    1922 
FIFTH   PRINTING,   JANUABT,    1923 
SIXTH  PHINTINQ,  FEBBUABY,   1S23 
6EVENTH   PBINTING,  MABCH)    1923 
E/GHTH  PBINTING,   AUGUST,    1923 
NINTH  PBINTING,   NOVEMBEB,   1923 
TENTH  PHINTINQ,  MABCH,   1924 


Paper,  Printing,  Binding  and  Cloth 

By  The  Kingsport  Pkess 

Kingsport,  Tenn. 


SPINSTER  OF  THIS  PARISH 


SPINSTER  OF  THIS 
PARISH 


CHAPTER   I 

IT  had  been  an  odd  impulse  that  made  little  Mildred 
Parker  seek  counsel  and  advice,  or  at  least  sympa- 
thy, from  Miss  Verinder  in  the  first  great  crisis  of 
her  young  life.  The  imperious  necessity  of  opening 
her  heart  to  somebody  had  of  course  lain  behind  the 
impulse,  and  Miss  Verinder,  although  really  only  an 
acquaintance  of  Mildred's  parents,  had  been  unusually 
kind  and  friendly  to  Mildred  herself ;  but  now,  sitting 
in  the  drawing-room  of  Miss  Verinder's  flat,  listening 
to  Miss  Verinder's  pleasant  emotionless  voice,  watching 
Miss  Verinder  with  methodic  care  put  away  small  odds 
and  ends  in  an  antique  bureau,  she  felt  the  huge  in- 
congruity that  there  would  be  in  speaking  of  love  to  an 
old  maid  of  fifty. 

« I  won't  be  a  minute,"  said  Miss  Verinder. 
«  I  am  not  in  the  least  hurry,"  said  Mildred  quite 
untruthfully. 

W^aiting  and  watching,  she  thought  that  fifty  years 
of  age  is  nothing  nowadays  —  if  you  are  not  an  old 
maid,  and  if  you  decorate  yourself  properly.  Some 
women  of  fifty  are  still  dangerously  attractive  —  they 
act  leading  parts  on  the  stage,  they  appear  in  divorce 
cases,  they  marry  their  third  husbands.     But  when 

1 


2  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

once  you  have  allowed  old  maidishness  to  take  posses- 
sion of  you ! 

"  A  place  for  everything  and  everything  in  its  place," 
said  Miss  Verinder,  closing  a  drawer  and  speaking  as 
if  to  herself  rather  than  to  a  visitor.  "  That  is  a 
good  motto,  isn't  it?  "  And  she  began  to  flick  a  silk 
handkerchief.  ^'  These  are  souvenirs  —  with  only  a 
sentimental  value." 

Mildred  glanced  round  the  room.  At  the  far  end 
there  were  windows,  through  which  one  saw  the  shredded 
stem  and  drooping  branches  of  a  large  plane  tree,  all 
transparent  green  and  fiery  orange  now  in  the  sunlight 
of  a  September  afternoon ;  near  the  window  at  the  other 
end  there  was  a  cage  with  a  somnolent  grey  parrot; 
a  singularly  clean  white  cat  lay  stretching  itself  lazily 
on  the  seat  of  a  chintz-covered  chair;  and  everywhere 
there  showed  the  neatness  and  order  as  well  as  the 
prettiness  and  taste  that  are  only  possible  in  rooms  al- 
together free  from  the  disturbing  presence  of  clumsy 
man.  Mildred,  feeling  more  and  more  enervated,  spoke 
admiringly  but  abruptly. 

"  I  do  like  your  flat,  Miss  Verinder." 

"It  is  convenient,  isn't  it?"  said  Miss  Verinder. 
^  So  close  to  the  Brompton  Road,  so  near  everything. 
Strictly  speaking,"  she  added  with  gentle  precision, 
"  it  is  not  a  flat  at  all,  but  what  they  call  a  maisonette. 
That  straight  staircase  —  almost  like  a  ladder,  isn't 
it?  —  has  been  as  it  were  stolen  from  the  auctioneer's 
offices  on  the  ground  floor ;  and  it  forms  quite  a  private 
entrance.  I  prefer  that.  It  gives  a  feeling,"  —  and 
she  made  a  graceful  vague  gesture.  "  I  think  Ora- 
tory Gardens  is  the  only  place  where  you  find  flats 
constructed   on  this   principle.      I   considered   myself 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  3 

lucky  in  securing  the  lease  —  many  years  ago,  you 
know.  I  wanted  to  be  just  here,  because  I  have  so 
many  associations  with  this  neighbourhood  —  the  whole 
neighbourhood  —  as  far  as  Kensington  Gore  and 
Knightsbridge,  but  not  south  or  west,  you  know.  I 
like  the  sight  of  the  tree  too." 

For  a  few  moments  she  ceased  dusting  the  small 
objects  on  the  flap  of  the  bureau  and  stood  at  the 
window,  looking  out;  a  tall  thin  dark  figure  with  the 
sunlight  behind  her. 

"  It  sometimes  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  were  miles  away 
from  Kensington  " ;  and  she  gently  nodded  her  head  and 
half  closed  her  eyes.  "  Far  in  the  country.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  world,  even." 

She  was  really  a  very  charming,  well-bred,  elegant 
woman ;  and  once  upon  a  time,  a  long  while  ago,  when 
those  eyes  of  hers  were  full  of  brightness  and  lustre, 
when  her  sensitive  lips  were  redder,  when  her  pale  un- 
wrinkled  cheeks  had  permanent  colour  instead  of  the 
fitful  pinkness  that  now  came  and  went  so  delicately, 
she  must  have  been  quite  good-looking.  Possibly  she 
might  then  have  been  fascinating  also.  Her  hair  was 
really  good,  dark  and  strong,  rolled  in  bulky  waves 
about  her  forehead  and  in  a  lump  at  the  back  of  her 
n'Bck. 

It  was  the  demureness,  the  air  of  patience,  endurance, 
and  submissiveness  proper  to  her  age  and  condition, 
that  spoilt  her  general  effect  and  made  her  just  a  little 
dowdy,  although  always  beautifully  dressed.  Even  in 
the  moment  of  recognising  a  certain  natural  feminine 
charm  one  sought  for  and  found  the  stigmata  of  spin- 
sterhood.  She  had  no  mannerisms,  affectations,  or  silly 
tricks ;  and  nevertheless,  —  But  there  is  the  bother  of  it. 


4  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

How  and  why  do  we  judge  people  or  form  any  opinion 
concerning  them?  As  soon  as  3^ou  think  you  know 
what  a  woman  is  you  begin  to  think  she  looks  like  what 
you  have  decided  her  to  be.  Perhaps  one  merely 
imagined  and  did  not  really  see  that  outward  suggestion 
of  untilled  fields,  autumn  leaves,  and  faded  flowers, 
which  has  come  to  symbolise  a  particular  combination  of 
loneliness  and  neglect. 

Essentially,  she  appeared  to  be  spinsterhood  personi- 
fied. She  stood  so  very  much  alone.  Although,  as 
was  known,  she  had  relatives,  she  did  not  appear  to 
preserve  any  close  intercourse  with  them.  One  never 
met  robust  full-blooded  nieces  putting  up  at  the  flat 
with  "  darling  Aunt  Emmeline  "  for  a  night  or  two ;  she 
showed  you  no  portraits  of  middle-aged  brothers  and 
sisters,  or  snap-shots  of  children  in  embroidered  aprons 
and  sailor  hats,  the  representatives  of  a  budding 
generation;  there  was  not  even  a  ne'er-do-weel  nephew 
in  the  background,  emerging  into  the  foreground  from 
time  to  time  and  extracting  financial  assistance  as  he 
passed  through  London  on  the  way  from  Harrow  to 
Sandliurst  and  from  Sandhurst  to  his  regiment. 

Thus  it  seemed  that  the  attitude  of  uninvolved 
spectator  or  disinterested  critic  of  all  that  matters  in 
life  had  been  irrevocably  forced  upon  her,  and  that,  as 
in  all  such  typical  cases,  she  had  taken  up  feeble  little 
secondary  interests  to  fill  the  vast  blank  spaces  that 
should  have  been  occupied  by  prime  ones.  She  attended 
concerts,  lectures,  classes ;  pla3^ed  bridge  for  mild 
points ;  drank  weak  tea  and  nibbled  dry  biscuits  at 
afternoon  parties.  Sometimes,  abruptly  going  away  by 
herself,  she  was  absent  for  long  periods;  and  one 
imagined  her,  charmingly  and  suitably  dresvsed  as  usual, 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS   PARISH  » 

say  in  the  solitude  of  Dartmoor,  translating  its  purple 
heather  and  golden  skies  into  the  wishy-washy  tints  of 
her  sketch-book ;  or  gathering  a  sprig  of  fern  near  the 
Castle  of  Chillon  in  order  to  place  it  later  between  the 
pages  of  Byron's  poem  —  in  a  word,  one  imagined  her 
travelling  as  old  maids  with  ample  means  have  always 
done,  changing  the  outward  scene  but  never  the  mental 
atmosphere.  Occasionally,  too,  she  shut  herself  in  the 
flat,  for  weeks  at  a  time,  refusing  to  see  anybody ;  and 
then  one  surmised  that  she  was  passing  through  those 
phases  of  nervous  distress  or  semi-hysteria  from  the 
experience  of  which  old  maids  can  scarcely  hope  to 
escape  altogether. 

Naturally  she  offered  a  strong  contrast  to  the  very 
modern  young  lady  of  twenty  sitting  on  one  of  the  sofas, 
playing  with  her  gauntlet  gloves,  and  brimming  over 
with  youthfulness  and  ardent  irrepressible  life. 

Mildred  looked  very  pretty  in  her  scant  frock,  low 
bodice,  and  short  sleeves ;  after  the  manner  of  modern 
girls  seeming,  perhaps,  a  little  commonplace  or  ordinary 
because  so  like  so  many  others  of  her  class  and  years, 
at  once  doll-like  and  self-possessed,  shrewd  and  yet 
innocent.  She  was,  or  at  least  believed  herself  to  be, 
entirely  modern ;  although  at  the  moment  occupied  with 
elemental  things. 

"  Now,"  said  Miss  Verinder,  "  I  am  all  attention," 
and  she  came  from  the  bureau  and  drew  a  chair  to  the 
sofa. 

"  I'm  so  glad  I've  caught  you  alone,"  said  Mildred 
feebly. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Mildred,"  said  Miss  Verinder,  *'  I 
am  purposely  alone,  because,  when  I  received  your  little 
note  saying  you  wished  to  see  me  —  I  don't  know  why  — 


6  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

but  somehow  I  had  the  suspicion  that  there  was  some- 
thing you  wanted  to  tell  me,  or  to  talk  about." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Verinder !  How  kind  —  how  very  kind  !'* 
said  Mildred  in  a  gush  of  gratitude. 

Indeed  this  divination  seemed  to  her  a  most  striking 
proof  of  Miss  Verinder's  power  of  sympathy;  her  own 
instinct  had  been  correct ;  she  was  glad  she  had  come 
here.  She  went  on  impulsively  and  confidently;  telling 
Miss  Verinder  how  she  had  half  mooted  the  subject  of 
her  troubles  to  two  comfortable  matrons,  but  in  each 
case  she  had  felt  rebuffed  and  had  immediately  "  curled 
up,"  feeling  certain  that  neither  would  give  her  any 
help,  but  rather  take  the  side  of  her  family  against  her. 
Then  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  tell  Miss  Verinder 
all  about  it. 

"  I  knew  you'd  help  me  if  you  could,  dear  Miss 
Verinder.  You  have  been  so  nice  to  me  ever  since  we 
first  met  —  and,  I  know  it  sounds  conceited,  but  I  felt 
you  did  really  like  me." 

"  I  do  like  you  very  much,"  said  Miss  "Verinder  simply 
and  affectionately ;  and  she  stretched  out  her  hand  and 
gave  a  little  squeeze  to  one  of  Mildred's  soft  warm  paws. 
Then  she  folded  her  hands  on  her  lap  again. 

"  Thank  you  so  much.  I  think  you're  just  an  angel, 
Miss  Verinder." 

"Why  always  Miss  Verinder.?  Wliy  don't  you  call 
me  Emmeline.P  " 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't,'*  said  Mildred,  flattered  but  over- 
whelmed by  this  surprising  invitation.  "  It  would  seem 
such  awful  cheek." 

"  Am  I  so  venerable  and  forbidding.?  "  asked  Miss 
yerinder,  with  mUd  reproach. 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Mildred  eagerly.    "  No,  I  shall 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  7 

be  delighted,  if  you'll  really  let  me.  I  think  it's 
absolutely  sweet  of  you  —  Emmeline.  Well  now,  Emme- 
line,"  —  and  Mildred  repeated  the  name  firmly,  as  if 
feeling  great  satisfaction  in  using  this  unceremonious 
form  of  address;  —  "The  fact  is,  Emmeline — " 

And  with  a  voluble  flood  she  narrated  how  she  had 
fallen  deeply  and  perhaps  even  foolishly  in  love  with  a 
young  man;  how  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Parker  had  made  a 
monstrous  absurd  fuss  about  it ;  and  how,  because  of  it, 
the  once  comfortable  home  in  Ennismore  Gardens  was 
swept  with  tempest,  wrath,  and  pain. 

"  You  understand,  Emmeline?  I  mean  to  say,  they 
really  are  behaving  like  people  who  have  been  bitten 
by  a  mad  dog.  In  one  way,  I  mean  to  say  —  you  know 
—  it's  all  too  ridiculous  for  words.  The  things  the}^ 
say!  The  things,  don't  you  know,  they  threaten  to 
do.    Well,  I  mean  to  say  — " 

Mildred's  eyes  were  flashing,  she  pulled  her  gloves 
from  hand  to  hand,  and,  prattling  on,  became  so  in- 
volved with  mean-to-says  and  don't-you-knows  that 
she  floundered  suddenly  to  silence. 

"  Emmeline,"  and  she  changed  her  position  on  the 
sofa,  "  I  think  I'd  bettei-  start  at  the  very  beginning." 

"  That  is  always  a  good  place  to  start  at,"  said  Miss 
Verinder,  smiling  sympathetically. 

"  Then  what  I  want  you  to  understand  is  that  I'm 
very  much  in  earnest.  It's  no  silliness  —  or  infatuation, 
as  mother  says  —  or  any  rot  of  that  sort.  It's  the 
real  thing."  As  she  said  this  Mildred's  pretty  common- 
place little  face  became  all  soft  and  tender,  her  lips 
quivered,  and  in  spite  of  her  modernity  she  had  the 
aspect  of  a  quite  small  child  who  will  burst  into  tears 
if  you  speak  harshly  to  it.     "  You  must  understand," 


8  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

and  she  suddenly  turned  her  head  away,  "  I  wasn't 
even  thinking  of  love  —  much  less  hunting  for  it.  It 
came  upon  me  like  a  thunderclap." 

"  Like  a  thunderclap !  "  Miss  Verinder  echoed  the 
words,  and  drew  in  her  breath,  making  the  sound  of  a 
faint  sigh.     "  Go  on,  Mildred  dear." 

"  Well  then,"  and  Mildred  looked  round  again,  with  a 
child-like  air  of  triumph.  "  I  would  have  you  to  know  al- 
so that  the  man  I've  fallen  in  love  with  is  very  famous." 

Miss  Verinder  started  and  looked  at  her  intently. 

"  But  it's  nothing  to  do  with  his  fame  that  has  made 
me  love  him." 

Again  Miss  Verinder  started,  slightly. 

"  Of  course  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  wasn't  in- 
fluenced by  all  that.  You  know  what  I  mean?  Seeing 
his  photographs  in  the  papers !  Hearing  what  other 
girls  said  about  him.  And  I  own  that  I  admired  him 
before  I  knew  him,  but  it  was  for  himself  and  nothing 
else  that  I  fell  in  love  with  him  directl}^  I  did  get  to 
know  him.  The  fact  that  he  was  celebrated  and  a 
favourite  of  the  public  was  nothing  then." 

And,  now  fairly  started,  Mildred  opened  her  heart  as 
she  had  never  done  before.  She  told  Miss  Verinder  all 
she  felt  of  the  torturing  bliss  and  exquisite  pain  that 
honest  straightforward  young  girls  suffer  when  this 
most  potent  of  fevers  catches  them  without  warning, 
like  a  thunderclap.  The  tale  of  Mildred's  frenzied 
longings  and  cravings  and  hopes  and  fears  brought 
faint  old-maidish  blushes  to  the  smooth  ivory  of  Miss 
Verinder's  cheeks.  It  was  as  though  Mildred,  like  a 
small  house  on  fire,  had  lit  up  a  faint  reflection  in  the 
far  distance  of  a  tranquil  evening  sky. 

"  There,"  said  Mildred,  ceasing  to  flash  and  becom- 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  9 

ing  quite  calm.  "  Oh,  Emmeline,  that  has  done  me 
good  —  even  if  you  can't  help  me.  .You  know  what  I 
mean?  Just  to  get  it  off  one's  chest  for  once."  And 
then  she  laughed  in  a  deprecating  manner.  "  But  I'm 
afraid  I'm  shocking  you  most  frightfully." 

"  No,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Verinder,  "  you  are  not 
shocking  me  in  the  least." 

"  You  are  so  kind.  Well  then,  now  you  do  see  I'm 
in  earnest,  and  how  ridiculous  it  is  for  one's  people  — " 

"  Yes.  But  who  is  he,  Mildred.?  You  haven't  told 
me  yet." 

"  Alwyn  Beckett,"  said  Mildred  looking  confident 
and  triumphant. 

But  great  as  was  Miss  Verinder's  sympathy,  she 
could  not  make  her  face  show  any  signs  of  intelligent 
recognition.  She  reminded  Mildred  that  she  lived  very 
much  out  of  the  world.  It  would  naturally  appear 
ignorant  and  stupid,  but  she  felt  forced  again  to  ask  the 
question:  Who  is  he? 

"  The  actor,"  said  Mildred. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Verinder.  **  You  must  not  be 
surprised  if  I  don't  know  him  by  reputation,  because  I 
never  go  to  the  play,  and  am  quite  out  of  touch  with 
theatrical  people  " ;  and  she  paused,  smiling  as  if  in- 
voluntarily amused  by  some  secret  thought.  "  The 
utmost  I  do  in  that  direction  is  occasionally  to  go  to 
one  of  these  cinema  theatres." 

"  Oh,  but  he  is  on  the  films  too,"  said  Mildred 
proudly. 

"  In  what  piece  is  he  acting  at  the  present  time?  " 

"  He  is  understudying  the  two  big  parts  in  Five  Old 
Men  and  a  Dog" 

"Ah,  yes?" 


10  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Then  Mildred  burst  forth  about  her  family.  "  Of 
course  I  know  they  can't  keep  us  apart.  Of  course 
they've  no  right  to  interfere  with  me.  But  it  isn't 
exactly  that.  Good  gracious,  no,  this  is  1920,  not  1820. 
Of  course  they  can  do  what  they're  doing  now  —  I 
mean  to  say,  just  making  hell  for  me  at  home.  It's 
irritating,  but  I  must  put  up  with  it.  Only  I  simply 
can't  stand  their  attitude  to  Alwyn";  and  INIildred 
grew  warm.  "  What  are  they,  I'd  like  to  know  —  to 
look  do^vTi  upon  the  stage !  " 

Miss  Verinder  said  that  the  notion  of  treating  the 
stage  with  contempt  did  certainl}^  sound  rather  old- 
fashioned  nowadays. 

"  Old-fashioned !  I  should  think  so.  Even  if  they 
were  anybody  —  which  they  aren't.  Do  you  know  what 
my  grandfather  was?  No.  Well,  I  don't  myself. 
Father's  been  jolly  careful  to  prevent  us  knowing;  but 
I  know  this  —  he  wasn't  a  gentleman.  I  mean,  he 
hadn't  the  smallest  pretensions  to  being  one.  It  was  up 
in  the  north,  and  I  believe  he  was  just  a  person  in  a 
shop ;  you  know,  not  owning  the  shop,  but  serving  be- 
hind the  counter  —  and  he  married  grannie  for  her 
money.  She  wasn't  anything  either.  The  elderly  ugly 
daughter  of  some  manufacturing  people.  But  by  a 
fluke  of  luck  her  share  in  the  business  somehow 
turned  up  tinimps,  so  that  while  father  was  still  a  boy 
they  were  rich,  and  able  to  send  him  to  Rugby  and 
Cambridge.  Then,  when  grandfather  died,  he  and 
mother  came  to  London,  and  bought  the  house  in 
Ennismore  Gardens."  Saying  this,  Mildred  laughed 
scornfully.  "  Yes,  and  amused  themselves  by  pretend- 
ing that  they've  lived  in  it  for  ten  generations." 

"  They   could  hardly  have  done  that,"   said  Miss 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  11 

Verinder,  smiling ;  "  because  Ennismore  Gardens  have 
not  been  built  long  enough." 

"No,  exactly.  But  you  know  what  I  mean";  and 
Mildred  spoke  with  almost  tragic  force.  "Father's 
just  a  snob,  and  mother's  every  bit  as  bad." 

Miss  Verinder  reproved  her  for  speaking  disrespect- 
fully  of  her  parents. 

"  I  know,  I  know,  Emmeline ;"  and  Mildred  hastened 
to  assure  her  that  till  now  she  had  always  been  fond  of 
her  parents  —  "  poor  dears,"  She  had  been  loyal  too, 
entering  into  their  little  foolishnesses,  never  giving  the 
show  away;  and  she  could  feel  fond  of  them  again,  if 
only  they  would  behave  decently. 

Miss  Verinder  asked,  "Do  they  really  base  their 
objections  to  —  Forgive  me,  dear.  WTiat  is  his  name 
again?  Mr.  Beckett.  Yes,  of  course.  Well,  do  they 
only  base  their  objection  on  the  fact  that  he  is  an 
actor  .f*  " 

A  crimson  wave  of  indignation  flowed  upward  from 
Mildred's  neck  to  her  forehead,  while  she  explained  how 
they  had  the  effrontery  to  say  their  real  objection  was 
—  not  so  much  that  he  was  an  actor,  as  that  he  was  a 
bad  actor. 

"  Who  are  they  to  judge?  "  said  Mildred  hotly;  and 
for  a  space  she  held  forth  concerning  the  young  man's 
brilliant  talent. 

Miss  Verinder  asking  how  matters  stood  at  the 
moment,  Mildred  told  her  that  the  outrageous  Mr. 
Parker  had  simply  forbidden  them  to  meet.  "  But  we 
do  meet  of  course."  And  with  a  few  words  she  con- 
jured up  a  picture  of  their  clandestine  meetings  late  at 
night  in  Ennismore  Gardens  itself  —  he  driving  as  fast 
as  taxi-cab  would  bring  him  from  the  theatre,   she 


12  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

slipping  out  of  the  house  to  wait  for  him,  and  the  two 
of  them  pacing  slowly  through  that  columned  entrance 
by  the  mews  and  along  the  passage  by  the  churchyard, 
in  the  warm  darkness  beneath  the  trees;  peered  at 
curiously  by  soft-footed  policemen ;  encountering,  as  it 
seemed,  all  the  servant-maids  of  the  neighbourhood 
similarly  engaged  with  their  sweethearts.  "  Isn't  it  de- 
grading, Emmeline,  to  be  forced  to  do  such  a  thing?  " 

And  again  she  spoke  of  love  and  its  invincible  claims. 
She  knew,  she  said,  that  her  destiny  was  all  in  her  own 
hands.  If  she  lost  Alwyn,  she  would  have  herself  to 
thank,  and  it  would  be  no  use  to  put  the  blam.e  on  any- 
body else.  It  was  this  thought  that  sometimes  made  her 
feel  desperate  —  and  Alwyn  too.  Her  parents  could 
not  of  course  really  come  between  them.  But  then  there 
is  the  money  question.  What  they  can  do  is  just  to  cut 
her  off  without  a  penny ;  and  really,  seeing  them  behave 
like  such  pigs,  one  could  believe  them  capable  of  doing 
it.  Well,  that  is  not  fair.  That  is  tommy  rot.  Sup- 
pose, after  all,  darling  Alwyn  should  prove,  not  a  bad 
actor,  but  hardly  quite  the  tremendous  one  that  she 
hopes  he  is;  then,  in  that  case,  if  they  had  a  proper 
settlement  —  "  the  usual  thing,"  with  parents  as  well- 
off  as  hers  —  she  could  take  him  off  the  stage.  There 
were  heaps  of  things  she  could  do  with  him.  Or  if  —  as 
is  far  more  probable  —  he  makes  a  colossal  success, 
money  will  be  useful  to  set  him  up  in  management. 
You  must  look  ahead;  although,  when  you  are  madly 
in  love,  it  is  difficult  to  do  so. 

Miss  Verinder,  watching  her  thoughtfully,  inquired  if 
all  ihese  ideas  had  been  prompted  by  Alwyn  himself; 
and  Mildred  said  no,  he  was  a  thousand  miles  above 
such  considerations.    He  cared  for  nothing  but  her. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  18 

"  Emmeline  —  as  I  say,  you're  so  awfully  kind,  and  I 
do  feel  that  I  need  a  word  of  advice  from  some  one  older 
than  myself."  At  this  point  of  the  interview,  it  was 
curious  to  observe  in  Mildred  that  mixture  of  shrewd- 
ness and  innocence  which  makes  the  typical  modern  girl 
seem  at  once  so  shallow  and  so  baffling.  She  still  play- 
fully tormented  the  yellow  gauntlet  gloves ;  her  eyes 
shone  with  childish  candour ;  but  there  was  something  a 
little  hard  and  business-like  about  the  red  lips  that  only 
a  moment  ago  had  been  pouting  petulantly.  *'  My  o^vn 
inclination  is  to  chuck  over  everything  and  do  something 
desperate  —  you  know,  just  to  run  off  with  him.^ 

"  And  marry  him  w^ithout  your  parents'  consent?  " 

"  Or  not  marry  him,"  said  Mildred,  pulling  at  her 
gloves." 

"  Mildred ! "  said  Miss  Verinder,  with  a  little  cry. 
"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Well,  what  I  mean,"  said  Mildred,  "  is  that  if 
they're  so  damned  old-fashioned,  I  don't  see  why  they 
shouldn't  stew  in  their  own  gravy  —  at  least  for  a  bit. 
Don't  you  see?  When  they  find  I'm  gone,  in  that  way, 
if  they're  really  genuine  in  their  feelings,  it  will  be  the 
regular  Mid-Victorian  business.  The  lost  child  —  our 
daughter  gone  to  perdition.  Get  her  married  now  to 
the  scoundrel  that  has  lured  her  away.  Make  her  an 
honest  woman  at  any  price  —  and,  by  Jove,"  said 
Mildred,  with  a  little  ripple  of  innocent  laughter,  "  I'll 
jolly  well  make  them  pay  the  price.  You  know,  no  more 
than  is  right  —  the  usual.  I  don't  mean  blackmailing 
them  or  anything  like  that." 

"  Mildred,"  said  Miss  Verinder,  with  an  unexpectedly 
firm  tone  of  voice,  "  you  and  I  must  talk  very  seriously. 
And  you  must  listen  to  me,  dear,  and  not  be  impatient 
if  what  I  urge  — •     Ah,  yes." 


14  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Interrupted  by  the  opening  of  the  door,  she  checked 
herself. 

It  was  the  faithful  maid  Louisa  —  a  grey-haired 
woman  older  than  Miss  Verinder,  neat  yet  stately  in  her 
black  dress  and  black  silk  apron;  just  such  an  efficient 
long-tried  maid-housekeeper  as  one  would  expect  such 
a  mistress  to  have.  Louisa  was  bringing  them  tea.  At 
sight  of  her  the  white  cat  dropped  heavily  from  its  easy 
chair,  stalked  forward,  and  rubbed  itself  against  Miss 
Verinder 's  ankles ;  while  the  grey  parrot  as  promptly 
awoke,  flapped  its  wings,  and  screamed.  Tea  meant 
something  to  these  two  dependents. 

"  Look  sharp,  Louisa,"  said  the  parrot,  expressing 
the  wish  of  both  in  a  gruff  monotone.  *'  Look  sharp, 
Louisa.    Louisa.    Louisa." 

Louisa,  bringing  a  collapsible  table  from  the  wall, 
smiled  sedately. 

"  He  always  says  that,"  Miss  Verinder  explained. 
*'  It  was  taught  to  him  a  long  time  ago  —  and  with 
great  difficulty.  Only  as  a  joke,"  she  added.  "  For 
Louisa  is  always  up  to  time  —  very  much  on  the  spot, 
as  you  young  people  say." 

Louisa  opened  the  table  in  front  of  her  mistress, 
brought  the  tea  tray  with  kettle  and  tea-pot ;  went  out 
again  and  returned  with  trays  carrying  cakes,  bread 
and  butter,  and  so  forth,  which  she  placed  on  smaller 
tables;  finally  brought  a  silver  tea-caddy,  and  lit  the 
lamp  under  the  kettle. 

"  It  is  just  on  the  boil,  miss." 

"  Thank  you,  Louisa." 

Then  Miss  Verinder  made  the  tea.  Mildred  watched 
her,  fascinated  although  preoccupied ;  it  was  all  so  neat 
and  careful  and  methodic.    "  One  spoonful  for  you  and 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  15 

one  for  me."  After  warming  the  tea-pot  with  a  very 
little  hot  water,  Miss  Verinder  was  using  not  a  spoon 
but  a  queer  little  silver  shovel  to  put  in  the  tea.  "  One 
for  the  pot  —  and  one  for  luck !  Now,  dear,  you  see 
that  bolt  beneath  the  kettle?  Pull  it  out  for  me,  will 
you?  That's  it,"  And  for  a  moment  she  was  almost 
invisible  as  the  steam  rose.  "  Louisa  never  fails 
me.  She  knows  the  proverb  that  '  If  the  water  not 
boiling  be,  filling  the  tea-pot  spoils  the  tea.'  One 
lump  or  two  ?  " 

In  spite  of  emotion,  or  because  of  it,  Mildred  was 
himgry ;  and  she  ate  freely  of  the  thin  bread  and  butter 
and  the  sugar-covered  cake,  till  gradually  these  dain- 
ties seemed  to  turn  to  dust  and  ashes  in  her  mouth  while 
she  listened  to  Miss  Verinder's  advice. 

Miss  Verinder  indeed  displayed  an  astoundingly 
accurate  comprehension  of  her  young  friend's  state  of 
mind;  but  truly  every  word  she  said  might  have  been 
heard  with  cordial  approval  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Parker 
themselves  had  they  been  present. 

Mildred  must  not  be  silly ;  Mildred  must  be  a  sensible 
girl ;  Mildred  must  summon  patience  to  her  aid,  consider 
other  people's  feelings  as  well  as  her  own,  allow  time  to 
work  on  her  behalf. 

Mildred  put  down  her  tea-cup  with  a  nervous  jerk; 
she  was  bitterly  disappointed;  and  yet  what  different 
sort  of  advice  could  she  have  expected  from  the  owner 
of  this  room,  with  its  caged  bird,  its  cat  of  dubious 
gender,  its  chintzes,  water  colour  drawings,  and  em- 
broidered footstool  —  this  room  used  only  by  elderly 
women,  in  which  the  sound  of  a  real  man's  voice  had 
never  once  been  heard?  Clergymen  came  here  no  doubt 
for  subscriptions;  and  faded  old  bachelors,  like  old 


16  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

maids  themselves,  to  gossip  amiably  —  of  books,  china, 
pictures,  or  anything  else  without  any  real  life  in  it. 
Completely  enervated,  Mildred  felt  again  that  sense  of 
fantastic  incongruity  between  the  subject  of  her  late 
discourse  and  its  auditor.  As  well  might  she  have  gone 
to  the  nuns  at  Roehampton  and  told  her  tale  there. 

Moreover,  while  talking.  Miss  Verinder  performed 
certain  little  actions  which,  as  Mildred  guessed,  had 
become  purely  automatic  from  long  habit  —  such  as 
pouring  out  milk  and  tea  in  a  saucer  and  placing  it  on 
the  floor  for  the  cat,  going  across  the  room  and  insert- 
ing morsels  of  the  sugary  cake  between  the  cage  bars 
for  the  parrot.  Nevertheless,  although  thus  to  be  in- 
terpreted, they  added  to  the  girl's  distress. 

Miss  Verinder  went  on  talking  with  earnestness  and 
affection.  She  would  help,  to  the  best  of  her  ability, 
she  would  take  the  first  chance  of  a  chat  with  Mrs. 
Parker.  But  really  and  truly  it  is  all  nonsense  to  speak 
of  kicking  over  the  traces,  outraging  propriety  or  con- 
vention, and  that  sort  of  thing.  Mildred  must  wait. 
At  any  rate,  one  must  not  give  way  to  one's  passions. 

Then  Mildred  blurted  it  out ;  clothed  her  thought  in 
very  plain  words.  "  But,  dear  Miss  Verinder,  perhaps 
you  don't  know  what  the  passions  are." 

"  Why  should  you  assume  that?  "  said  Miss  Verinder 
gently. 

Mildred  apologised  for  a  stupid  phrase  or  explained 
it  away.  Unconsciously  she  had  ceased  to  address  Miss 
Verinder  by  her  christian  name,  and  she  pleaded  with 
great  strength  for  her  own  point  of  view.  It  was  the 
fiery  cry  of  youth.  Whatever  else  you  can  do  when  you 
are  young  —  so  she  said  in  effect  —  there  is  one  thing 
you  cannot  do,  and  that  is,  wait. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  17 

*'  Miss  Verinder,  I  feel  that  I  want  us  to  be  bound 
together  —  now  —  and  forever.  Suppose  we  put  it  off, 
who  can  say  what  would  happen?  Accidents  —  any- 
thing —  He  might  grow  tired  of  waiting  —  or  —  or 
change  his  mind." 

"  Oh,  no,  dear.  If  there  is  any  chance  of  that,  it  is 
all  the  more  reason  for  not  being  in  a  hurry." 

"  Miss  Verinder,  I  believe  you  think  I'm  horrid  about 
it ;  but  on  my  honour  I'm  not.  My  love  for  Alwyn  and 
his  for  me  is  a  nice  love.    Really  and  truly  it  is." 

"  I'm  quite  sure  yours  is." 

"  His  too."  Suddenly  and  unexpectedly  Mildred 
began  to  cry.  She  did  not  gasp  or  sob ;  her  lips 
trembled,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  overflowed,  and  in 
a  moment  her  whole  face  was  wet,  looking  like  the  face 
of  a  child  of  six  who  has  been  caught  in  an  April  shower. 
She  dabbed  it  with  a  totally  inadequate  handkerchief  to 
prevent  the  drops  from  falling  on  her  pretty  frock,  and 
continued  talking.  She  herself  looked  prettier  now  than 
at  any  time  during  the  visit ;  that  touch  of  calculating 
sagacity,  with  all  other  attributes  of  modernness,  had 
gone;  only  the  natural  innocence  and  simplicity  re- 
mained. "  When  we  have  been  together  for  hours  and 
hours  —  alone  together  —  up  the  river  —  anywhere  — 
sometimes  he  hasn't  even  once  kissed  me.  And  at  the 
time  I  haven't  even  noticed  it.  I've  only  thought  of  it 
afterwards,  3''ou  know.  We  have  been  just  perfectly 
happy  being  together  —  not  wanting  anything  else  on 
earth.  Miss  Verinder,  you  see  what  I  mean?  I  only 
tell  you  to  make  you  see  what  our  love  is.  It's  because 
of  it  that  I'm  sure  of  myself  —  yes.  Miss  Verinder,  I 
am  really." 

And  dabbing  her  eyes  with  vigour,  she  emphasised  the 


18  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

argument  that  in  linking  yourself  to  anyone  of  the 
other  sex  you  are  quite  safe  when  you  find  the  desired 
companion  as  well  as  the  lover.  Companionship  with 
Alwyn  was  the  essential  thing  for  which  she  longed. 
It  would  be  too  dreadful  to  lose  it  —  to  risk  losing  it. 
Suppose  she  let  the  chance  slip,  suppose  she  allowed 
Fate  acting  under  the  more  usual  title  of  Accident  to 
rob  her  of  this  felicity,  it  was  probable  that  she  would 
never  meet  an^'body  else  for  whom  she  could  care  in  the 
same  way,  or  even  so  much  as  "  the  snuff  of  a  candle." 
She  would  be  spiritually  alone  for  ever.  Under  such 
conditions  she  felt  that  she  simply  could  not  face  her 
life ;  and,  carried  away  with  emotion  and  momentarily 
forgetful  of  the  personage  she  addressed,  she  sketched 
vividly  the  situation  of  a  middle-aged,  soon-to-be  old 
spinster  —  alone,  with  nothing  to  hope  for. 

"  But  one  always  goes  on  hoping,"  said  Miss  Verinder 
firmly. 

She  said  the  words  indeed  with  such  quiet  strength 
that  Mildred,  startled  and  surprised,  asked  her  what 
she  meant. 

Miss  Verinder  did  not  answer  explicitl3\  She  came 
and  sat  beside  Mildred  on  the  sofa,  put  her  arm  round 
the  girPs  slim  waist,  and  began  to  repeat  or  sum  up  the 
counsel  that  she  had  already  given. 

Mildred  for  a  minute  was  quite  unable  to  listen ;  she 
sat  looking  at  her  wondering.  One  always  goes  on 
hoping!  What  an  extraordinary  queer  thing  to  say. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  Miss  Verinder  still  tried  to 
brighten  the  cold  monotony  of  life  with  sentimental  or 
romantic  dreams  —  did  she  at  her  age  still  cherish  the 
idea  that  a  knight  would  one  day  come  to  smash  the 
prison  bars  of  solitude,  break  the  chains  of  habit,  and 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  19 

lead  her  out  into  freedom  and  light  —  did  she,  poor 
dear  kind  soul,  still  really  hope  there  was  somewhere  on 
this  broad  strange  earth  a  man  stout  enough  and  bold 
enough  to  save  her  from  dying  as  an  old  maid?  These 
questioning  thoughts  touched  little  Mildred's  heart 
with  something  far  removed  from  mirth,  rather  a  pity- 
ing pain.  They  drove  away  her  self-absorbed  emotion ; 
they  steadied  her, 

"  Yes,  Miss  Verinder,  I  am  really  giving  weight  to 
everything  you  say." 

Miss  Verinder  was  gently  yet  firmly  summing  up. 
Mildred  must  promise  not  to  act  rashly.  In  time  —  the 
young  man  proving  patient  and  worthy  —  her  parents 
may  agree  to  an  engagement.  In  time  —  they  shewing 
themselves  obdurate  and  unreasonable  —  one  can  begin 
to  think  of  marriage  without  their  consent.  But  this 
suggestion  of  an  unsanctified  bolt,  an  irregular  union, 
entered  into  for  whatever  aim  or  purpose  —  oh,  no, 
never. 

"  Believe  me,  Mildred  dear,  it  is  only  the  very 
strongest  characters  that  can  brave  public  opinion  — 
and  you  must  remember,  public  opinion  is  represented 
by  your  father  and  mother.  Yes,  I  am  sure  —  to  go 
right  through  with  anything  of  that  kind,  immense  self- 
control,  really  almost  an  iron  nerve  is  required.  That 
is,  if  it  is  to  be  done  successfully. 

"  And,  Mildred,"  said  Miss  Verinder,  with  an  affec- 
tionate pressure  of  the  surrounding  arm,  "  You  mustn't 
think  I  don't  know  what  I  am  talking  about.  I  don't 
want  you  to  dismiss  me  as  antiquated  and  squeamish." 

"  Oh,  no.  Miss  Verinder." 

"  As  you  said,  this  is  1920 ;  and  people  are  always 
saying  how  tremendously  the  world  has  changed ;  but  I 


20  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

often  think  the  changes  are  not  as  big  as  people  pretend 

—  I  think  they  are  most  of  them  on  the  surface,  as  it 
were,  and  not  going  deep.  Of  course,  when  I  was  young, 
girls  had  much  less  freedom.  Oh,  yes,  much  less  —  and 
people  will  tell  you  that  girls  now  can  do  what  they  like, 
and  do  do  it."  Saying  this,  Miss  "Verinder  had  a  demure 
little  smile.  "  So  to  speak,  girls  are  allowed  to  govern 
almost  everything  —  but  then  they  must  never  omit  to 
govern  themselves.  Oh,  no,  Mildred,"  and  she  shook 
her  head.  "  In  that,  public  opinion  is  quite  unchanged. 
I  mean  for  people  of  our  class,  Mildred.  For  those 
above  us  and  below  us  it  may  be  quite  different.  I 
can't  say.    But  you're  not  a  barmaid  or  a  duchess  either 

—  are  you?  " 

"  No,  Miss  "Verinder,"  said  Mildred  meekly. 

"  And  you  have  to  think  of  3^our  Alwyn  and  the  effect 
it  might  produce  on  him.  There  is  the  danger  that  he 
might  fail  you  in  a  way  you  haven't  considered.  No, 
no  —  I  don't  for  a  moment  mean  play  you  false.  Oh, 
no.  But,  perhaps,  it  is  only  the  very  finest  natures  that 
can  —  accept  —  ah  —  this  *  particular  kind  of  sur- 
render or  self-sacrifice  from  a  woman  and  still  hold  her 
quite  as  high  in  their  minds  as  they  did  before  —  ah  — 
the  surrender  occurred. 

"  There,  Mildred  dear.  I  am  going  to  help  you  for 
all  I  am  worth,  and  3'ou  are  going  to  be  wise.  And 
don't  —  I  beg  you  —  forget  this.  I  have  my  reasons 
for  all  I  have  said." 

Mildred,  nipping  through  the  traffic  of  the  Brompton 
Road  with  the  composure  and  agility  of  up-to-date 
girls,  and  then  making  her  way  thoughtfully  past  the 
Oratory  and  into  Ennismore  Gardens,  was  wondering 
what  were  Miss  Verinder's  reasons. 


CHAPTER   II 

MISS  VERINDER'S  reasons  were  as  foUows: 
In  the  year  1895,  when  Queen  Victoria  still 
reigned  upon  the  throne,  when  people  still 
talked  of  the  London  season  and  described  it  as  being 
good  or  bad,  a  brilliant  season  or  a  dull  season,  Emme- 
line  Verinder  was  living  very  comfortably  with  her 
parents  in  one  of  the  largest  houses  of  Prince's  Gate. 
Then,  unexpectedly  and  for  the  first  time,  she  and  love 
bowed,  touched  hands,  and  made  acquaintance.  The 
thing  came  upon  her  like  a  thunder-clap. 

It  began  on  a  June  evening  just  before  midnight ;  and 
Mr.  "Verinder,  her  father,  thinking  afterwards  of  that 
summer  night,  used  to  feel  a  kind  of  warm  prickly  irrita- 
tion, as  though  one  of  Destiny's  invisible  imps  was 
teasing  the  back  of  his  stout  neck  with  stinging  nettles. 
It  might  have  happened  anyhow,  but  he  could  not  banish 
the  annoying  recollection  that  he  himself  had  assisted  in 
getting  it  started.  When  his  wife  placidly  asked 
whether  the  effort  was  worth  while,  it  was  he  who  had 
decided  that,  having  accepted  the  invitation,  they  must 
certainly  go  to  Mrs.  Glutton's  musical  party. 

And  he  had  said  so  not  truly  because  he  desired  to  go, 
but  because  of  vague,  almost  organic  sensations  which 
told  him  that  if  you  are  a  well-preserved  man  of  sixty 
who  is  also  a  personage  of  a  certain  importance,  who 
lives  in  Prince's  Gate,  with  plenty  of  money,  horses, 
carriages,  an  ample  ornate  wife,  one  charming  beauti- 

21 


22  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

fully  dressed  single  daughter,  and  another  daughter, 
married,  but  now  staying  on  a  visit  under  your  roof  — 
when  you  find  yourself  so  situated  and  so  surrounded, 
there  is  something  inadequate  and  unimpressive  if  you 
go  to  bed  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  height  of  the  London 
season. 

They  went,  theij,  the  four  of  them ;  he,  Mrs.  Verinder, 
Emmeline,  and  Margaret  Pratt,  her  married  sister  — 
doAvn  the  newly-named  Exhibition  Road,  round  the 
corner  to  one  of  the  largest  houses  in  the  Cromwell 
Road.  There  would  have  been  space  in  the  closed 
landau  for  Eustace,  the  son  and  brother;  he  could  have 
sat  between  Emmeline  and  Margaret ;  but  he  was  attend- 
ing a  banquet  as  the  guest  of  a  city  compan3^ 

There  had  been  a  dinner-party  at  Mrs.  Glutton's  and 
the  Verinders  with  many  others  were  asked  for  the 
music.  The  concluding  strains  of  Tosti's  Good-Bye 
floated  down  the  staircase  to  meet  them  as  they  entered 
the  inner  hall,  through  which  I\Ir.  Verinder's  ladies 
swept  onward  to  some  library  or  boudoir  at  the  back  of 
the  building,  now  organised  as  a  place  for  depositing 
velvet  coats  and  feathered  wraps.  Mr.  Verinder,  ha%dng 
been  relieved  of  liis  coat  and  opera  hat,  stood  waiting 
for  them  —  large,  grey-headed,  dignified,  and  yet 
urbane,  exchanging  suave  civilities  with  other  pros- 
perous ladies  and  gentlemen,  who  had  arrived  just  be- 
fore him.  It  was  a  typical  evening  party  of  the  period 
—  awning,  drugget,  and  linkmen  outside:  inside,  a  full 
pressure  on  the  electric  light ;  large  palms,  together 
with  masses  of  flowers  brought  in  for  the  occasion; 
extraneous  help  also  in  the  dining-room,  now  set  as  a 
brilliant  supper  scene ;  the  servants  of  the  house  obliter- 
ated, or,  at  least,  standing  back  behind  the  numerous 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  23 

grave  hirelings  in  white  waistcoats,  who,  but  for  their 
solemnity,  might  so  easily  have  been  mistaken  for  some 
of  Mrs.  Glutton's  visitors. 

It  should  be  noted  that  at  this  period  the  neighbour- 
hood still  had  a  distinct  society  of  its  own;  not,  of 
course,  because  the  antiquated  country  custom  of 
calling  on  one  another  merely  as  neighbours  was  prac- 
tised by  its  residents,  but  because  this  modern  spacious 
end  of  the  town,  with  no  traditions  earlier  than  the 
Prince  Consort,  seemed  to  have  been  planned  and  con- 
structed for  a  particular  class  of  which  the  members 
were  likely  to  foregather  —  fairly  rich  prosperous 
people,  eminently  respectable  if  somewhat  colourless 
people;  merchants,  bankers,  judges  of  the  High  Court, 
Queen's  counsel  of  the  Parhamentary  bar,  heads  of 
departments  in  the  civil  service;  here  and  there  a  doctor 
who  had  been  made  a  baronet,  a  successful  recently 
knighted  architect,  a  chartered  accountant  doing  gov- 
ernment work,  and  so  on.  These  and  their  families 
meddled  not  at  all,  in  the  year  1895,  with  fashion  and 
aristocracy ;  punctual  in  the  regulation  attendance  at 
drawing-rooms  and  levees,  but  bringing  no  influence  to 
bear  in  order  to  secure  command  for  state  concerts 
and  balls ;  prompt  with  bouquet  or  curtsey  when  a 
princess  opened  one  of  their  bazaars,  but  never  fawn- 
ing on  the  lady-in-waiting  with  hints  that  it  would  be 
a  pleasure  as  well  as  an  honour  if  her  Royal  Highness 
would  come  to  luncheon  one  day,  at  number  so-and-so 
Prince's  Gardens;  they  felt  and  were  sufficient  for 
themselves.  Untempted  by  the  lure  of  a  vanishing 
Bohemia,  they  did  not  traffic  either  with  artistic  circles ; 
they  bought  pictures  and  read  books  without  desiring 
to  know  the  creators  of  such  amenities;  they  enjoyed 


24  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

the  plaj,  but  thought  a  row  of  footlights  a  very  sensible, 
useful  barrier  between  comedians  of  both  sexes  and  the 
rest  of  the  world. 

Thus  Mr.  Verinder  found  himself  immediately  among 
his  friends,  and  soon  learned  of  something  a  little 
unusual  about  to-night's  assembly.  Anthony  Dyke,  the 
famous  explorer,  was  here.  He  had  dined  here,  and 
was  now  upstairs  listening  to  the  music. 

"  Oh,  that  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Verinder.  "  What  a  fuss 
they're  making  about  him.  You  see  his  name  every- 
where. By  tlie  way,  I  rather  thought  he  was  booked  to 
dine  with  the  Salmon-Curers'  Company  this  evening. 
My  son  went  there,  quite  expecting  to  have  a  peep  at 
liim." 

But  old  Sir  Timothy  Smith,  given  a  knighthood  last 
Christmas  for  designing  the  market-hall  of  a  northern 
city,  assured  Mr.  Verinder  that  the  great  man  had 
dined  with  Mrs.  Clutton  and  no  one  else. 

"  Refresh  my  memory  about  him,"  said  Mr.  Verinder. 
"  I  remember  the  Antarctic  voyages.  But  what's  his 
latest?  " 

"  Well,  nothing  since  that  astounding  performance  in 
the  Andes." 

"  Some  of  that  has  been  questioned,  hasn't  it.'* 
Travellers'  tales,  what !  "  said  ]Mr.  Verinder,  with  a 
large  tolerant  smile.    "  Ah,  there  you  are,  my  dear." 

Mrs.  Verinder,  sailing  forth  splendidly  from  the 
cloak-room,  was  at  liis  elbow. 

"  Dyke,  the  explorer,  is  here,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  so  Sir  Timothy  was  telling  me.  Lead  on,  my 
dear." 

And  Mrs.  Verinder  led  on,  broad  but  splendid  still  in 
the  back-view,  carrying  her  train  with  a  stout  round 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  25 

forearm,  followed  by  the  grand  young  married  lady 
and  the  slim  demurely  graceful  girl,  and  lastly  by  Mr. 
Verinder.  As  they  went  upstairs,  the  music  took  a 
classical  turn  —  a  turn  for  the  worse,  Mr.  Verinder 
considered. 

After  an  ill-timed  stentorian  announcement,  they  were 
received  in  the  midst  of  a  few  hushes,  with  silent  cor- 
diality by  Mrs.  Glutton.  She  was  amiable  and  friendly 
as  ever,  leading  Mrs.  Verinder  to  a  seat  when  the  music 
stopped,  but  a  little  nervous  or  self-conscious  by  reason 
of  the  presence  of  the  lion  of  the  season. 

"  Yes,  the  big  man  leaning  against  the  wall." 

It  would  have  been  impossible  to  make  any  mistake. 
You  could  not  see  him  without  recognising  him  —  since 
his  portrait  had  become  so  familiar  in  the  illustrated 
newspapers,  as  well  as  on  the  cover  of  that  remarkable 
book  of  his.  And  seeing  him  you  could  scarcely  help 
struggling  hard  to  form  a  clear  conception  of  what  the 
man  really  might  be. 

In  size  he  was  very  big,  but  looking  still  bigger  than 
the  true  iron  frame  of  him  because  of  his  loose  garments 
—  and  one  thought  at  once  that  of  course  he  hated  all 
confinements  and  restrictions,  even  those  entailed  by 
well-cut  neatly-fitting  clothes  ;  with  dark  hair,  blue  eyes, 
a  reddish  beard,  and  shoulders  that  seemed  too  heavy; 
of  enormous  energy,  the  fire  or  lust  for  effort  that  seems 
incomprehensibly  to  renew  itself  in  the  grossest  excesses 
of  gratification;  explosive  and  uncontrollable,  as  men 
like  him  must  always  be,  but  with  that  curious  streak  of 
softness,  even  of  sentimentality,  which  goes  sometimes 
with  such  characters.  Just  as  he  looked  bigger  than  his 
size,  he  looked  older  than  his  years ;  but  this  impression 
may  have  been  derived  less  from  the  marks  and  tints  left 


26  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

upon  him  by  tempest  and  strife  than  from  the  known 
record  of  his  achievements.  It  was  difficult  to  believe 
that  he  had  done  so  much  and  3'et  was  only  thirty-seven. 
Above  all  else,  unavoidably  confusing  judgment  and 
driving  one  back  to  intuitions,  there  was  a  glamour  cast 
about  him  by  the  deeply  proved  quality  of  courage  —  a 
glamour,  it  sliould  be  remembered,  very  much  more  rare 
and  therefore  very  much  more  potent  and  alluring  then 
than  now. 

"  Did  you  hear  him  laugh?  " 

Everybody  was  whispering  about  him,  thinking  of 
him,  ostentatiously  taking  no  notice  of  him  —  except 
the  privileged  few  who  from  time  to  time  were  being 
presented  to  him. 

After  twenty  minutes  or  so  Mrs.  Glutton  introduced 
Mr.  Verinder  to  him,  and  they  seemed  to  get  on  well 
together.  Mr.  Verinder,  pleased  to  show  that  he  knew  a 
good  deal  of  geography,  asked  intelligent  questions,  and 
felt  flattered  by  the  adventurer's  eager  expansive 
manner  of  giving  full  details  in  reply.  Though  he  made 
you  feel  small  physically,  he  did  not  make  you  feel 
small  mentally.  He  said  it  was  pleasant  to  be  back  in 
the  old  country,  and  agreed  with  Mr.  Verinder  that  — 
all  said  and  done  —  there  was  no  place  like  London. 
Asked  how  long  he  intended  to  honour  the  metropolis 
with  his  presence,  he  laughed,  and  said  it  depended  on 
circumstances,  but  he  certainly  should  not  stay  more 
than  a  month  or  two.  He  was  "  taking  the  hat  round," 
as  he  explained  with  a  laugh,  tr^'ing  to  raise  funds 
towards  another  Antarctic  expedition.  "  The  fact  is, 
Mr.  Verinder  "  —  and  Mr.  Verinder  was  not  ill-pleased 
to  observe  that  his  name  had  been  picked  up  so  quickly 
and  correctly  —  "  in  my  trade,  capital  is  very  neces- 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  27 

sary.  The  most  successful  ventures  are  those  that  are 
best  fitted  out.  The  more  money  you  have  behind  you, 
the  further  you  go." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Verinder,  laughing  in  his 
turn,  "  that  that  may  be  said  of  all  other  trades,  Mr. 
Dyke,  as  well  as  yours ;  but  I  quite  understand  what 
you  mean.  Equipment.  Equipment.  And  no  doubt 
many  risks  could  be  minimized  by  foresight  and  wise 
outlay." 

Dyke  became  quite  exuberant  at  finding  Mr.  Verinder 
so  intelligent  and  sympathetic;  his  loud  open-air  voice 
could  be  heard  throughout  the  length  of  Mrs.  Glutton's 
double  drawing-room.  He  was  giving  Mr.  Verinder 
more  and  more  details,  with  a  child-like  enthusiasm,  and 
he  would  not  stop  when  the  music  began  again.  No 
one  dared  say  hush  to  him,  but  the  decorum  of  Mr. 
Verinder's  manner  gradually  restrained  him.  In  regard 
to  such  interruptions,  he  pleased  Mr.  Verinder  most  of 
all  by  declaring  that  this  music  was  incomprehensible 
to  him  —  over  his  head ;  and  at  once  concurring  in  Mr. 
Verinder's  opinion  that  a  ballad  concert  at  the  Albert 
Hall  was  the  real  stuff,  and  laughing  most  heartily  when 
Mr.  Verinder  said  that  a  just  finished  arrangement  of 
Bach  for  the  violin  and  piano  might,  in  the  popular 
phrase,  have  been  the  tune  the  old  cow  died  of.  Then, 
their  relations  having  reached  this  very  cordial  stage, 
Anthony  Dyke  said  abruptly  — "  I'm  a  fish  out  of 
water  here.  I  wonder  if  by  chance  you  could  tell  me  the 
name  of  that  girl  over  there." 

"  Which  one?  "  asked  Mr.  Verinder. 

"  That  one,"  said  Dyke,  not  of  course  pointing  with 
his  hand  in  an  uncouth  manner,  but  only  making  slight 
yet  significant  signs  with  his  dark  eyebrows  and  blue 


28  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

eyes,  "  Now  —  the  one  using  her  fan.  I'd  like  to  get 
somebody  to  introduce  me  to  her." 

"  I  can  supply  the  information,  and  gratify  your 
wish,"  said  Mr.  Verinder,  in  a  tone  so  urbane  that  it 
was  robbed  of  any  pompousness.  "  She  is  my 
daughter." 

"  Oh,  reaUy !  "  said  Dyke,  suddenly  staring  at  him 
as  if  he  didn't  believe  it.  Then  he  laughed  once  more, 
but  not  loudly,  shyly.  "  I  hope  it  didn't  sound  odd  my 
saying  that.  From  living  alone  so  much,  I  bang  out 
whatever  comes  into  my  mind.  You  must  look  on  me 
as  the  untutored  savage  and  make  excuses  for  me." 

"  None  are  necessary,"  said  Mr.  Verinder. 

Emmeline,  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  was  engaged 
in  conversation  with  their  friend  Mrs.  Bell,  whose  house 
was  one  of  the  biggest  in  Queen's  Gate.  Her  father 
beckoned  her ;  and  as  she  did  not  observe  the  signal, 
went  across  to  fetch  her,  bringing  her  back  with  him 
and  feeling  proud  of  her  as  something  that  belonged  to 
him  and  did  him  credit.  Indeed,  the  circumstance  that 
in  a  room  full  of  other  well-dressed  women  she  had 
drawn  the  attention  of  this  simple  middle-aged  wan- 
derer, seemed  a  compliment  to  the  whole  family. 

He  thought  that  she  looked  very  nice  as  she  stood 
there  smiling,  after  Mr.  Dyke  shook  hands ;  so  modest 
and  quiet,  so  essentially  ladylike^  so  completely  every- 
thing he  would  have  wished;  her  eyes  shining,  and  a 
little  colour  in  her  usually  rather  pale  cheeks,  brought 
there  from  the  excitement  caused  by  meeting  a  really 
celebrated  person ;  but  with  no  shyness  or  awkwardness 
perceptible  in  voice  or  manner  —  just  a  raising  of  the 
arched  eyebrows  above  the  straight  well-cut  nose  and 
that  frank  smile  about   the  sweetly  gentle  mouth  in 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  29 

order  to  show  courteous  interest  in  everything  that  was 
being  said.  The  cream  satin  dress,  too,  with  the  silver 
and  pearl  ornamentation  straight  across  the  bodice,  the 
shoulder  puffs,  the  long  white  gloves,  and  the  enormous 
fan,  were  aU  exactly  the  right  thing,  all  very  becoming. 
Mr.  Verinder  liked  also,  now  that  he  considered  the 
matter,  this  method  of  arranging  the  dark  hair  —  quite 
low  on  the  forehead  and  ascending  beneath  bands  of 
gold  ribbon  to  a  high  crest,  brushed  up  from  the  back  of 
her  neck,  as  you  saw  when  she  turned  round,  and 
secured  by  a  broad  jewelled  comb.  This,  the  very 
latest  mode,  suited  Emmeline.  She  had  plenty  of  hair. 
Her  father  felt  well  satisfied  with  Emmeline's  appear- 
ance. 

They  all  three  remained  talking  together,  and  Dyke 
would  not  relinquish  the  father  and  daughter  when  his 
hostess  came  and  made  further  introductions.  He  drew 
the  new  people  into  the  talk  or  let  them  slide  altogether, 
but  he  hung  on  to  the  other  two,  moving  with  them  if 
they  moved,  Mr.  Verinder  had  a  good-humoured  grati- 
fied feeling  that  the  lion  had  taken  to  him,  and  natural 
fierceness  had  disappeared  in  impulsive  affection ;  it  was, 
so  to  speak,  a  tame  lion  following  him  about,  ready  to 
eat  out  of  his  hand.  But  lionising,  like  everything  else 
in  a  well-regulated  world,  must  have  its  limits ;  you  can- 
not neglect  your  duties  at  an  evening  party  to  gratify  a 
stranger's  hunger  for  your  society,  however  famous 
that  stranger  may  be.  Mr.  Verinder  wished  to  rejoin 
his  wife,  and,  using  tact,  he  extricated  himself.  Yet  his 
tact  was  not  sufficient  to  extricate  Emmeline  as  well. 

One  saw  them  standing  together  on  the  staircase,  and 
later  they  were  sitting  together  in  a  remote  corner  of 
the  supper-room;  he  still  telling  her  wonderful  things, 


30  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

so  that  one  heard  the  boom  of  his  eager  tones  and  the 
sound  of  her  pretty  girlish  voice  chiming  in  —  a  flute 
helping,  not  interrupting  the  'cello  or  the  bigger  reeds. 
"  Oh,  but  how  exciting  that  must  have  been !  Did  you 
really,  Mr.  Dyke?     What  presence  of  mind." 

When  Mrs.  Verinder  ^vith  Margaret  broke  up  the 
chat  and  said  it  was  time  to  go,  Emmeline  gave  a  little 
start  and  looked  at  her  as  if  for  the  moment  she  did  not 
recognize  her;  then,  as  if  remembering,  she  made  the 
traveller  known  to  her. 

In  the  carriage,  going  up  Exhibition  Road,  Mr. 
"Verinder  praised  liim.  He  said  that  he  was  a  breezy, 
open  hearted,  engaging  creature,  and  he  would  like  to 
ask  him  to  dinner.  Get  a  few  friends  to  meet  him, 
what? 

Mrs.  Verinder  said,  "  He  has  asked  Margaret  and 
Emmeline  to  tea  to-morrow  at  Hurlingham.  They 
could  give  him  a  message." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  Verinder,  "  has  he  asked  you  two 
girls  out  for  a  little  treat?  Well,  that's  very  kind  and 
friendly  of  him." 

At  this  date  the  dinner-party  was  still  an  unshaken 
British  institution,  a  stately  serious  affair  in  any  cir- 
cumstances, like  matrimony,  not  to  be  entered  into 
lightly,  and  when  conducted  on  the  grand  scale  habitual 
to  Prince's  Gate,  all  preliminaries  needed  thoughtful 
care.  For  the  minute  of  time  before  the  horses  pulled 
up,  jMr.  and  Mrs.  Verinder  were  both  turning  things 
over  in  their  minds. 

To  all  of  them,  as  they  entered  the  hall,  there  came 
that  vague  and  usually  unanalysed  sensation  which 
most  people  experience  on  returning  home  from  a  party ; 
it  is  a  faint  shock  of  surprise  caused  by  the  silence  and 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  31 

tranquillity  after  the  noise  and  commotion;  as  if,  be- 
cause you  have  been  hearing  music,  chattering,  drinking 
wine,  getting  warm  in  a  crowd,  you  expect  your  house 
to  show  that  it  has  also  passed  through  slight  agitation 
and  excitement.  For  a  moment  you  are  consciously  or 
unconsciously  displeased  that  it  should  have  been  quite 
unconcerned  in  anything  that  concerned  you  so  much; 
then  the  solidness  of  the  fact  seems  to  steady  your 
nei'ves  and  bring  you  comfort.     Home  again! 

In  the  wisely  restricted  lamp-light  turned  on  for  them 
by  the  butler,  one  saw  pallid  marble  nymphs  and  gods 
with  black  caves  of  shadow  behind  them,  the  squat 
richly  carved  legs  of  heavy  tables  whose  further  ends 
were  lost  in  gloom,  the  gilt  balustrade  of  the  stair- 
case glittering,  and  the  stairs  themselves  rising  sharply 
and  as  sharply  turning  till  they  grew  dim  and  faded  out 
on  a  level  with  the  first  floor.  Above  that  all  was  dark, 
and  one  had  an  impression  of  the  house  stretching 
upward  in  the  darkness  to  a  fantastic  height.  The 
butler  moving  ahead  gave  them  of  a  sudden  a  doorway 
of  yellow  flames,  so  dazzling  did  it  seem  as  he  switched 
and  switched,  flooding  a  large  inner  room  with  vivid 
light.    They  went  in  after  him. 

This  room  had  never  been  properly  named;  it  was 
spoken  of  indiff*erently  as  the  boudoir,  the  morning- 
room,  and  mother's  room  —  although  Mrs.  Verinder 
herself  did  not  put  forward  any  claim  to  proprietorial 
rights.  Probably  her  title  to  it  merely  rested  upon  the 
circumstance  that  the  portrait  of  her  by  Millais  had 
been  hung  above  its  marble  chimney-piece.  Like  every 
other  room  in  the  house,  it  displayed  evidences  of 
moderate  wealth,  painstaking  care,  and  a  docile  ad- 
hesion to  the  prevailing  standards  of  good  taste.    The 


32  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

walls  were  cream-coloured,  with  panels  of  red  satin — • 
two  large  patches  of  the  satin  being  hidden  by  the 
Millais  picture  and  another  picture  of  similar  size  but 
strangely  different  subject  by  Leighton.  There  were 
more  of  those  massive  heavily  carved  tables,  some  big 
chairs  with  golden  legs  and  tapestry  backs,  and  here 
and  there  on  the  parquetry  floor  had  been  placed  firmly 
secured  mounds  of  velvet  and  brocade  cushions,  forming 
the  easy  backless  seats  then  known  as  "  poufs."  These 
poufs  had  been  chosen  by  Mrs.  Verinder,  and,  sinking 
voluminously  upon  one  of  them,  she  gave  a  sigh  of 
fatigue,  and  stared  at  Millais'  notion  of  her  as  she  was 
once.  A  smaller  pouf  would  have  fitted  her  in  that 
first  year  of  her  married  life. 

Margaret,  fairer,  shorter,  plumper,  altogether  more 
bustling  than  her  sister,  went  to  one  of  the  tables,  where 
a  silver  tray  with  cut-glass  bottles  and  tumblers  waited 
for  them,  and  poured  out  soda-water.  Mr.  Verinder  at 
another  table  busied  himself  with  the  bed-rock  detail  of 
his  dinner-party,  consulting  a  gold-framed  calendar 
and  jotting  down  names  on  an  ivory  tablet.  "  The 
Gluttons,"  he  murmured,  "  and  old  Sir  Timothy  —  and 
the  Everard-Browns." 

"  Don't  forget  some  young  men  for  Emmeline,"  said 
Mrs.  Pratt  gaily. 

"  I  never  do,"  said  Mr.  Verinder.  And  that  was  true. 
Before  his  time  in  that  respect,  he  liked  to  see  a  few 
fresh  young  faces  even  at  his  most  ceremonious  feasts ; 
moreover,  as  the  father  of  daughters,  he  knew  that  one 
must  not  think  only  of  oneself.  It  was  at  a  big  dinner 
that  Lionel  Pratt  first  betrayed  his  inclination  towards 
Margaret.  "  I  am  thinking  now  more  of  the  day  than 
the  company,"  he  continued ;  and  he  ran  his  pencil  down 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  33 

the  calendar.  "  Seventeen  days  will  bring  us  to  the 
twelfth,  and  that's  a  Thursday.  At  this  time  of  year 
you  can't  expect  people  to  be  free  unless  you  give  them 
adequate  notice." 

"  Emmeline,"  said  Mrs.  Verinder,  yawning,  "  would 
you  like  young  What's-his-name  —  that  friend  of  Mrs. 
Pry ce- Jones  —  Gerald  Something  —  to  be  asked  .^  " 

Emmeline  did  not  answer.  She  was  standing  at  the 
corner  of  the  chimney-piece,  one  arm  stretched  along 
the  marble,  her  cloak  thrown  open.  Her  eyes  seemed 
queerly  large  and  black,  her  cheeks  white,  her  breathing 
wearily  rapid ;  so  that  she  had  the  aspect  worn  by  her 
when,  in  the  maternal  phrase,  she  had  been  "  overdoing 
it  "  —  playing  too  many  sets  at  lawn  tennis,  riding  too 
long  in  the  Row,  going  to  too  many  theatres  in  the 
same  week. 

"  There's  no  occasion  for  you  to  stay  up,"  said  Mrs. 
Verinder,  observing  this  look  on  her  daughter's  face. 
"  You  go  to  bed,  dear  " ;  and  she  added  the  farewell 
words  that  she  had  first  begun  to  utter  when  Emmeline 
was  a  child  of  fourteen.    "  Don't  read  in  bed." 

"  No,  I  don't  want  to  read  to-night,"  said  Emmeline, 
going  out  of  the  room. 

No,  she  did  not  want  to  read:  she  wanted  to  think. 


CHAPTER   III 

ON  the  morning  after  the  day  on  which  the  two 
girls  watched  the  polo  and  drank  tea  with  Mr. 
Dyke,  Margaret  went  back  to  her  kind  hus- 
band and  two  sweet  little  children  at  Hindhead,  where 
they  lived  in  a  red-brick  catastrophe  of  the  largest  size 
that  Pratt  had  brought  about  among  the  beeches  and 
pines  only  a  few  years  previously.  On  the  afternoon  of 
that  day  Mr.  Dyke  called  in  Prince's  Gate  for  the 
purpose  of  offering  thanks  by  word  of  mouth  for  the 
invitation  which  he  had  already  accepted  with  pen  and 
ink.  Mrs.  Verinder  said  that  he  was  amiable  but  un- 
tidy, and  a  sticker.    She  thought  he  would  never  go. 

At  dinner  a  night  later  —  when  only  Eustace  had 
been  claimed  by  society  and  the  other  three  remained 
at  home  —  Mr.  Verinder  talked  again  of  Anthony  Dyke. 

It  appeared,  said  Mr.  Verinder,  that  Dyke  began  his 
career  as  a  hunter  of  big  game  in  Africa,  where,  to- 
gether with  his  companion,  the  eccentric  Duke  of 
Ravenna,  he  had  been  badly  mauled  by  lions. 

"  The  other  night,  while  we  were  talking,  I  noticed 
some  disfiguring  marks  on  both  cheekbones,  and  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  they  were  the  signs  of  the 
clawing  to  which  I  allude.  Whatever  they  were,  he  will 
carry  them  to  his  grave."  And  Mr.  Verinder  went  on 
to  say  that  Dyke's  next  scene  of  operations  was  Aus- 
tralia, where  he  had  penetrated  the  unknown  desert 
country  in  all  directions. 

34 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  35 

Then  he  told  them  some  more.  He  did  not,  of  course, 
know  that  one  of  his  hearers  could  have  told  it  to  him, 
had  she  been  willing  to  display  her  knowledge. 

The  fact  was  that  Mr.  Verinder,  desirous  of  being 
well  posted  by  the  twelfth  of  next  month,  when  the  man 
would  be  here  as  his  guest  for  dinner,  had  searched 
tables  and  shelves  at  the  Reform  Club  in  order  to  put 
things  together.  That  most  useful  of  all  volumes,  Who^s 
Who,  did  not  as  yet  exist,  but  a  sort  of  popular  dic- 
tionary of  biography  gave  Mr.  Verinder  all  that  he 
wanted,  and  very  much  in  the  modern  style.  In  this 
compendium  he  gleaned  such-  essential  details  as: 
"  Emerged  at  Shark  Bay  on  the  northern  coast,  sole 
survivor  of  the  party ;  Thanked  by  the  Government  of 
Queensland,  1885;  Thanked  by  Governments  of  South 
Australia  and  New  South  Wales,  gold  medal  of  Royal 
Geographical  Society,  1886;  First  Antarctic  cruise, 
resulting  in  discovery  of  the  island  since  named  Anthony 
Dyke  Land,  and  charting  of  coast-line  for  five  hundred 
miles,  1888;  Establishing  Furthest  South  record"  — 
and  so  on. 

Also  Mr.  Verinder  had  been  to  Mudie's  Library  and 
borrowed  that  book,  A  Walk  in  the  Andes.  He  read 
it  after  dinner. 

They  sat  upstairs  in  what  they  called  the  music-room 
—  the  room  that  comprised  the  full  width  of  the  house, 
the  largest  and  best  room,  with  the  pictures  by  Long, 
Poynter,  and  Alma  Tadema.  The  Leaders  were  in  the 
room  behind;  you  reached  it  through  those  folding 
doors,  now  of  course  closed.  Naturally  all  the  light 
was  not  turned  on,  but  there  was  full  and  sufficient 
radiance  throughout  the  little  camp  that  the  diminished 
family  formed  on  the  stretching  desert  of  parquetry. 


36  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Mrs.  Verinder,  wearing  mauve  brocade,  occupied  a 
sofa  and  dozed  over  the  newspaper;  Mr.  Verinder  had 
taken  the  very  easiest  chair  and  settled  himself  in  it 
with  many  changes  of  position,  as  if  determined  to 
perform  the  impossible  task  of  making  it  still  easier; 
Emmeline  sat  upon  a  lowish  stool,  her  pretty  hai> 
darkly  lustrous  in  the  soft  orange  glow  of  the  lamp? 
as  she  bent  her  head  over  a  piece  of  embroidery  and 
made  minute  stitches  slowly  and  very  neatly.  From 
time  to  time  she  raised  her  eyes  to  glance  at  the  book 
in  her  father's  hands,  noticing  how  old  and  shabby  it 
looked  with  the  edge  of  the  cloth  binding  broken  and 
the  librarian's  ugly  label  loose  at  one  corner.  She  had 
a  lovely  clean  new  copy  upstairs  in  her  room  —  with 
the  portrait-cover  intact,  and  her  own  name  and  th€ 
author's  compliments  written  in  a  slap-dash  hand  on 
the  title-page. 

"  They  told  me  at  the  club,"  said  Mr.  Verinder,  half 
closing  his  book,  "  that  there's  a  strong  touch  of  Baron 
Munchausen  about  this." 

"  Did  you  speak?  "  said  Mrs.  Verinder,  raising  her- 
self and  stooping  to  pick  up  the  newspaper. 

Mr.  Verinder  repeated  his  words. 

"  Munchausen,"  murmured  Mrs.  Verinder  drowsily. 

He  went  on  reading  and  Emmeline  watched  him  wliile 
he  read. 

As  she  knew  or  had  learned  involuntarily,  it  was  not 
great  literature,  a  modest  affair  compared  with  the 
works  of  Thackeray,  Carlyle,  or  Ruskin  —  but  why 
bother  about  style  when  you  have  such  a  tale  to  tell.'' 
The  matter  not  the  manner  grips.  Was  it  gripping 
father?  He  had  assumed  a  dogged,  almost  aggressive 
air,  he  frowned;  but  this  did  not  really  indicate  that 


SPINSTER   OF    THIS    PARISH  37 

he  was  quarrelling  with  the  book,  it  only  meant  that  as 
he  was  very  little  used  to  book-reading  as  a  pastime, 
he  felt  that  a  superior  concentration  of  the  intellect 
was  necessary. 

Watching  him,  she  had  again  that  odd  sense  of 
strangeness ;  as  though  he  had  not  been  really  her 
father,  but  somebody  that  she  scarcely  knew  and  did 
not  in  the  least  care  for.  How  strange!  Certainly 
she  had  never  seen  him  or  understood  him  as  now, 
suddenly,  unexpectedly. 

She  observed  his  bushy  yet  straggling  grey  eyebrows, 
his  inch  of  close-cropt  whisker,  his  bald  head  with 
long  strands  of  hair  idiotically  plastered  across  it  from 
the  fat  neck,  his  leathery  complexion,  the  creases  and 
furrows  of  his  chin  and  cheeks.  He  was  well  dressed, 
in  a  suitable  manner  —  but  suitable  to  what?  The  well- 
starched  shirt,  the  black  satin  tie,  the  glossy  dinner 
jacket  gave  him  no  true  dignity,  concealed  not  one  of 
his  defects.  He  was  a  ruin,  a  man  run  to  seed;  large 
without  being  strong,  too  stout  about  the  middle,  too 
slack  about  the  knees,  no  steel  and  whipcord  anyivhere 
about  this  sprawling  unimpressive  bulk.  No  force  of 
any  sort  behind  that  stupid  frown !  But  he  was  kindly 
by  nature,  well-intentioned,  thoroughly  good  according 
to  his  lights;  only  stupid  — stupid,  stupid  as  the  Albert 
Hall  is  round,  as  Exhibition  Road  is  wide,  as  Queen's 
Gate  straight  and  Kensington  Gore  flat. 

Then  she  thought  how  cruel  it  was  that  she  should 
thus  judge  him  instead  of  pitying  him  —  she,  with  this 
immense  gladness  in  her  heart. 

She  glanced  at  her  mother,  from  whose  relaxed  grasp 
the  newspaper  was  again  slipping,  and  a  yearning  com- 
passion for  both  parents  came  in  response  to  the  call. 
Poor  dears. 


38  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

The  book  had  gripped  father ;  he  read  on  resolutely, 
but  as  yet  of  course  he  was  only  at  the  beginning,  still 
in  Patagonia.  Stitching  very  slowly  she  thought  about 
it.  It  was  so  simple,  yet  so  wonderful,  so  very 
wonderful. 

He  had  been  "  messing  about  "  among  the  gold- 
diggings  of  Cape  Horn.  "  The  Gold-diggings  of  Cape 
Horn  "  —  inaudibly  she  re-articulated  the  words  to  her- 
self, just  to  feel  them  again  on  her  vocal  cords.  Like 
all  other  words  that  concerned  him,  they  had  magic  in 
them.  For  instance,  Tierra  del  Fuego  —  the  Land  of 
Fire  —  Tierra  del  Fuego.  And  beyond  all  else,  the 
Andes.  The  Andes  —  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  very 
first  time  she  heard  that  word  when  she  was  a  child, 
she  should  have  thrilled  through  and  through.  The 
word  should  have  taken  possession  of  her  by  reason  of 
its  mystery  and  might. 

Well  then,  he  was  moving  northward  among  those 
islands,  trying  his  luck  at  the  gold-digging,  and  doing 
no  good.  "  I  don't  think  I  am  a  lucky  man.  Miss 
Verinder.  No,  I  have  never  been  very  lucky.  How  I 
go  on  warning  you  against  myself,  don't  I?  But,  just 
as  I  have  been  frank  to  you  about  important  matters,  I 
won't  deceive  you  about  small  ones.  Never  mind. 
Hang  it,  the  luck  turns.  I  shall  get  my  luck  one  day." 
Well  then  —  while  her  father  read  the  book  she  talked 
to  herself  about  it :  Since  he  was  at  a  loose  end,  no  big 
thing  on  hand,  the  idea  had  come  to  him  to  land  on  the 
mainland,  and  go  along  the  gigantic  spine  of  the  Andes 
in  its  entire  length  from  south  to  north,  say  four 
thousand  miles.  And  he  had  achieved  his  purpose, 
alone  and  on  foot  —  seeing  marvellous  things,  doing 
marvellous  things  all  the  way. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  39 

She  thought  of  the  lure  that  danger  exercises  over 
the  bravest  hearts.  It  is  the  same  to-day  as  it  was 
hundreds  of  years  ago.  It  was  that  —  the  lure  — 
which  drew  the  brave  hearts  over  the  bars  of  Devon 
rivers  in  Elizabeth's  time ;  out,  out  to  the  Spanish  main. 
Not  the  glitter  of  the  gold,  but  the  danger  behind  the 
flash  and  glow  —  the  danger.     She  quite  understood. 

The  newspaper  had  fallen  with  a  gentle  rustle  upon 
the  parquetry.  Mrs.  Verinder  leaned  further  back, 
opened  her  mouth,  and,  after  it  had  been  open  for  a 
little  while,  made  the  faint  sound  of  a  snore.  The 
snoring  of  Mrs  Verinder  was  like  a  terrible  family 
secret,  never  to  be  spoken  of  or  even  hinted  at  in  any 
manner  to  anybody  —  least  of  all,  to  Mrs.  Verinder 
herself.  This  evening,  however,  it  did  not  distressfully 
afflict  either  her  husband  or  her  daughter. 

Emmeline  ceased  to  stitch,  folded  her  hands  on  her 
lap  with  a  gesture  that  had  become  habitual  to  her  even 
at  this  distant  date,  and  her  eyes  gi'ew  soft  and  dreamy. 
Large  as  the  room  was,  it  was  too  small  for  her;  with 
a  few  dreamlike  thoughts  she  broke  the  westward  wall 
of  it,  swept  it  clean  away  —  the  five  windows,  the  rich 
curtains,  the  gilded,  moulded  panels,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it  —  and  passed  out  through  the  gap,  merely  leaving 
behind  the  graceful  external  shape  of  herself  to  keep 
her  parents  company  and  answer  questions,  if  neces- 
sary, during  her  absence.  She  went  a  long  way ;  west- 
ward, half  across  the  world.  Then  she  came  back  again, 
and  was  once  more  in  the  neighbourhood,  although 
not  yet  in  the  house  itself.  She  was  walking  under  the 
trees,  not  far  from  sunlit  water,  listening  to  a  voice. 

The  entrance  of  butler  and  footmen  with  the  silver 
tray  and  the  cut  glass  brought  her  right  home,  and  she 
resumed  her  stitching. 


40  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Quite  late  the  book  wrung  a  chuckle  and  an  expostu- 
lation from  Mr.  Verinder.  "  Oh,  I  say.  Really  — 
upon  my  word  " ;  and  he  stood  up.  "  If  Dyke  actually 
means  what  I  think !  And  I  don't  see  what  else  he  can 
mean.    Listen  to  this.    I  want  to  read  it  to  you." 

Mrs.  Verinder,  in  the  absurd  sprightly  tone  of  a 
person  whom  sleep  has  intoxicated,  begged  him  to  give 
them  the  passage ;  and  Mr.  Verinder,  standing  close  to 
a  tall  standard  lamp,  with  all  available  light  on  the 
page,  read  it,  after  first  explaining  the  context. 

Dyke,  he  said,  had  accepted  a  night's  hospitality 
from  three  savages,  who  at  first  appeared  friendly,  but 
soon  aroused  his  suspicion.  Acting  a  naive  admiration 
of  the  weapon,  they  had  withdrawn  his  rifle  before  he 
lay  down  to  sleep ;  and  now  the  three  of  tJiem  sat  at  the 
fire  with  their  heads  close  together,  planning  mischief, 
as  he  surmised.  At  their  feet  was  a  great  stone  axe, 
and  not  far  from  him  a  horse-hair  lasso.  "  Dyke  says 
that  while  still  pretending  to  sleep,  he  moved  inch  by 
inch  towards  the  lasso,  till  he  got  it  and  opened  the 
noose.  Ah,  here  we  are.  Now  listen."  And  Mr, 
Verinder  read  slowly,  amazedly,  fearfully.  "  '  By  good 
fortune  I  noosed  them  all  three,  so  that  their  greased 
and  painted  faces  crashed  together  with  a  nasty  bang. 
Borrowing  the  stone  axe,  I  used  it  freely.  Then  I  lay 
down  and  slept  comfortably,  feeling  confident  that  my 
late  hosts  would  never  plot  against  a  visitor  again.' 
He  means  —  doesn't  he?  —  that  he  killed  them.  He 
says  his  late  hosts.  What!  He  can't  mean  anything 
else?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Verinder,  successfully  shaking  off 
the  dregs  of  torpor ;  "  that's  what  he  means,  of  course." 

Mr.  Verinder  chuckled  feebly.  "  But,  upon  my  wordo 
If  you  think  of  it,  wasn't  it  — " 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  41 

"  It  was  in  self-defence,"  said  Mrs.  Verinder 
tolerantly. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  was.    But  doesn't  it  show  — " 

Of  a  truth  he  scarcely  knew  what  it  showed.  Unless 
the  obvious  fact  that  there  are  wide  expanses  of  land 
and  water  on  this  big  planet  where  life  does  not  run  as 
smoothly  as  it  does  in  Prince's  Gate;  that  when  once 
you  go  outside  the  boundaries  of  civilization,  when  once 
you  begin  to  disregard  the  rules  that  bind  society 
together  —  He  stood  there  in  the  strong  lamp-light, 
with  the  reluctant  confused  facial  expression  of  a  com- 
fort-loving, peaceable,  sheltered  person  who  is  con- 
fronted with  ferocity  —  legitimate  ferocity,  perhaps ; 
as  when,  standing  in  an  hotel  balcony  during  a  riot, 
one  sees  limbs  broken  by  a  baton  charge  of  mounted 
police.  However  much  one  dislikes  it,  one  cannot  hinder 
or  interfere.  One  can  do  nothing — except  to  make 
light  of  the  incident  afterwards,  and,  so  to  speak, 
laugh  it  off. 

Mr.  Verinder  laughed  and  closed  the  book.  "  That's 
enough  for  to-night,"  he  said,  putting  the  book  down, 
and  feeling  the  back  of  his  neck. 

After  this  the  name  of  Anthony  Dyke  faded  out  of 
the  family  conversation,  and  for  a  few  days  at  least 
was  mentioned  no  more.  Then  Miss  Marchant 
came  and  made  a  communication  to  Mrs.  Verinder, 
saying  that  she  had  been  sent  to  do  it  by  Mrs.  Pryce- 
Jones. 

Mrs.  Jones  lived  in  the  large  stone  house  at  the 
western  end  of  Kensington  Gore,  and  Miss  Marchanl 
lived  with  her  as  a  kind  of  lady  companion,  assisting 
her  with  household  management. 

Mrs.  Jones  thought  that  Mrs.  Verinder  ought  to  be 


42  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

told  that  Miss  Marchant,  happening  to  be  in  Kensing* 
ton  Gardens  not  long  before  dinner  time,  had  seen  Miss 
Verinder  walking  alone  with  a  man  there.  They  were 
quite  alone,  without  the  shadow  of  a  chaperon.  Just 
together  —  like  that.  Thej  never  saw  Miss  Marchant, 
who  had  observed  them  until  obliged  herself  to  leave  the 
gardens.  As  Mrs.  Verinder  knew,  they  dined  rather 
early  at  the  stone  house.  As  Mrs.  Verinder  knew  also, 
Mrs.  Jones  was  very  fond  of  Miss  Emmeline,  and  she 
felt  it  only  right  to  send  Miss  Marchant ;  bearing  in 
mind  that  the  very  nicest  girls  do  need  a  little  looking 
after. 

Mrs.  Verinder  did  not  at  all  relish  this  turn  of  phrase, 
and  she  allowed  Miss  Marchant  to  perceive  her  distaste 
for  it;  but  Miss  Marchant,  continuing  the  narrative 
after  an  apology,  threw  Mrs.  Verinder  into  a  state  of 
flabby  perturbation  which  she  could  ill  conceal,  by  say- 
ing that  the  impression  made  by  Miss  Emmeline's  male 
companion  had  been  so  very  unfavourable.  He  had 
seemed  altogether  a  most  undesirable  person  —  objec- 
tionable even.  One  did  read  such  dreadful  things  in 
the  newspapers  nowadays  —  about  slight  indiscretions 
of  young  ladies  leading  to  painful  entanglements.  In- 
deed, as  she  confessed,  she  had  been  haunted  by  the 
idea  of  blackmailers  —  the  sort  of  ruffians  who  possess 
themselves  of  a  perhaps  quite  innocent  secret,  then 
distort  it  and  make  you  pay  them  to  hide  it.  In  these 
circumstances  Mrs.  Pryce-Jones  and  Miss  Marchant 
had  both  felt  that  it  would  be  really  wicked  not  to 
speak  about  it  to  Mrs.  Verinder. 

"  Do  you  imply,"  asked  Mrs.  Verinder  breathlessly, 
"  that  it  was  a  common  ragged  sort  of  person?  " 

Oh,   no.      The  person   was    adequately,   if   queerly 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  43 

dressed ;  a  great  big  tall  man,  wearing  a  grey  suit  and  a 
slouch  hat.  It  was  rather  his  commanding  air,  the 
way  he  brandished  his  arms,  and  so  on,  that  had  dis- 
pleased and  frightened  Miss  Marchant. 

Then  —  what  was  exceedingly  rare  with  her  —  Mrs. 
Verinder  had  an  inspiration,  or  an  intuition. 

"  A  bearded  man?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  A  man  with  a  red  beard,  and  rather  liigh  cheek- 
bones —  a  great  big  man?  " 

"  Yes,  yes." 

It  was  that  Dyke  —  the  explorer.  Although  no 
worse,  Mrs.  Verinder  was,  of  course,  very  much  upset 
by  it;  but  she  displayed  a  satisfaction  that  she  was 
very  far  from  feeling. 

"  Oh,  really !  "  she  said,  tittering  effectively.  "  You 
may  be  quite  at  ease.  Miss  Marchant.  It  is  quite  all 
right,  thank  you.  He  is  a  valued  friend  of  the  family. 
No  more  a  friend  of  Emmeline's  than  the  rest  of  us. 
But  I  don't  think  I  shall  tell  you  his  name,"  she  added, 
acting  playful  reproachfulness.  "  I  don't  think  you 
deserve  it  —  No,  I  am  not  in  the  least  offended.  I'll 
at  least  tell  you  this  — "  and  for  a  moment  hesitating 
whether  to  cloak  herself  with  cold  dignity  or  put  on  a 
mask  of  cordialness,  she  chose  the  smiles  — "  he  is 
dining  with  us  on  the  twelfth,  and  although  unfortu- 
nately, our  table  is  made  up,  so  that  I  cannot  ask  you 
to  meet  him  at  dinner,  I  shall  be  very  glad  indeed  if 
you  and  Mrs.  Jones  will  look  in  afterwards.  That  is, 
if  you  have  nothing  better  to  do." 

Miss  Marchant  withdrew,  puzzled  and  crestfallen. 

Immediately  Mrs.  Verinder  despatched  a  message 
upstairs  requesting  Miss  Emmeline  to  come  down  to 


44  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

the  morning-room.  She  had  determined  to  talk  to  her 
daughter  without  delay,  but  quite  lightly,  with  a  simula- 
tion of  unconcern.  It  is  always  wisest  with  young 
people  not  to  show  them  that  you  have  been  fluttered 
by  any  act  of  theirs. 

Afternoon  tea  was  done,  and  trays  of  cut  flowers,  the 
contents  of  a  hamper  sent  by  Margaret  from  Hindhead, 
had  been  brought  into  the  room  for  Mrs.  Verinder  to 
arrange  in  glass  vases  and  dishes.  It  was  a  little  task 
that  she  liked  to  do  herself  —  perhaps  because  she  did 
it  with  so  extraordinary'  a  clumsiness  and  ineptitude. 
She  seized  upon  these  flowers  now  —  lovely  long-stalked 
roses,  pink  and  red  —  feeling  that  they  would  aid  her 
and  keep  her  in  countenance;  and  as  she  moved  about, 
dabbing  the  delicious  blooms  into  obviously  improper 
receptacles,  breaking  a  stalk  here  or  there,  and  slopping 
a  little  water  on  the  choice  furniture,  she  looked  like  a 
large  over-blown  actress  playing  a  part  in  a  highly 
artificial  comedy. 

"  Ah,  Emmeline,  is  that  you?  "  she  cried,  with  a  tone 
so  jarringly  spurious  that  Emmeline  stopped  short  on 
the  threshold  and  understood  at  once  that  the  trouble 
was  beginning. 

"  Shut  the  door,  dear.  What  was  I  going  to  say?  " 
And  Mrs.  Verinder  caused  a  slop-over  and  a  shower  of 
petals  with  the  same  brisk  movement  of  her  dimpled 
hand.  "  Oh,  yes.  I  could  not  tell  you  why,  but  our 
friend  Mr.  Anthony  Dyke  came  into  my  mind  just  now; 
and  thinking  about  him,  I  thought  I'd  give  you  a  little 
hint." 

"Yes,  mother?" 

**  To  begin  with,  we  scarcely  know  him." 

**  We  have  not  known  him  very  long,"  said  Emme- 
line, gently. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  45 

"  I  say,  we  don't  really  know  him  at  all  " ;  and  Mrs. 
Verinder  gave  a  harshly  nervous  laugh  as  she  mutilated 
some  maidenhair  fern.  "  I  mean,  nothing  about  him  — 
who  he  is,  or  what  he  is,  himself,  outside  his  notoriety. 
Then  the  point  is  this.  Because  —  I  don't  say  so,  but 
I  thought  it  might  be  —  because  he  may  have  interested 
you  as  rather  striking,  a  bizarre  figure,  and  so  forth  — " 
Watching  Emmeline's  face,  she  rapidly  abandoned  a 
difficult  role  and  became  more  like  herself.  "  I  don't 
want  you  to  indulge  in  any  silliness  about  him." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  silliness?"  said  Emmeline 
quietly. 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  you  to  fall  in  love  with  him." 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  done  that  already,"  said  Emmeline, 
still  more  quietly. 

Her  mother  flung  down  a  bunch  of  wet  La  Frances 
on  the  satin  seat  of  the  nearest  chair,  and  became 
entirely  natural. 

"  Oh,  what  nonsense  —  what  utter  nonsense !  Emme- 
line, how  can  you  talk  such  rubbish?  Really  —  upon 
my  word.  A  total  stranger  —  and  a  man  old  enough 
to  be  your  father." 

"  Oh,  no.     He  is  considerably  under  forty." 

"  Then  he  doesn't  look  it.  And  such  an  untidy 
creature."  Ruffled,  bothered,  angry,  Mrs.  Verinder 
was  speaking  without  plan,  uttering  scattered  thoughts 
as  they  presented  themselves,  and  she  continued  volubly 
to  do  so.  "  I  never  saw  such  an  untidy  man.  That 
night  at  Mrs.  Glutton's.  His  crumpled  shirt  —  and  he 
kept  running  his  hands  through  his  hair  till  it  was  all 
anywhere."  Emmeline  was  gently  shaking  her  head, 
as  though  to  imply  that  she  did  not  mind,  that  she 
rather   liked   the   untidy   appearance.      "  You   of   all 


46  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

people,  too  —  you  who've  always  had  such  a  sense  of 
fitness  and  niceness.  How  can  you  for  a  moment 
harbour  such  silliness?  Besides,  the  tiTne!  There's 
been  no  time  for  it.  What  night  was  it,  that  night  at 
Mrs.  Glutton's?  Surely  not  a  week  ago!"  And  Mrs. 
Verinder  steadied  herself,  speaking  slower  and  with 
weight.  "  Emmeline,  tell  me  the  truth.  How  many 
times  have  you  actually  seen  him?  " 

"  Let  me  think,"  said  Emmeline,  with  dreamy  intro- 
spective eyes,  deeply  interested  by  the  question  and 
vibrating  with  anxious  care  as  she  answered  it.  How 
many  times,  how  few  times?  Of  course,  it  was  so  im- 
measurably more  wonderful  to  her  than  it  could  be  to 
her  mother.  "At  Mrs.  Glutton's,"  she  said  gravely.  "At 
Hurlingham  next  day.     Next  morning  at  Waterloo." 

"At  Waterloo?"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Verinder  loudly. 
"  What's  that  ?     Waterloo  !  " 

"  When  Margaret  was  going  home.  He  came  to  see 
her  off." 

"  See  her  off!    How  did  he  know  her  train?  " 

*'  She  told  him  —  or  I  did.    I  don't  remember." 

**  More  fools,  the  pair  of  you." 

Emmeline  made  a  deprecating  gesture,  as  of  one  who 
pleads  not  to  be  interrupted  in  a  difficult  mental  effort, 
and  for  a  moment  or  so  looked  about  her  vaguely. 

*'  Then  of  course  he  came  here  that  same  afternoon," 
she  said,  with  a  brightening  face.  "  And  the  next  after- 
noon he  came  again." 

"  Not  two  afternoons !  "  cried  Mrs.  Verinder.  "  Not 
again,  behind  my  back,  without  my  seeing  him.  Oh, 
but,  Emmeline,  that  is  shameful;  that  is  underhand." 

"  He  is  not  underhand.  How  could  you  see  him? 
You  were  out.'* 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  47 

"  Then  he  oughtn't  to  have  come  in.  Besides,  why 
didn't  he  leave  his  cards?  There  were  no  cards  on  the 
table.    I  looked." 

"  He  left  cards  the  day  before." 

"  He  should  have  left  them  again,"  said  Mrs. 
Verinder,  not  really  meaning  it,  only  feeling  muddled 
and  angry, 

Emmeline  made  another  gesture. 

"  That  brings  us  to  Thursday.  And  the  three  times 
in  Kensington  Gardens.  I  have  met  him  there,  mother, 
by  appointment.  That's  seven  times,  isn't  it?  No, 
eight  —  eight !  "  Her  voice  faded  away  as  she  said  the 
number,  as  though  she  was  lost  in  the  wonder  of  it. 
Could  it  be  possible?    Only  eight  times  —  all  told! 

"  Well.  Well,'*  said  Mrs.  Verinder,  pulling  herself 
together.  In  the  midst  of  her  irritation  she  could  not 
avoid  a  feeling  of  pride  because  of  the  silly  child's  abso- 
lute truthfulness  and  candour.  "  Of  course  you  under- 
stand that  there  must  be  no  more  of  such  meetings." 

Emmeline  let  that  remark  go,  as  if  it  had  been  a  ball 
at  tennis  that  was  not  worth  moving  to  —  so  obviously 
out  of  court. 

"And  your  father  must  be  told  about  it." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  he  had  better  know,"  said  Emmeline 
dreamily. 

Left  alone,  Mrs.  Verinder  polished  off  the  flowers  in  a 
very  rough  and  ready  fashion,  thinking  the  while.  If 
Emmeline  insisted  on  making  an  imprudent  marriage,  it 
was  doubtful  if  one  could  prevent  her.  No,  why  not  be 
honest  about  it?  One  couldn't  prevent  her.  The  only 
way  you  can  keep  grown-up  girls  in  check  is  by  holding 
their  purse-strings  —  and  Emmeline  had  her  own 
money.     And  she  thought  that,  nice  as  it  is  to  belong 


48  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

to  the  third  or  even  fourth  generation  of  families  en- 
riched by  the  highest  form  of  trade,  it  is  perhaps  a 
pity  that  grandfathers  should  leave  money  to  female 
grandchildren  —  absolutely,  on  their  attaining  the  age 
of  twenty-one.  Wiser  and  better  to  leave  it  in  the 
control  of  parents  —  or  make  the  age  thirty  —  or 
forty.  Margaret  had  gone  off  so  easily  and  pleasantly 
with  Lionel  Pratt.  A  nice  well-dressed  rich  young 
fellow,  able  to  build  quite  a  palace  for  liis  wife,  and  send 
flowers  to  his  mother-in-law. 

Leaving  out  maternal  feeling  altogether,  she  could 
not  bear  this  idea  of  a  quite  attractive  if  rather  re- 
served girl  marrying  an  uncouth  stranger  —  a  man  who 
had  come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth  and  would  prob- 
ably want  to  go  back  there.  Of  course  if  it  must  be, 
it  must  be.  "  But,  oh,"  she  said  to  herself  with  a  sigh, 
*'  it  is  all  too  weird ;  for  /  don't  understand  what  she 
has  seen  in  him  to  captivate  her." 

She  determined  that  she  would  talk  to  her  husband 
about  it  directly  after  dinner,  not  before  dinner.  It 
was  now  half-past  six  o'clock;  and,  while  giving  her 
very  last  dabs  to  the  flowers,  she  fancied  that  she 
heard  the  front  door  open  and  shut.  Going  out  to  the 
hall  presently  and  seeing  one  of  the  footmen,  she  in- 
quired if  it  had  been  Mr.  Verinder  coming  in. 

"  No,  ma'am,  it  was  Miss  "Verinder  going  out." 

*'  Oh,  yes,  quite  so." 

Mrs.  Verinder  went  slowly  up  the  stairs,  feeling 
seriously  perturbed.  In  spite  of  all  that  had  been  said 
just  now,  had  Emmeline  gone  out  to  meet  that  man? 
But  Mrs.  Verinder  held  to  her  determination  of  post- 
poning her  chat  with  Mr.  Verinder  till  after  dinner. 
If  you  cannot  avoid  worry,  it  is  better  to  take  it  on  a 
full  stomach. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  49 

Emmeline  gave  one  glance  back  at  the  house,  noticed 
that  it  too  had  changed,  and  hurried  on. 

Open  carriages  with  a  footman  as  well  as  a  coachman 
on  each  box  seat  were  streaming  up  the  road.  Quite 
young  ladies  in  the  carriages  wore  bonnets  with  strings 
tied  under  their  chins,  daintily  small  bonnets  of  delicate 
colours,  primrose,  heliotrope,  and  peach;  those  that 
wore  hats  had  them  perched  in  the  queerest  manner,  on 
the  back  of  the  head,  sideways,  at  angles ;  all  of  them 
held  up  flounced  or  laced  parasols  of  rich  dark  tints, 
and  their  great  sleeves  ballooned  so  widely  as  almost 
to  conceal  gentlemen  who  were  accompanying  them 
—  elderly  gentlemen,  these,  like  father,  in  top  hats  and 
open  frock  coats;  or  comparatively  youthful  gentle- 
men, like  our  brother  Eustace,  in  top  hats  and  but- 
toned frock  coats.  A  horn  sounded  joyously,  and 
round  the  corner  from  Prince's  Gardens  there  came  a 
four-in-hand  —  four  beautiful  grey  horses  prancing, 
the  whole  coach  shining  in  the  sunlight,  a  bevy  of 
ladies,  a  flower-bed  of  female  elegance,  on  top ;  and  the 
two  grooms,  one  standing  up  to  blow  the  horn  and  the 
other  sitting  down  with  folded  arms.  There  was 
another,  a  plain-clothes  groom,  concealed  within  the 
shuttered  doors,  but  ready  to  pop  out  should  the 
gentleman  driving  meet  any  difficulties.  ''  So-ho,  there. 
Steady." 

The  top  hat  of  the  gentleman  driving  shone  pro- 
digiously; he  wore  a  button-hole  of  gardenias  and  had 
a  light  holland  cloth  round  his  middle  dividing  the 
frock  coat  from  the  shepherd's  plaid  trousers ;  although 
his  face  was  red  and  anxious,  he  looked  very  grand. 
The  whole  prosperous  essentially  respectable  neigh- 
bourhood was  rolling  through  the  slanted  sunbeams  to 
enjoy  its  drive  of  ceremony  in  Hyde  Park. 


50  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

At  Alexandra  Gate  a  mounted  policeman  held  up  his 
white  hand  and  stopped  the  traffic  of  the  main  road,  in 
order  to  allow  all  these  equipages  to  roll  flashing  past 
unimpeded.  The  stout  plebeian  horses  of  two  omni- 
buses had  to  be  pulled  up  short  with  a  jerk,  the  ponies 
in  several  tradesmen's  carts  skidded  a  little  on  the 
macadam;  a  small  squad  of  lads  riding  on  those  new 
safety  bicycles  —  not  the  ugly  high  ones  —  jumped 
from  the  pedals  and  held  their  machines  sloping  to  the 
pavement.  Within  the  rails  of  the  semi-private  sanc- 
tuary of  Hyde  Park,  Mayfair  and  Belgravia  on  wheels 
at  once  mingled  with  and  absorbed  Kensington  on 
wheels.    It  was  a  gay  and  enchantingly  polite  spectacle. 

But  Emmeline  turned  her  back  on  it  and  walked 
swiftly  into  the  cool  shadow  cast  by  Albert  Hall  Man- 
sions —  the  only  edifice  in  the  locality  of  which  Mr. 
Verinder  did  not  approve.  Then,  before  she  reached 
the  Albert  Hall,  her  heart  leaped.  A  tall,  excitable  man 
was  coming  towards  her,  waving  a  slouch  hat.  They 
should  have  met  on  the  Broad  Walk;  she  had  told  him 
to  wait  there ;  but  he  was  not  able  to  wait. 

How  had  he  captivated  her?  She  did  not  know. 
Was  it  only  because  he  was  the  incarnate  antithesis  of 
Kensington;  because  he  was  individual,  unlike  the 
things  on  each  side  of  him,  not  arranged  on  any  pattern, 
not  dull,  monotonous,  or  flat;  a  thing  alive  in  a  place 
where  all  else  was  sleeping  or  dead?  Neither  then  nor 
at  any  future  time  did  she  attempt  mentally  to  differen- 
tiate between  the  impression  he  had  made  upon  her  as 
himself  all  complete,  with  the  dark  hair,  the  penetrating 
but  impenetrable  eyes,  the  record,  the  fame,  and  the 
impression  she  might  have  received  if  any  of  these  attri- 
butes had  been  taken  away  from  him.     Say,  if  he  had 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  51 

been  an  unknown  Mr.  Tomkins  instead  of  a  known  Mr. 
Dyke.  Absurd.  The  man  and  the  name  were  one.  So 
very  much  so  indeed  that  yesterday  morning  when,  at 
the  museum,  she  had  asked  for  a  new  map  of  the  Ant- 
arctic, and  was  poring  over  it  in  order  to  feast  herself 
with  a  sight  of  those  magic  words  Anthony  Dyke  Land, 
it  was  not  only  that  the  little  black  letters  of  which  the 
names  was  composed  shone  like  rubies  and  burned  like 
fire,  she  felt  distinctly  the  man's  hand  on  her  shoulder 
and  heard  his  voice  at  her  ear,  although  at  this  moment 
he  was  miles  away.  He  was  Anthony  Dyke.  He  was 
her  lord,  her  prince,  her  lover. 

Yet  hitherto  she  had  not  been  a  romantic  girl.  She 
had  felt  nothing  irksome  in  her  surroundings,  had  been 
content  with  these  broad  streets  and  platitudinous 
fa9ades;  her  pulses  had  not  stirred  at  contact  with 
masculinity ;  life  with  the  family  had  seemed  pleasant, 
and  the  prospect  of  ultimate  union  with  some  good- 
natured  nonetity  like  Pratt,  a  well-managed  nursery, 
some  humdrum  babies,  had  not  appeared  repellent. 
She  was  not  irregular  either  in  thought  or  conduct. 
Indeed,  she  had  inherited  a  fair  portion  of  her  father's 
love  of  order;  showing  this  characteristic  in  many 
ways,  keeping  her  room  very  neat  and  tidy,  liking,  even 
when  she  was  quite  small,  to  have  boxes  and  convenient 
places  in  which  to  keep  her  belongings,  not  leaving 
books  on  sofas  or  dropping  her  handkerchief  on  the 
stairs.  Beyond  the  sensation  of  possessing  latent 
powers  and  capabilities  upon  which  there  had  been  no 
call,  there  had  not  come  to  her  herself  the  slightest 
indication  of  the  likelihood  of  what  was  happening 
now.  It  was  unexpected,  miraculous.  As  though  that 
Virginia  creeper  which  was  so  neatly  bound  upon  its 


52  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

wires  from  the  wide  area  to  the  top  of  the  ground 
floor  windows  of  their  house  had  been  metamorphosed 
into  an  overwhelming  growth,  with  tendrils  strong 
enough  to  bind  a  man's  limbs,  huge  pulp-laden  leaves, 
and  blazing  red  tropical  passion  flowers. 

They  entered  the  Gardens  by  the  small  gate,  and  he 
plunged  across  the  grass  with  her  just  at  a  point  where 
a  notice  board  was  imploring  people  to  keep  on  the 
paths.  They  walked  away  together  under  the  trees, 
towards  the  water.  It  lay  all  aglow  in  the  mellow  sun- 
light. 

When  she  camei  home  a  little  more  than  an  hour  later 
she  glanced  at  the  outside  of  the  house  again.  Home. 
It  was  not  so  much  that  it  had  changed,  it  had  lost 
significance. 

After  dinner  she  went  upstairs  to  the  music-room, 
while  her  father  was  drawn  by  Mrs.  Verinder  into  the 
room  that  they  sometimes  called  her  own.  In  there  Mrs. 
Verinder  told  him,  with  a  mere  expression  of  regret  and 
no  preamble,  that  Emmeline  had  fallen  in  love  with 
Dyke,  the  explorer. 

"  But,  good  heavens,"  cried  Mr.  Verinder,  *'  he's  a 
married  man." 

Mrs.  Verinder  sat  down.  As  a  very  broad  generalisa- 
tion, it  might  be  said  that  there  are  two  .classes  of 
people:  those  who  spring  to  their  feet  when  suddenly 
confronted  with  a  grave  crisis  and  those  who  sit  down. 
Mrs.  Verinder  was  of  the  sitting-down  sort. 

"  Married  man !  "  she  echoed,  after  seating  herself. 
"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  Mrs.  Glutton  told  me  so.  I  asked  if  his  wife  was 
there,  and  she  said  no,  the  wife  is  never  seen." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  53 

"  Then  you  ought  to  have  told  me." 

« I  did." 

«  Never." 

"  I  certainly  intended  to  —  although  I  never  thought 
it  could  be  of  the  slightest  consequence  to  us.  But  I 
meant  to  warn  you  for  the  twelfth  —  to  say  nothing 
to  him  in  conversation  about  married  life  or  divorce. 
Oh,  but  this  is  ridiculous."  Mr.  Verinder  walked  about 
the  room,  frowning.  "  Emmeline !  No,  no.  Whatever 
fancy  —  It  must  be  stopped  at  once.  Emmeline  must 
be  told  the  facts  of  the  case,  and  she  must  dismiss  all 
thought  about  him.    It  can  be  nothing,  so  far." 

"  I  fear,"  said  Mrs.  Verinder,  "  that  she  has  been 
going  about  with  him." 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  ?  " 

Mrs.  Verinder  explained. 

"  It  is  very  wrong  of  him,"  said  Mr.  Verinder  in- 
dignantly. "It  is  very  wrong  of  him  in  the  circum- 
stances." He  felt  alarm  now  as  well  as  indignation, 
and  he  came  to  the  front  of  Mrs.  Verinder  and  spoke 
with  frowning  emphasis.  "  That  sort  of  man  might  be 
very  dangerous  —  unscrupulous  —  reckless  of  conse- 
quences.    I  don't  like  this  at  all." 

Then  he  walked  about  the  room  again,  reflecting  upon 
the  manner  in  which  he  should  break  the  unpalatable 
news  to  Emmeline.  He  felt  that  it  was  a  delicate  busi- 
ness and  one  demanding  tact;  for  no  sensitive  self- 
respecting  young  lady  can  fail  to  suffer  from  the  sting 
of  wounded  pride  when  she  learns  that  a  man  with  no 
right  to  pay  specially  marked  attentions  to  anybody 
has  been  paying  them  to  her.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the 
attentions  have  not  been  special  or  marked,  then  in 
responding  by  any  relaxment  of  reserve  she  has  made  a 


54  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

fool  of  herself  —  and  she  won't  like  that  either.  How- 
ever, he  was  soon  ready  for  his  task,  and  both  of  them 
went  upstairs  to  Emmeline  in  the  music-room. 

There,  in  the  music-room,  occurred  what  Mrs. 
Yerinder  called  "  a  scene."  It  was  the  first  real  scene 
that  had  ever  broken  the  tranquil  atmosphere  of  the 
house  since  the  family  had  occupied  it;  but  as  many 
other  scenes  were  soon  to  follow,  one  may  perhaps  indi- 
cate the  developments  of  this  one  by  s^^nopsis. 

^Miss  Verinder,  coming  from  the  piano  where  she  had 
been  pla^dng,  was  informed  by  her  father  of  the  fact  — 
Mr.  Dyke  not  in  a  position  to  marry,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  Mr.  Dyke  is  already  married.  In  these 
circumstances  an  obvious  necessity  to  open  her  eyes ; 
and  an  equally  obvious  necessity  for  her  and  the  rest 
of  the  family  to  drop  Mr.  Dyke  like  a  hot  potato. 

All  this  he  had  conveyed  with  delicacy  enough;  but, 
observing  that  Miss  Verinder,  after  her  eves  had  been 
opened,  showed  density,  slowness  of  intelligence,  or  lack 
of  sufficient  recoil,  he  felt  the  initial  touch  of  that  cumu- 
lative irritation  with  which  fate  was  about  to  torture 
him,  and  he  amplified  the  argument  in  a  heavier  and  less 
tactful  style.  Very,  very  wrong  of  Dyke  to  play  the 
fool  with  her,  and  hold  this  knowledge  up  his  sleeve. 
Can  have  so  behaved  for  none  other  than  a  caddish 
motive.  Very,  very  humiliating  for  her,  to  find  out  how 
wortliless  he  is;  but  nothing  to  do  except  take  the 
thing  in  proper  ladylike  style,  wash  him  out,  and  look 
pleasant  about  it  —  that  is,  pleasant  before  company. 

Then  came  the  shock. 

Miss  Verinder,  to  the  horror  and  amazement  of  her 
parents,  said  she  had  known  it  from  the  beginning. 
Nothing  underhand  or  caddish  about  the  man ;  best  man 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  55 

in  the  world ;  at  any  rate,  the  only  man  in  the  world  for 
her.  As  to  being  talked  about,  peril  to  reputation,  and 
so  on  —  it  did  not,  as  she  implied,  matter  twopence- 
half-penny  to  Miss  Verinder.  To  such  questions  as, 
Where  had  her  pride  gone?  she  returned  evasive  or  un- 
satisfactory replies. 

Mr.  Verinder,  talking  now  very  freely,  felt  after  a 
little  while  that  he  was  making  too  much  noise  and  no 
real  progress.  He  broke  off  the  interview,  saying  he 
would  take  Mrs.  Verinder  downstairs  with  him  and  go 
on  talking  to  her  alone  in  the  boudoir.  Emmeline 
offered  to  withdraw  from  the  music-room,  leaving  them 
alone  there;  but  Mr.  Verinder  said  he  needed  pens, 
ink,  and  paper,  and  he  would  find  them  on  the  ground 
floor.  He  would  return  soon  to  make  some  final  pro- 
nouncement to  Emmeline;  she  was  therefore  to  remain 
where  she  was. 

Downstairs,  he  used  such  words  as  stupid  hero-wor- 
ship, temporary  infatuation,  passing  fancy  induced  by 
the  plausible  cajolements  of  a  man  so  much  older  than 
herself.  Of  Dyke  he  said  he  could  not  speak  with 
adequate  censure  —  and  he  added  at  once  that  most 
certainly  Dyke's  invitation  to  dinner  on  the  twelfth 
must  be  cancelled.  But  of  course  there  should  be  no 
cancellation  of  the  dinner  itself.  He  would  Write  to 
Dyke  to-morrow ;  he  knew  exactly  what  to  say  to  Dyke. 
That  letter,  however,  could  wait  till  to-morrow.  The 
pressing  thing  was  to  decide  what  to  do  with  Emmeline. 

"  If,"  said  Mr.  Verinder,  "  she  will  give  me  her 
solemn  promise  never  to  see  him  again,  then  — " 

"  She  won't,"  said  Mrs.  Verinder.  "  I  could  detect 
that,  in  the  expression  of  her  face  just  now." 

Then  soon  an  idea  occurred  to  one  or  other  of  them 


56  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

and  was  immediately  adopted  by  both.  They  would 
send  Emmeline  on  a  visit  to  Hindhead,  and  thus  keep 
her  out  of  the  way  and  give  her  time  to  forget  this  silli- 
ness. She  would  be  very  happy  down  there,  she  was 
devoted  to  Margaret's  two  children,  she  liked  all  the 
sylvan  glades  that  had  been  left  standing  after  Pratt 
built  his  mansion. 

It  was  not  too  late  to  despatch  a  telegram,  although 
it  might  not  be  delivered  to-night,  and  they  could  not 
expect  an  answer  till  the  morning.  They  sent  this  off, 
looked  in  the  railway  guide  to  find  an  early  train  to 
Hindhead,  gave  the  necessary  instructions  about  the 
carriage  which  would  convey  Miss  Verinder  to  the 
station.  Then  Mr.  Verinder  stood  thinking  and  frown- 
ing, till  he  asked  a  question  about  the  maid  who  would 
accompany  his  daughter. 

"  That  girl  who  looks  after  her  —  Louisa  Hodson ! 
Can  Louisa  be  trusted?  " 

"  Oh,  I  hope  so,"  said  Mrs.  Verinder,  already  feeling 
that  nobody  was  to  be  trusted,  that  everybody  had 
bothering  secrets  which  one  would  find  out  sooner  or 
later.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  think  Louisa  is  quite  trustworthy. 
She  has  been  —  so  far." 

Then  they  went  upstairs  once  more. 

"  It  is  arranged,"  he  said,  "  that  you  shall  go  to 
Margaret  for  a  few  weeks." 

Miss  Verinder  said  that  she  would  not  go.  Her  face 
was  white,  and  she  spoke  in  a  quiet  but  rather  breathless 
manner. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is  all  settled,"  said  Mr.  Verinder  curb- 
ing himself.  Then,  as  he  saw  her  shake  her  head  nega- 
tively, he  burst  out.    "  You  will  do  what  you  are  told." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  assure  you,  father,  I  can't  be  treated  like 
this,  as  if  I  was  a  child." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  67 

"It  will  do  you  good,"  said  Mrs.  Verinder  feebly. 
"  You  look  pale  and  fagged.    The  change  of  air  — " 

"  If  I  wanted  change  of  air  I'd  sooner  go  to  the  sea- 
side by  myself.     Yes,  I  could  do  that." 

"  No,  you  couldn't,"  shouted  Mr.  Verinder ;  and  he 
told  her  that  if  she  compelled  him,  he  would  give  orders 
that  would  result  in  total  restriction  of  her  movements. 
Then  the  servants  would  all  know  that  there  was  some- 
thing wrong  in  the  house;  they  would  talk,  and  the  echo 
of  their  talk  would  be  heard  outside  the  house.  Never- 
theless, facing  these  risks,  he  would  give  his  orders. 
"  Understand,  I  am  serious." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Miss  Verinder,  very  quietly. 
"  The  carriage  will  be  at  the  door  at  ten  minutes  to 
ten,  to  take  you  to  Waterloo,"  he  said,  shouting. 
"  You'll  have  your  things  packed,  and  you'll  start  — 
No,  don't  leave  the  room."  She  was  going  towards  the 
door;  but  she  stopped,  and  sat  down  by  the  piano. 
"  Do  you  hear?  You'll  have  everything  packed  to- 
night, before  you  go  to  bed." 

"Except  her  dressing-case,"  said  Mrs.  Verinder. 
"  that  must  be  kept  open  till  the  morning  —  to  put  in 
her  small  odds  and  ends  —  brush  and  comb  —  what 
she  wants  for  her  personal  comfort." 

Nothing  further  of  a  contentious  character  was  said. 
And  presently  Mr.  Verinder  tried  to  do  a  little  acting 
in  his  turn;  he  essayed  a  representation  of  relief  of 
mind,  restored  confidence,  general  good  humour.  He 
said  he  had  interrupted  Emmeline  earlier  in  the  evening 
when  she  was  playing  the  piano.  Would  she  play 
something  to  him  now? 

She  obeyed,  playing  a  selection  from  the  new  musical 
piece  at  the  Savoy  Theatre. 


58  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Mr.  Verinder  acted  the  soothing  effect  produced  by 
tuneful  melody,  satisfaction  that  peace  now  reigned, 
and  so  forth;  but,  leaning  back  in  the  easy  chair,  he 
felt  unexpectedly  tired  and  shaky. 

"  Thank  you,  dear.     That  is  very  prett3^" 

"And  didn't  she  play  it  prettily?"  said  Mrs. 
Verinder. 

"  Yes.  Thank  you,  dear,"  said  Mr.  Verinder  again, 
indicating  by  his  tone  that  in  view  of  the  task  which  lay 
before  her  upstairs  he  would  not  ask  for  an  encore. 
Tliat  packing!  He  tried  to  express  trunks  and  boxes 
bv  his  firm  but  kindly  manner ;  he  did  not  wish  to  repeat 
the  words  themselves. 

Emmeline,  seeming  to  accept  the  hint,  rose  from  the 
:piano  and  bade  them  good-night. 

"  Out  of  the  way  for  a  month  at  least.  That  gives 
one  time,"  said  Mr.  Verinder,  when  the  door  had  closed ; 
and  he  gave  his  wife  an  oral  sketch  of  the  letter  she  was 
to  write  to  Margaret  explaining  the  state  of  affairs, 
putting  Margaret  on  her  guard,  and  telling  her  what 
precautions  should  be  taken.  He  thought  it  ought,  if 
possible,  to  be  in  the  post-box  before  one  a.m. 

Poor  Mrs.  Verinder  sat  up  late  to  write  it. 

Earl}^  next  morning  they  received  Margaret's  reply 
telegram  —  just  the  one  word  "  Delighted."  Miss 
Emmeline  had  breakfast  in  her  room,  and  this  arrange- 
ment appeared  to  Mr.  Verinder  both  natural  anu 
proper.  At  ten  minutes  to  ten  the  single  brougham 
with  the  luggage  tray  on  top  stood  waiting  at  the  door, 
and  the  footman  who  was  to  accompany  it  was  in  the 
hall  waiting  for  the  odd  man  to  come  through  the  baize 
doors  with  the  luggage. 

"Are  Miss  Verinder's  things  down.^^ "  asked  Mr. 
Verinder  of  somebody. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  59 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  butler,  "  I  don't  think  they  are." 

"Where's  Hodson?  " 

Louisa  Hodson  leaned  over  the  gilt  balustrade  on  the 
first  floor. 

"  Is  Miss  Verinder  packed?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Louisa ;  coming  half-way  down  the 
stairs  to  meet  him  as  he  came  up  them,  and  speaking 
confidentially  when  they  met.  "  Miss  Verinder  told  me 
not  to  pack,  sir.  I  think  she  has  changed  her  mind  and 
doesn't  intend  to  go." 

It  was  open  rebellion. 


CHAPTER    IV 

MR.  VERINDER  gave  his  orders  now  —  foolish 
ones,  as  such  orders  always  are.  Miss 
Verinder  was  not  to  leave  the  house  except 
when  accompanied  by  her  maid,  or  her  mother.  In  the 
case  of  her  issuing  forth  with  Louisa  Hodson,  she  was 
to  account  for  the  time  spent  while  away.  Louisa  must 
also  account  for  it.  Miss  Verinder  was  to  go  about 
with  her  mother  as  much  as  possible ;  to  fulfil  all  social 
engagements  that  had  already  been  made;  to  do  the 
afternoon  drives  in  Hyde  Park^  together  with  both 
her  parents,  and  so  on. 

During  the  course  of  the  morning  he  called  upon  his 
solicitors  in  Spring  Gardens,  and  saw  the  head  of  the 
firm,  Mr.  Williams.  He  desired  Mr.  Williams  to  find 
out  all  ahout  Anthony  Dyke.  "  Find  out  everything 
you  can  for  me.  I  want  the  fullest  information  I  can 
get."  Mr.  Williams,  promising  to  do  so,  noticed  that 
his  client  and  old  friend  looked  gloomy  and  depressed ; 
and  the  brief  interview  terminated  at  once,  without 
passing  into  the  pleasant  general  chat  that  was  custom- 
arj'  when  Mr.  Verinder  came  to  Spring  Gardens. 

It  has  been  said  that  Mr.  Verinder  had  a  love  of  law 
and  order.  Truly,  he  adored  them.  We  are  all  of  us 
what  our  antecedent  history  makes  us ;  and  Mr. 
Verinder,  looking  backward  far  beyond  his  own  birth, 
behind  his  grandfather's  birth  even,  could  see  such 
beneficent  factors  as  open  markets,  stable  rates  of  ex- 

60 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  61 

change,  organised  means  of  transport,  together  with 
banking  and  credit  systems  that  are  really  based  on  the 
confidence  inspired  by  a  firm  government  —  he  could 
see  all  this  not  only  as  the  solid  foundation  on  which 
the  British  Empire  had  been  raised,  but  as  the  prime 
cause  of  the  success  of  those  paper  mills  in  the  midlands 
from  which  he  and  his  family  derived  their  wealth. 
The  mills  had  long  ceased  to  give  any  trouble,  they 
just  went  on;  and  he  merely  drew  dividends  or  travelled 
by  train  occasionally  to  attend  board  meetings.  But, 
of  course,  except  for  law  and  order,  the  mills  could  not 
have  maintained  their  initial  impetus  so  comfortably. 

He  was  proud  to  think  that  the  mills  made  paper 
used  by  government  offices,  and  that  his  son  Eustace  — 
now  aged  thirty-three  —  was  actually  a  government 
official.  Eustace,  after  taking  honours  at  the  venerable 
long-established  institution  known  as  Oxford  Univer- 
sity, had  entered  the  Board  of  Trade  —  not  to  staj 
there  for  ever,  but  as  a  step  in  his  career ;  whereby  he 
would  lay  up  such  a  store  of  useful  knowledge  with 
regard  to  the  wider  aspects  of  national  commerce  as 
should  enable  him  later  on,  when  he  went  into  Parlia- 
ment, handsomely  to  assist  the  government  of  the  day 
instead  of  hampering  them  with  unenlightened  criticism. 

Except  in  relation  to  classical  music,  Mr.  Verinder 
himself  was  never  critical.  He  was  content  to  bow  to 
acknowledged  authority  in  every  form ;  respecting  heads 
of  professions  and  submitting  to  expert  opinions ;  be- 
lieving in  the  wisdom  of  judges  on  the  bench,  the  art  of 
Royal  Academicians,  the  inspired  logical  faculty  of 
bishops  in  conclave.  Although  a  stout  Anglican,  he 
could  not  in  any  circumstances  have  brought  himself  to 
speak  disparagingly  of  the  Pope. 


62  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Simply  but  completely  he  loved  his  house,  taking 
daily  pleasure  in  its  largeness,  its  unostentatious  splen- 
dour, its  immense  comfort.  As  he  lay  in  bed  at  night 
he  liked  to  think  of  the  number  of  people  sleeping  under 
his  roof;  also  their  dependence  on  him  the  chieftain, 
who  took  care  of  their  food  and  their  well-being,  who 
had  provided  two  bath-rooms  solely  for  the  servants' 
use  —  one  under  the  tiles  for  the  women,  one  down  in 
the  basement  for  the  men.  It  was  a  grand,  well- 
managed  house.  It  was  his  castle,  his  stronghold.  He 
looked  at  it  with  satisfaction  every  time  that  he  walked 
or  drove  up  to  it. 

There  was  no  taint  of  meanness  in  this  feeling.  He 
remembered  with  unselfish  gladness  that  several  of  his 
friends  were  almost  if  not  quite  as  fortunate.  Mrs.  Bell 
had  one  of  the  largest  houses  in  Queen's  Gate,  and 
throughout  the  whole  Cromwell  Road  there  was  nothing 
bigger  than  Mrs.  Glutton's  mansion.  When  speaking 
of  these  ladies  he  rarely  omitted  to  mention  the  fact. 

He  loved  his  neighbourhood  too.  In  imagination  he 
could  see  it  as  finally  completed,  with  the  College  of 
Music,  the  Colonial  Institute,  and  all  the  other  fine  edi- 
fices grouping  together  —  much  as  it  is  to-dav.  The 
Albert  Hall  was  especially  dear  to  him.  He  owned  a 
box  in  it ;  some  of  his  money  went  annually  towards  its 
maintenance.  The  vast  and  noble  arena  had  no  tradi- 
tions earlier  than  the  Prince  Consort,  but,  oh,  what 
glorious  traditions  since !  It  would  be  not  too  much  to 
say  that  he  derived  a  subtle  kind  of  intellectual  support 
from  the  adjacency  of  the  Albert  Hall.  It  stood  there 
so  close,  unshakable,  giving  him  a  sensation  directly 
due  to  its  height  above  the  eye  and  its  stretch  to  either 
hand ;  solid  and  calm  in  its  triumphant  common-sense. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  63 

For,  if  you  want  a  building  to  hold  the  greatest  possible 
number  of  people,  then  make  it  circular  and  avoid 
corners.  Add  a  dome  to  render  it  sightly,  but  do  not 
sacrifice  use  to  ornamentation. 

Nor,  for  the  life  of  him,  could  he  understand  why 
certain  folk  tried  to  belittle  the  merit  of  the  Albert 
Memorial.  To  him  it  seemed  a  very  beautiful  monu- 
ment. He  rejoiced  even  in  its  accessory  groups  of 
sculpture,  admiring  the  taste  and  judgment  that  had 
led  the  artist  to  select  a  camel  as  symbolic  of  Africa 
and  an  elephant  for  Asia ;  often,  when  alone,  he  would 
mount  the  broad  steps  and  study  the  reliefs  about  the 
square  base ;  with  the  assistance  of  the  chiselled  names, 
he  distinguished  certain  English  Worthies,  pausing 
here  and  there  to  gaze  reverently  at  the  genial  attitude 
of  Barry  or  the  contemplative  brow  of  Wren.  English 
Worthies  —  the  very  title  was  pleasant  to  him ;  so 
honest  and  unpretentious.  English  Worthies !  He 
was  almost  one  himself  —  of  course  on  a  small  scale,  in 
a  humble  way. 

He  thought  of  Dyke  as  a  subversive  agency  —  an 
enemy  to  peace ;  something  unamenable,  uncontrollable, 
that  suddenly  threatened  him,  his  family,  and  the  whole 
neighbourhood.  He  began  to  hate  Dyke,  as  the  best  of 
men  begin  to  hate  the  thing  they  dread.  It  appeared 
to  him  now  that  he  had  seen  through  Dyke  from  the 
first  moment,  but  that  he  had  refused  to  be  guided  or 
warned  by  the  clear  light  of  his  own  intuitive  intelli- 
gence. "  I'd  like  to  know  that  girl  over  there.  Who 
is  she?  "  when  Dyke  said  something  of  that  sort,  he 
should  have  resented  it  as  an  impertinence  and  not 
accepted  it  as  a  compliment.  Then  Dyke  had  laughed, 
blatantly  —  offensively,  if  you  came  to   think  of  it. 


64  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  Pardon  me  for  being  a  untutored  savage."  But,  no, 
one  cannot  pardon  savagery  —  except  in  savage  lands, 
at  a  remote  distance,  beyond  the  pale.  One  has  to 
protect  oneself  against  its  effects.  He  wished 
that  somehow  he  could  get  the  whip-hand  of  Dyke. 
And  yet  even  now,  so  kindly  and  trustful  was  he  by 
nature,  that  at  the  very  moment  of  dreading  and  hating 
Dyke,  he  could  not  believe  the  man  really  meant  mis- 
chief. 

Within  his  narrow  limits  he  was  always  generous- 
minded.  Markedly  so  with  regard  to  money  matters  — 
and  perhaps  there  is  still  no  surer  test  of  a  person's 
magnanimity  than  that  which  can  be  obtained  by  a 
record  of  his  consistent  attitude  towards  hard  cash. 
Unlike  many  men  who  have  all  the  money  that  they 
require,  he  did  not  crave  for  more.  No  petty  gains  or 
economies  ever  lured  him.  For  instance,  although 
Emmeline  had  come  into  the  enjoyment  of  her  income, 
he  had  never  suggested  or  dreamed  of  suggesting  that 
she  should  make  any  contribution  to  household  expenses. 
She  was  freely  welcome  to  bed  and  board,  the  attend- 
ance of  Louisa,  the  use  of  the  carriages.  He  had 
advised  her  to  draw  only  such  a  portion  of  her  income 
as  she  needed,  leaving  Mr.  Williams  of  Spring  Gardens 
to  reinvest  all  surplus ;  and  it  made  him  happy  to  feel 
that  she  was  doing  this,  and  increasing  her  modest 
capital  quarter  by  quarter. 

Now,  not  unnaturally,  he  thought  —  as  Mrs. 
Verinder  had  already  thought  —  that,  so  far  as  a  whip- 
hand  over  Emmeline  was  concerned,  the  soundness  of  her 
financial  position  robbed  him  of  much  desirable  power. 

This  was  Mr.  "Verinder.  Unless  one  knew  him  and 
did  him  justice,  one  could  not  understand  his  state  of 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  65 

mind.  He  was  not  in  any  respects  the  conventional  old- 
fashioned  father  that  lingered  in  the  comic  literature  of 
the  period.  About  him  there  was  nothing  either  gro- 
tesque or  preposterous. 

After  all,  it  was  only  1895 ;  say  twenty-seven  years 
ago  —  yesterday.  There  are  large  numbers  of  people 
to-day  who  think  as  he  did  then.  There  are  men  at  his 
club  and  at  other  clubs  saying  in  essence  just  what  he 
used  to  say  —  when,  not  thinking  of  Emmeline,  but 
merely  generalising,  he  spoke  of  fin-de-siecle  girls  who 
mistake  license  for  freedom,  of  regrettable  up-to-date 
ideas,  of  the  danger  of  abusing  the  word  progress  and 
pulling  down  before  you  have  learnt  to  build  up ;  —  men 
who  have  passed  through  the  devastating  experience 
of  the  world-war  and  are  less  shaken  by  its  rivers  of 
blood,  its  fiery  chaos,  its  starving  millions,  than  by  the 
social  readjustments  it  has  occasioned  —  "  the  passing 
of  the  old  order,"  as  they  call  it  —  and  the  fact  that 
half  the  members  of  the  club  won't  even  trouble  to  put 
on  a  white  shirt  and  a  black  tie  for  dinner. 

A  week  passed,  and,  to  Mr.  Verinder's  supreme  satis- 
faction, Emmeline  showed  herself  altogether  docile  and 
amenable.  She  attended  parties,  she  drove  in  the  park, 
she  spent  afternoons  and  evenings  with  their  friend 
Mrs.  Bell,  at  Queen's  Gate,  and  was  punctually  brought 
home  from  these  visits  by  Louisa.  Mr.  Verinder  highly 
approved  of  them.  Mrs.  Bell  was  devoted  to  Emmeline, 
had  always  admired  and  made  much  of  the  child.  Here 
would  be  a  good  influence.  But  not  a  hint  had  been 
given  to  Mrs.  Bell  of  any  trouble  in  the  air.  The  only 
people  who  knew  of  the  cause  of  anxiety  were  Margaret 
'—  and  presumably  Pratt  —  and,  of  course,  Eustace, 


66  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Another  week  passed.  The  twelfth  of  July  with  its 
dinner  party  lay  behind  them.  That  feast,  although 
shorn  of  its  guest  of  honour,  had  not  proved  too  dismal, 
all  things  considered.  And  in  those  two  weeks  not  a 
sign  from  the  enemy.  Lulled  into  a  sense  of  false 
security,  Mr.  Verinder  began  to  feel  easy  in  his  mind. 

Then  he  discovered  that  Dyke  had  been  out  of 
London  for  a  fortnight.  Dyke  was  in  Scotland,  giving 
lectures  at  the  great  Scottish  cities.  "  Taking  the  hat 
round,"  as  he  had  himself  described  it.  A  banquet  had 
been  given  in  his  honour  at  Edinburgh,  v/ith  many  nota- 
bilities present ;  the  speechifying  was  recorded  by  the 
public  press. 

After  another  week  or  ten  days  Dyke  returned  to 
London.  His  return  was  chronicled  in  all  the  news- 
papers. They  again  began  to  make  a  fuss  about  him. 
And  Mr.  Verinder,  at  his  club,  had  the  mortification  of 
hearing  his  praises  sung  by  certain  members  of  it.  He 
had  dined  here,  at  Mr.  Verinder's  club,  last  night  —  a 
little  dinner  in  his  honour,  given  by  Duff-Steele,  a  per- 
sonal friend  of  Mr.  Verinder's  —  with  So-and-so,  and 
So-and-so  —  and  a  few  more.  Dyke  had  kept  them 
there  yarning  until  two  or  three  in  the  morning.  They 
said,  in  effect,  that  he  was  entirely  fascinating ;  a  great 
irresponsible  child,  full  of  the  most  infectious  gaiety. 
A  real  tip-topper,  madcap,  dare-devil  —  whatever  you 
like  —  but  evidently  behind  it  all,  a  heart  of  gold.  How 
he  had  talked !    How  he  had  laughed ! 

When  Mr.  Verinder  reached  home  that  afternoon 
Mrs.  Verinder  at  once  reported  that  Emmeline  had  be- 
come restless  —  very  restless  indeed.  She  felt  that  it 
would  be  necessary  to  watch  her  closely. 

They  did  it  for  the  next  week  or  so,  but  Mr.  Verinder 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  67 

had  the  uncomfortable  sensation,  shared  by  his  wife, 
that  no  matter  how  carefully  you  watched,  more  was 
going  on  than  met  the  eye.  An  atmosphere  of  suspicion 
permeated  all  the  reception  rooms  of  the  house;  Mr. 
Verinder's  discomfort  and  annoyance  increased  day  by 
day. 

Although  Mr.  Williams  of  Spring  Gardens  had  long 
ago  written  to  say  he  was  prepared  to  communicate 
the  result  of  his  investigations,  Mr.  Verinder  had  not 
yet  gone  to  receive  them.  He  went  now,  after  luncheon 
one  day,  and  took  Eustace  from  the  Board  of  Trade 
with  him. 

There  is  a  candour  and  unpretentiousness  about  the 
very  best  sort  of  solicitors  that  is  sometimes  almost 
startling  to  their  clients.  If  you  speak  of  investments, 
a  really  good  solicitor  will  say  at  once  that  he  is  not  a 
business  man ;  if  you  speak  of  an  attack  on  your  char- 
acter or  a  possible  career  for  your  children,  he  will  say 
he  is  not  a  man  of  the  world ;  if  you  are  involved  in  a 
wrangle  and  fancy  you  have  publicly  libelled  your 
adversary,  he  will  say  that  he  is  not  a  lawyer.  He 
doesn't  in  the  least  mean  that  he  will  not  carry  through 
to  a  triumphant  conclusion  the  affair,  whatever  it  is, 
that  you  are  bringing  to  him;  he  only  means  that  he 
lays  no  claim  to  keeping  a  mass  of  encyclopedic  knowl- 
edge on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  to  giving  oracular  deci- 
sions at  a  moment's  notice,  or  seeing  through  a  brick 
wall  without  the  aid  of  a  periscope.  He  will  take  a 
little  time  going  into  the  matter  thoroughly,  obtaining 
counsel's  opinion,  doing  everything  necessary.  Mean- 
while and  at  once,  in  your  presence,  he  often  consults 
his  books  of  reference;  and  it  must  be  confessed  that 


68  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

this  reliance  on  books  and  the  guileless  manner  of  speak- 
about  them  does  often  disconcert,  if  it  does  not  shake  a 
client.  "  You  doubt  if  your  bargain  is  clinched?  " 
says  the  really  eminent  solicitor ;  and  he  rings  the  bell 
for  his  clerk.  "  Bring  me  that  book  on  Contracts, 
latest  edition.  And  see  if  we  have  a  directory  of  county 
court  judges  downstairs.  I  want  to  ascertain  if  there 
is  any  county  court  south  of  the  Thames.  And,  look 
here,  go  upstairs  and  give  my  compliments  to  Mr.  Cyril 
and  ask  him  if  he  knows  whether  the  Stock  Exchange 
is  open  on  Bank  Holidays." 

Mr.  Williams,  of  Spring  Gardens,  or  his  firm,  had 
long  conducted  the  affairs  of  the  Verinder  family  in  a 
most  efficient  style.  He  himself  relied  greatly  on  his 
books,  which  he  kept  in  handsome  book-cases  in  his 
own  room.  This  solid  old-world  room  was  lighted  by 
narrow  windows  with  reflecting  mirrors  above  them,  and 
had  no  encumbrances  of  deed  boxes  and  that  sort  of 
thing;  a  large  beautifully  neat  table  for  Mr.  Williams, 
a  fine  comfortable  leather-seated  chair  for  visitors,  the 
picture  of  a  marine  battle  over  the  chimneypiece,  and 
one  or  two  marble  busts  on  top  of  the  book-cases  — 
that  was  all ;  and  with  these  simple  surroundings  the 
owner  of  the  room  worked  in  it  very  happily  and  con- 
tentedly ;  looking  up  with  a  friendly  smile  as  you  came 
in  at  the  door,  and  showing  himself  as  a  shortish, 
stoutish,  fresh-complexioned  person  of  sixty-five  or  a 
little  more.  As  his  intimates  knew,  he  had  only  one 
sorrow  in  life  —  the  certainty  that  sooner  or  later  this 
room,  the  whole  Queen  Anne  house,  and  the  rest  of 
Spring  Gardens,  would  be  swept  away  by  London's  un- 
bridled rage  for  street  improvements.  But  he  hoped 
they  would  last  his  time. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  i69 

He  begged  Mr.  Verinder  and  Mr.  Eustace  Verinder 
to  sit  down,  and  with  an  air  of  innocent  triumph  said 
that  he  had  found  out  a  great  deal  about  Anthony 
Dyke. 

"  I  may  say  that  directly  you  mentioned  the  name, 
it  seemed  familiar  to  me." 

"  It  is  familiar  to  everyone,"  said  old  Mr.  Verinder 
rather  irritably,  and  his  son  sneered.  Eustace  had  a 
trick  of  sneering  and  saying  pointed  things,  in  a  polite 
Oxford  manner  on  which  he  had  superimposed  a  slight 
veneer  of  ofEcialness. 

"  To  begin  with,"  said  Mr.  Williams,  "  he  is  a  mar- 
ried man." 

"  Yes,  I  knew  that,"  said  Mr.  "Verinder. 

"  Oh,  you  did?     But  he  is  not  living  with  his  wife." 

"  So  I  understood." 

"  They  have  been  separated  for  years  —  and  there 
is  a  reason."  And  Mr.  Williams  explained  how  he  had 
found  it  all  in  his  book.  "  I  have  it  all  here  under  my 
hand  " ;  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  useful  volume, 
lying  there  on  the  table.  "  As  soon  as  you  told  me  the 
name  it  aroused  associations  in  my  memory  —  apart 
from  his  public  performances,  you  know.  There  was  a 
law  suit  —  years  ago  —  quite  an  important  case.  Mrs. 
Dyke  proved  to  be  out  of  her  mind  —  immediately  after 
the  wedding  —  and  Dyke  tried  to  get  the  marriage 
annulled,  on  the  grounds  that  her  people  had  deceived 
him.     He  failed  of  course." 

Mr.  Verinder  had  not  known  about  the  madness,  and 
he  sat  frowning  and  brooding  over  it.  Then  presently 
he  asked  what  Mr.  Williams  had  discovered  about  the 
man  himself. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Williams,  "  I  have  his  whole  record 


70  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

here,"  And  he  began  to  read  from  a  paper  of  notes, 
saying  that  Anthony  Dyke  left  Africa  for  Australia  in 
such  and  such  a  year;  was  thanked  by  the  government 
of  Queensland  for  explorations  in  the  interior  of  the 
continent  in  the  year  1885;  and  in  1887  made  his  first 
Antarctic  cruise,  which  resulted  in  the  discovery  of  the 
island  now  known  as  Anthony  Dyke  Land.  It  was  of 
course  all  in  the  books,  and  Mr.  Verinder,  who  already 
knew  it  by  heart,  interrupted  very  irritably. 

"Yes,  yes,  ^-es.  No  more  that  that?  Very  good." 
Then,  after  exchanging  a  glance  with  Eustace,  he  said, 
"  Williams,  the  fact  is  —  Frankly,  our  trouble  is  this. 
He  is  paying  undesirable  attentions  to  my  daughter." 

"  Oh,  realh'  ?  "  Mr.  Williams  showed  suitable  dis- 
tress as  well  as  surprise,  and  he  looked  across  at  the 
bookcases.     "Which  of  your  daughters.'*" 

"  My  unmarried  daughter." 

"  Oh,  really?     Miss  Emmeline!  " 

"  Yes.     What  would  you  advise  me  to  do?  " 

"  All,  that's  somewhat  difficult  to  say.  Off-hand,  I 
should  scarcely  like  — " 

And  another  look  given  by  Mr.  Williams  to  the  book- 
shelves was  that  of  a  timid  swimmer  who  feels  deep 
water  under  him  and  sees  the  solid  shore  fast  receding. 
"  From  what  you  have  let  fall  —  well,  so  little  to  go 
on,  from  what  you  have  let  fall." 

Mr.  Verinder  let  everything  fall,  and  pressed  for 
counsel. 

And  then  Mr.  Williams,  bracing  himself  to  the  effort 
and  striking  out  boldly,  advised  that  in  his  opinion 
Dyke  should  be  at  once  tackled. 

"Tackled?"  said  Mr.  Verinder.  "What  do  you 
mean  by  tackled?  " 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  71 

Mr.  Williams  meant  brought  to  book,  called  to 
account,  and  so  forth ;  and  he  said  something  that  jMr. 
Verinder  grasped  at  because  it  echoed  a  hope  that  he 
was  still  glad  not  to  abandon  altogether.  Mr.  Williams 
considered  that,  although  there  had  been  impropriety  in 
Dyke's  attitude,  they  might  be  very  wrong  in  assuming 
that  he  really  entertained  bad  motives. 

"  Why  jump  to  the  conclusion  that  he  intends  harm? 
Tackle  him,  and  he  himself  may  express  regret  and  dis- 
continue the  annoyance.  Would  you  wish  me  to  write 
him  a  letter?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Verinder.  "  But  perhaps  an  inter- 
view here,  in  your  presence?  " 

Mr.  Williams,  not  taking  to  this  idea,  suggested  that 
it  would  be  better  to  get  hold  of  Dyke  informally ;  and 
after  further  talk  it  was  decided  that  Eustace  Verinder 
should  go  to  him  not  for  the  real  tackling,  but  for  a  pre- 
liminary skirmish  in  which  an  interview  with  the  young 
lady's  father  should  be  arranged. 

"  You  know  him  personally  ?  "  asked  Mr.  WilHams. 

"  No,"  said  Eustace,  sneering  slightly.  "  As  yet  I 
have  not  had  the  privilege  of  setting  eyes  on  this  gentle- 
man." 

"  One  moment,"  said  Mr.  Williams,  picking  up  the 
notes.  "  I  have  his  address  here.  It  is  care  of  his 
bankers  —  a  bank  in  Fleet  Street." 

But  the  Verinders  were  better  informed.  Dyke's 
visiting  cards  told  them  that  he  belonged  to  a  club 
in  Pall  Mall  —  one  of  the  oldest  and  best  clubs  in  the 
street. 

"When  will  you  go  there?  "  asked  Mr.  Williams. 

"  Now,"  said  Eustace  resolutely. 

He  parted  with  his  father  in  Cockspur  Street,  and 
strolled  on  to  Pall  Mall  by  himself. 


72  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

It  was  now  what  journalists  of  those  da^^s  called  the 
apotheosis  of  the  London  season;  what  was  then  con- 
sidered a  flood  of  traffic  came  pouring  down  Waterloo 
Place ;  large  open  carriages  with  a  mother  and  one 
daughter  on  the  back  seat,  and  a  red  book  and  another 
daughter  on  the  front  seat,  swept  across  to  and  from 
Carlton  House  Terrace,  while  splendid  padded  veterans 
at  the  corner  outside  the  Senior  and  sedate  members  of 
the  Government  outside  the  Athenasum  took  off  their 
silk  hats  or  even  kissed  the  tips  of  their  gloved  fingers. 
The  pavements  of  Pall  Mall  were  full  of  gentlemen  in 
black  coats  and  top  hats,  with  here  and  there  a  white 
waistcoat  and  a  button-hole  to  light  up  the  throng;  the 
sentry  in  scarlet  and  bearskin  outside  the  War  Office 
stood  presenting  arms  to  the  passage  of  a  field  officer; 
and  one  had  a  sensation  of  the  further  glories  at  the 
end  of  the  street  —  Marlborough  House,  with  the 
Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales  perhaps  just  emerging 
from  the  gates,  the  old  palace  where  a  brilliant  levee 
had  taken  place  that  morning,  the  drive  shaded  by 
close-standing  elms  along  which  people  drove  to  day- 
light drawing-rooms  —  an  impression  of  the  leisurely 
pomp,  the  well-ordered  stately  calm  of  the  whole  realm. 

It  was  1895,  essentially  yesterday,  and  yet,  if  judged 
by  external  aspect  alone,  another  world  —  the  world 
in  which  people  behaved  with  dignity,  looked  pleasant, 
and  never  did  objectionable  things.  Eustace  Verinder, 
tall,  dark,  already  bald  under  his  silk  hat,  looking  like 
the  cabinet-minister  that  he  intended  later  on  to  be, 
formed  a  small  but  harmonious  part  of  this  world ;  and 
his  blood  boiled  tepidly  at  the  thought  that  any  in- 
truder should  dare  at  once  to  violate  the  governing  code 
of  good  manners  and  menace  his  sister's  fair  name. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  73 

As  he  approached  Dyke's  club  an  amazingly  incon- 
gruous figure  came  down  its  steps.  It  was  a  tall  big 
man  in  a  sombrero  hat,  with  a  canvas  wallet  slung  over 
his  back  and  a  long  staff  in  his  hand ;  he  looked  like  a 
pilgrim,  like  a  youthful  Tolstoy,  like  anything  strange 
and  odd  and  absurdly  out  of  place.  Eustace  noticed 
the  outlandish  dun  colour  of  his  flannel  suit,  the  huge 
collar  of  his  flannel  shirt  flapping  over  his  jacket  and 
all  open  at  the  hairy  throat,  and,  feeling  shocked  at 
such  a  moving  outrage  to  convention,  stared  after  him 
as  he  stalked  across  the  roadway  and  disappeared  into 
St.  James  Square. 

The  hall  porter  told  Eustace  that  Mr.  Dyke  had  just 
left  the  club.  "  Just  this  minute,  sir.  Shall  I  send  the 
boy  to  see  if  he  can  catch  him?  " 

Eustace  said  no,  it  did  not  matter.  He  felt  that  he 
ought  to  have  guessed,  after  all  his  father  had  told  him. 
But  it  was  so  far  worse  than  one  could  imagine.  He 
went  away  feeling  profoundly  disgusted.  To  dress  like 
that,  in  London,  at  half  past  three  p.m.,  with  the  season 
at  its  apotheosis ! 

Anthony  Dyke  had,  in  fact,  dressed  like  that  only 
because  he  was  going  for  a  walk.  He  felt  that,  yielding 
to  civilization's  enticements,  he  had  been  for  some  time 
sitting  too  much,  eating  too  much,  above  all  else  sleep- 
ing too  much,  and  he  needed  a  walk.  He  had  therefore 
slipped  on  what  seemed  to  him  very  suitable  attire  for 
the  purpose,  gone  to  the  club  coffee-room  to  fill  his 
wallet  with  some  fruit  and  a  few  rolls  of  bread  —  and 
now  was  off.  Naturally,  with  the  hero  of  the  Andes,  a 
walk  meant  a  walk.  He  would  go  straight  ahead,  over 
Hampstead  Heath  into  Hertfordshire,  round  that 
county  and  any  other  counties  adjacent;  he  would  walk 


74  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

all  night,*  and  probably  all  day  to-morrow ;  then  he 
would  come  back,  have  a  bath,  and  feel  thoroughly  re- 
freshed —  the  limbs  loosened  by  gentle  exercise,  civili- 
zation's rust  rubbed  out  of  his  joints  and  the  mind 
clarified  by  avoidance  of  slumber. 


CHAPTER   V 

RATHER  less  than  a  week  after  this  Dyke  came  to 
Prince's  Gate  by  appointment.  All  the  pre- 
liminaries for  the  interview  had  been  completed 
by  letters  and  in  the  most  courteous  manner  on  both 
sides.  Greatly  as  the  Verinders  hated  him,  they  felt 
that  there  was  no  other  wa}-  of  doing  things.  Mr. 
Verinder,  then,  politely  expressing  a  wish  to  see  Mr. 
Dyke  for  the  purpose  of  discussing  "  certain  matters," 
Mr.  Dyke  had  replied  that  he  was  entirely  at  Mr. 
Verinder's  service  and  begged  that  place  and  time 
should  be  named.  Mr.  Verinder  named  his  own  house 
and  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening;  choosing  an  evening 
on  which  Emmeline  could  be  conveniently  banished  from 
the  premises. 

Mrs.  Verinder  had  taken  her  to  dine  quietly  with 
Mrs.  Bell  in  Queen's  Gate,  and  afterwards  they  and 
their  hostess  were  going  to  a  concert  given  by  an  elderly 
widower.  The  widower  had  hired  the  Grosvenor 
Gallery  for  his  concert ;  it  would  be  a  grand  and  a  late 
affair;  thus  Mr.  Verinder  need  not  apprehend  the 
return  of  his  ladies  until  long  after  midnight.  The 
docility  with  which  Emmeline  agreed  to  these  arrange- 
ments had  made  him  wonder  suspiciously  if  she  had 
received  confirmative  instructions  from  the  enemy.  He 
trusted,  however,  that  this  was  not  so. 

It  was  now  a  quarter  to  nine,  and  he  and  Eustace  and 
Mrs.  Verinder's  brother,  Colonel  Gussie  Pollard,  were 

75 


76  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

seated  at  the  dinner  table  finishing  their  dessert.  The 
presence  of  their  brother-in-law  and  uncle  bothered  Mr. 
Verinder,  but  there  had  seemed  to  be  no  way  of  avoiding 
it ;  for  his  own  convenience  he  was  staying  in  the  house, 
he  now  had  learned  aU  about  their  trouble,  and  his 
sister  said  she  thought  he  would  add  weight  to  their 
side  of  the  discussion. 

"  I  should  not  scruple  myself  to  tell  him  it  isn't 
cricket,"  said  Colonel  Gussie,  beginning  to  peel  a 
second  nectarine. 

He  was  one  of  those  very  large,  radiantly  smooth 
elderly  men  who  take  inordinate  pains  in  cleaning, 
polishing,  and  decorating  their  persons.  The  dress- 
suit  of  Colonel  Gussie,  his  white  waistcoat,  his  jewelled 
buttons,  studs,  and  little  chains,  suggested  that  he  felt 
he  could  never  do  quite  enough  for  himself;  and,  as  if 
for  this  reason,  liis  face  was  garnished  with  every  small 
blob  of  white  hair  that  can  be  grown  on  a  face  — 
moustache,  whisker,  imperial,  even  something  under  the 
plump  chin,  but  each  sample  small  and  nicely  trimmed, 
and  all  of  it  neatly  divided.  Through  the  white  hair 
his  complexion  showed  with  the  silvery  pinkness  of  an 
uncooked  salmon.  For  the  rest,  he  had  a  genial  yet 
grand  manner,  was  not  disposed  to  think  evil  of  any- 
body, and  when  compelled  to  censure  knew  no  worse 
verdict  than  to  say  that  a  thing  was  not  cricket. 

If  pushed  beyond  that  mark  and  as  it  were  forced  to 
put  on  the  black  cap  and  pass  a  final  sentence  of  con- 
demnation, he  said  the  thing  was  un-English. 

Mr.  Verinder  secretly  objected  to  his  insistence  on 
calling  himself  colonel,  since  he  was  not  a  regular 
soldier  but  merely  in  command  of  a  militia  or  volunteer 
battalion  attached  to  one  of  the  city  regiments ;  and  he 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  77 

thought  it  childish  of  him  to  like  to  be  addressed  as 
Gussie  instead  of  Augustus. 

"  Wouldn't  be  playing  the  game,"  said  Colonel 
Gussie,  as  he  finished  his  nectarine  with  relish. 

Then,  after  saying  he  knew  that  Emmeline  was  not 
contaminated  with  anything  of  this  kind,  he  spoke  in 
disapproval  of  these  modern  notions  that  were  tending 
to  upset  the  feminine  half  of  humanity  — '  "  emancipa- 
tion," "  the  new  woman,"  "  equal  rights,"  and  so  on. 
It  was  one  thing  to  like  advanced  education  and  keep 
yourself  "  up-to-date  " ;  but  this  impressionist  art,  this 
Yellow  Book,  and  all  these  "  problem  plays  "  —  well, 
they  did  no  good,  did  they?  There  was  too  much  of  the 
spirit  of  revolt  in  the  air. 

Eustace  smoked  his  cigarette  and  stared  at  the 
ceiling.  Mr.  Verinder  allowed  his  brother-in-law  to 
talk,  only  saying  once,  as  if  to  himself,  "  Freedom,  yes, 
so  long  as  it  does  not  degenerate  into  license." 

Then  the  butler  came  in,  and  informed  them  that  Mr. 
Dyke  was  upstairs. 

The  colonel  rose  at  once,  drawing  himself  to  his  full 
height,  which  was  at  least  six  feet  three  inches,  and 
looking  magnificent. 

"  Come  on,"  he  said ;  and  they  all  three  went  upstairs 
to  that  room  behind  the  music-room  —  the  room  that 
contained  the  smiling  landscapes  by  Leader.  Mr. 
Verinder  had  ordered  that  Dyke  should  be  shown  into 
this  room,  because  he  felt  it  was  large  enough  and  yet 
not  too  large  for  their  purposes. 

In  spite  of  the  hatred,  the  interview  opened  with 
extreme  propriety  and  politeness,  but  Mr.  "Verinder  was 
at  once  oppressed  by  its  incredible  fantastic  nature.  It 
was  as  though  he  had  not  been  reall}^  Mr.  Verinder, 


78  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

here,  among  these  smiling  landscapes,  in  Prince's  Gate, 
but  a  person  wrenched  out  of  a  land  of  probabilities  and 
launched  on  an  ocean  of  the  impossible. 

Dyke  was  in  evening  clothes,  and  perhaps  recently 
his  hair  had  been  cut  and  his  beard  pointed;  at  any 
rate,  that  aspect  of  Tolstoy  or  the  pilgrim  had  entirely 
vanished.  He  was  standing  on  the  hearth-rug  when 
they  came  in,  and  he  did  not  move;  he  stood  there,  a 
tall  commanding  figure ;  handsome  too  —  with  his 
strong  nose  and  high  cheek-bones  —  in  a  careless,  dare- 
devil, but  not  swash-bucklering  style;  not  really  taller 
than  the  others,  certainly  less  tall  and  very  much  less 
round  than  the  colonel,  and  yet  somehow  dominating 
them  and  the  whole  room. 

Eustace  understood  that  they  had  made  a  mistake  in 
procedure.  It  was  a  trifle  —  no  consequence,  of  course 
—  but  it  vexed  him  to  think  how  very  obviously  they 
should  have  had  him  brought  into  a  room  where  they 
were  sitting,  so  that  he  would  have  seemed  like  a  person 
summoned  before  a  tribunal,  instead  of  establishing 
him  here  by  himself  and  then  coming  to  him,  to  be 
received  by  him  as  though  they  were  a  deputation. 

"  Will  you  smoke?  "  said  Eustace  curtly,  and  he 
opened  the  silver  cigarette  box  that  he  had  brought  up 
from  the  dinner  table. 

With  a  gravely  courteous  gesture  and  smile  —  the 
gesture  indeed  almost  Spanish  and  antiquated  in  its 
courtesy  —  Dyke  indicated  that  he  preferred  not  to 
smoke. 

"  My  son  —  Eustace,"  said  Mr.  Verinder.  "  And 
my  brother-in-law  —  Colonel  Pollard." 

"  Miss  Verinder's  godfather  too,"  said  the  colonel, 
seating  himself. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  79 

Dyke  ignored  the  second  introduction;  not  rudely, 
but  as  if  all  that  pinkness  and  whiteness  had  made  no 
impression  on  him.  He  appeared  to  be  quite  unaware 
of  them,  and  throughout  this  first  interview  spoke  not  a 
single  word  to  their  possessor. 

"  I  was  admiring  that  picture,"  he  said  with  another 
gesture,  and  he  smiled  again.  "  Mr.  Verinder,  I  don't 
pretend  to  be  a  judge  of  art,  but  I  must  say,  that  pic- 
ture took  my  fancy  enormously.  So  cleverly  painted  — 
all  the  autumn  tints  of  the  foliage,  and  the  effect  of  the 
sunshine  on  the  lake."  He  said  this  as  if  wishing  to 
put  them  at  their  ease  and  allow  them  time.  "  A  very 
charming  picture  —  in  my  uneducated  opinion." 

"  It  is  by  Leader,  R.  A.,"  said  Mr.  Verinder  simply. 
**  I  have  several  of  them." 

He  had  sat  down  at  a  table  on  which  were  blotting 
pads  with  tortoise-shell  covers,  boxes  of  porcelain,  a 
gold  photograph  frame,  and  a  massive  ivory  paper- 
knife;  picking  up  the  knife  and  toying  with  it,  he  con- 
veyed the  intimation  that  he  wished  Mr.  Dyke  to  sit 
upon  the  amber  satin  sofa  which  faced  the  table  at 
about  two  yards  distance. 

Dyke,  immediately  obeying,  went  to  the  sofa  and  sat 
down. 

Eustace  had  gone  to  the  double  doors  and  he  opened 
one  of  them,  disclosing  the  music-room  as  a  sombre  and 
empty  vault.  He  closed  the  door  again  and  turning 
from  it  said  that,  since  they  were  here  for  a  delicate 
confidential  talk,  it  was  just  as  well  to  make  sure  they 
would  not  be  overheard.  This,  as  he  had  intended,  set 
the  thing  going. 

Mr.  Verinder,  balancing  the  paper-knife,  drove  at  the 
heart  of  the  matter  and  spoke  of  "  these  attentions  and 


80  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

meetings."  He  said  he  felt  sure  that  Djke  would  him- 
self see  that  they  must  cease. 

"  Mr.  Verinder,"  said  Dyke,  gravely  and  very  gently, 
*'  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  say  that  I  would  sooner 
die  than  injure  your  daughter." 

"  Just  so,"  said  Mr.  "Verinder.  "  I  was  quite  pre- 
pared to  believe  so,  but  — " 

D3'ke  interrupted  him.  "  No,  I  would  rather  kill 
mj'self  man}^  times  than  harm  a  hair  of  her  head."  As 
he  said  this,  not  only  his  voice  but  his  face  softened  in 
the  most  extraordinary  manner ;  and  Mr.  Verinder  was 
pleased  with  the  man  for  sa^'ing  it.  But  Dyke  went  on, 
with  his  blue  e3'es  fixed  on  Mr.  Verinder  and  his  voice 
becoming  a  mere  whisper.  "  Not  one  pretty  dark  hair 
of  her  sweet  little  head." 

The  outrageous  use  of  such  adjectives  made  Mr. 
Verinder  tremble  from  wrath ;  but,  with  difficulty  con- 
trolling himself,  he  spoke  in  a  firm  quiet  tone. 

"  If  there  is  any  meaning  in  what  you  are  saying, 
Mr.  Dyke,  you  will  give  me  an  assurance  that  no 
further  molestation  will  occur." 

Dyke  remained  silent  for  a  little  while,  and  during  the 
pause  Gussie  was  heard  to  mention  the  national 
pastime  —  "  Not  cricket,  what !  "  D^'ke  did  not  seem 
to  hear  him;  he  was  now  looking  at  the  parquetry. 
"  Mr.  Verinder,"  he  said,  looking  up,  *'  this  is  not 
plain-sailing,  it  is  complicated.  I  suppose  you  know 
that  Emmie  — " 

Mr.  Verinder  flapped  with  the  paper-knife  and  grew 
hot  and  red.  The  use  of  his  daughter's  christian  name, 
the  use  of  a  grossl}^  familiar  abbreviation  of  that  name! 
Not  a  member  of  the  family  ever  called  her  anything 
shorter  than  Emmeline.  But  Dyke  went  on,  as  if 
oblivious  of  his  offence. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  81 

"  Emmie  has  done  me  the  honour  —  the  very  great 
honour  —  to  become  attached  to  me.  Mr.  Verinder, 
you  do  know  that,  don't  you?  Emmie  —  God  bless  her 
—  has  become  very  fond  of  me." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Mr.  Verinder  wrath- 
fully;  and  both  the  colonel  and  Eustace  made  move- 
ments. 

Dyke's  manner  changed,  and  he  spoke  with  a  sudden 
biting  hardness.  "  Unless,"  he  said,  "  you  admit  that, 
it  is  useless  for  us  to  attempt  to  discuss  the  situation." 

Mr.  Verinder  said  he  would  not  admit  it;  certainly 
not.  But,  on  consideration,  he  said  he  would  go  as  far 
as  possible  to  meet  Dyke's  argument ;  he  would  admit  as 
much  as  this  —  that,  to  some  extent.  Dyke  had  unfor- 
tunately fascinated  the  imagination  of  her;  against  a 
young  inexperienced  girl  Dyke  had  employed  the  ad- 
vantage given  by  age,  the  glamour  of  romance,  and  so 
forth ;  and  he  wound  up  to  the  effect  that  two  hundred 
years  ago  it  would  have  been  said  that  Dyke  had  thrown 
a  spell  over  her. 

Dyke  answered,  sadly,  that  he  had  thrown  no  spell. 
The  first  evening  he  had  certainly  told  her  a  few  of  his 
adventures. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Eustace,  sneering.  "  Othello  and 
Desdemona  " ;  and  he  quoted  a  few  words  of  the  famous 
speech.  "  '  Hair-breadth  escapes  —  antres  vast  and 
deserts  idle.'  But  then  Othello  wasn't  a  married  man. 
Unfortunately  you  are." 

Dyke  had  now  risen  from  the  sofa.  He  walked  about 
the  room  and  began  to  make  a  noise.  To  Mr.  Verinder, 
in  the  midst  of  his  anger  and  distress,  the  striding  up 
and  down  of  Dyke  was  a  fresh  discomfort,  a  new  sur- 
face-sting.    If  anybody  walked  about  rooms  in  that 


82  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

house,  it  should  be  he,  the  master  of  the  house;  It  was 
a  habit  of  his.  No  one  else  had  the  right  to  take  the 
floor  on  him. 

"  Of  course  I'm  married,"  said  Dyke,  loudly,  almost 
shouting.  "  How  can  I  help  that.^^  It's  my  misfortune, 
not  my  fault.  Besides,  I  told  her  so.  I  told  her  so 
at  once." 

"  She  doesn't  weigh  the  consequences,"  said  the 
father. 

"  She  has  weighed  them,"  Dyke  shouted.  Then  he 
went  on  more  quietly,  but  with  the  incisive  hardness 
that  was  almost  worse  than  noise.  "  Besides,  she's  over 
twenty-one;  she  has  independent  means — why  shouldn't 
she  do  what  she  likes?     She's  her  own  mistress." 

"  Exactly.  But  we  don't  want  her  to  be  your 
mistress,"  said  the  sneering  brother.  "  That's  just 
what  it  amounts  to." 

From  this  point  onwards  the  thing  was  devoid  of 
hope;  and  they  knew  it  really.  Dyke  made  more  and 
more  noise;  he  rumpled  his  hair,  brandished  his  arms, 
broke  his  shirt  front ;  and  the  other  three  felt  their  help- 
lessness. How  could  they  tackle  this  hulking  ruffian, 
this  savage  in  dress  clothes  who  disregarded  all  rules, 
who  cared  nothing  for  civilization?  They  were  three 
tame  men,  and  utterly  impotent  against  a  wild  man. 
He  overwhelmed  their  minds  by  his  unchecked  fierce- 
ness ;  but  it  should  be  noted  that  they  had  not  any 
unworthy  physical  fear  of  him,  although  Eustace,  more 
particularly,  felt  that  at  any  moment  Dyke  might 
strike  him.  That  odd,  hideously  vulgar  expression, 
a  word  and  a  blow,  echoed  in  the  troubled  thoughts  of 
Eustace.  A  blow,  a  struggle,  a  disgraceful  episode,  at 
any  moment  now. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  83 

They  appealed  to  his  better  feeling,  and  he  seemed 
to  have  none.  They  spoke  of  law  and  decency,  and  he 
inveighed  against  the  cursed  law.  A  wife  that  wasn't 
a  wife,  but  tied  to  her  irrevocably  —  a  millstone  round 
his  neck  —  "  Poor  unhappy  lady,  God  forgive  me  for 
speaking  of  her  like  that.  She^s  not  to  blame.  No,  no, 
it's  the  law's  to  blame." 

As  he  said  all  this  he  was  banging  on  the  table  in 
front  of  Mr.  Verinder,  so  forcibly  that  the  porcelain 
boxes  danced  and  the  gold  frame  fell  over. 

"  It's  fellows  like  you  who  make  these  infernal  laws. 
Why  don't  you  alter  them?  Why  do  you  allow  people 
to  be  tormented  and  bedevilled  because  that  sort  of 
thing  pleased  a  pack  of  dirty  verminous  monks  hundreds 
of  years  ago  ?  Poor  little  innocent  Emmie  too !  I  feel 
the  cruelty  of  her  situation  just  as  much  as  you  do  — 
and  a  dashed  sight  more.  It's  monstrous  and  iniqui- 
tous " ;  and  he  strode  away  from  the  table  waving 
his  arms. 

In  every  lull  Mr.  Verinder  said  the  same  sort  of  thing 
—  that  facts  were  facts,  laws  laws,  proprieties  pro- 
prieties. "  You  must  see  it,  Mr.  Dyke.  On  reflection, 
you  must  see  it.  I  decline  to  believe  that  you  yourself 
will  wish  to  continue  — " 

Dyke  swore  that  he  had  no  choice ;  he  would  continue, 
he  could  not  stop. 

"  What  do  you  propose  to  do  then.?  "  asked  Mr. 
Verinder. 

*'  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  "  asked  Dyke. 

Mr.  Verinder  said  he  wanted  Dyke  to  give  her  up 
altogether. 

"  Never!  "  Dyke  roared  at  them  now. 

So  the  thing  went  on.    Eustace  was  livid  with  rage. 


84  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

trembling.  The  colonel,  unnoticed,  chattered  and 
fumed.  Mr.  Verinder  felt  possessed  by  that  sensation 
of  the  dreamlike  nature,  the  sheer  fantasticness  of  it  all 
—  this  quiet  room,  with  the  loud  voices  in  it,  servants 
probably  listening  on  the  stairs ;  yet  also  the  awareness 
of  the  framework  of  society  all  round  them  still  un- 
broken; his  friends  next  door  enjoying  a  little  music 
after  dinner  in  one  of  their  drawing-rooms,  or  playing 
a  rubber  of  whist  for  moderate  points ;  a  small  evening- 
party  at  Number  Ten;  above  ever^'thing,  the  Albert 
Hall  such  a  little  distance  away,  with  a  ballad  concert 
as  usual ;  —  only  in  here  this  raging  lunatic  trying  to 
turn  the  whole  world  upside  down.  But  perhaps  the 
colonel's  agitation  and  horror  were  even  more  painful 
than  what  his  brother-in-law  underwent.  To  him  the 
thing  was  so  appallingly  obnoxious,  so  immeasurably 
far  from  the  spirit  of  the  game  he  worshipped.  He 
continued  to  say  it ;  and  close  to  his  lips,  contained  but 
certain  to  be  released  if  the  strain  lasted,  there  hovered 
the  crushing  black-cap  epithet  —  un-English. 

*'  I  shan't  give  her  up." 

Dyke  was  blustering  fiercely  as  he  moved  here  and 
there.  Once  he  threatened  Eustace,  saying  that  if 
there  was  any  attemjDt  to  bully  Emmie,  he  would  break 
every  bone  in  his  body.  Finally  he  left  them,  mentally 
shattered. 

He  was  gone,  right  out  of  the  house. 

Then,  quite  late,  after  eleven-thirty,  there  was  a  tre- 
mendous sustained  ringing  of  the  front-door  bell. 
What  could  it  be?  The  house  on  fire?  Mr.  Verinder, 
half  unrobed,  hurried  down  from  his  dressing-room  to 
the  first  floor,  and  looked  over  the  gilt  balustrade  into 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  86 

the  hall.  It  was  the  man  come  back  again  —  but 
altered,  strange,  in  a  totally  different  mood.  He  forced 
his  way  past  the  butler,  past  Eustace,  past  Gussie,  and 
shouted  upward. 

"  Verinder,  I  must  talk  to  you.  Verinder  —  my  dear 
fellow  —  I  can't  sleep  to-night,  until  jou  and  I  have 
settled  it." 

And  he  came  up  the  stairs;  with  Eustace  and  the 
colonel  following,  both  of  them  really  scared  now. 

"  Go  in  there,"  said  Eustace,  and,  while  Dyke  entered 
the  darkened  room,  he  whispered  to  his  father :  "  If  he 
is  violent  I  shall  send  for  the  police." 

Mr.  Verinder  ran  up  for  a  dressing-jacket,  came 
dawn  and  sat  at  the  same  table,  looking  queer  without 
his  collar.  As  Eustace  switched  on  the  lamps  the 
Leaders  sprang  into  life,  smiling  at  them  all  again. 
Dyke  threw  his  slouch  hat  and  an  Inverness  cape  to  the 
floor,  stood  with  his  hair  absurdly  ruffled;  then  sank 
upon  the  amber  satin  sofa. 

"  I  have  been  walking  about,  feeling  half  mad,"  he 
began  in  a  humble  tone,  then  paused.  His  face  was 
strangely  pale,  as  though  all  the  blood  had  gone  from 
it ;  and  they  noticed,  during  the  pause,  that  he  seemed 
suddenly  to  shiver  or  gasp  for  breath.  "  Look  here. 
I  want  to  apologise  to  you  —  Out  there,  trying  to 
think,  I  felt  that  I  deserved  to  be  kicked.  Anybody 
would  say  you're  quite  right  —  from  your  point  of 
view."  And  he  looked  at  them  most  piteously.  "  I'm 
sorry  I  made  a  noise.  But  please  make  allowances. 
This  —  this  entanglement  —  or  whatever  you  like  to 
call  it  —  is  so  tragically  serious  for  both  of  us.  I 
mean  for  her  as  well  as  for  me.  That's  why  I  beg  you 
you  to  bear  with  me  —  to  reach  an  understanding,  a 


86  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

solution  —  to  do  anything  rather  than  just  quarrel 
about  it.  If,  to  begin  with,  3^ou  can  only  put  yourself 
in  my  place  " ;  and  he  seemed  to  be  wringing  his  hands. 
*'  Verinder,  I  want  that  girl.  I  simply  can't  live  with- 
out her." 

He  said  these  last  words  in  a  hoarse  whisper  that  was 
more  disturbing  to  hear  than  if  it  had  been  a  loud  cry 
of  pain.  It  jarred  upon  the  ear,  it  set  one's  teeth  on 
edge;  and  the  expression  of  his  haggard  face  added  to 
the  physical  commotion  he  produced,  even  if  one  did  not 
think  of  what  he  had  said.  The  colonel  felt  the  com- 
motion all  through  his  stout  body ;  Eustace  held  up  an 
arm,  as  if  calling  for  invisible  cabs. 

"  Verinder !  '  He  was  perceptibly  shivering  —  a 
tremor  that  made  his  limbs  jerk.  "Verinder  —  don't 
you  see?  This  is  tearing  me  to  pieces.  Surely  you  can 
comprehend?  You  were  young  once  —  under  forty, 
full  of  life.  Perhaps  you  were  unhappy  too  —  as  I 
have  been  —  lonely  —  Didn't  you  ever  feel  the  long- 
ing to  make  a  girl  your  own?  " 

Mr.  Verinder,  once  more  white  with  anger,  shouted 
in  his  turn.  "  Will  you  remember  that  I  am  her 
father." 

"  I  know.  Forgive  m.e.  I  express  myself  badly." 
And  he  sat  staring  at  the  carpet,  and  shivering  as 
though  some  fever  of  the  jungle  again  had  him  in  its 
clutch.  They  watched  him;  and  when  he  raised  his 
head  they  saw  it  for  moment  convulsed  and  twitching. 
He  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  and  then  continued  to 
speak.  "  You  and  I  must  have  it  out,  mustn't  we?  We 
can't  leave  it  all  in  doubt.  I  must  settle  it  before  I 
sail  for  South  America  " ;  and  he  gave  a  groan.  "  I 
Vrant  that  girl.    I  can't  live  without  her.     She  has  be» 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  87 

come  the  whole  world  to  me.  She  wants  me,  too.  And, 
remember,  other  people  mayn't  want  her  like  that  —  I 
mean,  as  I  do."  As  he  went  on  it  seemed  to  them,  that 
delirium  had  set  in.  He  was  raving  at  them  now.  "  We 
can't  do  without  each  other.  Well,  that's  love.  Love! 
What  is  it?  I  can't  say.  But  no  one's  to  blame  for  it. 
A  chance?  A  fatality?  Some  day  these  things  will  be 
scientifically  ascertained,  and  then  the  accident  of  love 
will  be  avoidable  —  to  be  guarded  against.  But  it  isn't 
now." 

He  paused  as  if  for  breath,  and  cast  glances  round 
the  room  before  he  went  on  again. 

"  Verinder,  I  know  you  want  to  do  what's  right  and 
proper.  You're  a  man  of  high  principle  —  no  one 
could  doubt  that.  Only  don't  be  hide-bound  —  or  tied 
down  by  prejudice.  Look  the  thing  in  the  face.  I  sec 
the  obstacles,  plainly,  from  your  point  of  view  —  but 
somehow  we  must  get  over  them.  You  and  your  friends 
are  people  of  the  world  —  you  have  all  sorts  of  social 
riddles  at  your  fingers'  ends.  Can't  you  find  an  answer? 
Can't  you  cut  the  knot  ?  If  we  could  only  tide  over  — 
get  round  the  obstacle  —  then  we  should  come  to  day- 
light one  day.  No,"  he  cried  forcibly.  "  I  mustn't  say 
that  —  I  mustn't  hint  that  my  unhappy  wife  may  die 
and  cut  the  knot  herself.  Besides,  it  isn't  true.  Her 
physical  health  is  excellent.  She'll  probably  live  to 
a  hundred  " ;  and  once  more  he  groaned.  **  But  one 
thing  is  certain,  Verinder.  You  can't  say  we  must  be 
left  quite  without  hope  —  and  remain  divided  for  ever. 
Oh,  no,  that  would  be  inhuman.  Neither  of  us  could 
submit.  Verinder,  my  dear  fellow,  it's  in  your  power 
to  make  it  hard  for  us  or  easy.  Don't  make  it  hard 
for  us." 


88  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

AU  this  last  part  of  his  appeal  had  seemed  to  them 
worse  than  delirium,  grotesque  and  terrible  in  its  near- 
ness to  a  kind  of  perverted  impossible  logic.  Now  he 
seemed  suddenly  to  collapse  on  the  sofa  in  a  fit  of  pro- 
found dejection.  His  back  stooped,  his  hands  dangled 
down  between  his  knees,  his  head  subsided  almost  upon 
his  chest,  and  he  sighed  at  brief  intervals.  They 
watched  him,  as  if  spellbound. 

He  changed  his  attitude,  and  sat  now  with  an  elbow 
on  the  back  of  the  sofa  and  his  head  leaning  on  his 
hand ;  and  he  sighed,  as  if  sick  with  emotion. 

Then  there  occurred  what  was  perhaps  the  most 
astounding  incident  of  the  night.  The  colonel  had 
launched  his  last  word ;  now  he  darted  round  behind  the 
sofa,  bent  over  Dyke,  seized  his  shoulder,  and  shook 
him.  What  was  it?  Some  deep  invincible  instinct  of 
remote  antiquity  —  the  instinct  that  compels  the  tame 
animal  to  take  all  risks  and  flv  at  and  worry  the  wild 
beast  when  it  lies  prostrate  and  in  pain?  Or  was  it 
just  frenzy  and  disgust  aroused  in  the  colonel  by  the 
sight  and  the  sound  of  something  so  devastatingly  un- 
English.  But  Dj^ke,  plainly  supposing  that  the  action 
was  prompted  by  compassionate  s^^mpath}'',  spoke  to 
the  colonel  for  the  first  time,  and  in  tones  of  grateful 
affection. 

"  Thanks,  old  boy,"  said  Dyke ;  and  then,  as  the 
colonel  continued  to  shake  his  shoulder,  "  Don't  trouble, 
dear  old  chap.     I  shall  be  all  right  directly." 

The  colonel  dropped  his  hands  and  tottered  away 
from  the  sofa.  To  him  the  thing  had  become  like  the 
fourth  dimension,  or  the  fifth ;  beyond  the  range  of 
intellect,  brain-destroying.  He  thought  vaguely  that 
if  it  went  on  he  should  faint. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  89 

Mr.  Verinder  was  running  his  fingers  round  the  open 
neck  of  his  shirt.  He  felt  that  his  universe  had  crum- 
bled. He  felt  that  the  only  sane  thing  for  him  to  do 
would  be  to  speak  as  if  to  a  child,  and  say,  "Mr. 
Dyke,  stop  making  these  afflicted  noises;  get  up,  go 
home  to  bed,  and  don't  be  so  ridiculous."  He  would 
have  said  it  perhaps,  if  he  could.  But  strangely,  in- 
explicably, Mr.  Dyke  was  not  ridiculous;  he  was  still 
awe-inspiring  —  dreadful.  Yes,  that  was  the  word.  In 
the  language  of  the  locality,  the  man  had  made  a  dread- 
ful exhibition. 

He  got  up  presently,  without  being  told  to  do  so. 
"  It's  not  a  bit  of  good  my  making  promises  that  I 
can't  keep.    I've  made  one  promise  about  it  already  — 
to  my  father  —  and  I'll  keep  that.     My  father's  a 
clergyman  —  in  Devonshire." 

He  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Verinder,  gave  the  colonel 

a  wan  smile,  and  went.     Eustace  let  him  out,  watched 

by  Gussie ;  the  butler  standing  by,  looking  very  anxious. 

When  they  came  upstairs  again  Mr.  Verinder  was 

still  sitting  at  the  table. 

"  Do  you  think  Dyke  had  been  drinking?  "  he  asked, 
tapping  with  the  paper  knife. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Eustace. 
"  He  didn't  smell  of  alcohol,"  said  Gussie,  "  when  I 
stooped  over  him  on  the  sofa." 

"  That  makes  it  all  the  worse,"  said  Mr.  Verinder, 

stonily. 

"  Thank  goodness,"  said  Eustace,  "  that  mother  and 
Emmeline  didn't  come  back  before  we  had  got  rid  of 
him."    And  he  lit  a  cigarette  with  fingers  that  trembled. 

After  this  they  had  a  plain  perception  of  the  force 
they  were  up  against.     As  Mr.  Verinder  looked  at  the 


90  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

imposing  fa9ade  of  the  house,  he  felt  that,  solid  as  he 
had  always  considered  it  to  be,  it  afforded  a  frail 
protection.  He  sighed  as  he  drove  away  from  it  —  his 
menaced  stronghold,  his  undermined  fortress. 

He  went  once  again  to  see  Mr.  Williams  in  Spring 
Gardens,  but  without  any  hope  that  Mr.  Williams 
would  be  able  to  help  him. 

*'  What  can  one  do?  " 

Mr.  Williams  seemed  to  think  that  one  could  do 
nothing. 

"  You  mean  to  say,"  said  Mr.  Verinder,  frowning, 
"  that  if  I  know  this  man  intends  to  abduct  my 
daughter  — " 

"  Oh,  you  can  hardly  call  it  that,  I  think,"  said  Mr. 
Williams ;  and  he  moved  towards  his  book-shelves,  as  if 
with  the  intention  of  taking  out  the  letter  A  and  look- 
ing up  the  article  entitled  Abduction.  But  then  he 
was  mechanically  checked  by  something  already  in  his 
mind.  "By  the  way.  Miss  Verinder  herself  has  been 
here." 

"  She  has,  has  she?    What  for?  " 

"  To  ask  about  her  securities.  She  wants  all  papers 
sent  to  her  bank.  She  said  she  would  discontinue  our 
arrangements,  you  know,  and  henceforth  manage  her 
affairs  herself.  She  brought  her  maid  with  her,  and 
they  took  some  papers  I  gave  her  then  and  there 
straight  on  to  the  bank,  I  believe." 

Mr.  Verinder  thought  that  this  was  very  significant. 
He  said  it  suggested  premeditated  defiance  and  re- 
bellion. 

The  solicitor  said,  smiling  mildly,  that  she  had  not 
the  air  of  "  a  rebel."    No,  she  had  seemed  "  very  quiet 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  91 

and  sensible,"  and  he  somehow  implied  that  he  would 
like  to  venture  to  add  "  very  good-looking,  too." 

In  conclusion,  Mr.  Verinder  asked,  "  Would  you 
advise  me  to  have  her  watched  by  detectives?  " 

"  Oh,  surely  not?    What  could  be  gained  by  that?  " 

"  It  is  her  mother's  suggestion.  At  least  we  should 
then  know  her  movements  —  and  perhaps  some  of  his. 
He  alleges  that  he  means  soon  to  sail  for  South  America. 
Of  course,  if  one  knew  for  certain  that  he  was  out  of 
the  country!  If  we  did  do  it,  could  you  arrange  it 
for  us?  " 

Mr.  Williams  said  yes,  if  really  necessary;  but  he 
must  own  that  this  class  of  thing  was  not  in  his  line,  or 
in  the  line  of  the  firm. 

"  Then  I  will  not  trouble  you  further,"  said  Mr. 
Verinder  stiffly. 

"  Emmeline,"  he  said  that  afternoon,  or  on  an  after- 
noon very  near  to  it,  "  come  in  here,  please,  I  want  to 
speak  to  you." 

Mrs.  Verinder  had  given  him  a  warning;  he  was 
flushed,  angry,  uncomfortable,  as  he  stood  at  the 
dining-room  door  and  waited  for  his  daughter.  He 
spoke  sternly  now,  as  she  appeared  at  the  bottom  of  the 
staircase. 

*'  Father,  I  am  going  out." 

"  Going  out  as  late  as  this  ?  WTiy ,  it's  nearly  seven 
o'clock.  And  where's  your  maid?  Where's  that  girl 
—  where's  Louisa?  " 

I  don't  require  her.    I'm  not  going  far." 
No,  so  I  think."    He  made  her  come  into  the  dining- 
room,  and  he  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

She  was  wearing  a  queer  little  fashionable  hat  made 


02  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

of  chip  straw,  with  rosebud  ornaments,  and  a  white 
spotted  veil  neatly  drawn  under  her  chin;  her  dark 
simple  dress  was  of  the  kind  then  known  as  '*  tailor- 
made,"  fitting  close  to  the  waist,  but  enormously  wide 
at  the  shoulders ;  as  she  stood  looking  at  her  father 
and  quivering  in  anxiety,  she  had  that  gentle  inoffensive 
charm  of  feminine  prettiness  which  du  ^Maurier  was  at 
the  moment  drawing  so  cleverly. 

"  Father,  I  beg  you  not  to  detain  me.  I  have  an 
appointment." 

"  You  won't  keep  it.  Do  you  understand?  Sit  down. 
I  won't  allow  you  to  leave  this  room." 

"  Do  you  mean  you'll  use  force  to  prevent  me.'*  " 

"  If  necessary.     Sit  down  —  over  there." 

She  sat  down  then,  meekly,  despairingly- ;  but  almost 
immediatel}^  she  got  up  again. 

"  Father,  let  me  go,  please.  To-morrow  he  is  leaving 
London  for  a  day  or  two.  I  want  to  see  him  before 
that." 

Although  she  had  not  moved  from  her  chair,  he 
stepped  between  it  and  the  door;  and  he  angrily  told 
her  to  be  seated.  Once  or  twice  more  she  rose  and 
implored  him  to  let  her  go.  Then  she  sat  still,  in  agony. 
She  thought  of  this  lost  hour,  this  hour  of  mellow  sun- 
light beyond  the  trees,  by  the  water  of  Kensington 
Gardens ;  and  of  her  lover  waiting  for  her. 

It  was  a  cruel  little  scene,  and  Mr.  Verinder  felt  the 
cruelty  of  it.  He  knew  that  he  was  inflicting  anguish ; 
worse,  much  worse  than  if  he  had  really  employed  force. 
Throughout  the  dragging  hour  he  might  have  beaten 
her,  thrown  her  down  upon  the  floor,  knelt  on  her  chest, 
and  he  would  have  hurt  her  less.  He  walked  about  the 
room  torturing  and  tortured ;  his  thoughts  on  fire,  and 
yet  his  heart  coldly  aching. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  93 

Once  she  said  words  that  sounded  like  an  echo  of 
another  voice,  but  in  her  pathetically  pleading  tones 
they  stabbed  Mr.  Verinder  with  a  stiletto  thrust. 

"  I'm  not  very  happy,  as  it  is,  father.  Please  don't 
make  things  harder." 

"  My  dear  girl,"  Mr.  Verinder  groaned,  *'  do  you 
think  I'm  happy  either?  Have  I  been  unkind  till  now? 
Have  I  reproached  you,  even  now?  How  else  can  I  act? 
I  see  you  drifting  "  —  and  he  clung  to  this  word  — 
*'  drifting  quite  unconsciously  to  perils  that  you  cannot 
measure." 

She  said  no  more,  and  she  never  changed  her  attitude 
in  her  chair  until  Mr.  Verinder,  ostentatiously  con- 
sulting his  watch,  said  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner. 
As  he  glanced  at  her  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  nose  had 
grown  sharp  and  thin  beneath  the  veil;  her  eyes  were 
dry  and  hard,  so  that  the  face,  instead  of  being  like  a 
young  girl's,  made  him  think  of  a  haggard  woman  who 
has  "  knocked  about  "  and  "  been  through  a  lot." 

She  herself  had  thought  all  the  while  of  the  man  who 
was  waiting  for  her,  thinking,  "  He  will  give  me  another 
five  minutes ;  now  he  won't  wait  any  longer ;  now  he  has 
really  abandoned  hope." 

She  had  lost  the  hour  with  him.  It  was  gone  for  ever ; 
nothing  could  bring  it  back.  Out  of  her  life  they  had 
taken  it ;  this  hour  of  love  they  had  stolen  from  her  — 
the  hour  that  should  have  had  love  in  it ;  and  life  is  so 
pitifully  short,  holding,  if  you  count  them,  so  few  hours 
of  any  sort. 

Tliat  morning,  quite  early.  Miss  Verinder  walked  out 
of  the  house  by  herself ;  and  she  did  not  return  for  three 
days. 


94  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

During  her  absence  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Verinder  took  what 
seemed  perhaps  an  odd  course,  and  yet  it  would  have 
been  difficult  in  the  circumstances  to  propose  a  better 
one.  They  wished  to  maintain  "  appearances  "  as  far 
as  might  be  possible,  to  avoid  premature  scandal,  to 
keep  the  talk  within  the  four  walls  of  home;  and  also 
they  were  in  this  predicament,  that  they  did  not  really 
know  if  Miss  Verinder  would  come  back  next  minute  or 
never.  They  therefore  entered  into  a  conspiracy  with 
their  servants,  giving  orders  rather  than  explanations, 
and  instructing  them  to  tell  inquirers  that  Miss 
Verinder  was  ill  in  bed  upstairs  —  nothing  serious, 
merely  indisposition,  but  bed  advisable. 

Mrs.  Bell,  of  Queen's  Gate,  worried  them  badly  by 
her  good-natured  solicitude.  She  was  fond  of  Emme- 
line ;  and  learning  of  the  indisposition,  she  came  often, 
brought  hot-house  grapes,  and  begged  that  if  reading 
aloud  was  out  of  the  question,  she  might  at  least  be 
permitted  to  sit  by  the  bedside  and  hold  the  invalid's 
hand.    Except  by  Mrs.  Bell  few  inquiries  were  made. 

It  was  just  before  dinner  when  Emmeline  reappeared. 
Her  mother  and  father  received  her  alone  in  the 
boudoir ;  directly  she  came  in,  her  father  seized  her  by 
the  wrist,  and  Mrs.  Verinder  sat  down  on  a  "  pouf  "  in 
the  middle  of  the  room.  Mr.  Verinder  released  his 
daughter,  almost  casting  her  from  him,  and  began 
walking  to  and  fro;  while  Mrs.  Verinder,  sitting  in  a 
huddled  fashion,  following  him  with  her  eyes,  so  that  her 
head  moved  from  side  to  side  exactly  as  heads  move 
when  people  are  watching  the  flight  of  the  ball  at  a 
lawn-tennis  match.  Her  hands  were  shaking,  her 
watchful  face  expressed  great  distress  as  well  as  i'*^jS 
and  wonder.    Emmeline  seemed  calm  and  fearless. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  95 

"What's  the  meaning  of  this?"  said  Mr.  Verinder 
tragically,  in  spite  of  the  commonplace  character  of 
the  question. 

"  I  am  sorry,  father,  for  any  trouble  and  anxiety  I 
have  caused  —  but  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"  Couldn't  help  it?  " 

"  I  mean,  you  were  keeping  me  a  prisoner.  Well,  I 
had  to  break  my  prison." 

"  Where  have  you  been?  " 

Emmeline  remained  silent. 

"  Emmeline,  why  don't  you  answer? "  said  her 
mother.     "  Can't  you  see  what  I'm  suffering?  " 

"  Leave  her  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Verinder.  "  You  have 
been  with  that  man?  " 

"  Yes  —  if  by  that  man  you  mean  Mr.  Dyke  " ;  and 
Emmeline  squared  her  shoulders  and  looked  her  father 
full  in  the  face. 

"  For  —  for  these  three  days  you  have  been  living 
with  him  as  if  you  were  his  wife?  " 

«  Yes." 

Mrs.  Verinder  uttered  a  suffocated  cry,  and  it  seemed 
for  an  instant  as  if  Mr.  Verinder  was  about  to  hurl  him- 
self upon  Emmeline  and  fling  her  down  at  his  feet ;  but 
then  he  turned  his  back  on  her,  walked  to  a  window  and 
opened  the  curtains  as  if  in  need  of  more  air. 

"  And  you  haven't  yet  told  us  where^  said  Mrs. 
Verinder,  making  strange  throat  sounds  as  well  as 
speaking. 

"  Liverpool,"  said  Emmeline  quietly. 

*'  Liverpool !  "  Mrs.  Verinder  repeated  the  word, 
and  moaned.  "  You  went  that  distance  —  to  Liver- 
pool —  without  even  a  dressing-bag !  No  things  —  not 
even  a  brush  and  comb !  " 


96  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

**  I  got  things  there." 

"  Then  where  are  they?  You  have  come  back  with- 
out anything." 

"  I  left  them." 

Mrs.  Verinder  uttered  another  cry.  "  So  that  you 
could  return  to  him !  " 

Then  there  came  a  tapping  on  the  outer  panels  of 
the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  shouted  Mr.  Verinder  furiously. 

It  was  the  butler;  and  Mr.  Verinder  swore  at  him 
roundly.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  swore  at  a 
servant,  and  with  ladies  present. 

"  Damn  you,  you  fool,  what  do  you  mean  by  knock- 
ing at  the  door.    Why  did  you  do  it.?  " 

The  butler  said  he  thought  they  were  talking  busi- 
ness, and  was  loth  to  disturb  them.  But  he  wished  to 
know  about  the  dinner. 

To  Mr.  Verinder  that  tap  had  been  symbolic ;  it 
seemed  to  imply  the  end  of  keeping  up  pretences.  It 
was  this  thought  that  made  him  swear. 

"  Dinner !  Yes,  at  once  " ;  and  he  looked  at  his 
watch.     "Eight-fifteen!" 

They  sat  down  to  dinner  and  Emmeline  joined  them. 
Sherry  was  poured  out  for  Mr.  Verinder  to  drink  with 
his  soup ;  he  could  smell,  before  it  came  in,  the  shrimp 
sauce  that  was  to  go  with  the  turbot ;  there  was  general 
conversation  —  about  the  weather  and  politics,  just 
as  usual. 

What  had  happened  had  happened;  yet  there  they 
were.  In  appearance  at  least,  the  world  was  going 
round  at  the  same  pace.  The  Albert  Hall  still  stood 
en  the  old  site. 

During  the  course  of  the  evening  Emmeline  told  them 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  97 

that  it  would  be  wiser  for  them  to  let  her  go  away  alto- 
gether; and  she  was  unshaken  by  the  storm,^that  both 
parents  launched.  She  said  she  was  very  sorry;  she 
knew  they  must  hate  her  now;  it  would  be  better  for 
everybody  if  they  parted.  What  amazed  them  most 
was  her  courage.  It  was  as  though  she  drew  all  this 
new  strength  and  character  from  the  man.  In  their 
distress  and  confusion  they  told  her  so. 

"  I  don't  recognize  you  ";  "  You  are  changed  ";  "  I 
simply  do  not  recognize  you  " ;  and  so  on. 


CHAPTER   VI 

THROUGHOUT  the  month  of  August,  while 
drawn  blinds  in  all  the  handsome  windows  of 
Prince's  Gate  announced  that  Kensington  was  at 
the  seaside  or  on  the  continent,  Miss  Verinder  enjoyed 
the  absolute  freedom  of  a  sitting-room  and  a  bedroom 
at  the  Langham  Hotel.  Mr.  Dj^ke  did  not  lodge  in 
Portland  Place,  and  the  hotel  porters  scarcely  knew 
him  by  sight.  He  and  his  Emmie  were  never  seen  to- 
gether at  the  west-end  of  the  town.  If  he  appeared 
anywhere  in  public  he  was  alone.  Although  Emmie 
might  not  be  very  far  off,  she  never  disclosed  herself. 
She  retired  into  the  modest  ill-lit  background  —  as 
on  the  occasion  of  his  lecture  at  the  hall  in  Wigmore 
Street,  where  she  sat  in  her  dim  corner  shooting 
arrows  of  love  from  misty  eyes  as  she  watched  him  step 
upon  the  platform,  and  trembling  with  pride  and  joy 
as  she  listened  to  what  the  noble  chairman  said  about 
him.  He  belonged  to  her,  "  this  wonderful  explorer, 
this  man  of  resource  as  limitless  as  his  courage,  this 
man  who,  alone  and  unaided,  has  gone  into  the  dark 
places  of  the  world,  tearing  the  veil  from  nature's  face 
and  making  foot-paths  through  the  unknown,"  —  he 
belonged  to  her,  but  fate  had  ordained  that  she  must 
possess  her  property  in  secret  and  not  openly  claim  it 
as  her  very  own.  He  too  understood  that  the  wide 
public  need  not  be  told  everything,  and  he  showed  a 
delicate  reserve  in  spite  of  his  passion.     As  was  said 

98 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  99 

by  one  of  the  very  few  people  who  knew  anything  about 
them :  on  the  whole  they  were  decent  in  their  indecency. 

To  use  a  phrase  much  favoured  and  commonly  used 
at  this  epoch,  life  had  become  a  fairy  tale  to  Miss 
Verinder.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  first  sight  of 
Anthony  Dyke  had  awakened  her  from  a  sleep  of  death ; 
that  then  he  had  breathed  fire  into  her,  and  that  now 
he  was  filling  her  with  purpose  and  power.  He  was 
moreover  the  key  to  all  enigmas  and  the  magical  ex- 
pounder of  the  commonplace.  Nothing  tired  her,  noth- 
ing bored  her;  everything,  however  drab  and  cold  till 
now,  had  light  and  warmth  and  colour  in  it.  Also 
nearly  everything  was  new.  She  rode  with  him  in  han- 
som cabs,  was  hugged  by  him  in  delightful  smoky  com- 
partments of  the  underground  railway,  spent  whole 
days  with  him  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  Mansion 
House ;  seeing  in  flashes  the  Monument,  the  Tower  and 
the  new  Bridge,  the  Commercial  Road,  the  docks  —  the 
places  she  had  heard  about  but  never  seen  before. 
These,  with  glimpses  of  the  river,  the  rattle  of  the  city 
traffic,  the  roar  of  trains  rolling  through  iron  bridges 
above  crowded  streets,  made  a  new  forceful  world  for 
her  after  the  dignified  repose  of  her  old  universe. 

All  this  while  he  was  making  preparations  for  his 
departure,  which  could  not  be  delayed  after  the  middle 
of  September,  and  his  business  in  the  city  and  beyond 
the  city  concerned  the  ship  that  was  to  take  him  to 
South  America  and  the  cargo  it  would  carry.  She  felt 
elation,  pride,  and  overwhelming  interest  as  she  trotted 
by  his  side,  or  a  little  behind  him;  dodging  through 
the  thronged  streets,  dashing  down  dark  little  courts, 
and  in  and  out  of  such  queer  offices,  where  among 
dust    and    gloom    one    seemed    to    smell    sea    breezes 


100  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

and  have  visions  of  distance  and  adventure.  He  walked 
so  fast  that  she  was  always  out  of  breath,  but  even  this 
discomfort  was  pleasant  since  it  came  from  him ;  she 
felt  that  romance  and  poetry  were  making  her  breath- 
less, and  not  merely  muscular  effort.  He  left  her 
sitting  in  outer  rooms,  and  if  the  truth  must  be  told, 
he  sometimes  forgot  her,  so  absorbed  did  he  become  in 
the  negotiations  he  was  conducting.  Once,  after  wait- 
ing for  an  incredible  time,  she  looked  down  through  a 
dirt-stained  window  into  a  narrow  street  near  Tower 
Hill  and  saw  him  going  away  engrossed  and  gesticulat- 
ing with  two  other  men ;  and  her  heart  almost  ceased 
to  beat  as  she  thought  it  would  be  like  this  when  he 
went  from  her  for  ever.  He  came  back  exultant,  apolo- 
getic, her  lover  again  now  that  the  business  had  been 
completed,  and  swept  her  away  with  him  for  a  belated 
three  o'clock  luncheon,  a  ravenously  hungry  meal  in  a 
strange  tavern  —  the  first  of  those  queer  repasts  in 
queer  places  of  wliich  destiny  decreed  she  was  to  eat 
so  many.  He  drank  her  health,  he  touched  her  hand 
beneath  the  table,  he  looked  sudden  death  at  inoffensive 
strangers  that  he  suspected  of  glancing  at  her  with  an 
admiration  too  patent  to  be  respectful ;  he  praised  and 
thanked  her  for  granting  him  her  companionship  and 
counsel,  for  giving  him  —  as  he  said  without  the 
slightest  intention  of  flippancy — her  "  moral  support." 

His  praise  was  music  to  her,  sweet  as  the  singing  of 
birds,  grand  and  voluminous  as  a  cathedral  organ ;  but 
she  reproved  him  for  the  murder  glare  at  those  always 
well-meaning  and  now  terrified  young  men. 

"  Because  vou  like  me,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him, 
**  you  mustn't  fall  into  the  mistake  of  supposing  that 
other  people  see  me  with  your  eyes.     Except  you,  no 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  101 

one  has  ever  thought  me  worth  looking  at  —  or  m  any 
way  out  of  the  ordinary." 

"  Emmie,  why  do  you  say  that  ?  "  He  stared  at  her 
in  surprise,  and  his  face  grew  troubled.  "  It's  not  like 
you  —  not  worthy.  You  should  be  above  all  that. 
You  must  know  quite  well "  —  and  he  said  this  softly 
but  very  firmly,  with  a  kind  of  grateful  solemn 
reverence  —  "  that  you  are  the  most  beautiful  thing 
God  ever  created." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  with  one  of  her  swift  blushes, 
and  in  a  voice  of  frightened  confusion.  *'  That's  utterly 
absurd  —  even  for  you  to  think.  But,  dear  Tony,  I 
am  quite  content  if,  as  I  say,  in  your  eyes  —  " 

"  In  all  eyes,"  he  said  loudly  and  almost  angrily, 
administering  a  sharp  slap  to  the  table  with  his  open 
hand.  "  Why  pretend  —  why  try  to  spoil  my  rapture? 
Emmie,  my  dearest,  don't  do  it.  My  lovely  priceless 
girl,  it  —  it  hurts  me  " ;  and  there  was  real  pain  in  his 
tone. 

She  vowed  both  to  herself  and  to  him  that  she  would 
not  do  it  again.  His  illusion  was  ecstasy  to  her.  Why 
should  she  try  to  shatter  it  in  the  name  of  dull  stupid 
truth?  Rather  pray  to  heaven  that  he  might  continue 
thus  divinely  deluded. 

Miss  Verinder,  then,  was  happy  as  well  as  entranced. 
She  averted  her  gaze  from  the  cloud  represented  by 
that  ominous  date  of  September  Fifteen.  She  refused 
to  look  at  it  in  her  diary  at  the  hotel  or  to  notice  its 
advancing  shadow  out  of  doors.  Four  more  weeks, 
three  more  weeks  —  and  then  the  end.  She  would  not 
think  of  it,  she  could  not  think  of  it.  Does  the  busy 
little  gnat  as  it  moves  with  a  whir  of  tiny  wings  in  the 
sunlight  brood  on  the  ephemeral  nature  of  its  joy  or 


102  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

fed  premonitions  of  the  darkness  and  the  frost  which 
will  close  its  brief  day? 

She  knew  that  his  plans  were  finally  settled  —  cut- 
and-dried,  as  he  said  himself  —  and  that  nothing  would 
change  them.  He  was  going  to  the  Argentine  Republic 
with  a  cargo  in  which,  as  she  soon  learned,  he  owned  the 
largest  share;  he  hoped  that  this  venture  might  prove 
exceedingly  profitable;  and,  immediately  on  its  comple- 
tion, he  intended  to  make  some  mysterious  kind  of  ex- 
cursion to  his  old  friends,  the  Andes  —  "  a  picnic."  as 
he  described  it ;  "  a  little  trip  on  spec  ";  "  just  a  lark." 
Then,  after  this,  he  would  be  off  to  Australia  and  its 
deserts  again.  One  of  those  governments  wanted  him. 
Then,  when  he  had  finished  the  governmental  job,  he 
would  turn  once  more  to  big  work  —  the  noble  work 
that,  as  he  had  hinted  to  Mr.  Verinder,  requires  solid 
cash  behind  it. 

Speaking  of  the  preliminary  commercial  venture,  he 
touched  on  this  point. 

"  Emmie,  my  grave  little  judge,  you  mustn't  think 
me  sordid  and  grasping  when  I  chatter  about  pots  and 
pans,  and  gas  about  fleecing  the  honest  Argentinos. 
If  I'm  keen  —  and  I  am  desperately  keen  —  to  get 
money,  it  isn't  for  myself  —  it's  for  what  I  feel  my  life- 
work  " ;  and  he  laughed  gaily.  "  Look  here,  old  lady, 
you  can't  make  an  omelette  without  breaking  eggs. 
I'd  stick  at  nothing  to  put  myself  in  funds.  The  end 
justifies  the  means."  And  he  laughed  again.  "  Don't 
look  frightened,  you  innocent  angel.  All  I  wish  to 
imply  is  this :  If  Dyke  is  desired  to  find  the  South  Pole 
on  one  of  these  long  evenings  —  as  Dyke  intends  to  do, 
mark  you,  Emmeline  of  the  dusky  locks  —  well,  he  must 
have  a  bob  or  two  in  the  bank." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  103 

Immediately  Miss  Verinder  offered  him  her  own 
money,  all  of  it,  or  as  much  of  it  as  he  felt  he  could 
make  use  of ;  but  he  told  her  that  acceptance  was  quite 
impossible.  He  could  never  take  a  penny  of  her.  Be- 
sides, as  he  explained,  it  was  a  duty  of  the  public  to 
support  him,  and  he  proposed  to  make  them  fulfil  their 
duty.  "  If  our  little  gamble  turns  up  trumps,  it  may 
keep  me  going  for  two  or  three  years.  But  the  public 
must  put  up  the  stuff  for  the  big  thing.  Emmie  dear,  I 
confess  it's  a  matter  of  pride  with  me.  Dyke  has  done 
enough  already  to  establish  his  title  to  public  support. 
Why  shouldn't  they  back  Dyke  —  as  well  as  the  other 
fellows?  All,  here  we  are.  I  shan't  keep  you  ten 
minutes  here." 

They  had  been  hurrying  down  a  lane  not  far  from 
Liverpool  Street  Station.  Taking  her  by  the  elbow,  he 
guided  her  through  the  doorway  of  a  warehouse  and  up 
a  narrow  flight  of  stairs.  The  warehouse  belonged  to  a 
Birmingham  firm  of  gunmakers ;  and  soon  she  was 
following  D^^ke  and  his  business  friends  down  more  and 
more  stairs,  till  she  found  herself  in  a  cellar  deep  below 
the  level  of  the  roadway,  where  a  shooting-gallery, 
perhaps  twenty-five  yards  long,  had  been  contrived  for 
testing  fire-arms.  Dyke,  very  gay  and  jovial,  chaffing 
black-coated  managers  or  partners  and  slapping  on  the 
back  a  stout  workman  in  an  apron,  selected  from 
hundreds  of  rifles  about  a  dozen,  and  took  up  position 
at  the  opening  of  the  gallery.  An  assistant  with  black 
hands  and  oil-stained  face  began  to  load  the  weapons, 
and  the  man  in  the  apron  handed  them  one  after  another 
to  Dyke.  The  whole  cellar  was  well  lit  with  electric 
light,  which  its  whitewashed  walls  reflected  harshly. 
One  saw  the  vaulted  entrance  in  front  of  Dyke,  and  a 
white  target  against  a  brown  bank  at  the  far-end. 


104  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  How  much  earth  have  you  got  there  behind  the 
disc?  " 

"  Three  feet  —  quite  three  feet.'' 

"  All  right  " ;  and  Dyke  loosed  off. 

The  noise  was  appalling.  In  that  confined  space  each 
discharge  made  a  crash  and  roar  as  of  a  thunder-storm ; 
the  walls  seemed  to  be  shaking  as  well  as  echoing;  one 
felt  that  the  buildins:  overhead  must  fall  and  one  would 
be  buried  alive.  They  were  repeating  rifles  —  clumsy 
and  poor  machines  if  compared  with  the  magazine  rifle 
of  to-day ;  but  Dyke  fired  them  so  rapidly  that  he  might 
have  been  working  a  mitrailleuse.  Miss  Verinder  felt 
that  the  top  of  her  head  had  gone,  that  the  drums  of 
her  ears  had  split,  that  she  was  suffocating  by  the  sul- 
phurous fumes  of  the  exploded  powder ;  but  all  the  while 
she  was  proudly  watching,  proudly  admiring  him. 

He  was  a  younger  Anthony  now,  the  shooter  of  big 
game,  out  in  Africa ;  bringing  his  gun  to  his  shoulder  in 
one  motion  so  swift  that  it  was  there  before  you  saw  it 
begin  to  come  up ;  standing  firmly  planted  on  his  legs, 
with  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  his  eye  intent, 
blazing  away  under  conditions  where  a  miss  means 
death. 

"  There.  Thank  you  " ;  and  handing  back  his  smok- 
ing rifle,  he  began  very  carefully  to  examine  each  one 
that  he  had  fired. 

"  Well,"  said  the  stout  assistant,  with  a  complaisant 
grin,  "  I  never  see  an^i:hing  like  it.  You  don't  fiddle 
about  —  you  don't  shilly-shally,  sir.  No,  my  word,  you 
don't." 

Dyke  gave  him  another  slap  on  the  back,  laughed, 
and  spoke  in  the  frank  exulting  tone  of  a  schoolboy 
who  brags  so  simply  that  what  he  says  does  not  sound 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  105 

vain-glorious.  "  I  was  taught  to  be  nippy,  old  chap,  by 
shooting  at  elephants  on  the  charge.  I  never  had  any 
lessons  at  the  rifle-butts  —  with  a  marker  and  a  flag. 
But  I  was  hurrying  now  because  I  have  another 
appointment  " ;  and  he  turned  to  one  of  the  gentlemen 
in  black  coats,  "  Yes,  they're  all  right.  Yes,  I  pass 
that  lot.  Two  hundred  and  fifty,  aren't  they.^^  Come 
along." 

"  That  was  a  very  noisy  performance,"  said  Emme- 
line,  when  they  were  out  in  the  street  again. 

"Was  it?  "  he  said  carelessly.  "I  suppose  it  was. 
I  say,  I'm  behind  time.     We  must  leg  it,  darling." 

He  did  not  apologize  for  having  nearly  deafened  her ; 
it  never  occurred  to  him  that  anybody  could  be  upset 
by  the  pleasantly  familiar  racket  of  fire-arms.  Nor 
did  he  ever  notice  that  he  walked  much  too  fast  for 
her  —  although  he  bowed  like  a  Spanish  hidalgo  as  he 
stood  aside  for  her  to  pass  through  chop-house  doors, 
handed  her  into  hansom  cabs  as  if  she  were  a  princess, 
and  often  looked  at  her  across  soiled  tablecloths  with 
the  eyes  of  a  mediaeval  knight  kneeling  before  the 
shrine  of  his  patron  saint.  And  perhaps  Miss 
Verinder's  most  exquisite  bliss  lay  in  her  recognition 
of  the  fact  that,  beyond  thinking  her  the  loveliest  of 
created  things,  beyond  thinking  her  his  counsellor  and 
moral  supporter,  he  instinctively  regarded  her  as  a  com- 
rade and  a  pal.  Merely  for  dashing  about  the  city, 
there  was  not  a  man  in  the  world  —  and,  scattered 
about  the  earth,  there  were,  as  she  knew,  many  men  for 
whom  he  had  a  great  tenderness  —  there  was  not  one 
that  he  would  have  preferred  as  companion  to  his 
staunchly  trotting  breathless   little  Emmie. 

One  day  she  met  the  captain  of  the  ship  on  which 


106  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Dyke  was  to  sail,  and  the  three  of  them  had  a  delightful 
intimate  luncheon  in  a  remarkable  eating-house  with 
low  beamed  ceilings,  panelled  walls,  and  partitions  sur- 
rounding each  of  the  tables  —  a  place,  it  w^as  said, 
exactly  the  same  as  it  had  been  in  the  time  of  Mr.  Pick- 
wick and  little  changed  since  the  time  of  Dr.  Johnson. 
It  was  hot,  full  of  loud  voices  and  oppressive  kitchen 
smells;  but  Miss  Verinder  ate  with  appetite,  being 
astonished  to  discover  the  charm  afforded  by  grilled 
steak,  tomatoes,  and  Worcestershire  sauce,  when  you 
happen  to  be  very  hungry  as  well  as  very  much  in  love. 
She  liked  Captain  Cairns,  a  short  but  enormously  strong 
man  of  fifty,  with  grizzled  beard,  and  face  and  hands 
the  colour  of  the  woodwork  that  perhaps  had  seen  Dr. 
Johnson  and  faithful  Boswell.  Captain  Cairns  inspired 
confidence;  her  Anthony  would  be  safe  with  him.  She 
was  pleased,  moreover,  to  observe  his  profound  regard 
and  admiration,  when  he  spoke  of  Dyke's  famous  deeds. 

"  One  of  my  oldest  and  loyalest  friends,"  Dyke  him- 
self had  said  of  him. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Verinder,"  said  the  captain,  "  it  does 
make  me  that  angry  when  folks  cast  doubt  on  his  dis- 
coveries. Pack  o'  silly  stay-at-home  fools.  I  saw  a  bit 
in  the  newspaper  the  other  day  actually  sneering  at 
what  he'd  seen  with  his  own  eyes  —  those  pigmies  at 
Patagonia,  Tony  —  you  know  —  and  the  remnants  of 
them  temples  in  the  Andes.  Has  he  ever  said  what  isn't 
true?  Oh,  it  makes  me  fair  mad,  when  they  go  on  like 
that  —  in  print,  too  " ;  and  Captain  Cairns  grew  warm 
in  his  genuine  disgust  and  indignation.  "  Not  fit  to 
clean  his  boots,  they  aren't." 

Miss  Verinder  said  that  the  incredulity  of  Mr.  Dyke's 
critics  had  made  her  very  angry  also. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  107 

"What  does  it  matter?"  said  Dyke  grandly. 
"  Wasn't  Columbus  doubted?  We're  prepared  for  that 
sort  of  thing.  It  all  comes  right  —  we  get  our  due  at 
long  last.  Calumny  and  suspicion,  perhaps,  as  long 
as  we're  alive,  but  a  piece  of  sculpture  and  a  brass  plate, 
a  tomb  in  St.  Paul's  or  the  Abbey,  when  the  last  cruise 
is  done." 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  like  that  " ;  and  Miss  Verinder 
shivered. 

The  industrious  city  clerks  did  not  linger  over  their 
meal ;  the  room  grew  nearly  empty ;  but  Dyke  and  the 
captain  sat  smoking  cigars  and  talking  of  the  cargo. 
She  listened  with  unabated  interest  and  puffed  at  a 
cigarette  —  one  of  the  queer  Spanish  cigarettes  given 
to  her  by  Dyke.  To  smoke  was  a  new  accomplishment, 
and  she  was  not  yet  very  good  at  it,  coughing  occasion- 
ally, and  blowing  out  when  she  meant  to  suck  in.  But 
she  gloried  in  it,  because  it  seemed  to  bring  her  closer 
still  to  him. 

Captain  Cairns,  it  appeared,  had  himself  a  share  in 
the  cargo ;  and  it  appeared  further  that  a  small  portion 
of  the  cargo  was  for  Uruguay  and  not  for  the 
Argentine.    This  consisted  of  bicycles  and  bicycle  parts. 

Miss  Verinder,  deeply  interested,  asked  if  the 
fashionable  craze  for  bicycling  had  really  reached  that 
distant  land.  She  said  she  was  amused  by  the  thought 
of  a  fashion  spreading  so  swiftly. 

Captain  Cairns  was  amused  too.  He  laughed  until 
he  rolled  about  on  his  bench. 

"  Yes,  miss,"  he  spluttered,  "  no  mistake  about  it. 
Them  Uruguayans  want  bicycles  —  mad  for  'em  — 
ready  to  give  any  money  for  'em." 

"  Then  what  a  splendid  idea  —  how  clever  to  have 
thought  of  bicycles." 


108  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  Yes,  jes,"  said  the  captain,  still  laughing  im- 
moderately. "  His  idea.  It  was  you,  Tony,  as  thought 
of  it  first.  Yes  —  bicycles.  Why,  bless  me,  Miss 
Verinder,  the  Uruguayans  will  be  bang  in  the  fashion 
—  like  so  many  monkeys  on  wheels."  Then  he  slowly 
recovered  composure.  "  You  set  me  off,  miss.  For- 
give me.     I'm  one  who  will  have  his  joke." 

It  was  a  little  difficult  to  understand  of  what  this 
particular  joke  consisted  and  she  saw  that  her  sweet- 
heart, although  he  had  smiled  to  begin  with,  now  seemed 
troubled  if  not  annoyed  by  the  captain's  sense  of 
humour.  For  a  moment  he  looked  contritely  at  his 
Emmie,  as  though  about  to  apologize  for  something  or 
explain  sometliing.  But  then  he  seemed  to  change  his 
mind,  and  he  soon  broke  up  the  little  party  and  took 
her  away. 

They  walked  westward  along  Cheapside  and  Newgate 
Street,  and  on  to  Holborn  Viaduct;  and,  as  always, 
their  progress  was  enlivened  by  occurrences,  incidents, 
excitements,  emotions.  Whether  starting  from  Cape 
Horn  or  the  Bank  of  England,  he  could  not  take  a  walk 
without  things  happening.  At  the  corner  of  a  side 
street  a  young  woman  selling  flowers  offered  him  roses. 
He  bought  a  bunch  for  his  companion,  gave  the  woman 
half-a-crown,  and  told  her  to  keep  the  change.  The 
woman,  overwhelmed  by  this  largesse,  huskily  asked 
heaven  to  bless  him,  and  then  burst  into  tears  saying 
she  had  been  there  since  seven  in  the  morning  and  those 
were  the  very  first  flowers  she  had  sold.  Dyke,  almost 
weeping  himself,  implored  her  to  be  calm,  made  her 
tell  more  of  her  circumstances,  gave  her  a  couple  of 
sovereigns  with  some  loo?e  silver,  and  took  off  his  hat 
in  the  most  respectfully  courteous  of  farewells. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  109 

As  he  walked  on  —  very  slowly  for  him  —  he  spoke 
with  sadness  of  the  cruelly  hard  fate  of  many  women 
at  great  centres  of  civilization,  like  this  enormous 
labyrinth  of  London  —  women,  who  ought  to  be  cared 
for  and  loved  in  the  shelter  of  happy  homes,  out  in  the 
open  street,  snatching  a  doubtful  livelihood  from  the 
caprices  of  the  crowd.  He  said  it  broke  his  heart  when 
he  thought  about  it. 

Soon  ceasing  to  think  about  it,  hfc  talked  of  those 
detractors  of  his  —  the  people  who,  like  Mr.  Verinder 
and  fellow  members  at  the  club,  spoke  of  "  travellers' 
tales,"  "  Baron  Munchausen,"  and  so  on. 

"  It's  all  true,  Emmie  dear ;  every  word  that  I  have 
ever  uttered  or  put  down  on  paper.  What  dolts! 
Because  they  read  at  school  that  Patagonians  are  a 
large  race  of  men,  if  you  tell  them  of  an  older  smaller 
race  not  quite  extinct  —  And  those  temples,  too ! 
Huge  masses  of  masonry  welded  to  the  cliffs  and 
rocks  " ;  and  he  waved  his  hand  above  his  head,  as  if  to 
indicate  the  vastness  and  grandeur  of  these  sacred 
remains.  "  Well,  I  couldn't  bring  them  away  with  me, 
could  I?  I  couldn't  prove  their  existence  by  carting 
them  home  to  the  Geographical  Society  in  Saville  Row. 
No,  believe  me,  the  Andes  still  holds  marvellous  secrets. 
Yes,"  he  added  triumphantly.  "  One  little  secret  I 
have  here,  in  my  pocket,"  and  he  tapped  his  chest. 
Then  he  stopped  suddenly.  "  By  the  way,  we've  done 
our  work.  Why  shouldn't  I  go  there  now?  "  And  he 
smiled  at  her  fondly  while  he  brought  out  a  notebook. 
"  I  spoke  of  the  lab3^rinth  of  London.  But  you,  as  a 
born  Londoner,  ought  to  know  your  way  about. 
Where's  Hatton  Garden?  " 

Miss  Verinder  had  to  confess  that  she  did  not  know. 


110  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  There's  a  merchant  there  I  want  to  see."  After 
consulting  his  notebook,  he  hailed  a  hansom  cab,  with 
the  usual  ceremony  handed  her  into  it,  and  followed  her. 

"  Hatton  Garden,"  he  called  to  the  driver,  and  gave 
the  number  of  the  house  he  wished  to  visit. 

"  Hatton  Garden!  Did  you  say  Hatton  Garden?  " 
asked  the  driver,  in  surprised  tones,  through  the  roof 
trap. 

"  Yes.     Drive  on,"  said  Dyke  authoritatively. 

The  man  drove  on  for  perhaps  fifty  yards,  and  then 
pulled  up  his  horse. 

"  Drive  on,"  said  Dyke,  again,  opening  the  trap-door. 
"  "\Miat  have  you  stopped  for?  " 

"  You've  arrived,"  said  the  man. 

"Is  this  Hatton  Garden?"  shouted  Dyke,  as  he 
sprang  out  of  the  cab. 

The  man  said  yes,  and  Dyke  exploded  with  terrible 
force. 

"  Then,  you  infernal  scoundrel,  what  do  you  mean 
by  luring  me  into  your  cab  and  defrauding  me  of  a 
fare  when  I  was  in  Hatton  Garden  already  and  I  had 
only  a  few  steps  to  walk?  " 

"  You  xcasnH  in  Hatton  Garden,"  said  the  man. 
"  You  was  facing  it.  I  did  ask  you  and  you  yelled  I 
was  to  get  on.    I  thought  you  knew." 

"  No,  you  didn't.  You  thought  I  was  a  stranger  — 
you  thought,  because  I  didn't  know  all  the  twists  and 
turns  of  your  senseless  town  you'd  fleece  me  and  make 
a  fool  of  me  — "  And  continuing  the  explosion,  in- 
creasing it  even,  he  said  he  would  not  pay  the  fare,  not 
one  penny  of  it,  and  he  had  a  gi-eat  mind  to  pull  the 
driver  off  his  seat  and  break  every  bone  in  his  body. 

Miss  Verinder  begged  that  the  man  might  be  paid. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  111 

Gasping  bystanders  distressed  her,  the  wrath  of  Dyke 
had  thrown  her  into  a  flutter.  "  Foj  my  sake,  Tony, 
pay  him  and  be  done  with  it." 

"  For  your  sake?  But  the  principle  of  the  thing, 
Emmie.  Oh,  very  well  " ;  and  he  spoke  now  calmly  and 
grandly  to  the  cab-driver.  "  Because  this  lady  wishes 
it,  because  this  lady  has  interceded  for  you,  you  shall 
have  your  shilling.  You  shall  have  your  — "  He  was 
feeling  in  his  trousers  pockets.  But  there  was  nothing 
there.     He  had  given  all  his  money  to  the  flower-seller. 

Miss  Verinder  opened  her  purse,  and  paid  the  cab- 
driver  —  a  little  more  than  his  exact  fare,  in  order  to 
remove  a  perhaps  unfavourable  impression.  Of  course 
the  cabdriver  could  not  be  expected  to  understand 
Anthony's  noble  but  explosive  nature  as  she  did. 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  she  said,  linking  her  arm  in  that 
of  her  hero  and  giving  it  an  affectionate  pressure. 
*'  Please  dismiss  all  that  from  your  mind  —  for  my 
sake." 

Thus,  arm  in  arm,  they  crossed  the  threshold  of 
"  Cunlip  and  Company,  dealers  in  precious  stones." 

Dyke  in  a  moment  was  smiling,  like  a  child  who  in 
the  midst  of  fearful  tantrums  is  soothed  by  a  magic 
word  from  the  lips  of  governess  or  nursemaid. 

"  Now  this  will  be  fun,"  he  said,  beaming  at  lier. 
''  You  listen  to  everything  that  he  says.  Where's  Mr. 
Cunlip?  I  want  to  see  him  at  once,  if  he  can  make  it 
convenient." 

Mr.  Cunlip,  a  small,  dark,  old  man,  received  them  in 
a  dingy  office  behind  his  show-rooms  on  the  ground 
floor.  He  seemed  a  little  taken  aback  by  Dyke's  breezy 
self-introduction  and  cordial  greetings. 

Well,  here  I  am  at  last  —  Dyke  —  Anthony  Dyke, 


« 


112  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

you  know.  That  doesn't  impress  you,  eh?  "  And  Mr, 
Dyke  laughed  good-humouredly.  "  Well,  I'll  give  you 
a  name  that  will  mean  something  to  you.  Pedro  del 
Sarto!  Ever  heard  of  Pedro  del  Sarto?  Of  Buenos 
Ayres,  you  know." 

But,  to  D3-ke's  slight  discomfiture,  the  name  aroused 
no  immediate  memories  in  Mr.  Cunlip.  It  became  neces- 
sary to  give  further  details  —  such  as  that  old  Pedro 
was  a  tip-topper,  a  white  man,  one  of  Dyke's  best 
friends,  that  he  had  been  over  here  in  1880  and  had 
done  business  with  Mr.   Cunlip. 

Then  the  dealer  in  precious  stones  at  last  remem- 
bered. "  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure.  But  I  see  so  many  gentle- 
men from  Argentina.  A  Spanish  gentleman,  wasn't 
he?  Headquarters  at  Buenos  Ayres,  but  connected 
with  those  gold  mines  at  Cape  Horn?  Yes,  I've  placed 
him  now.  I  hadn't  much  business  with  him.  I  passed 
him  on  to  the  assay  people  over  the  road." 

"  That's  the  man,"  said  Dyke,  beaming.  "  Well, 
you'll  recollect  now  that  he  wrote  to  you  two  years  ago 
to  say  I'd  call  on  you  at  the  first  opportunity." 

"  Two  years  ago !    First  opportunity,  what !  " 

"  This  is  the  first  opportunity.  I  have  been  occupied 
in  other  parts  of  the  world,"  said  Dyke,  with  a  very 
modest  air. 

Mr.  Cunlip  then  wished  to  know  how  he  could  avail 
himself  of  the  opportunity,  now  that  it  had  come,  by 
being  of  service  to  Mr.  Dyke. 

"  Something  to  show  you,"  said  Dyke  modestly. 

He  had  brought  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  a  small 
envelope;  he  opened  this,  extracted  a  tiny  packet  oi 
tissue  paper,  and  after  unfolding  the  paper,  rolled  out 
upon  the  top  of  a  glass  case  what  looked  like  five  or  sii 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  113 

greenish  pebbles,  each  about  the  size  of  a  pea.  Then 
he  spoke  in  a  tone  that  had  changed  from  extreme 
modesty  to  almost  aggressive  triumph. 

"  What  do  you  call  those  ?  " 

Mr.  Cunlip  put  a  magnifying  glass  in  his  eye,  and 
examined  a  stone  carefully  before  he  answered. 

"  I  call  this  one  an  emerald.    What  do  you  call  it?  " 

"  I  call  it  the  same,"  said  Dyke  jovially.  "  And  the 
others  too.  Emeralds,  my  dear  Cunlip  —  and  beauties, 
eh?     The  real  article." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  weigh  'em  up  and  name  a 
price?  "  asked  Mr.  Cunlip. 

"  No.  That'll  come  later.  What  I  want  now  is  just 
your  opinion  —  expert  advice.  Suppose  —  I  say  sup- 
pose, later  on,  I  began  to  dribble  them  across  to  you! 
How  many  could  you  do  with  like  that?  " 

*'  Why,  as  many  as  you  could  send.  May  I  ask 
where  they  come  from?  " 

"No,  you  mustn't  ask  that  —  not  just  at  present.  I 
know  where  I  got  them,  and  Pedro  del  Sarto  knows  — 
and  we're  the  only  two  men  alive  who  do  know.  But 
we  think  there's  more  there  in  the  same  place  —  and 
I'm  soon  going  to  have  a  look." 

Then  Mr.  Cunlip  spoke  rather  disparagingly  of  the 
specimens  before  him ;  he  had  his  doubts  as  to  colour ; 
they  were  not  very  big  either;  he  said  that  to  judge 
actual  merits  before  cutting  was  almost  impossible,  even 
to  the  greatest  expert  in  the  trade  —  and  he  delicately 
implied  that  between  that  gifted  person  and  himself 
there  was  little  if  any  difference.  But,  urged  to  do  so, 
he  gave  a  rough  estimate  of  the  value  of  a  particular 
stone,  if  after  cutting  it  proved  as  good  as  it  looked 
now. 


114.  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  Splendid!  As  much  as  that?  Then  I  may  take  it 
that  emeralds  are  keeping  up  their  price,  and  it  isn't 
likely  to  drop?  " 

"  Their  price  canH  drop  —  so  far  as  I  can  see." 

"  They're  as  fashionable  as  ever?  " 

"  They're  just  as  fashionable  as  they  were  in  the 
time  of  the  Incas." 

"Ah.  Glorious?"  Dyke  gave  an  exultant  laugh. 
"  The  Incas !    Rem  acu  tetigisti.'" 

"I  beg  your  pardon  —  what's  that?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Dyke  gaily.  "  I  liked  your  way  of 
putting  it.  The  Incas !  They  covered  themselves  with 
emeralds,  didn't  they?  Very  apt  —  your  historical 
allusion.    Emmie,  did  you  hear  what  Mr.  Cunlip  said?  " 

While  he  spoke  he  was  packing  up  his  specimens  in 
their  tissue  paper.  He  put  the  envelope  in  his  waist- 
coat pocket,  and,  with  compliments  to  Mr.  Cunlip,  he 
hurried  away. 

"Let's  walk,  Emmie.  No  more  cabs.  Besides,  all 
this  has  excited  me.    The  days  of  the  Incas !    Ha,  ha." 

And  as  they  walked  on,  through  Holborn  and  New 
Oxford  Street,  he  told  her  the  story  of  how  he  had 
found  those  emeralds  quite  by  chance,  high  up  in  the 
mountains.  As  he  sat  resting  in  the  fierce  sunshine,  he 
had  seen  one  of  them  on  the  edge  of  a  small  basin  of 
sand  among  black  rocks,  and  had  scratched  for  the 
others  with  his  hands.  He  described  the  place  —  oh, 
yes,  he  could  find  his  way  back  all  right ;  he  had  mapped 
it  very  carefully,  and  given  the  corrected  map  to  his 
partner,  Pedro  del  Sarto.  But  he  himself  needed  no 
maps ;  he  could  take  you  there  blindfolded  —  a  valley 
narrowing  to  and  shut  in  by  a  perpendicular  cliff  a 
thousand  feet  high,  down  the  face  of  which  the  melted 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  115 

snow  had  made  deep  channels  —  a  valley  where  no  white 
man  had  ever  stood,  where  perhaps  no  man  of  any 
colour  had  even  been  since  the  Spanish  Conquest  four 
hundred  years  ago,  till  he.  Dyke,  came  to  tear  the 
secret  out  of  its  lonely  heart  and  profit  by  the  dis- 
covery. 

As  she  listened,  she  fancied  that  she  could  see  it  all  in 
imagination.  People  on  the  crowded  pavements  jostled 
them,  they  passed  close  to  the  noses  of  van  horses  in 
crossing  the  Tottenham  Court  Road,  and  they  noticed 
nothing  of  these  surrounding  sights,  sounds,  or  pres- 
sures. They  were  both  of  them  thousands  of  miles 
away. 

The  time  of  the  Incas!  Yes,  he  honestly  believed 
that  he  had  stumbled  upon  the  trace  of  workings  of 
emerald  mines  that  were  in  use  before  the  advent  of  the 
Spaniard.  He  might  prove  wrong,  of  course.  He  had 
been  in  a  hurry,  with  no  time  for  close  investigations. 
Perhaps  what  he  fancied  had  been  wrought  by  human 
beings  labouring  was  really  made  by  nature  using  such 
of  her  tools  as  lay  handy  —  storm,  frost,  sunshine,  and 
the  upheaving  forces  that  had  built  the  whole  mountain 
backbone  of  the  continent.  In  any  case,  the  real 
point  was  —  How  many  emeralds  had  man  or  nature 
left  there? 

At  any  rate.  Dyke  would  go  now  and  see  for  himself. 
It  would  be  a  lark.    Let  us  leave  it  at  that. 

"  Not  a  word  to  an3'body,  Emmie.  You  and  I 
and  old  Pedro.  No  one  else  —  till  the  day  v/hen  I  give 
my  queen  a  tiara  of  green  stones  all  as  big  as  filberts, 
with  a  few  Brazilian  diamonds  to  flash  among  the 
greenness.  Then  when  you  go  to  the  Opera  —  on  one 
of  the  grand  nights  —  you  lovely  Emmie,  like  a  high 


116  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

priestess  of  the  sun  —  then  —  But  I  say,  let's  have 
tea.  That  is,  if  you  don't  mind  paying  for  it  " ;  and, 
laughing,  he  grasped  her  elbow  and  led  her  into  a 
crowded  tea-shop. 

They  sat  there,  on  a  seat  against  the  wall,  at  the  end 
of  a  table  that  was  occupied  by  other  people;  and 
Dyke  while  waiting  for  their  tea  and  while  eating  two 
crumbly  currant  scones,  continued  to  talk  to  her,  but 
in  a  voice  so  low  that  no  one  else  could  hear.  His  eyes 
flashed  sometimes,  he  raised  his  head  and  shook  his 
hair;  he  was  talking  enthusiastically,  with  a  freedom 
that  he  could  only  use  to  her,  and  in  the  mJdst  of  it 
quite  automatically  he  pushed  his  cup  across  the  marble 
table  for  more  tea  or  picked  up  and  began  to  eat 
another  cake. 

*'  You  don't  know  me  yet.  Above  all,  you  don't 
understand  the  impetus  —  the  added  drive  —  that  your 
love  has  given  to  me.  Listen.  I  can't  say  it  too  often. 
You  have  lifted  me  up  —  you  have  placed  me  on  high  — 
you  have  saved  me.  For  your  sake  —  oh,  how  I  wor- 
ship you  when  you  say  those  words  —  for  your  sake, 
Emmie,  I  must  and  I  shall  keep  on  the  summits  of 
endeavour  —  and  never  yield  to  the  powers  of  darkness 
or  the  cowardice  of  shameful  compromises.  I'm  all 
out  now  —  to  the  last  ounce  —  for  my  good  angel's 
sake.  Yes,  two  lumps,  please.  These  buns  are  stale." 
He  went  on,  in  his  vibrating  heart-stirring  whisper, 
to  speak  of  the  South  Pole.  She  had  divined  —  as  it 
seemed,  long  ago  —  that  this  was  his  ultimate  goal, 
the  glorious  hope  of  his  life's  work.  Dyke  meant,  had 
always  meant,  to  capture  the  South  Pole,  and  all  other 
tasks  were  but  a  filling  or  wasting  of  time.  He  had 
marked  it  down  as  his  own.    He  spoke  of  it  as  if  it  had 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  117 

been  some  dangerous  yet  timid  animal  of  the  chase, 
round  which  he  had  made  narrowing  circles  till  it 
crouched  fascinated,  unable  any  more  to  flee  from  its 
pursuer ;  it  knew  that  it  could  not  escape  and  that  when 
Dyke  ceased  to  circle  and  dashed  in,  it  must  fall  into 
his  hands. 

"  Remember,  Emmie,  I'm  not  all  talk ;  I'm  do  as  well. 
Yes,  Dyke  will  do  things  " ;  and  his  blue  eyes  flashed 
at  her,  and  the  colour  came  to  those  high  cheek-bones 
as  if  the  tea  was  beginning  not  only  to  cheer  but  to 
intoxicate.    "  If  they  won't  support  me  —  if  they  won't 
fit  me  out  in  the  style  I  ask  for  —  if  they  won't  give  me 
the  ship  I  want  —  Then  in  a  sieve  I'll  thither  sail,  and 
like  a  rat  without  a  tail,  I'll  do,  I'll  do,  I'll  do.    No,  you 
don't  know  me  yet,  Emmie.    You  don't  know  me  yet." 
But  already  how  well  she  knew  him !    Better  perhaps 
that  he  knew  himself.     She  knew  that  behind  all  the 
courage  which  for  so  long  had  made  him  hold  his  life 
at  a  pin's  fee ;  behind  the  insatiable  curiosity,  the  love 
of  adventure,  the  fiery  challenge  to  the  universe  that 
form  the  very  substance  of  a  true  explorer's  mental 
constitution;  —  behind  all  that  there  was  the  unslum- 
bering  desire  for  personal  fame.     If  only  by  his  little 
individual   trick   of   speaking  of  himself  in  the  third 
person  — "  That's    not    good    enough    for    Dyke " ; 
"Anthony  Dyke  has  other  plans  " ;  and  so  on  —  she 
would  have  known  so  much  as  this.    Habitually,  during 
all  those  enforced  silences  that  had  made  up  his  active 
career,  he  had  listened  to  the  imagined  voices  of  the 
world  thinking  about  him ;  and  now  he  could  not  think 
of  himself  in  relation  to  fame  without,  as  it  were,  stand- 
ing for  a  moment  outside  himself.     Dyke  wanted  the 
South  Pole;  but  Dyke  wanted  the  undying  fame  of 


118  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

getting  it.  Why  not?  The  labourer  is  worthy  of  his 
hire.  She  felt  that  she  need  not  class  his  ambition  — 
the  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds  —  as  even  one  slight 
defect  of  his  innumerable  glorious  qualities. 

Nevertheless,  she  thought  sagely  that  it  was  the 
thing  she  must  always  reckon  with  —  the  factor  never 
to  be  omitted  from  her  calculations  when  making  plans 
for  his  assistance,  moral  or  immoral. 

She  knew  him  —  he  need  not  fear  her  lack  of  knowl- 
edge. She  knew  that  he  was  noble  to  the  core ;  simple 
only  as  everything  fine  and  great  will  always  be ;  at  his 
own  trade  as  resourceful  as  Pizarro,  in  all  other  things 
as  grand  a  gentleman  as  Cortes ;  gentle  with  women, 
splendid  with  men  —  familiar,  as  people  who  live  their 
whole  lives  in  Kensington  cannot  be,  calling  sea-cap- 
tains old  boy,  slapping  underlings  on  the  back,  and  yet 
being  a  leader  and  a  chieftain  all  the  while.  Yes  —  even 
when  exploding  under  a  misapprehension  with  cab- 
drivers. 

Before  paying  the  bill  for  tea,  she  picked  up  the 
bunch  of  roses  that  he  had  bought  from  the  beggar. 
She  attached  exactly  the  same  value  to  it  as  if  it  had 
been  that  tiara  of  emeralds.  It  had  been  given  to  her 
by  him.  And  with  deep  penetrating  joy  she  remem- 
bered how  he  had  called  her  his  queen,  wishing  for  an 
instant  perhaps  that  she  was  really  and  truly  some 
splendid  historical  queen  or  empress.  But,  no,  even 
then  she  would  have  been  just  as  unworthy  of  such 
a  lover. 


CHAPTER    VII 

THE  last  days  had  come.  They  were  staying  at 
Liverpool  at  the  North  Western  Hotel:  and 
Dyke,  although  as  sweet  to  her  as  ever,  was  pre- 
occupied with  final  business.  He  hurried  to  and  fro 
about  this  new  strange  city  unaccompanied  by  her  now, 
talked  in  her  presence  of  such  abstruse  matters  as  the 
charter-party,  biUs  of  lading,  the  ship's  clearance 
papers,  and  had  no  time  to  teach  her  what  it  all  meant. 
In  some  mysterious  manner  the  agent  of  the  owners 
of  the  ship  had  "  got  upon  his  nerves,"  as  he  said;  but 
he  was  long-suffering  and  indulgent  towards  this  gentle- 
man, permitting  himself  no  explosions;  even  asking 
hmi  to  dine  at  the  hotel  with  Captain  Cairns,  the  first 
mate,  and  other  men.  They  had  a  round  table  in  a 
corner  of  the  big  room,  drank  a  great  deal  of  cham- 
pagne, and  talked  rather  too  loudly  for  the  comfort  of 
their  neighbours. 

Miss  Verinder's  table  was  at  a  distance,  right  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room,  where  she  sat  quite  alone  and 
ate  her  dinner  with  little  appetite.  Dyke  came  over  to 
her  once,  bowed  to  her,  and  stood  by  the  table;  out- 
wardly just  a  friend  or  an  hotel  acquaintance,  a  person 
upon  whom  she  had  no  claims  of  any  kind.  But  he 
looked  down  at  her  with  eloquent  eyes,  and  whisperingly 
told  her  how  terrible  it  was  to  be  separated  from  her 
for  one  of  their  last  three  evenings. 

She  understood.  He  was  constant  and  loyal  as  ever; 
the  only  change  in  him  was  what  every  woman  must 

119 


120  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

fatally  see  in  the  man  she  loves  when  he  begins  to  take 
up  again  a  man's  job.  She  understood  —  onl}^  it  made 
her  heart  ache;  and  while  telling  the  waiter  that  she 
did  not  require  any  more  of  the  dinner  but  would  like 
a  cup  of  coffee,  she  thought  of  the  essential  force  of 
those  two  hackneyed  and  inexact  words.  A  heartache ! 
Of  course  her  heart  was  not  really  aching,  and  yet  it 
felt  like  that ;  the  pain  was  mental,  yet  it  seemed  physi- 
cal —  this  dull  oppressive  discomfort  that  had  taken 
the  taste  away  from  the  food,  the  colour  from  surround- 
ing objects,  the  brilliancy  from  the  electric  light,  sug- 
gested something  primitive  and  instinctive  that  might 
be  shared  by  dumb  animals  quite  low  down  the  scale; 
say  the  young  sheep  driven  into  a  different  gate  from 
that  through  which  its  companion  passed  as  they  both 
approached  the  shambles ;  or,  at  highest,  the  sensations 
of  a  dog  when  it  loses  its  master. 

Separation.  Anthony's  own  word  echoed  itself  as 
she  sipped  her  coffee  and  glanced  across  the  room  to 
the  corner  where  he  was  being  jolly  with  an  unexplained 
purpose  to  that  agent  of  the  shipowners.  She  ^was 
losing  him  by  inches;  every  moment  those  men,  that 
ship,  the  breezes  of  the  wide  estuary,  the  trackless 
ocean,  and  the  call  of  plains  and  hills  that  she  had  never 
seen  were  taking  him  bit  by  bit  even  while  he  was  still 
here.  It  was  not  like  the  end  of  a  dance ;  or  the  falling 
of  a  curtain  at  the  end  of  a  play,  or  the  blowing  out  of 
candles  when  the  feast  is  over;  it  was  like  night  slowly 
creeping  into  a  lampless  room,  where  you  have  to  sit 
and  wait,  watching  the  walls  fade  and  the  window 
frames  grow  fainter,  until  it  is  quite  dark.  Her  world 
would  be  such  a  room  to  her  when  the  slow  separation 
had  been  completed  and  she  was  finally  alone. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  121 

Her  brain  and  not  her  heart  ached  now,  as  for  a  few 
moments  she  allowed  herself  to  think  of  what  separation 
would  really  mean  to  her.  Her  eyes  smarted,  her  throat 
grew  hot,  her  head  was  full  of  the  dully  throbbing 
anguish.  She  could  scarcely  breathe.  Then  she  drove 
thought  away  again,  beating  it  from  her  with  the  verbal 
weapons  she  had  prepared  against  this  emergency; 
saying  to  herself,  "  It  is  wrong  of  me.  I  must  not  be 
selfish.  I  must  look  at  everything  from  his  point  of 
view.  I  knoAv  very  well  that  if  it  were  in  my  power  to 
keep  him,  I  would  urge  him  to  go." 

And  beneath  the  words  and  the  thoughts  and  the 
pain,  she  had  now  the  sense  of  unreality  or  impossibility. 
They  could  not  be  separated  in  this  manner.  Some 
chance  would  intervene ;  by  no  action  of  her  own  but  by 
some  eleventh  hour  leniency  of  fate,  the  consummation 
of  the  catastrophe  would  be  prevented  or  at  least  re- 
tarded ;  nature  itself  would  recoil  from  adding  this  one 
more  to  its  tale  of  endless  cruelties.  It  was  with  Miss 
Verinder,  finishing  her  coffee,  as  with  children  when 
they  think  of  death,  believing  that  death  is  something 
that  will  certainly  happen,  and  yet,  owing  to  some 
failure  of  the  thought-machine  at  their  disposal,  being 
unable  to  believe  in  its  possibility. 

It  could  not  be  that  if  on  the  fourth  night  from  now 
she  entered  this  great  dining-hall,  she  would  find  ap- 
parently the  same  crowd  of  travellers,  the  swing-doors 
opening  and  shutting,  the  waiters  going  round  asking 
people  whether  they  wanted  any  liqueur  with  their 
coffee  —  and  yet  no  Anthony  Dyke  to  be  seen  or  heard 
anywhere.  It  could  not  be  that  she  should  creep  back 
to  London,  a  broken  useless  thing  wanted  by  nobody, 
and  that  her  lover  would  have  gone  from  her  for  years 


122  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

if  not  for  ever.  It  must  be  impossible  that  so  strong, 
so  overwhelmingly  real  a  thing  as  he,  should  fade  out 
of  her  life  and  take  his  place  among  such  weak  im- 
palpable things  as  ghosts  or  dreams  or  haunting 
memories ;  that  he  for  whom  she  had  forsaken  and  re- 
nounced her  home,  her  parents,  her  friends,  every  pre- 
cept of  education,  every  habit  of  the  mind,  should 
become  again  scarcely  more  to  her  than  he  had  been 
three  months  ago  —  a  name  in  a  newspaper. 

She  went  out  of  the  room,  and  a  party  of  travellers 
at  the  nearest  table  to  hers  thought  her  a  good-looking 
but  hard  sort  of  young  woman  —  too  proud  and  de- 
fiantly British  for  their  taste  —  and,  considering  her 
youthfulness,  too  self-possessed  and  self-satisfied.  Did 
you  hear  how  she  spoke  to  the  w^aiter?  "  No,  no  liqueur, 
thank  you."     Just  like  that  —  so  off-hand. 

Miss  Verinder  had  the  same  air  of  hardness  and 
resolution,  together  with  a  new  and  metallic  form  of 
gaiety,  next  morning  when  Dyke  took  her  with  him  to 
visit  the  ship.  The  Mercedaria  —  a  steamer  of  about 
three  thousand  tons  —  had  come  out  into  the  river  now, 
and  she  lay  moored  in  the  bright  but  soft  sunlight 
towards  the  Birkenhead  shore.  With  her  one  tall 
funnel  and  two  raking  masts,  she  looked,  not  only  small, 
but  a  battered  and  rather  disreputable  kind  of  tramp, 
w^hen  compared  with  the  lofty  shining  mass  of  a  big 
liner  a  little  higher  up  the  river.  But  she  loomed  up 
high  and  solid,  as  their  boat  passed  under  her  stern. 

Dyke  took  the  honoured  visitor  here  and  there  about 
the  vessel,  showing  her  first  the  saloon,  and  what  they 
pompously  called  the  state  rooms.  This  accommoda- 
tion, although  originally  planned  for  a  few  passengers 
as  well  as  the  ship's  officers,  seemed  to  Miss  Verinder's 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  123 

untutored  eye  appallingly  inadequate  and  restricted  for 
so  long  a  voyage.  The  state  rooms  were  but  dark  and 
stuffy  cupboards,  with  a  bunk  in  each.  A  rough  parti- 
tion of  woodwork,  left  plain  and  unvarnished,  had  been 
erected  athwartship  at  the  back  of  the  saloon,  which 
itself  was  a  dull  malodorous  den,  with  a  table  sur- 
rounded by  seven  permanently  fixed  swivel  chairs.  A 
large  oil  lamp  hung  beneath  a  skylight  above  the  table, 
and  really,  this  was  all  of  furniture  or  decoration.  It 
was  a  relief  to  emerge  on  the  upper  deck,  and  feel 
again  the  air  and  warmth.  Here  Dyke  showed  her  the 
chart-room  —  quite  a  comfortable  retreat  —  immedi- 
ately below  the  bridge,  with  leather  cushions  to  its 
benc'hes  and  printed  certificates  in  frames  against 
the  wall. 

An  unshaved  but  smiling  steward  or  cook  followed 
them  up,  to  say  that  by  the  orders  of  Captain  Cairns 
he  had  put  out  a  bottle  of  champagne  and  some  biscuits 
down  below,  for  the  lady.  Captain  Cairns  himself, 
immensely  improved  in  appearance  now  that  he  was 
wearing  uniform,  welcomed  her  very  courteously,  and 
said  he  only  wished  that  she  was  going  with  them  across 
the  sea.  He  was  busy.  Captain  Cairns,  making  these 
kindly  civilities  brief  and  to  the  point,  and  then  at  once 
resuming  his  task.  There  were  lighters  alongside,  and 
the  last  of  the  cargo  was  being  hoisted  on  board  by 
the  lioisy  rattling  steam  winches. 

On  this  pleasant  sunny  morning  the  very  air  seemed 
full  of  bustling  activity;  the  whole  stream  was  alive 
with  traffic ;  crowded  steam  ferry-boats  shot  diagonally 
across  it,  and  made  their  practised  curves,  as  they 
glided  to  the  huge  landing-stages.  Tugs  whistling  in- 
sistently weat  up  and  down,  together  with  strings  of 


124.  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

barges ;  and  farther  off,  one  saw  the  long  forest  of 
masts  that  told  of  unceasing  trade.  It  was  as  though 
everybody  was  hurrying  to  get  awa}",  and  the  great  city 
itself,  seen  from  here  with  diminished  eminence  and 
towers  and  domes  brought  together  by  the  distance, 
seemed  to  be  sitting  on  the  waters,  calmly  meditating 
in  the  midst  of  a  foolish  tumult. 

Miss  "Verinder  stood  near  a  boat  that  hung  inboard 
on  its  davits,  with  her  gloved  hand  on  the  rail  and  her 
gauze  scarf  gently  stirring  in  the  friendly  breeze,  while 
she  talked  and  smiled,  gaily  and  cheerfully.  This  is 
the  woman's  portion.  One  must  not  say  anything,  or 
do  anything,  to  bother  one's  man  or  to  lower  his  spirits 
W'hen  he  is  taking  up  his  own  burden  of  care  and  anxiety. 

She  watched,  with  intelligent  interest,  the  toil  of  the 
sailors  and  the  winches,  as  the  wooden  cases  one  after 
another  came  up  from  the  hidden  barge,  swung  round, 
and  disappeared  in  their  proper  hold.  This  part  of  the 
cargo,  as  Dyke  explained,  was  coming  in  last  because 
it  would  go  out  first.  The  sailors,  he  assured  her,  al- 
though they  certainly  looked  a  shabby  untrimmed  gang, 
apparently  of  all  nationalities  too,  were  a  real  good  lot. 
Oh,  yes,  one  could  trust  old  Cairns  for  that,  and  every- 
tliing  else. 

With  her  heart  aching  rather  worse  than  last  night, 
Miss  Verinder  laughed  and  showed  most  intelligent 
interest. 

Some  of  the  big  cases  had  on  them,  marked  roughly 
in  black  paint,  the  words,  "  Bicycles  "  and  "  Bicycle 
accessories."  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  this  was  that  con- 
signment of  wliich  Dyke  had  spoken.  The  bicycles  for 
the  people  of  Uruguay,  all  bitten  with  the  fashionable 
craze  —  the   bicycles,  of  which  the  mere  notion   had 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  125 

caused  Mr.  Cairns  to  laugh  so  uproariously.  Making 
conversation,  she  reminded  Dyke  of  the  Captain's 
humour. 

But  Dyke  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  Indeed  his  whole 
face  clouded  and  he  answered  with  a  strange  glumness. 
Then  abruptly  he  took  her  by  the  arm,  drawing  her 
across  the  deck  to  the  corresponding  boat  on  the  other 
side.  There  he  told  her  firmly  that  he  could  not  allow 
the  continuance  of  a  deception,  however  trifling.  He 
could  not  leave  her  in  the  dark  about  anything  in  any 
way  concerning  him.  Between  him  and  her  there  must 
not  be  a  secret,  even  though  the  secret  was  devoid  of 
all  importance.  Well  then,  he  had  to  confess,  or  rather 
to  inform  her,  that  all  these  bicycles  —  and  he  looked 
round  to  be  sure  that  they  were  not  overheard  —  those 
bicycles,  don't  you  know,  were  not  reall}'  bicj^cles.  No, 
they  were,  in  fact,  rifles,  and  so  forth,  technically 
known  as  small  arms. 

"  But,  Anthony,"  said  Miss  Verinder,  looking  at  him 
timidly  but  intently,  "  isn't  that  what  you  call  gun- 
running?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't  call  it  that.  I  shouldn't  think  of 
calling  it  that,  Emmie,"  and  he  laughed.  With  a  very 
uncharacteristic  confusion,  even  sheepishness,  he  an- 
swered her  further  questions.  He  had  released  her  arm, 
and  he  stood  there  really  like  a  naughty  boy  answering 
a  governess.  He  could  only  try  to  laugh  it  off.  He 
had  no  excuses. 

"  But,  Anthony,  isn't  it  dangerous  ?  " 

His  eyes  gave  a  flash,  and  sheepishness  vanished. 

"  Oh,  I  know  that  wouldn't  deter  you,  Tony.  But, 
I  mean,  isn't  it  against  the  law?  " 

Well,  there's  no  revolution  in  Uruguay  —  not  at 


a 


126  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

this  minute,  anyhow.  I  don't  pretend  to  any  blind 
respect  for  the  law ;  but  I  don't  see  why  the  law  should 
object.  No,"  and  he  laughed  now  with  unembarrassed 
cheerfulness.  "  If  they  don't  stop  us  here,  they  won't 
stop  us  out  there.  So  don't  you  worry,  darling.  If 
we  get  safe  out  of  the  Mersey,  I  promise  we'll  get  safe 
into  Rio  Grande." 

It  was  their  last  day.  After  a  misty  morning  there 
had  been  a  little  rain,  then  the  dark  sky  fought  the  sun- 
light, and  now  a  settled  gloom  lay  on  the  town  and  the 
river,  with  presages  of  more  rain.  Smoke  was  rolling 
languidly  from  the  Mercedaria's  ugly  yellow  funnel. 
She  was  to  sail  before  night.  She  was  to  sail  in  five 
hours. 

Miss  Verinder  wandered  about  her  disconsolately, 
and  talked  to  Dyke  from  time  to  time.  He  was  very 
busy.  Down  below  Reynolds,  the  steward  or  cook,  was 
busy  too ;  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  packing  away  all  kinds 
of  light  consumable  stores  in  the  narrow  compartment 
that  was  his  whole  realm.  She  gave  money  to  Rey- 
nolds, begged  him  to  take  care  of  Mr.  Dyke  as  well  as 
he  could.  Reynolds  promised.  She  sat  for  a  long 
while  alone  on  the  bunk  in  Dyke's  cabin,  staring  at 
trunks  that  were  like  old  friends  to  her,  trunks  that  had 
been  in  his  room  at  the  hotel  such  a  little  while  ago ; 
and  she  fingered  many  parcels  all  thrown  down  there 
on  the  bunk,  the  things  she  had  bought  for  him  yester- 
day and  the  day  before  —  comforts,  contrivances,  and 
books.  That  small  square  parcel  contained  the  poems 
of  Tennyson.  He  loved  them  —  especially  the  Idylls  of 
the  King,  Both  head  and  heart  were  aching  so  in- 
tolerably that  she  had  to  clench  her  hands  sometimes ; 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  127 

and  her  breathing  was  affected.  She  felt  that  she  might 
suffocate  if  she  did  not  have  more  air,  and  3^et  she  did 
not  like  to  go  up  to  the  deck  where  Dyke  and  Cairns 
were  busy  with  some  one  in  the  chart-room.  Down  here, 
in  this  small  buried  cabin,  she  had  a  feeling  that  the 
ship  was  enormous,  a  monster  of  the  deep  now  gather- 
ing energy,  angrily  shivering,  like  the  men  on  the  upper 
deck  panting  to  get  to  work. 

Then  she  heard  Dyke's  voice  calling  to  her,  and  she 
went  up  with  him.  He  said  that  he  had  been  looking 
for  her  everywhere.  As  she  came  out  into  the  daylight 
he  noticed  her  whiteness,  and  saw  that  sharpened, 
hardened  aspect  of  the  face  that  had  once  impressed 
itself  on  the  attention  of  her  father.  Her  nose  seemed 
much  too  thin,  her  chin  much  too  pointed  and  the  al- 
most colourless  lips  were  drawn  inward  by  an  ugly 
contraction ;  seeing  her  thus,  no  sane  person  could  have 
described  her  as  a  pretty  girl,  indeed  it  would  have 
been  kind  not  to  call  her  plain ;  but  this  marring  of  her 
beauty,  this  swift  disfigurement,  for  one  who  not  only 
knew  the  cause  but  was  himself  the  cause  stirred  deeper 
wells  of  love  and  made  admiration  more  poign- 
antly sincere.  He  took  her  twitching  fingers,  and  in  a 
husky  whisper  muttered  words  of  encouragement  and 
hope. 

"  It  —  it's  quite  all  right,  Tony.  I  —  I'll  not  dis- 
grace you." 

"  You  see,  Emmie  dear.  The  time  will  pass,"  he 
mumbled.     "  Back  soon  as  I  can." 

"  Yes  —  I  know.  But  not  too  soon  —  not  —  not  till 
you've  done  your  work." 

For  perhaps  seventy  seconds  they  stood  holding 
hands,  and  looking  at  each  other. 


128  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  Anthony." 

"Oh,  Emmie.    It's  awful,  isn't  it?  " 

Then  some  one  shouted  to  liim.  Some  one  had  just 
come  up  the  side. 

"  You'll  let  me  stay  to  the  last  moment,  won't  you?  " 
she  said,  with  a  spasmodic  clutch  of  her  fingers. 
"  You  won't  send  me  ashore,  till  3^ou  need?  " 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  hurrying  away. 

It  was  now  about  three  in  the  afternoon,  and  during 
the  next  hour  she  had  but  flying  sentences  from  him  at 
long  intervals.  Worrying,  anno^^ng  things,  as  she 
gathered,  occupied  all  his  thoughts.  Men  came  and 
went.  There  were  gusts  of  loud  swearing  in  the  chart- 
room  and  confidential  irritable  exchanges  as  Captain 
Cairns  appeared  and  disappeared.  Then  there  was  talk 
of  the  pilot.  Something  was  very  much  on  Anthony's 
nerves,  ob^dously;  she  learned  from  his  snatches  of 
explanation  that  this  concerned  certain  formalities  that 
should  have  been  completed  but  were  not  —  the  ship's 
papers  not  yet  absolutely  in  order,  clearances  still  re- 
quired, the  port  or  custom-house  authorities  rubbed  the 
wrong  way  by  sheer  stupidness  and  now  becoming 
troublesome  when  there  was  no  leisure  to  soothe  them? 
She  did  not  know.  She  only  knew  that  Anthony  was 
angry,  using  strong  language  and  saying  he  would 
go  and  attend  to  it  himself  since  he  could  trust  nobody 
else. 

There  was  a  second  cause  for  annoyance.  Four  or 
five  of  the  crew  were  on  shore  instead  of  on  board  — 
five,  perhaps  six  of  Cairns's  international  mob  absent, 
playing  the  fool,  getting  drunk,  what  not,  just  as  their 
services  were  urgently  required.  Cairns  was  as  angry 
as  Dyke  about  this.     The  second  mate  must  go  off  in 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  129 

a  boat  at  once  and  bring  those  men  aboard  dead  or 
alive,  with  or  without  their  kit;  and  Dyke  exploded, 
roaring  threats  —  advising  the  captain  to  put  them  in 
irons  after  breaking  their  bones.  And  then,  with  more 
talk  of  another  boat,  a  boat  for  Mr.  Dyke;  with  more 
talk  about  the  pilot,  the  tide,  those  papers  —  then, 
after  all  this,  suddenly.  Miss  Verinder  understood.  The 
ship  was  going  to  sail  before  its  time.  The  ship  was 
going  to  sail  as  soon  as  it  possibly  could. 

"Yes,  my  darling,  yes.  No,  you  can't  stay  no\^. 
I'm  going  ashore  myself.  I  haven't  a  minute  to  spare. 
Come  along." 

As  they  were  rowed  away  from  the  ship  the  other 
boat  parted  from  them,  and  Dyke  shouted  further 
menaces  across  the  water.  He  was  worried,  irritated, 
answering  his  E]iimie's  questions  automatically.  She 
sat  bolt  upright,  rigid,  so  that  her  slim  body  jerked 
all  in  one  piece  as  the  rowers  plunged  their  oars  faster 
and  faster,  but  she  still  showed  a  sympathetic  intelli- 
gent interest.  Replying  to  her  quite  sensible  inquiries. 
Dyke  told  her  at  which  landing-place  the  mate's  boat 
would  lie  waiting  for  those  men ;  also  that  if  the  mate 
failed  to  find  the  absentees  he  would  return  to  the  ship 
without  them.  If  Dyke  could  polish  off  his  rather 
ticklish  bit  of  business,  he  intended  that  the  ship  should 
leave  her  moorings  in  two  hours. 

"  So  it's  good-bye,  Emmie  "  —  they  were  close  to  the 
shore  now  —  "  Good-bye,  my  best  —  my  dearest  —  my 
only  love." 

She  did  not  reply,  she  could  not  reply.  This  manner 
of  parting  with  him  was  too  bitter.     It  was  too  bitter. 

He  hurried  her  across  the  landing-stage  and  through 
the  crowd  on  the  sloped  bridge,  put  her  into  a  cab,  and 


130  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

told  the  driver  to  take  her  to  the  hotel.  One  more 
squeeze  of  the  hand,  and  he  had  vanished.  She  could 
not  see  if  he  jumped  into  another  cab  himself  or  crossed 
the  wide  roadway  towards  lofty  buildings  on  the  other 
side.  Anyhow  he  was  about  his  business.  It  had  be- 
gun to  rain,  a  gust  of  cold  wind  swept  through  the  cab 
windows. 

At  the  hotel,  as  she  passed  his  room,  the  door  stood 
open,  and  she  saw  the  chambermaid  with  brush  and 
broom  making  its  emptiness  neat  and  clean  for  another 
lodger.  There  was  a  litter  of  crumpled  newspapers  on 
the  tiled  hearth ;  the  low  table  on  which  he  packed  his 
last  valise  had  been  pushed  away  from  the  foot 
of  the  bed;  and  the  window  curtains  were  looped  up 
high,  to  keep  them  out  of  the  dust  that  the  broom  was 
making. 

Miss  Verinder  went  into  her  own  room,  and  remained 
for  a  minute  motionless,  with  clenched  hands,  strug- 
gling for  breath.  This  parting  was  too  bitter  —  much 
too  bitter.  It  was  more  than  she  could  bear.  She  rang 
the  bell,  and  continued  to  ring  it  until  the  chamber- 
maid came  to  help  her.  Then  she  began  to  pack,  with 
feverish  haste. 

Dusk  was  falling  rapidly  and  the  port  light  of  the 
Mercedaria  made  a  red  reflection  in  the  grey  stream 
When,  after  less  than  two  hours.  Dyke  got  back  on 
board.  He  had  achieved  liis  object,  but  he  roared  in 
anger  again  at  hearing  that  the  mate  had  not  returned 
with  those  men. 

They  came  while  he  was  still  shouting.  Theii'  boat 
was  alongside.  They  were  coming  up  the  ladder. 
Captain  Cairns,  on  the  bridge  with  the  pilot,  looked 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  131 

down  at  the  vague  clambering  forms  and  cursed  them 
one  by  one  and  all  together.  They  were  in  tarpaulin 
coats,  clutching  at  their  bundles  or  chests  and  seeming 
to  have  an  absurd  amount  of  baggage;  one  at  least  of 
them  —  if  not  every  one  of  them,  as  the  Captain  said 
—  appeared  to  be  drunk.  The  others  had  to  aid  him  as 
he  sprang  weakly  and  clumsily  from  the  boat  to  the 
ladder. 

Then  soon  the  Mercedaria  began  to  glide  down  the 
river,  emitting  a  melancholy  siren  blast  to  demand  her 
rights  of  way.  They  were  off.  The  dusk  was  deepen- 
ing, the  rain  swept  along  with  them ;  all  was  greyness, 
mistiness,  and  smoke,  and  the  city  towers  and  pinnacles 
seemed  to  sink  lower  and  to  fade  behind  banks  of 
cloud,  below  which  hundreds  of  lights  began  to  twinkle 
feebly.  The  wretchedness  and  misery  of  departure 
enveloped  the  whole  broad  estuary. 

Dyke  had  put  on  a  waterproof  and  a  sou'wester,  and 
he  prowled  to  and  fro  below  the  bridge  gazing  across 
the  water,  now  on  this  side,  now  on  that.  He  was  quiet 
now,  and  yet  not  altogether  easy  in  his  mind.  The 
fretfulness  caused  by  dread  of  delay  and  interruption 
could  not  immediately  be  subdued,  and  perhaps  certain 
doubts  still  lingered.  He  went  down  to  the  lower  deck, 
made  his  way  aft  and  stood  for  a  while  right  at  the 
stern,  looking  out  intently.  One  might  have  supposed 
that  he  was  now  silently  brooding  on  his  love,  sadly 
thinking  of  the  girl  he  had  left  behind  him ;  but  in  truth 
he  thought  only  of  the  voyage  and  the  venture.  Watch- 
ing and  waiting,  as  the  low  land  slid  away  and  the 
darkness  fell,  he  was  wondering  if  a  steam  pinnace  with 
those  confounded  custom-house  people  would  come 
racing  after  him,  and  feeling  that  he  would  like  to 


132  SPINSTEB.    OF    THIS    PARISH 

sink  them  if  they  came.     But  nothing  happened.     It 
was  all  right. 

He  went  up  again  to  the  chart-room  and  stood  there, 
cheerful,  rubbing  his  hands.  He  slapped  jolly  old 
Cairns  on  the  back  and  the  two  sat  there  for  a  bit, 
drinking  whisky  and  water,  and  gaily  chatting,  like 
two  schoolboys  glorying  in  the  success  of  their  latest 
prank. 

The  pilot  had  been  dropped.  It  was  black  night  now 
and  the  Mercedaria  was  safely  out  at  sea;  rain  and 
wind  drove  at  her  as  she  ploughed  across  the  pleasant 
heave  and  swell,  rolling  scarcely  at  all,  but  filled  with 
throbbings  and  vibrations  — with  delightful  sounds  too, 
of  orders  repeated  through  the  darkness,  the  scurry  of 
footsteps,  of  the  rudder  chains  clanking  in  their 
grooves,  the  work  of  her  screw,  the  splash  of  water 
against  her  bows :  sounds  that  are  so  stimulating  and 
seductive  to  those  who  delight  in  journeys  by  sea,  but 
so  insidiously  distressing,  so  suggestive  of  augmented 
woe,  to  those  unpractised  in  the  ways  of  the  unsteady 
deep. 

Every  throb  and  murmur  rejoiced  the  heart  of  Dyke ; 
the  very  smells  of  the  ship  were  refreshing  to  him. 
Some  of  them  rose,  to  welcome  and  cheer,  as  he  went 
down  the  companion-way  towards  the  comfortable 
lamp-light  of  the  saloon.  There  was  the  peculiar  char- 
acteristic stufSness,  with  odours  of  leather,  stale  salt 
water,  and  dead  fish,  enriched  at  the  moment  by  the 
efforts  of  Reynolds  the  steward  frying  meat  and  onions 
in  grease,  and  that  oil  lamp  burning  clieerily  but  with 
a  smoky  flame. 

Dyke  stood  in  the  saloon  doorway,  his  face  all  wet. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  133 

his  beard  glistening,  and  the  water  falling  from  his 
coat  to  the  floor.  He  stood  there,  dripping  but  full  of 
enjoyment,  ior  one  moment;  then  Reynolds  in  the 
cuddy  heard  him  shout. 

"  Great  heavens !    Emmie !  " 

She  was  calmly  sitting  at  the  table,  with  the  lamp- 
light on  her  white  face ;  and  she  spoke  to  him  in  gentle 
pleading  tones. 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me." 

But  he  was  angry,  terribly  angry;  with  himself  or 
fate,  rather  than  with  her.  He  did  not  speak  harshly 
or  unkindly  to  her  herself,  but  he  addressed  the  wood- 
work, the  skylight,  and  all  inanimate  things  with 
dreadful  severity.  He  waved  his  arms,  he  pulled  at  his 
hair ;  never  had  she  seen  him  so  agitated,  so  perturbed. 

"  Tony  dear,  what  does  it  matter?  " 

He  said  that  her  presence  there  had  put  him  in  a 
hideously  false  position.  He  said  that  he  must  not  of 
course  blame  her ;  what  she  had  done  was  noble,  heroic, 
angelic;  only  he  ought  to  have  warned  her  of  the  dis- 
astrous effect  of  such  an  act.  *'  Emmie,  you  reckless 
self-sacrificing  saint,  you  really  have  carted  me.  You've 
made  me  break  my  solemn  promise.  In  all  my  life  I've 
never  gone  back  on  ray  word.  My  old  father  foresaw, 
he  feared  —  and  I  gave  him  my  word  of  honour  that 
I  wouldn't  take  you  out  of  England." 

Poor  Miss  Verinder  said  forlornly,  "  You  must  tell 
your  father  the  fault  is  mine.  It  is  I  who  have  run 
away  with  you,  not  you  with  me." 

But  Dyke  then  said  they  must  stop  the  ship  and 
land  her  as  soon  as  possible.  He  would  go  and  consult 
with  Captain  Cairns.  Miss  Verinder  said  no,  she 
begged  him  not  to  think  of  doing  that;  she  would  go 


134  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

with  him  to  their  port  of  destination  and  then  quietly 
return  to  England.  Deprecatingly  she  explained  that 
she  had  not  planned  this  treacherous  act,  she  had  never 
meant  to  do  anything  at  all  on  her  own  initiative  or 
without  his  explicit  approval ;  but  the  accelerated  de- 
parture, that  hasty  good-bye,  the  bundling  her  into  a 
cab  and  disappearing,  had  been  too  much  for  her. 
Then  the  thought  had  come  of  the  mate's  boat  lying 
there  waiting  —  and  then  "  Tony,  I  had  to  do  it.  I 
couldn't,  I  couldn't  help  it."  And  she  concluded  with 
urgent  entreaties  that  Mr.  O'Donnell,  the  second  mate, 
should  not  be  made  to  suffer  for  her  imprudence.  ]Mr. 
O'Donnell,  she  said,  had  at  first  strongly  objected  to 
bring  her  off,  but  she  had  not  been  quite  truthful  to 
Mr.  O'Donnell.  She  had  "  over-persuaded "  Mr. 
O'Donnell.  After  that  he  had  been  kindness  itself; 
lending  her  one  of  the  men's  coats,  helping  her  out  of 
the  boat,  troubling  about  her  luggage. 

"  Tony !  "  and  she  stretched  out  her  hand. 

She  was  deadly  pale,  trembling  a  little,  and  her  dark 
hair  hung  down  loosely  about  her  pleading  eyes.  Dyke 
stooped  over  her  and  kissed  her  cold  forehead. 

"  Emmie !  " 

Re3'nolds  came  in  with  a  tray  of  23lates,  and  was 
followed  by  heavy  waves  of  that  odour  of  fried  steak 
and  onions ;  he  fixed  the  tray  to  the  table  in  some  in- 
genious manner,  and  every  time  the  Mercedaria  softly 
heaved  the  plates  made  a  musical  clatter.  Those  in- 
\asible  chains  rumbled  behind  Miss  Verinder's  head, 
and  before  her  eyes  two  scuttles  with  brass  bolts  slowly 
sank  a  few  feet  and  as  slowly  rose.  She  shivered,  but 
went  on  talking;  her  gentle  voice  a  little  shaky,  but 
very  sweet  still. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  135 

"  And  I  meant  —  dear  Tony  —  not  to  give  anybody 
any  trouble  —  not  to  get  in  anybody's  way.  But  now 
I  fear  —  that  I  may  not  be  quite  well  on  the  voyage  — 
at  least  at  first.  Tony !  "  And  she  looked  at  him  de- 
spairingly. "  I  do  feel  so  ill.  Can  I  go  and  lie  down 
anywhere.?  " 


CHAPTER    VIII 

MISS  VERINDER  suffered  from  sea-sickness  in 
a  more  or  less  acute  form  throughout  the  in- 
terminable voyage.  The  ship  touched  at 
Lisbon  and  Dyke  wanted  to  put  her  ashore,  but  she  re- 
fused to  stir.  They  encountered  terrible  weather  in  the 
long  trudge  to  St.  Vincent ;  and  there,  in  a  spell  of 
stifling  heat  while  the  ship  coaled,  she  seemed  so  des- 
perately ill  that  he  tried  again,  with  the  aid  of  a 
German  physician.  She  refused  to  move ;  she  might  be 
dying,  but  she  certainly  would  not  leave  the  ship.  She 
faintly  declared  that  of  course  she  was  not  dying;  very 
soon  now  she  would  be  quite  well. 

With  the  ship  in  motion  again,  and  a  cool  head  wind 
in  their  faces,  she  seemed  to  revive  a  little;  but  she 
relapsed  as  they  worked  southwards  towards  the 
equator  —  a  relapse  not  occasioned  but  perhaps  in- 
tensified by  the  well-meant  efforts  of  Reynolds  to  tempt 
her  appetite  with  pork  and  beans,  and  kindred  dainties. 
She  lived  on  tea  and  bicuits  —  and  on  the  sound  of 
D3"ke's  voice.  He  was  her  steward,  lady's  maid,  and 
nurse.  At  meal-time  she  liked  to  have  the  door  of  her 
cabin  wide  open,  so  that  through  the  narrow  passage 
she  could  hear  him  laugh  and  talk.  Along  with  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  came  perfumes  of  hot  coarse  food 
that  made  her  writhe  in  sudden  spasms  of  nausea;  yet 
she  never  closed  the  door.  She  took  what  gave  her  joy 
at  the  cost  of  all  that  gave  her  torment.     Indeed  she 

136 


SPINSTER   OF   THIS   PARISH  137 

never  counted  the  cost  in  regard  to  this  or  any  other 
matter  that  concerned  her  love.  Not  for  an  hour,  not 
for  a  minute,  did  she  regret  that  she  had  come  with 
him.  She  merely  apologized  for  causing  him  such 
dreadful  trouble. 

"  Tony  dear,  I  shall  wear  out  even  your  patience. 
How  can  you  forgive  me?  " 

He  used  to  tell  her  that  each  trifling  service  he  had 
the  honour  to  perform  was  like  a  tiny  piece  of  flax,  and 
that  out  of  such  pieces  she  had  made  a  rope  so  strong 
as  to  bind  him  to  her  invincibly.  He  could  never 
break  loose  now  if  he  wanted  to  be  free.  And  he 
wouldn't  want.  He  became  husky  when  he  spoke  of 
her  courage,  and  then  he  would  laugh  to  cheer  her; 
promising  that  she  should  have  three  happy  weeks  at 
Buenos  Ayres  while  he  and  that  staunch  old  sportsman 
Pedro  del  Sarto  were  preparing  their  jaunt  to  the 
Andes  —  weeks  to  make  up  for  all  this.  "  Our  honey- 
moon, Emmie !  " 

Truly  he  served  her  and  waited  upon  her  with  a 
surpassing  tenderness.  He  had  a  trick  of  kneeling  by 
the  berth,  making  one  arm  her  pillow,  and  with  his 
other  hand  softly  playing  with  her  hair.  That  rough 
muscular  hand  grew  light  as  a  rose  leaf  while  it  swept 
back  the  hair  and  touched  her  face.  And  once,  while 
in  this  attitude,  perhaps  because  of  noticing  her  debility 
and  frailness,  or  because  of  thinking  of  what  she  had 
done  for  his  sake,  he  began  to  weep.  Then,  till  he 
recovered  composure,  she  did  really  believe  she  might 
die ;  it  seemed  that  in  her  weak  state  the  mingled  sweet- 
ness and  pain  of  their  love  must  surely  kill  her ;  and  she 
thought  that,  for  bringing  tears  to  those  eyes,  she 
deserved  death. 


138  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  There.  You  musn't  let  me  get  too  sentimental, 
Emmie.  Check  me.  It's  a  fault  of  mine.  Now  here's 
cheerful  news.  Cairns  says  we  may  see  land  in  four 
days.  So  the  worst  is  over.  Down  the  Brazilian  coast 
it's  nothing  at  all." 

They  got  her  up  on  deck,  after  they  had  entered  the 
glorious  harbour  of  Rio  de  Janeiro.  And  she  sat, 
wrapped  with  shawls,  languidly  surve^^ng  the  broad 
smooth  waters,  the  vast  semi-circle  of  mountains,  and 
the  garden-like  beauty  of  town  and  shore.  It  was  a 
vague  dream-panorama,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned. 

Here  the  ship  was  joined  by  two  Italians  from  the 
southernmost  province  of  Brazil.  These,  it  seemed, 
were  the  consignees  of  those  bicycles  and  accessories. 
They  were  citizens  of  Brazil  —  adventurous  merchants 
■ —  dealers  in  bicycles,  and  a  variety  of  other  things  — ■ 
anything,  in  fact,  likely  to  prove  quickly  marketable. 
As  Dyke  informed  her,  confidentially,  it  was  at  their 
option  where  they  would  accept  delivery  of  his  mer- 
chandise. They  had  made  all  arrangements  for  landing 
the  goods,  and  they  would  pop  them  over  the  border 
into  Urugua}",  as  appeared  best  and  most  convenient. 
It  was  all  going  to  be  as  easy  as  falling  off  a  house. 

As  soon  as  the  ship  steamed  out  of  the  placid  bay 
Miss  Verinder  went  below  again.  She  remained  there, 
listening  day  after  day  to  the  gaiety  of  the  saloon,  a 
gaiety  largely  increased  by  the  addition  to  their  party. 

She  was  once  more  very  unwell  —  at  her  worst  almost 
during  forty-eight  hours  when,  as  Dyke  explained,  they 
were  standing  on  and  off  by  the  lagoon  in  front  of  Porto 
Alegre.  They  were  waiting  for  a  river  steamer  of 
shallow  draught  that  was  coming  out  to  meet  them. 
This  steamer,  as  Miss  Verinder  gathered,  duly  arrived 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  139 

alongside,  and,  before  the  dawn  of  another  day,  the 
most  delicate  part  of  their  cargo  was  transferred  to 
her.  Miss  Yerinder  listened  with  anxious  interest  to 
gentle  birnips  and  jarrings,  produced  by  their  tem- 
porary consort  —  to  the  noisy  racket  of  steam  winches, 
the  shouted  orders,  the  general  hubbub  that  continued 
during  the  lengthy  task  of  transshipment. 

Then  they  were  under  way  again,  and  Dyke  came 
down  to  her  joyous  and  smiling,  snapping  his  fingers 
in  innocent  glee.  Those  Italians  and  their  perhaps 
slightly  compromising  bicycles  had  gone  for  ever.  The 
deed  was  done.  All  the  cargo  now  on  board  was  good 
honest  domestic  stuff  for  the  Argentine,  and,  as  Dyke 
said,  laughing,  "  the  Pope  himself  might  come  and  look 
at  it,  if  he  cared  to." 

They  steamed  steadily  southward,  and  although  Miss 
Verinder  felt  relief  of  mind,  and  delighted  in  the  thought 
that  Dyke's  cleverness  and  resource  had  met  with  a 
prosperous  issue,  she  still  remained  far  from  well. 
Then  at  last  they  were  on  the  brown  mud-stained  bosom 
of  the  River  Plate.  They  were  between  the  black 
stretching  arms  of  the  Ensenada  Canal.  They  were  on 
shore.  Emmie  stood  upon  a  stone  pier  that  did  not 
undulate  beneath  her  feet,  and  leant  against  a  post  that 
yielded  no  vibration  to  her  shoulder.  She  was  better, 
even  as  she  staggered  through  the  Custom  House  on 
Dyke's  arm ;  she  was  convalescent  when  she  entered  the 
train,  able  to  take  pleasure  in  looking  at  the  flat  low 
land  and  herds  of  cattle,  in  catching  glimpses  of  a 
huge  two-wheeled  country  cart,  and  fantastic,  brightly- 
coloured  figures  on  horseback ;  she  was  almost  well  when 
Dyke  helped  her  out  of  the  train,  in  the  fine  noisy 
station  at  Buenos  Ayres. 


140  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

He  kept  liis  promise.  He  gave  her  the  happy  weeks. 
Flush  of  money,  joyous  after  the  successful  voyage,  he 
had  only  one  slight  care  or  disappointment,  and  he  did 
not  allow  this  to  trouble  him  long.  He  insisted  on 
buying  for  her  wonderful,  gay-coloured  dresses  that 
had  come  to  the  street  called  Florida  direct  from  the 
Rue  de  la  Paix;  like  a  debonair  honey-moon  husband 
with  a  runaway  bride,  he  could  not  buy  enough  for  her ; 
and  himself,  with  hair  cropped  and  beard  trimmed, 
faultlessly  attired,  too,  in  white  flannels,  was  now  a  not 
unworth}^  companion  to  those  enticing  Paris  frocks.  In 
the  sunshine  and  the  warmth,  lulled  by  all  the  charms 
of  exotic  novelty,  revelling  in  the  strangeness  and 
freedom  of  her  environment,  Miss  Verinder  blossomed 
with  beauty  and  health. 

She  drank  deep  of  the  brimming  cup  of  life.  As  a 
favourite  poet  expressed  the  thought  that  was  often  in 
her  mind  —  whatever  happened  now,  she  would  have 
had  her  day. 

She  felt  that  this  Buenos  Ayres,  although  the  biggest 
city  in  the  world  if  judged  by  extent,  was  not  large 
enough  to  hold  her  joy.  It  flowed  out  from  her  beyond 
the  vast  chess-board  of  houses  and  far  over  the  dusty 
plains ;  it  danced  with  the  sunlight  on  the  water  that 
she  saw  in  flashes  as  they  drove  in  their  two-horse  fl}^ 
along  the  incredibly  uneven  pavement  of  the  streets ;  it 
filled  the  whole  summer  night  as  they  sat  drinking  their 
coffee  under  the  palm-trees  of  Palermo's  park. 

They  were  staying  at  one  of  the  lesser  hotels  —  a 
place  built  in  the  Spanish  style  about  a  garden-court- 
yard that  was  full  of  sweet-smelling  flowers  and  shrubs  ; 
with  the  very  modern  addition  of  a  wooden  hall  in  which 
was  set  forth  the  one  long  table  at  which  the  guests 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  141 

assembled  twice  a  day.  There  were  fifty  or  sixty  of 
them  often  at  the  table  d'hote  dinner,  a  gathering  of 
many  races ^  with  representatives  of  many  trades; 
German  commercial  travellers,  Argentine  farmers  come 
from  their  estancias  to  pass  a  few  days  in  the  city; 
comfortable  Chilian  families  en  route  for  Europe,  sea 
captains  and  their  mates  like  Cairns  and  O'Donnell, 
Frenchmen  travelling  for  pleasure;  and  generally  some 
of  the  engineers  and  surveyors  whose  work  related  to 
the  construction  of  the  trans-Andine  railway.  The  talk 
frequently  ran  on  this  wonderful  railway  that  was  soon 
to  pierce  the  great  mountain  barrier  and  enable  you 
to  travel  from  one  ocean  to  the  other  as  easily  as  if  you 
were  going  from  London  to  Brighton.  A  Frenchman 
said  that  although  the  railway  would  be  marvellous 
and  admirable  as  an  engineering  feat,  he  regretted  it  as 
something  which  attacked  one  of  nature's  last  remain- 
ing strongholds,  which  would  rob  you  of  romance  and 
mystery;  but  Dyke  jovially  laughed  away  this  notion, 
vowing  that  the  Andes  were  big  enough  and  strong 
enough  to  withstand  a  hundred  such  inroads,  and  re- 
ferring them  to  a  certain  book  on  the  subject  which  it 
might  not  become  him  to  particularise  more  fully. 

Those  of  the  hotel  guests  who  did  not  know  him 
already  made  his  ripe  acquaintance  during  the  progress 
of  a  single  meal;  and  they  rarely  failed  to  felicitate 
Emmie  on  her  good  fortune  in  having  such  a  man  to 
act  as  escort  and  guide. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Mrs.  Fleming.  Vairy  well-known  man 
throughout  the  Argentine  Republic.  Vairy  well  re- 
spected man  to  the  populace  and  the  government." 

Dyke  had  given  out  that  she  was  Mrs.  Fleming,  a 
lady  journalist,  visiting  South  America  for  the  purpose 


142  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

of  gathering  literary  materials,  and  that  it  was  his 
task  to  show  her  things  of  interest ;  but  these  chance 
friends  drew  their  own  conclusions  as  to  the  bond  that 
subsisted  between  the  two.  Dyke  was  not  really  good 
at  deception;  after  making  those  hidalgo  bows  when 
they  met  for  dinner  and  ceremoniously  standing  by  the 
door  as  she  passed  out,  he  would  allow  his  far-reaching 
voice  to  be  heard  in  the  gardens  as  he  called  up  to  her 
in  her  room :  "  Emmie,  my  darling,  come  down  for  a 
stroll.    It's  a  perfect  night." 

Moreover,  they  could  not  do  otherwise  than  notice 
the  meek  adoration  in  her  face  as  she  looked  at  him. 
But  tliis  crowd  did  not  mind.  They  liked  her ;  they  felt 
sure  that  Fleming,  her  husband,  was  a  blackguard, 
and  that  she  had  been  driven  by  his  ill  usage  to  place 
herself  under  the  protection  of  the  illustrious  Don 
Antonio  Dyke. 

On  the  other  hand  the  official  people,  with  their  wives, 
daughters,  and  young  lady  visitors,  fought  shy  of  ]Mrs. 
Fleming,  dodging  introduction  to  her  and  ignoring  it 
afterwards  if  undodgable  —  more  especially  at  the 
Lawn  Tennis  Club,  where  nothing  could  prevent  him 
from  taking  her.  Indeed  one  might  say  that  just  as  he 
had  been  "  that  man  "  in  Prince's  Gate,  so  she  had 
become  "  that  woman  "  in  Buenos  Ayres. 

When  he  left  her  in  the  hired  victoria  outside  con- 
sulates, ministries,  or  government  offices  —  and  neces- 
sarily he  did  thus  leave  her  now  and  then,  —  frivolous 
clerks  and  minor  officials  peeped  at  her  from  behind 
sunblinds  or  even  came  forth  to  get  a  good  stare  at  her. 
Aware  both  of  this  curiosity  and  its  cause,  she  did  not 
at  all  suffer  because  of  them.  The  swarthy  coachman 
drew  the  carriage  into  the  shade  of  some  gum  trees, 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  143 

mounted  the  box  seat  again,  and  immediately  fell 
asleep;  and  Emmie  brought  out  her  grammar  or  con- 
versation book,  and  unconcernedly  pursued  her  study 
of  that  Spanish  tongue  which  Dyke  lisped  so  fluently. 
She  would  not  trouble  to  change  the  position  of  her 
flaming  parasol  when  the  silly  young  men  passed  to  and 
fro,  staring.  Let  them  say  what  they  pleased.  She 
could  not  now  bother  even  to  think  of  such  trivial 
matters  as  conventional  etiquette  or  orthodox  relation- 
ships. She  was  in  another  hemisphere  —  too  far  from 
the  Albert  Hall  for  it  to  be  worth  while. 

From  the  Argentine  government  —  a  government 
that  has  always  proved  the  most  liberal  in  the  world 
towards  colonists  and  travellers  —  Dyke  was  obtaining 
every  facility  and  authorisation  that  he  required  for 
his  new  journey  to  the  Andes.  Emeralds  had  not  been 
mentioned,  but  it  was  understood  that  he  would  explore 
in  search  of  mineral  deposits,  and  if  he  found  anything 
worth  finding  a  full  share  of  the  value  of  the  discovery 
would  be  secured  to  him.  For  the  best  of  all  reasons, 
he  was  going  to  make  the  trip  alone  and  not  in  company 
with  his  associate,  del  Sarto. 

To  his  great  disappointment  Pedro  del  Sarto  had 
totally  vanished.  It  seemed  that  his  varied  business  had 
gone  wrong,  he  himself  was  obviously  dropping  into 
low  water,  and  then,  of  a  sudden,  more  than  a  year  and 
a  half  ago,  he  had  left  Buenos  Ayres  without  a  word 
to  anybody.  Dyke  hunted  throughout  the  city  for  a 
faithful  underling  of  Pedro's,  a  man  called  Juan 
Pombal.  But  this  man  had  also  disappeared.  Then, 
after  more  hunting,  he  found  an  Indian  woman  who  had 
been  Pedro's  cook,  housekeeper,  and  perhaps  other 
things  as  well;  but  beyond  confirming  the  fact  of  the 


144  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

departure  she  could  supply  no  information.  She  ex- 
pected to  see  her  master  again  one  of  these  days,  and 
meantime  she  bore  his  absence  philosophically. 

The  loss  of  the  expected  comrade  and  partner  was  a 
blow  to  Dyke;  but,  as  has  been  indicated,  it  was  tem- 
peramentally impossible  to  him  to  permit  any  disap- 
pointment either  to  weigh  upon  his  spirits  or  to  turn 
him  from  his  purpose.  He  must  go  by  himself  —  that 
was  all  about  it.  Nevertheless,  during  his  first  surprise 
at  so  strange  a  failure  to  keep  a  business  appointment, 
he  confessed  to  Mrs.  Fleming  that  he  felt  "  flummuxed  " 
by  dear  old  Pedro's  conduct. 

"  I  told  him  I  would  be  back  here  in  two  years  —  at 
the  very  latest.  And  you  see,  Emmie,  he  believed  in 
my  discovery.  He  believed  we  had  got  a  fortune  in  it. 
He  believed,  even  before  I  gave  him  the  map  I  had 
made.  He  trusted  m^'^  judgment  —  just  as  I  trusted  his 
fidelity.  We  were  fond  of  each  other.  Emmie,  I  don't 
pretend  that  Pedro  is  really  a  gentleman,  but  he  is  a 
clinking  good  sort  all  the  same.  He  and  I  met  first  at 
Punta  Arenas  —  when  I  was  messing  about  after  the 
beach  gold  —  and  we  became  like  brothers.  Well  then, 
if  he  was  down  on  his  luck,  why  didn't  he  write  to  me? 
And  since  he  knew  I  was  coming  back,  why  couldn't 
he  wait?  The  very  fact  of  his  losses  would  have  made 
him  all  the  keener  for  such  a  chance  as  this.  It  beats 
me.  his  going  without  letting  me  know.  I  can  only 
explain  it  by  a  guess.  More  than  eighteen  months  ago. 
Well,  I  expect  it  was  the  gold  again  down  south  that 
tempted  him  —  and  he  and  Pombal  lit  out  for  it,  think- 
ing they'd  make  a  bit  down  there  and  be  back  here 
again  in  time  for  me." 

Once  more  Emmie  was  taking  intelligent  interest  in 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  145 

Dyke's  preparations,  and  the  three  happy  weeks  glided 
into  four  and  five  before  everything  was  completed.  A 
contractor  at  Mendoza  was  supplying  the  mules  and 
their  equipment,  with  an  excellent  muleteer  as  chief; 
seven  other  men,  of  whom  four  were  Indians,  stout 
hefty  fellows  inured  to  hardship  and  capable  of  using 
picks  to  good  effect,  had  been  engaged  by  Dyke  himself ; 
light  mining  tools,  shelter  tents,  suitable  garments, 
and  a  tremendous  provision  of  food  in  the  most  con- 
veniently compressed  form,  made  up  the  outfit  of  the 
expedition.  It  would  assemble  at  Mendoza,  and  make 
its  real  start  higher  in  the  hills,  at  the  existing  end  of 
the  railway.  The  month  of  December  had  now  begun, 
with  settled  summer  weather.  As  Emmie  understood, 
any  further  delay  would  be  unwise  if  not  inexcusable. 

And  so  once  more  their  parting  drew  very  near. 
These  were  the  last  days.  One  lovely  night  when  after 
driving  about  the  park  they  had  left  their  carriage  in 
order  to  saunter  among  the  crowd  and  listen  to  the 
band,  she  spoke  to  him  quietly  but  very  seriously  con- 
cerning the  risks  that  he  would  run  on  his  mountain 
trip. 

"  Risks  !  "  he  said  gaily,  "  There  are  no  risks  of  any 
sort  or  kind."  There  was  only  one  word  that  could 
adequately  describe  this  amusing  little  jaunt,  the  word 
that  he  had  used  all  along.  It  would  be  a  picnic  —  a 
picnic,  neither  more  nor  less.  And  searching  for  similes, 
he  assured  her  that  he  would  be  as  absolutely  safe  up 
there  as  he  could  be  on  his  native  Devon  cliffs,  or 
Richmond  Hill,  or  Hampstead  Heath. 

But  apparently  not  satisfied,  she  suggested  dangers 
one  after  another.  Hostile  Indians?  Storms  and 
mists.?  Ice  crevasses.'*  Snow  avalanches.?  Excessive 
cold.? 


146  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  No,  no  —  of  course  not."  He  laughed  at  her  sug- 
gestions. Hostile  Indians  no  longer  existed,  it  was 
summer  time,  the  only  snow  likely  to  interfere  with  him 
would  all  be  melted.  She  also  laughed,  but  then  con- 
tinued her  serious  talk,  linking  her  arm  in  his  and 
pressing  it  to  her  side  as  they  strolled  away  from  the 
music,  the  lamps,  and  the  crowd. 

"  Tony  dear,  you  make  light  of  things  because  you 
yourself  are  so  wonderful.  You  don't  feel  cold  or 
fatigue.     Danger  is  nothing  to  you." 

"  Oh,  isn't  it,  by  Jove?  Emmie,  I'm  the  most 
cautious  old  bird  alive.  It's  been  my  maxim  and  watch- 
word never  to  take  an  avoidable  risk.  No,  that's  a 
fool's  game.  And  —  see  here  —  if  I've  been  careful  in 
the  past,  how  much  more  careful  shall  I  be  in  the  future 
—  now  that  I  own  the  universe  ?  I  swear  it's  true, 
Emmie.     No  chances  henceforth  for  Anthony  Dyke." 

But  she  did  not  yet  seem  satisfied. 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  your  real  work,"  she  said 
quietly.  "  Only  about  this  one  little  expedition.  Sup- 
posing it  wasn't  yourself  —  suppose  it  was  somebody 
else,  not  trained  and  clever  like  you  —  suppose  it  was 
just  an  ordinary  person  —  would  you  still  say  there 
was  no  risk?  " 

"  Yes,  I  would,"  said  Dyke,  after  a  slight  hesitation. 
"  None  worth  considering.  No,  any  ordinary  healthy 
person  could  do  it  as  easily  as  falling  off  a  house." 

"  Do  3^ou  say  that  on  your  honour,  Tony?  " 

"  Yes,  on  my  honour." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Miss  Verinder  firmly.  "  Then  I'll 
go  with  you." 

Throughout  the  drive  back  to  the  hotel,  he  was  ex- 
plaining that  he  had  spoken  of  ordinary  men,  not  of 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  147 

women;  that  not  for  a  moment  could  he  consent;  that 
it  was  quite  spendid  of  her  to  entertain  such  a  wild 
idea,  but  shf  must  dismiss  it  at  once  and  for  ever. 

"  Oh,  no,  Tony,"  she  said,  smiling  in  the  darkness 
as  she  took  his  hand  and  got  out  of  the  carriage. 
"  We'll  consider  it  quite  settled,  please.  Of  course  I 
mean  for  the  trip  only.  Directly  you  are  ready  to  go 
to  Australia  I'll  say  good-bye  —  and  no  more  non- 
sense." And  she  squeezed  against  him  as  they  passed 
through  the  fragrance  of  the  hotel  garden.  "  I'm  too 
proud  of  you  to  be  selfish.  I'd  never,  never  try  to  come 
between  you  and  your  real  work," 


CHAPTER    IX 

A  RAILWAY  journey  of  something  under  seven 
hundred  miles,  during  each  mile  of  which  the 
train  and  ever^'thing  in  it  became  enveloped  in  a 
deeper  and  deeper  mantle  of  dust,  brought  them  to  the 
town  of  Mendoza  at  the  foot  of  the  Andes.  They 
stayed  here  for  two  nights  and  a  da}";  then  they  went 
on  again,  climbing  now,  in  the  narrow-gauge  railway, 
as  far  as  it  could  take  them.  They  slept  the  following 
night  at  a  still  comparatively  decent  inn,  and  next  day 
mounted  their  mules  and  began  to  ride. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Miss  Verinder,  or  Mrs. 
Fleming,  or  whatever  one  liked  to  call  her,  temporarily 
disappeared ;  her  place  being  taken  b}^  a  person  in 
breeches,  with  boots  big  enough  to  contain  a  fur  lining 
and  at  least  three  pairs  of  stockings  —  a  person  who 
might  readily  have  been  mistaken  for  a  bright-e^^ed, 
eager,  excited  lad,  until  for  a  moment  she  took  off  her 
immense  straw  hat  and  disclosed  an  unexpected  pro- 
fusion of  dark  wav}^  hair. 

Thus  she  rode  out,  bestriding  her  large  mule  jauntily, 
with  Dyke  on  one  side  of  her  and  the  capataz  or  chief 
muleteer  on  the  other  side,  the  keen  thin  air  fanning  her, 
the  fiery  sun  blazing  at  her  —  through  such  scenery  as 
till  now  she  had  seen  only  in  dreams,  along  the  edge  of 
precipices,  past  ravines  through  the  hidden  deptlis  of 
which  torrents  went  raging,  beneath  stupendous  over- 
hanging cliffs  —  she  rode  out  into  brain-reeling  wonder 
and  heart-folding  enchantment. 

148 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  149 

"  Isn't  it  a  lark,  Emmie?  What?  " 
"  O  pig,  O  laziest  of  swine,"  said  their  capataz,  smil' 
ing  at  her  .ingratiatingly,  but  addressing  her  mule. 
"  Will  you  move  when  a  lady  rides  you  or  will  you 
not?  "  And,  dropping  back,  he  belaboured  the  hind- 
quarters of  Emmie's  mule  with  a  substantial  stick. 

This   highly   praised  muleteer  —  Manuel   Balda   by 
name  —  was  ferocious  enough  of  aspect ;  dressed  in  the 
usual  gaucho  style,  with  slouch  hat,  poncho,  and  knife 
at  belt;  rolling  his  sloe-like  eyes  and  showing  yellow 
teeth  in  a  weather-stained  face.     But  his  manner  had 
been  quite  magnificent  when  Dyke  ceremoniously  pre- 
sented him  to  Emmie  a  few  minutes  ago,  and  since  then 
he  had  taken  off  his  hat  and  bowed  to  her  at  least  five 
times.    His  voice,  too,  grew  gentle  and  caressing  when- 
ever he  addressed  her  directly.    He  spoke  English  well, 
and  one  understood  at  once  that  he  was  inordinately 
proud  of  his  knowledge  of  the  language.     He  called  her 
Missis,  not   Senora  or  Donna.     "  Now  he  moves   for 
Missis,"  said  Manuel,  satisfied  with  her  mule's  acceler- 
ated pace.     "  And  I,  INIanuel  Balda,  myself  would  die 
for  Missis  " ;  and  he  doffed  his  hat  and  bowed.     "  That 
is  comprehended,  is  it  not?     Don  Antonio  has  said  me 
to  be  the  guard  of  Missis  all  time  our  journey  shall  last. 
Be  it  so,  to  the  last  drop  of  my  blood."     Then,  with 
the  most  graceful  ceremony,  he  gave  his  cudgel  to  her, 
vowing  that  he  had  trimmed  it  for  this  express  purpose, 
and   begging   her   not   to    spare   its   use.      Then   with 
another   profound  bow  he   galloped   ahead,   and  they 
saw  him  no  more  till  the  evening.     He  had  gone  on  to 
overtake   their   train   of   pack-mules,  which   had  been 
slowly  plodding  forward  for  the  last  three  days. 

Emmie,   although   amused  by   Manuel's   words   and 


150  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

manners,  did  not  take  to  the  man  himself.  In  her  first 
swift  impression  there  was  something  vaguely  discon- 
certing, as  of  weakness  or  shiftiness  detected  behind  the 
outward  show  of  loyalty  and  strength  —  the  quite 
vague  feeling  that  decides  one  during  one's  first  inter- 
view with  a  servant.  It  did  not  in  any  way  perturb 
her,  but  it  was  just  sufficient  to  make  her  ask  Dyke  if 
he  trusted  Manuel  implicitly. 

"  I  don't  trust  him  an  inch  further  than  I  see  him," 
said  DjMve  cheerily.  "  But  he  knows  his  job.  That's 
the  great  thing.  Presently  I'll  let  him  see  —  and  the 
others  too  —  that  there'll  be  trouble  for  anybody  who 
attempts  to  play  the  fool." 

They  rode  on,  and  the  imagination  almost  fainted  in 
presence  of  reality.  It  made  one  turn  dizzy  to  look 
down,  it  set  one  trembling  to  look  back.  Each  sharp 
turn  or  twist  of  their  path  revealed  things  more  tre- 
mendous. The  heights  and  depths,  the  chaotic  masses, 
the  savage  grandeur  of  it  all,  made  the  fantastic  impos- 
sible pictures  drawn  by  that  popular  artist  Gustave 
Dore  seem,  in  one's  memory  of  them,  pale  and  insipid. 

Yet  they  were  still  on  the  beaten  track.  This  was  the 
high  road,  through  the  pass,  from  one  civilized  country 
to  another ;  and  plainly  its  frequenters  treated  it  as  a 
quite  ordinary  affair.  Single  horsemen  came  galloping 
down  at  them  with  loose  reins;  a  four-horse  coach 
swept  round  one  of  the  bends  in  the  granite  ledge  at 
break-neck  speed ;  long  files  of  laden  mules  made  clouds 
of  dust,  and  twice  the  path  was  blocked  by  droves  of 
cattle  in  the  midst  of  which  gauchos,  apparently  gone 
mad,  were  shouting  and  cursing. 

Emmie's  excursion  had  but  begun,  she  was  merely 
doing  what  every  tourist  did,  although  the  romance  and 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  151 

grandeur  of  it  kept  her  pulses  racing.  "  I  am  in  the 
Andes,"  she  murmured  to  herself.  "  I  am  with  him  — 
on  the  road  to  the  Uspallata  Pass  —  getting  higher 
and  higher  in  the  Andes." 

They  spent  that  night  at  the  last  of  the  mountain 
inns  to  be  encountered  by  them  for  a  long  while.  Next 
morning  the  true  fun  would  begin. 

The  inn  was  a  wretched  little  assemblage  of  low  sheds 
standing  on  flat  ground  a  few  hundred  yards  away  from 
the  track ;  but  it  had  a  large  walled  corral  in  which  the 
baggage  of  dozens  of  mules  lay  stacked  or  tumbled  in 
loose  confusion.  The  mules  themselves  —  Dyke's  lot 
among  them  —  were  picketed  or  tied  to  the  walls. 
Muleteers,  the  railway  people,  itinerant  dealers,  and  so 
forth  crowded  the  place.  The  living-room  had  more 
dreadful  odours  than  the  cabin  of  the  Mercedaria, 
The  sordidness  and  dirt  of  the  boarded  compartment 
in  which  she  and  Dyke  were  to  sleep  surpassed  belief; 
one  glance  at  the  two  beds  —  the  two  lairs  —  caused 
the  flesh  to  creep  in  anticipation  of  the  attack  of  an 
insect  horde.  Dyke,  on  their  arrival,  immediately  be- 
came occupied  with  his  men,  and  Emmie  fell  into  the 
charge  of  the  landlady,  a  dirty  but  kindly  matron,  and 
of  Manuel  Balda. 

"  A  bit  rough,"  said  Dyke ;  "  but  Manuel  will  help  to 
make  you  comfortable." 

No  one  of  course  could  do  that ;  although  Manuel, 
who  was  torn  in  opposite  directions  by  his  desire  to  be 
outside  with  Dyke  examining  the  equipment  and  to  be 
here  waiting  upon  his  lady,  gallantly  attempted  the 
impossible  task. 

She  wanted  water  to  wash  with ;  but  both  he  and  the 
landlady  implored  her  to  abandon  this  desire.    Already 


152  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

the  glare  of  the  fierce  sun  had  scorched  her  delicate 
complexion.  She  might  rub  her  cheeks  with  vaseline  or 
any  procurable  grease ;  but,  for  the  love  of  heaven,  no 
water!  No  more  washing,  Seiiora,  for  the  future,  if 
you  are  still  to  mount. 

And  now  let  us  chat  of  these  insects  which  "  Missis  ^ 
dreads  in  the  beds  and  elsewhere.  WeU,  it  is  so;  and 
so  unhappily  it  will  continue.  Perhaps  Missis  has  not 
thought  to  meet  lice  in  profusion  at  these  big  altitudes? 

Miss  Verinder  confessed  that  she  had  not  indeed 
thought  of  such  a  meeting;  and,  before  an  hour  had 
passed,  accepting  the  strong  advice  both  of  Manuel  and 
the  landlady,  she  decided  to  have  her  hair  cut.  Manuel 
did  it  for  her  —  using  a  pair  of  shears  generally  em- 
ployed on  the  manes  of  mules,  after  he  had  carefully 
cleansed  the  blades  with  oil. 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure  you're  right,"  she  kept  murmuring, 
as  she  sat  upon  a  wooden  box  and  the  long  dark  tresses 
fell  about  her  on  the  dirty  floor.  "  Yes,  I  feel  more 
comfortable  already  —  much  more  comfortable." 

Dyke,  coming  in  just  when  the  operation  was  finished, 
gave  a  yell  of  horror  and  fury  at  sight  of  her  sitting 
there  brutally  bobbed,  changed  while  his  back  was 
turned  from  his  glorious  dusk3Mocked  princess  into  a 
travest}^  of  du  Manner's  popular  heroine.  Trilby.  He 
beat  his  breast,  he  waved  his  arms,  he  roared.  And  then, 
as  Emmie  pacified  and  explained,  he  picked  up  fallen 
meshes,  ran  them  through  his  fingers,  and  almost  wept. 

"  Your  greatest  loveliness.  Oh,  Emmie,  I  can't  bear 
it.    It  has  broken  my  heart." 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Tony.  My  hair  will  grow  again. 
There  will  be  plenty  of  time  —  when  you  are  gone  " ; 
and  again  she  explained  her  reasons. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  153 

Ah,  yes.  Well,  it  must  be  admitted,  lice  are  lice. 
Dyke  muttered  and  moaned,  but  gradually  submitted  to 
the  cruel  stroke.  Yes,  perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  the 
wisest  thing  to  do.  "  But  mark  you.  This  "  —  after 
winding  a  long  mesh  round  his  fingers  he  was  putting 
it  in  his  pocket-book  — ■  "  this  I  shall  keep  for  remem- 
brance to  my  dying  day." 

She  did  not  mind  the  loss  of  her  pretty  hair.  She  did 
not  mind  anything  —  not  the  foul  odours,  the  greasy 
food,  the  bitter  cold,  the  inability  to  sleep.  She  feared 
nothing,  she  regretted  nothing.  She  was  with  him  still, 
postponing  the  inevitable,  sharing  life  with  him  high  in 
the  Andes. 

She  slept  a  little  towards  dawn,  and  was  awakened  by 
Dyke,  who  for  two  hours  had  been  working  with  his 
men  in  the  darkness  outside,  loading  the  pack  saddles, 
seeing  that  everything  was  in  its  place.  Now  the  caval- 
cade was  ready  to  move.  They  drank  some  hot  coffee, 
and  started. 

It  was  wonderful  to  her,  most  wonderful,  that  depar- 
ture in  the  grey  mists  of  morning.  Near  a  broken  gap 
in  the  wall  of  the  compound,  Dyke,  sitting  high  beside 
her,  held  the  rein  of  her  mule,  and  they  remained  there 
while  one  after  another  the  mounted  men  and  the  laden 
mules  flitted  past,  silent,  ghostly ;  vague  shapes  seen  for 
a  moment  and  immediately  lost  in  the  mist.  Then,  with 
his  hand  still  on  the  rein,  they  trotted  boldly  on,  as  if 
through  a  white  sea,  until  he  had  reached  the  head  of 
the  column. 

The  ground  was  apparently  level  and  there  seemed  to 
be  few  impediments,  but  as  yet  nothing  of  the  way  was 
visible.  When  Dyke  spoke  to  her  his  voice  seemed  to 
come  to  her  from  a  distance  and  to  roll  from  her  in  the 


154  SriNSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

moving  waves  of  white  vapour ;  strange  murmurs  swept 
above  her  head ;  tlie  rattle  of  hoofs  as  the}^  struck  upon 
stone  made  echoing  sounds  behind  her;  and  she  had 
what  she  supposed  to  be  an  illusion  of  a  bell  that  chimed 
and  tinkled,  now  near,  now  far  away,  but  never  ceasing. 
Then  swiftly  yet  gradually  the  mists  broke  and  the 
light  came  flooding  down  upon  them.  First  the  tall 
peaks  caught  fire,  vast  rock  buttresses  thousands  of 
feet  high  flamed  with  orange  and  crimson,  black  ragged 
cliffs  shone  and  glittered,  fields  of  dazzling  white  snow 
hung  like  islands  in  the  air  till  dark  brown  mountains 
rose  to  carry  them;  then  the  whole  brightly  coloured 
masses  of  the  hills  seemed  to  spring  forth,  to  steady 
themselves,  to  grow  less  fantastic  of  shape,  more  solid 
of  texture  ;  and  in  a  few  moments  it  was  broad  daylight, 
with  a  translucid  blue  sky,  every  object  far  or  near 
sharply  defined  and  the  mighty  crests  of  Aconcagua, 
monarch  of  the  wilds,  highest  mountain  of  the  southern 
continent,  towering  majestic  in  the  blue. 

The  strong,  clear  picture  given  to  her  by  the  sunlight 
was  one  that  would  remain  with  her  until  memory  itself 
should  fade  and  grow  dark.  The  ground  was  not  as  she 
had  supposed,  level  and  free  from  obstacles ;  thej^  were 
winding  their  way  along  a  rock-strewn  valley  and 
mounting  fast.  The  pack-mules,  twenty  or  more  of 
them,  with  lowered  heads  climbed  patiently  each  in  the 
footsteps  of  another;  at  intervals  rode  the  eight 
mounted  men;  and  'Dyke  now  pushing  ahead,  riding 
alone,  seemed  an  enormous  figure  in  his  huge  mushroom 
hat  and  hung  round  with  wallets.  He  was  happy  and 
joyous,  beginning  to  sing  scraps  of  song;  so  that  his 
music  floated  back  to  them  pleasantly,  and  after  a  while 
caught  the  riders  with  its  pleasant  contagion  and  made 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  155 

them  sing  too.  But  queerly  there  mingled  with  the 
song  or  its  pauses  that  other  music  of  the  bell,  which 
she  had  fancied  an  evocation  of  tricked  senses.  It  was 
with  them  still,  faintly  chiming,  gently  tinkling,  as  if  a 
cadence  of  tlie  march  itself. 

Manuel  Balda,  most  attentive  of  guardians,  riding  by 
her  bridle  since  Dyke  had  left  her,  explained  the  matter. 
Pointing  to  a  small  grey  pony  that  plodded  unladen  in 
advance  of  the  pack-mules,  he  told  her  that  this  little 
mare  was  the  "  madrina  "  or  adopted  mother  of  the 
troop.  With  the  bell  strapped  round  her  neck,  she  and 
not  any  of  the  riders  was  really  leading  the  mules. 
Wherever  she  went  they  would  follow.  If  they  strayed, 
the  sound  of  the  madrina's  bell  would  bring  them  back. 
They  would  be  miserable,  despairing,  if  they  lost  it. 

Emmie  liked  Manuel  better  to-day ;  indeed  that  first 
faint  distrust  or  questioning  doubt  of  him  recurred  no 
more  to  her  contented  mind.  Every  hour  he  proved 
himself  more  useful  and  valuable.  Moreover,  though  no 
less  respectful,  he  was  less  ceremonious  now  that  they 
had  entered  the  wilderness  and  left  the  beaten  track  far 
behind  them.  He  laughed  and  joked,  told  her  travellers' 
tales,  and  showed  her  how  he  could  swing  down  from 
his  saddle  and  pick  up  a  stone  from  the  ground  as  he 
cantered  past. 

He  told  her,  amongst  other  things,  that  there  had 
been  much  talk  last  night  at  the  inn  concerning  Ruy 
Chaves,  the  notorious  bandit  of  the  mountains.  This 
bloodthirsty  ruffian  and  his  gang  were  still  at  large  — 
a  disgrace,  as  Manuel  opined,  both  to  the  Chilian  and 
the  Argentine  frontier  forces  —  and  quite  recently  they 
had  seized  a  pack  train  rich  with  merchandise  and 
murdered    the    inoffensive    merchants    and    muleteers. 


156  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

**  It  is  a  shame,  Missis."  And  amplifying  his  narrative, 
Manuel  related  how  travellers  in  small  parties  feared 
to  move  freely  because  of  Chaves,  how  the  poor  defence- 
less little  innkeepers  were  forced  to  pay  him  tribute; 
and  how,  impelled  by  the  cruel  humour  that  is  tradi- 
tionally common  with  such  pirate-dogs,  he  "  teased  " 
as  well  as  killed  his  victims  —  for  instance,  making  them 
dance  and  caper  on  the  edge  of  precipices,  till  to  the 
prick  of  his  knife  they  jumped  into  eternity. 

Miss  Verinder  wished  to  know  if  Mr.  Dyke  had  heard 
this  talk  about  Ruy  Chaves  the  bandit;  and  Manuel 
said  yes,  he  had  heard  it  all,  and  he  "  had  laughed  and 
done  so."  And  Manuel  snapped  his  fingers,  and  then 
looked  very  fierce ;  implying  that  bandits  would  be  wise 
to  give  him,  Manuel,  as  well  as  his  friend  and  patron 
Don  Antonio,  the  widest  of  wide  berths.  "  You  not 
fear.  Missis?  " 

And  he  laughed  gaily,  assuring  her  that  bandit  gangs 
worked  frequented  highways,  and  never  came  up  here 
where  there  was  nothing  to  prey  upon ;  and  that  in  any 
circumstances  they  would  not  for  a  moment  dream  of 
attacking  a  strong  armed  party  such  as  this.  Missis 
need  not  fear  it  or  anything  else.  Starvation,  thirst, 
snow  —  those  were  the  true  enemies.  And  there  was 
much  food  on  the  mules,  there  would  be  water  nearly  all 
the  way,  the  full  summer  season  was  propitious. 

"  So  we  hope  Don  Antonio  will  find  what  he  seeks. 
It  is  treasure,  is  it  not,  Missis  ?  Ah,  ha  " ;  and  Manuel 
laughed  cheerfully.  "  You  must  not  say  me.  But  he  — 
Don  Antonio  —  has  allow  the  boys  to  guess.  You  can 
see  in  the  boys'  eyes  —  so  happy  and  hoping.  The 
Indians  most.  They  will  not  grow  tired  —  our  Indians 
—  now;  they  know  what  they  hunt." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  157 

"Which  are  the  Indians?"  asked  Emmie.  "They 
all  seem  just  alike." 

In  fact,  except  to  a  practised  eye,  there  was  little 
that  could  enable  one  to  distinguish  between  the  de- 
scendants of  the  men  who  had  once  owned  the  land  and 
the  descendants  of  the  men  who  had  stolen  it  from  them. 
Spanish  or  Indian,  these  muleteers  were  dressed  in  the 
same  manner,  spoke  the  same  tongue,  and  had  the  same 
wild  cut-throat  look  except  when  they  were  singing  or 
laughing.  There  was  not  even  a  difference  of  com- 
plexion visible.  But,  as  Manuel  said,  these  good  boys, 
although  of  unadulterated  Indian  blood,  had  long 
enjoyed  the  advantages  of  civilization.  They  were 
gauchos ;  they  had  abandoned  the  savage  hills  for  the 
prosperous  plains.  Yet  they  could  be  more  useful  here 
than  anybody  else,  because  this  was  their  ancient  home ; 
they  would  be  able  to  work  well  in  the  air  that  their 
ancestors  had  breathed. 

Dyke,  far  ahead,  had  reached  the  top  of  the  valley, 
and,  dismounted,  was  leading  his  mule  up  a  steep  ridge. 
This  was  the  first  taste  of  difficulty.  They  climbed  the 
ridge,  scrambled  down  a  long  slope,  and  emerged  into 
another  valley,  more  rock-strewn,  more  chaotic  than  the 
first,  with  a  deep-cut  stream  running  a  serpentine 
course  towards  them. 

They  made  a  long  halt  by  this  stream  during  the  in- 
tense mid-day  heat ;  and  then  moved  on  again  till  dusk. 
Their  camping-place  was  on  a  wide  ledge  above  the 
stream,  where  the  admirable  Manuel  made  them  extraor- 
dinarily snug.  Dyke  was  well  pleased.  Although 
going  so  easily,  they  had  made  a  long  march,  he  said  — 
and  not  a  mule  galled,  not  a  pack  shifted.  Before 
crawling  under  the  tilt  of  their  little  tent,  he  stood  for 


158  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

an  hour  talking  to  the  men  round  the  camp  fire  — 
*'  jollying  them,"  as  he  called  it. 

Emmie,  already  asleep,  warm  and  snug  in  the  nest  of 
blankets  and  furs,  murmured  a  welcome  as  he  crept  into 
it ;  clianging  her  attitude  when  he  had  settled  down, 
dreaming  a  little,  and  then  sinking  back  to  those  depths 
of  slumber  in  which  memory  itself  lies  still  and  no  gleam 
from  the  surface  of  life  pierces  the  darkness. 

An  so  it  was  day  after  day,  as  they  moved  steadily 
northwards.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  never  been 
doing  anything  else.  Climbing,  scrambling,  fording; 
eating  tinned  meat  and  Imrd  biscuits,  sleeping  on  the 
ground,  smearing  oneself  with  vaseline  —  all  this  seemed 
perfectly  natural,  the  easy  routine  of  the  glorious 
nomad  life  that  she  had  been  leading  for  many  3'ears. 

In  these  early  days  of  the  pilgrimage  they  were  not 
yet  entirely  out  of  touch  with  the  rest  of  mankind.  The 
distant  roar  of  an  explosion,  with  the  long  rolls  of 
thunder  that  followed  it,  told  them  of  the  operations  of 
tliose  railway  engineers,  blasting  the  rock  barrier  where 
they  could  not  pierce  or  evade  it.  Through  a  cleft  that 
gave  an  unexpected  view  of  lower  slopes  and  foot-hills, 
they  saw  roofs  and  smoke  that  belonged  to  a  camp  made 
by  other  engineers,  who  were  busy  with  the  under- 
ground telegraph  cable.  Once  they  saw  a  string  of 
mules  carrying  provisions  to  a  military  post,  and  twice 
they  met  solitary  riders  searching  for  lost  mules. 

For  the  rest,  all  things  were  exhilarating,  charming, 
amusing.  Dyke,  always  now  in  the  high  spirits  of  a 
schoolboy,  rode  by  her  side  whenever  possible ;  made 
her  sing  with  him  snatches  from  Gilbert  and  Sullivan's 
operas  —  "  Tlie  flowers  tliat  bloom  in  the  spring,  tra- 
la,"  —  gave  her  his  revolver  and  made  her  fire  it. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  159 

*'  Aim  at  that  white-topped  boulder,  Einmiew  Now 
then  —  let  go  !  No  —  don't  shut  your  eyes  wlien  you 
pull  the  trigger.     Go  on." 

He  loaded  the  weapon  again,  and  she  practised  its 
use  in  a  business-like  way,  with  open  eyes.  She  cer- 
tainly hit  boulders,  but  perhaps  not  those  that  he  had 
selected  for  her  target.  Whatever  she  did,  and  however 
she  did  it,  he  laughed  and  praised  her.  He  made  her 
strain  her  eyes  to  see  black  spots  in  the  sky  that  were 
condors,  hovering,  waiting,  at  an  immense  height,  for 
the  chance  of  a  meal. 

It  seemed  once  that  their  chance  had  come. 

Manuel  was  leading  the  column,  and  she  and  Dyke 
had  dropped  back  to  the  rear.  It  was  easy  going, 
judged  hj  the  higher  standards  of  her  experience,  and 
yet  still  most  tremendous.  They  were  following  what 
might  be  almost  called  a  path,  half  way  up  the  brown 
hillside.  Rolling  stones  and  debris  shifted  and  slid 
beneath  their  feet,  and  every  now  and  then  they  came 
to  liorrible  narrow  scrambling  corners  on  top  of  almost 
perpendicular  cliffs,  where  a  stumble  would  have  been 
as  dangerous  as  the  "  teasing  "  knife  of  that  atrocious 
brigand.  Emmie,  having  got  round  the  worst  of  these 
corners,  was  admiring  the  cautious  and  yet  fearless 
progress  of  the  pack  mules,  and  thinking  that  travellers 
might  well  describe  the  sure-footedness  of  these  animals 
as  miraculous.  They  never  made  a  mistake.  Then, 
that  moment,  the  pack  mule  immediately  in  front  of  her 
fell.  She  saw  its  liindquarters  rise,  and  its  laden  back 
disappear;  then  there  was  a  flash  of  its  four  feet,  up- 
turned, and  the  weight  of  the  saddle  and  burden  carried 
it  head  over  heels  into  the  void.  It  was  dreadful  to  see 
—  and  to  hear  too.     One  heard  it   crash  down  the 


160  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

precipitous  slope,  the  loosened  stones  tumbling  with  it. 
Down  there  at  the  bottom,  far  below,  it  lay  stretched  — 
perfectly  still. 

Then,  before  the  men  had  done  shouting,  it  got  up ;  it 
staggered  to  its  feet,  shook  itself,  and  attempted  to 
struggle  upwards.  They  all  watched.  To  give  aid  was 
impossible.  Wildly  and  desperately  it  began  to  work 
its  wav  aloncp  the  bottom  of  the  ravine,  with  head  lifted 
and  ears  pricked,  listening  for  the  tinkle  of  the  bell,  as 
the  bell-mare  plodded  onward,  unconcerned.  They 
could  see  that  its  pack  was  hampering  it  terribly. 
Then,  in  its  scrambles  and  leaps,  the  surcingle  broke. 
The  whole  thing  was  under  its  belly  now,  and  it  bucked 
and  kicked,  till  it  fell  again.  When  it  rose  this  time, 
the  pack  was  round  its  hocks,  and  plunging,  jumping, 
springing  like  a  chamois  from  rock  to  rock,  it  kicked 
itself  free.  Then,  lightly  and  easily,  it  sprang  along 
the  slope,  clambered  up,  and  rejoined  the  head  of  the 
column,  where  it  curvetted  playfully  to  the  sound  of 
the  bell,  and  rubbed  its  wounds  against  the  ribs  of  the 
beloved  grey  pony,  which  was  still  plodding  on,  and 
still  quite  unconcerned. 

Little  incidents  like  this,  ending  so  happily,  served 
but  to  enliven  the  days. 

Indeed,  so  far,  the  whole  jaunt  was,  as  Dyke  had 
said,  a  picnic  —  a  picnic  on  a  large  scale ;  a  "  lark  " 
of  antediluvian  dimensions. 

Imperceptibly,  but  most  completely  when  one  per- 
ceived it,  the  character  of  their  pilgrimage  had  changed. 
The  way  was  harder,  the  obstacles  were  greater,  the 
heat  and  the  cold  became  more  difficult  to  support. 
Each  day's  march  seemed  unending,  yet  the  distance 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  161 

traversed  in  a  day  was  comparatively  small.  They 
moved  still  from  valley  to  valley,  fighting  the  walls  that 
intervened,  kboriously  working  round  insurmountable 
barricades.  But  hitherto  the  line  of  their  march  had 
been  falling  as  well  as  rising;  now  always  the  valley 
they  entered  was  at  a  higher  level  than  the  one  they 
had  left. 

Dyke  was  systematically  jolly  with  the  men  at  the 
now  frequent  halts.  He  allowed  a  magic  word  to  be 
spoken  in  order  to  keep  up  their  spirits  —  the  word 
that  for  hundreds  of  years  has  controlled  the  destiny  of 
the  land  and  signified  life  and  death  to  tlie  races  of 
men  that  inliabited  it.  Gold.  Yes,  why  not?  If  we  can 
dig  or  scratch  some  to  the  surface  at  the  end  of  our 
journey,  or  wash  it  out  of  its  dirt  in  those  bowls  that 
we  have  brought  with  us  on  that  saddle,  well,  we  shall 
be  able  to  make  presents  all  round,  beyond  the  hand- 
some amount  of  the  promised  pay.  So  come  along, 
my  lads. 

One  whole  day  they  were  stopped  by  wind  and  storm. 
That  was  a  day  of  wretchedness,  and  next  morning 
Dyke  did  something  that  appeared  utterly  fantastic  to 
Emmie  watching  and  shivering  before  she  mounted  her 
mule.  He  gathered  the  men  together,  jollied  them,  and 
then  solemnly  paid  them  the  money  that  they  had  so  far 
earned.  Truly  it  was  astounding  to  watch  this  solemn 
handing  over  of  the  paper  dollars  to  men  who  were 
hundreds  of  miles  away  from  shops  and  drinking 
saloons  and  any  other  of  the  joys  that  money  would 
bring  them.  But  Dyke  knew  that  they  liked  the  feel  of 
the  notes  in  their  fingers,  the  comfortable  glow  which 
came  when  they  had  bestowed  them  in  recesses  of  their 
garments,  the  certainty  that  this  the  price  of  so  much 


162  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

accomplished   toil   could   never   be   forfeited   or   taken 
.away.     Understanding  that  one  should  not  travel  on 
credit  even  in  the  remotest  places,  he  had  brought  much 
money  with  liim. 

They  all  started  merrily,  and  the  burning  sun  soon 
dried  their  wet  garments.  Emmie  ceased  to  shiver,  and 
could  smile  when  Dyke  ]Draised  her  courage  and  good 
humour.  He  said  they  had  a  bit  of  a  ridge  to  get  over 
in  the  next  few  days,  but  after  that  it  would  be  down- 
hill again  —  all  eas}'^  going,  plain  sailing,  what  you 
could  do  on  your  head. 

Tliey  crossed  the  ridge. 

It  was  an  exhausting  episode.  The  scene  had  become 
Dantesque,  terrible;  they  were  amidst  a  ruin  and  de- 
vastation that  had  been  wrought  by  countless  ages,  and 
still  the  work  of  destruction  was  continuing.  These 
gigantic  liills  were  slowly  crumbling  to  dust ;  their  sides, 
torn  and  split,  poured  down  together  with  torrents  of 
melting  ice  the  very  fabric  of  whicli  they  were  composed, 
so  that  their  foundation  lay  buried  beneath  a  vast,  ever 
accumulating  rubbish  heap.  And  over  and  through 
this  debris  the  little  party  laboured  upward;  through 
twisting  lanes  of  detached  rocks  as  large  as  churches, 
under  high  jutting  crags  that  looked  like  fortresses 
shattered  by  a  titan  artillery,  upon  shifting  beaches  of 
smooth  pebbles,  in  refuse  that  time  had  pulverised  so 
finely  that  it  was  here  a  layer  of  sand  and  there  a 
quagmire  of  mud.  Riding  was  no  longer  possible.  One 
led  one's  mule,  one  panted  and  gasped  for  breath  in  the 
increasing  tliinness  of  the  air.  One  stopped  and  rested 
every  moment  that  one  might. 

On  the  first  and  the  second  night  of  the  climb  Emmie 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  163 

suffered  a  little  and  a  great  deal.  The  cold  was  almost 
unbearable;  it  numbed,  it  stabbed,  it  seemed  to  gnaw 
away  the  envelope  of  flesh  and  then  play  havoc  with 
one's  bones.  Dyke  took  the  most  tender  care  of  her, 
but  neither  wraps  nor  solicitude  could  keep  her  warm. 
Towards  morning  of  that  second  night  he  took  alarm, 
scared  by  thoughts  of  frost-bite,  when  she  confessed 
that  after  considerable  pain  all  sensation  seemed  to 
have  gone  from  her  feet.  He  took  off  her  boots,  woollen 
socks,  and  stockings,  and  for  a  couple  of  hours  rubbed 
her  bare  legs  and  feet.  She  was  all  right;  the  sus- 
pended circulation  restored  itself ;  and  daylight  showed 
him  the  white  flesh  stained  with  dirt,  but  not  dis- 
coloured, and  quite  unswollen.  He  put  grease  on  her 
feet;  and  Manuel  brought  them  a  breakfast  of  con- 
densed milk,  some  ground  sugar,  and  a  biscuit.  The 
lamps  refused  to  boil  water  for  tea,  and  only  by  much 
coaxing  had  they  consented  to  give  out  heat  sufficient 
to  thaw  the  milk.  It  froze  again  before  Emmie  finished 
her  portion. 

"  Now  let's  be  off,"  said  Dyke ;  and  looking  at  her 
attentively,  he  asked  if  she  felt  sick.  "No?  Well, 
that's  grand  of  you.  Now,  listen.  The  w^orst  is  really 
done.     To-day's  climb  will  bring  us  over  the  top." 

They  climbed  long  slopes  of  pebbles  in  which  they 
sank  to  their  ankles.  At  each  footstep  they  slipped 
back;  if  they  trod  upon  a  slab  of  rock  it  slid  from  be- 
neath their  feet ;  the  mules  floundered  and  sent  down 
cascades  of  loose  stones  upon  those  behind.  Between 
the  slopes  came  stretches  of  nearly  bare  ground.  They 
skirted  glistening  fields  of  snow,  made  an  immense 
detour  above  the  neck  of  a  glacier  that  had  plunged 
into  and  been  held  by  the  gorge  furrowed  out  by  pre- 


164  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

ceding  torrents.     And  all  this  time  the  sun  beat  upon 
them  with  hammering  strength. 

Sometimes  an  hour  was  spent  in  climbing,  with  many 
halts,  a  hundred  yards.  One  halted  now  without  orders 
because  one  must,  mules  lay  down  and  let  the  sound  of 
the  bell  grow  faint,  all  along  the  line  the  men  were 
coughing.  If  one  made  a  false  step  and  stumbled,  one 
immediately  caught  one's  breath  and  had  a  fit  of  semi- 
suifocation.  Then,  as  soon  as  one  was  able  to  breathe 
again,  a  sort  of  despairing  drowsiness  possessed  one;  a 
vreak  recoil  both  of  mind  and  body  urged  one  to  move 
no  more,  to  escape  at  all  hazards  the  anguish  of  further 
effort,  to  close  one's  eyes,  lie  down,  and  forget  the 
odious  impossible  task.  On  the  last  and  longest  slope 
Manuel  Balda  abruptly  gave  in.  He  was  seized  with 
mountain  sickness.  Two  of  the  Indians  tried  to  pull 
him  to  his  feet,  to  help  him  on,  but  he  went  down  again. 

Thus  all  were  suffering  —  except  Dyke.  Just  as  he 
had  not  seemed  to  feel  any  real  anno3^ance  from  the 
cold,  he  appeared  to  find  no  trouble  in  keeping  his  lungs 
comfortably  at  work  without  a  sufficient  supply  of  air. 
With  his  arm  about  her  waist  he  pulled  Emmie,  almost 
carried  her,  along  with  him  till  they  reached  the  naked 
and  nearly  level  table-ground  that  was  the  summit  of 
their  climb.  Now  he  went  back,  leaping  and  sliding 
down  the  slope  to  the  rescue  of  Manuel.  He  brought 
him  up,  and  went  down  again  to  drag  up  the  mules. 
He  wrestled  with  them,  pulled  them,  pushed  them,  some- 
how set  them  going,  and  one  heard  his  cheery  shouts 
from  far  down  below  while  he  still  expended  his  super- 
human energy. 

Then  at  last  they  were  all  up  —  the  men  lying  on  the 
ground,  the  poor  mules  side  by  side,  their  heads  all  one 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  165 

way,  their  nostrils  widely  distended  as  they  vainly 
sought  more  air,  their  legs  shaking,  and  the  sweat 
pouring  in  rivers  from  their  heaving  flanks  —  and  Dyke 
stood  there  laughing,  snapping  his  fingers,  chaffing, 
"  jollying  "  his  too  feeble  crowd.  He  also  praised  them, 
swearing  that  they  had  done  grandly,  and  that  they 
might  feel  proud  of  themselves.  But  it  would  not  do 
to  linger,  he  added ;  for  the  afternoon  was  getting  far 
advanced,  and  the  lower  they  could  get  before  pitching 
their  camp  the  better  it  would  be.  A  few  more  minutes, 
and  then  down  we  go. 

For  these  minutes  he  sat  beside  his  Emmie's  prostrate 
form,  and  "  jollied  "  her  in  her  turn. 

"  You  angel,  you  have  been  magnificent.  You  have 
set  us  all  an  example."  And  laughingly  he  confessed 
that,  after  her  performance  on  board  ship,  he  had 
dreaded  lest  she  might  be  sick  again  in  the  mountains. 
He  confessed,  too,  that  until  they  were  fairly  started 
and  "  things  began  to  come  back  "  to  him,  he  had  for- 
gotten that  there  was  this  little  high  bit  to  negotiate. 
*'  We  are  at  an  elevation  of  sixteen  thousand  feet.  Do 
you  realize  it?  We  are  well  above  the  summit  of  Mont 
Blanc.  In  Europe  people  would  say  we  had  made  a 
remarkable  ascent  "  —  and  he  laughed.  "  Yes,  quite 
an  ascent  —  something  to  write  about  to  the  news- 
papers. It  is  only  out  here,  in  this  glorious  atmosphere, 
that  it  seems  such  a  trifle.  No,  I  oughtn't  to  have  said 
that.  It  was  very  wrong  of  me.  For  of  course  I  know 
that  it  must  have  tired  you.  You  dear  girl,  you  are 
so  splendid  and  brave  that  I  forget.  But  all  easy 
going  now  —  as  I  promised  you.  And,  Emmie,  I  want 
you  to  have  a  good  look  at  the  view.  You'll  say  it's 
worth  all  the  trouble.     Sit  up,  dear." 


166  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

She  obeyed  him,  and  looked  about  her  with  dazed 
eyes  at  the  incredibly  superb  panorama.  Truly,  if  one 
had  been  able  to  breathe  painlessly,  if  one's  head  had 
not  seemed  to  be  bursting,  if  the  murderous  sun  had  not 
been  melting  one's  spine  and  battering  at  one's 
shoulders,  it  was  a  view  to  compensate  one  for  the 
trouble  of  attaining  it. 

One  seemed  to  be  h'ing  on  the  roof  of  the  world,  and 
the  nearer  peaks,  which  still  rose  above  them,  were  its 
towers  and  cupolas ;  across  its  parapet  one  gazed  at  a 
vast  semi-circle  of  sunlit  space.  Looked  at  from  here, 
the  great  brilliantly-coloured  hills  tlirough  which  tliey 
had  fought  their  way  appeared  smooth,  gentU'^  curved 
and  rounded,  dull  of  tone ;  northward  one  saw,  as  if 
painted  on  a  map  in  sepia,  with  streaks  and  patches 
untouched  by  the  brush,  a  perspective  of  almost  parallel 
ridges  that  one  guessed  were  the  outlines  of  unending 
valleys ;  while  eastward  beyond  a  range  of  lower  sum- 
mits, one  had  a  glimpse  of  the  plains  themselves  and  a 
true  horizon,  a  flat,  faintly  golden  sea  meeting  the  sky 
at  a  distance  of  eighty,  a  hundred,  or  perhaps  more 
miles  away.  Closer  to  one's  eyes,  if  one  looked  directly 
downward,  there  were  strong  colours,  forceful  shapes. 
Spires  of  red  rock  glowed  fiercely  beside  a  profound 
gorge  filled  with  purple  shadow;  and  an  immense  un- 
broken cloak  of  snow  that  stretclied  from  the  crest  to 
the  base  of  one  neighbouring  hill  gave  off  a  white  smoke 
in  the  sun's  rays  and  made  rainbow  shafts  hover  amidst 
the  smoke.  But  the  prevailing  impression  was  of 
colourless  distance,  measureless  space,  and  light  so 
strong  that  it  destroyed  the  substance  and  form  of  all 
that  it  shone  upon. 

They  began  the  descent.     Two  thousand  feet  lower 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  16T 

down  one  felt  an  immense  relief,  after  another  thousand 
one  was  breathing  in  comfort ;  all  the  heads  had  ceased 
to  ache;  Manuel  Balda  was  cracking  jokes,  laughing  at 
sickness,  vowing  that  he  had  stopped  that  time  merely 
because  of  a  slight  stitch  in  tlie  side  of  him. 

Next  day  they  rode  on,  through  a  valley  wider  and 
easier  than  any  they  had  yet  entered.  Dyke  set  the  men 
singing,  made  Manuel  the  leader  of  the  march,  and  kept 
by  Emmie's  side.  She  saw  condors  at  close  range. 
Pour  or  five  of  them  rose  from  the  dry  bed  of  a  torrent, 
and,  coal-black  in  the  sunshine,  swept  upward  on  ex- 
tended wings.  They  looked  enormous,  as  sinister  and 
evil  as  their  ugly  reputation  had  led  her  to  imagine. 
One  of  the  men  fired  his  riflle,  but  without  effect.  They 
soared  into  space,  vanished. 

Dyke  spoke  to  her  of  the  emeralds,  telling  her  how  he 
meant  to  set  about  the  work  of  exploration.  Without 
his  telling  her,  she  understood  that  he  felt  excited  as 
they  drew  nearer  to  the  goal. 

He  talked  to  her  also  of  "  the  sense  of  direction." 
This  was  after  she  had  paid  him  compliments  upon  the 
unwavering  confidence  with  which  he  had  led  them 
through  the  lab^^rinth  of  hills  and  vales. 

"  It  is  too  wonderful,  Tony.  I  can't  think  how  you 
do  it." 

"  Well,"  he  said  modestly,  but  much  gratified,  "  of 
course,  there's  the  compass  —  and  the  sun.  Besides,  I 
can  always  go  to  any  place  where  I  have  once  been. 
Then  I  have  my  landmarks.  If  you  want  to  know,  I'm 
looking  for  one  of  them  now.  It's  about  due.  Yes," 
and  he  smiled  complacently,  "  I  suppose  I  am  rather 
good  at  finding  my  way.  The  gods,  Emmie,  gave  me 
something  beyond  the  usual  European  outfit  —  they 


168  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

gave  me  the  sense  of  direction.^*  And  he  held  forth 
about  this  instinctive  faculty,  saying  it  was  being  in- 
vestigated and  that  much  more  would  be  known  concern- 
ing it  later  on.  There  had  been  some  good  research 
work  with  homing  pigeons,  migratory  birds,  and  wild 
as  well  as  domesticated  dogs.  "  I  don't  attempt  to 
explain  it  myself.  If  j^ou've  got  it,  you've  got  it  —  and 
you  know  you've  got  it.  It  was  that  and  nothing  else 
which  saved  my  life  in  North  Australia  in  the  year 
1884.  I  was  temporarily  blinded,  by  the  sand,  you 
know  —  so  that  I  couldn't  see  five  yards  ahead  —  but 
I  knew.  I  didn't  go  in  circles  —  I  didn't  falter  —  I 
didn't  have  to  calculate  or  think.  I  knew.  Yes,  that's 
my  trump  card  —  and  except  for  it,  I  wouldn't  be  so 
bumptious.  I  might  consent  to  take  a  back  seat  to 
others  —  the  gentlemen  that  the  press  eulogise  for  their 
scientific  training  —  and  their  learning  —  and  culture. 
But  Anthon}'  Dyke  beats  them  there.  That's  why  I 
say,  put  your  mone}*  on  old  A.  D.    What?  " 

He  broke  off,  laughing.  "  How  I  do  gas  about  my- 
self !  But  you  lead  me  on,  Emmie ;  you  spoil  me.  You 
should  check  me  instead  of  encouraging  me.  All  those 
Indian  fellows  behind  us  have  the  gift  I  speak  of  —  but 
perhaps  less  fully  developed.  You  remember  where  we 
lost  that  pack  —  the  place  where  the  mule  went  down. 
If  I  told  one  of  them  to  go  back  there,  he'd  find  his  way 
unerringly  —  even,  mark  you,  if  he  didn't  actually  re- 
trace his  steps.     He'd  get  there." 

They  rode  on.  And  Emmie  felt  as  if  her  past  had 
gone  from  her  utterly ;  it  was  not  now  that  she  had 
grown  so  accustomed  to  this  new  life  that  she  felt  she 
had  been  leading  it  for  years.  There  had  never  been 
another  life. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  169 

And  certainly,  could  they  have  seen  her,  no  old 
friends  of  Queen's  Gate  or  Prince's  Gardens  could  have 
helped  to  recall  her  to  herself.  They  would  not  have 
recognised  her.  Although  she  still  spoke  so  gently  and 
smiled  so  dreamily,  she  sat  her  mule  with  the  non- 
chalant ease  of  a  gaucho ;  her  whole  aspect  was  wild 
and  fierce;  the  remnants  of  her  stout  straw  hat,  bat- 
tered out  of  its  original  shape,  were  tied  beneath  her 
chin  and  bound  about  her  neck;  her  dusty  smeared 
face  was  almost  black,  with  yellow  lines  that  had  been 
scored  by  perspiration.  She  might  have  been  an 
Indian  boy  —  as  Dyke  had  told  her.  He  said  he  must 
hit  upon  a  good  man's  name  and  rechristen  her. 

Soon  after  the  mid-day  halt  there  came  into  view  the 
landmark  for  which  he  had  been  watching.  With  a 
grunt  of  satisfaction  he  pointed  it  out  to  her  —  the 
white  dome  of  a  mountain  that  had  shown  itself  above 
the  nearer  summits.  "  That's  my  guide  now."  The 
sight  of  it  made  Dyke  pleasurably  excited.  He  talked 
of  his  emeralds  again.  They  must  push  on  steadily  now 
and  waste  no  time.  He  galloped  off  to  tell  Manuel 
that  the  goal  was  drawing  nearer,  and  then  returned 
to  her. 

They  rode  on  —  on  into  silence.  That  day  Emmie 
was  conscious  of  it,  in  this  manner,  for  the  first  time. 
Yet  it  must  have  been  with  them,  one  would  think,  for 
a  long  while.  The  silence  seemed  to  have  become  a 
property  of  space.  It  could  no  more  be  broken  by  the 
slight  sounds  they  made  —  such  as  the  note  of  the  bell, 
the  shuffle  of  so  many  iron-shod  feet,  the  shouts  of  the 
muleteers,  the  song  of  Dyke  —  than  you  can  break  the 
ice  of  a  frozen  lake  by  throwing  a  small  stone  at  it. 
The  stone  slides  across  the  surface  till  it  comes  to  rest. 


170  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Slie  remembered  the  noise  of  explosions  heard  during 
the  early  days,  when  they  were  still  in  touch  with  the 
fretful  ambitious  labours  of  humanity  —  those  en- 
gineers on  the  new  railway  blasting  the  rocks  that 
opposed  them.  Here  it  was  as  if  the  mountains  could 
permit  no  noises,  not  even  echoes  of  noises,  that  they  did 
not  themselves  create.  They  commanded  a  universal 
hush,  in  wliich,  after  breathless  listening  pauses,  they 
sucked  the  roaring  wind  through  their  jagged  teeth, 
threw  a  garment  of  snow  from  their  shoulders,  or  with 
earthquake  groans  let  tlieir  sides  gape  open  and  a  vast 
new  ravine  appear  in  the  raw  wound.  Then  one  might 
hear  their  reverberating  voice  high  in  the  air  and  low 
in  the  ground.  But  otherwise  all  must  be  still.  Silence 
and  solitude  —  the  sense  of  loneliness  undisturbed  since 
the  world  began  grew  deeper  as  the  shadows  of  the 
hills  began  to  creep  across  one's  path.  It  seemed  then 
to  be  a  valley  into  which  man  had  never  been,  into 
which  no  man  should  ever  go. 

But  that  was  an  illusion,  mere  nonsense.  As  Dyke 
told  her,  in  the  dim  past  many  men  had  been  here. 
These  valleys,  all  of  tliem  running  north  and  south,  had 
formed  a  great  trade  route  that  stretched  nearly  from 
one  end  of  the  continent  to  the  other.  During  the 
dominion  of  the  Incas,  perhaps  earlier  still,  perhaps 
ages  and  ages  ago,  before  the  Pharaohs  reigned  and 
pyramids  were  built  in  Egypt,  this  was  a  busy  crowded 
highway  of  commerce  and  government ;  with  troops  of 
soldiers  passing  and  repassing,  tax  collectors  going 
south,  great  nobles  being  carried  in  gilded  litters, 
priests  of  the  sun,  long  trains  of  llamas  instead  of  mules 
carrying  tribute  northward  from  remote  provinces  or 
conquered  territories.    Doubtless,  if  one  dug  away  the 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  171 

dust  of  time,  or  could  remove  the  layers  of  fallen  rocks, 
one  would  find  traces  of  the  great  highway  —  its  buried 
pavement,  the  foundation  masonry  of  ruined  bridges, 
fragments  of  wall  that  had  belonged  to  rest-houses. 

Yes,  if  all  the  ghosts  of  antiquity  should  appear,  thev 
would  form  a  multitude  to  fill  the  valley  floor  from  hill- 
side to  hillside. 

Talking  of  these  things  led  him  naturally  to  speak 
once  more  of  the  emeralds.  Of  course,  it  stood  to 
reason  that  they  mined  as  far  south  as  this.  In  tliose 
days  the  mineral  wealth  of  the  hills  was  searched  with 
untiring  vigour ;  there  were  mines  everywhere  —  for 
gold,  for  silver,  for  the  precious  stones  —  above  all,  one 
must  suppose,  for  emeralds.  The  word  was  on  his  lips 
continuall3\     Emeralds ! 

He  was  eager  to  push  on,  but  w^ith  all  his  urging,  the 
march  had  grown  slow  and  languid.  The  men  seemed 
tired  and  stupid ;  they  would  not  respond  to  his  cheer- 
ing holloas.  They  let  the  mules  string  out.  And  two  or 
three  times  Manuel  Balda  came  and  asked  him  if  they 
might  not  halt  for  the  night.  At  last  he  gave  the 
order. 

The  night  fell  swiftly,  and  it  was  very  dark  until  the 
moon  rose.  Emmie,  after  l3^ing  down,  lifted  the  flap 
of  their  tent,  and  saw  the  bare  ground  silvered  and  the 
rocky  slopes  grej^ly  shining,  and  she  felt  as  if  far  and 
near,  all  round  her,  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  there  were 
solitude,  silences,  mysteries.  The  sensation  —  for  it 
was  no  more  —  had  not  the  smallest  importance  to  her 
mind.     She  was  very  happy,  supremely  contented. 

She  looked  at  the  tiny  camp-fire,  dying  down  now,  to 
red  embers,  so  that  the  group  of  men  who  were  crouched 
upon  the  ground  about  it  showed  in  the  pale  moonlight 


172  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

with  no  glow  of  flame  upon  their  faces.  Dyke  was 
standing  by  them,  still  talking  to  them.  It  was  a 
lengthy  jollying  to-night. 

There  stood  her  man.  She  had  got  him  now,  for  her 
very  own.  These  hired  followers  did  not  count ;  he  and 
she  were  alone  now,  with  no  human  being  to  come 
between  them.  They  had  travelled  far  in  their  great 
love  —  away  from  etiquette  books,  beyond  the  reach  of 
laws  —  backward  through  the  ages  to  forgotten  codes 
and  outworn  ceremonies  —  back,  almost,  to  the  elements 
of  life  and  the  rule  of  nature.  She  was  half  dreaming; 
and  she  thought,  as  she  dropped  her  curtain  and  lay 
down  beneath  the  rugs,  that  Aconcagua  had  married 
them;  these  mountains  had  confirmed  the  bond,  making 
them  one  under  the  cold  stars,  mingling  their  limbs 
by  the  pressure  of  iron  frosts,  moulding  their  embrace 
to  the  uneven  surface  of  their  bed  of  stone ;  and  now 
the  shadowy  stately  ghosts  of  the  Incas  had  gathered 
round  the  nuptial  tent,  to  put  a  mystic  seal  upon  their 
union. 

"  Emmie,  are  you  asleep?  " 

She  was  asleep,  but  she  woke  to  the  murmur  of  his 
voice  at  her  ear.  Lying  beside  her,  he  continued  to 
whisper. 

"  Emmie,  there's  something  wrong  with  the  men." 
"  Something  wrong?     How  do  you  mean?  " 
"  I  can't  understand,  myself.     I've  been  at  them  for 
hours,  and  I  can't  make  anything  of  them.     It's   as 
though   they   had  become   suspicious  —  or   as   though 
they  were  all  sickening  for  some  infernal  disease." 
"  What  does  Manuel  say?    Is  he  all  right?  " 
"  No.    I  believe  he's  been  somehow  upset  too,  but  he 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  173 

won't  own  it.  He  was  helping  me  with  them,  seeming 
to  back  me  up,  and  yet  I  had  the  feeling  that  he  would 
let  me  down  if  he  dared.  It  struck  me  they  might  have 
taken  alarm  because  I  made  them  fill  the  water  skins 
yesterday.  You  know  —  they  might  have  supposed  we 
were  going  where  there'd  be  no  water.  But  it  wasn't 
that.  Emmie,  I  had  to  tell  you  this.  Don't  worry 
about  it. 

"  No  —  only  because  you  are  worried  yourself, 
Tony." 

"  Well,  it  would  be  too  damnably  disappointing  if 
they  lost  heart  now,  or  shirked  the  work  I  have  to  give 
them.  But  I  don't  believe  they  will.  No,  it  is  some 
ridiculous  and  absurd  fancy  that  has  taken  possession 
of  them.  One  must  be  prepared  for  anything  —  in  the 
Andes.    Whatever  it  is,  I'll  put  it  right  to-morrow." 

At  daybreak  they  went  on. 

There  was  something  wrong  with  the  men  —  you 
could  not  observe  them  and  retain  any  doubt  as  to  the 
fact.  They  moved  slowly,  silently,  often  with  down- 
cast eyes ;  the  whole  march  was  languishing.  Dyke 
rode  up  and  down  the  straggled  column  talking  to  the 
riders  one  after  another;  he  was  very  jolly  with  them, 
full  of  fun  and  good  fellowship,  but  resolutely  deter- 
mined to  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  queer  paralysing 
trouble. 

At  last  one  of  them  told  him.  The  explanation  was 
more  fantastically  absurd  than  anything  he  could  have 
divined.  They  told  him  they  were  disturbed  because 
they  had  heard  him  using  a  word  —  a  bad  word  —  an 
ominously  bad  word  to  use  in  these  regions.  Gold  was 
a  good  word  —  a  word  to  set  one's  mind  on  fire,  brace 
one's  muscles,  and  make  one's  blood  dance.     But  that 


174  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

other  word,  emeralds  —  oh,  no.  Merely  to  hear  it,  in 
the  mountains,  took  the  heart  out  of  one.  Surely 
everybody  knew  that  the  quest  of  ^emeralds  was  for- 
bidden. 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  silly  belief  of  these  Indian  boys," 
and  Manual  Balda,  voluble  and  discursive  now  that  the 
secret  was  out.  "  It  is  their  legends  —  how  can  I  say 
how  old?  Oh  yes,  Missis,  vairy  silly.  But  an  Indian 
is  a  child  alwa^-s.  Not  Christian-believing.  Su-per- 
sti-tious !  "  And  he  indicated  that  he  and  the  other 
three  Spaniards  held  such  nonsense  in  proper  contempt. 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  tell  me  the  truth  about  it 
yesterday?  "  asked  Dyke. 

Why?  Ah,  that  was  difficult  to  answer.  Manuel  had 
felt  timid,  had  not  liked  to  carry  tales,  had  feared  that 
Don  Antonio,  instead  of  laughing  and  snapping  his 
fingers,  might  be  angry. 

"  Has  he  think  I  was  su-per-sti-tious  also,  like  those 
boys?  "  he  inquired  of  Emmie.  "  See  here.  Missis. 
Why  should  I,  Manuel  Balda,  fear  the  evil  spirits?  I 
am  good  Christian.  I  carry  my  charm."  He  had 
pulled  out  of  his  clothes  a  little  silver  crucifix  tied  to  a 
dirty  string,  and  he  held  it  up  reverently.  "  No  evil 
spirit  will  dare  touch  him  wlio  carries  that." 

Dyke  called  an  immediate  halt,  and  gathering  the  men 
together  he  thrashed  out  the  matter  with  tliem  in  jovial 
friendl}^  style.  First  he  made  the  Indians  talk,  en- 
couraging them  to  say  all  that  was  in  their  minds ;  with 
much  wisdom  patiently  listened  to  the  long  involved 
stories  that  thev  soon  becjan  to  tell  him.  For  a  con- 
siderable  time  he  denied  nothing.  Yet  it  was  very  diffi- 
cult not  to  make  mock.  To  stand  there,  at  this  late 
period  of  the  world's  history,  and  hear  such  legends 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  175 

from  the  lips  of  strong  grown  men,  no  matter  what 
their  race  or  position  in  the  social  scale!  But  for  the 
setting  of  the  scene  itself,  it  would  have  been  impossible. 
The  primeval  ramparts,  the  forlorn  grandeurs,  the 
lonely  unvisited  pomp,  that  surrounded  them,  made 
what  is  real  and  what  is  incredible  seem  almost  to 
join  hands. 

They  told  him  stories  as  old  as  that  of  the  famous 
River  of  Emeralds  and  its  guarding  dragon,  who  de- 
molished with  thunder  and  lightning  every  intruder 
that  sought  to  steal  the  hidden  richness.  They  told  him 
stories  as  recent  as  that  of  the  five  travellers  from 
Santiago,  who  were  changed  into  five  round  stones  only 
a  few  years  ago.  Then  when  Dyke  thought  the  time  had 
come  to  argue  with  them  and  jolly  them,  they  said 
that  perhaps  they  did  not  implicitly  believe  such  tales ; 
but  this  they  did  indeed  believe  —  that  a  curse  or  ban 
had  been  laid  on  emerald-hunting,  and  that  for  their 
part  they  were  averse  from  defying  it.  They  vowed 
that  at  least  this  much  was  true :  for  hundreds  of  years 
no  one  had  done  any  good  by  looking  for  emeralds, 
and  many  had  come  to  grief  at  the  game.  The 
Spaniards  nodded  their  heads  in  grave  affirmation. 

Dyke  said  that,  accepting  for  argument's  sake  the 
notion  of  a  ban,  or  curse  or  bad  luck,  then  anything 
of  that  sort  would  fall  upon  him,  the  leader  of  the 
expedition,  and  not  on  them  his  honest  followers.  It 
was  he  who  made  the  defiance  and  wanted  emeralds, 
not  they.  And  on  his  head  be  all  the  consequences. 
He  said  this  loudly  and  solemnly,  looking  about  him 
with  a  majestic  sweep  of  the  eyes;  and  it  had  a  great 
effect  upon  them.  They  cheered  up  visibly. 

At  the  mid-day  halt  he  tackled  them  again,  enforcing 


176  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

his  successful  argument ;  telling  them  he  merely  wanted 
them  to  dig  for  him.  There  would  almost  certainly  be 
gold.  And  if  emeralds  were  found,  they  need  not  even 
touch  them.  He  Dyke  would  do  that.  They  were  not 
likely  to  find  so  many  that  he  could  not  carry  them  all 
away  himself.  He  made  them  laugh,  and  after  that  all 
seemed  well.  He  snapped  his  fingers  and  told  Emmie 
that  he  had  done  the  trick.  They  were  now  "  as  merry 
as  grigs." 

All  seemed  well;  the  afternoon  march  progressed 
rapidly. 

At  night  he  sat  with  them,  sang  to  them;  told  them 
how  nearly  their  destination  was  reached.  Early  to- 
morrow, he  said,  they  would  come  to  a  break  in  the  hills 
on  both  sides,  and  the  narrow  valley  that  opened  on 
their  right  hand  would  bring  them  to  the  final  halt. 
They  need  have  no  apprehensions  about  water.  There 
would  be  no  difficulties. 

Next  day  they  started  betimes.  All  was  well;  the 
men  seemed  alert  again,  just  as  they  had  been  when 
they  first  brightened  to  the  sound  of  the  "  good  word." 
Manuel,  who  was  nearly  as  excited  as  Dyke  and  far 
more  exuberant,  obtained  leave  to  go  ahead  and  signal 
to  them  as  soon  as  the  promised  fateful  valley  came 
into  ^'iew. 

There  was  a  cry  of  satisfaction  when  they  saw  him, 
far  ahead,  standing  in  his  stirrups  and  waving  liis  hat 
above  his  head.  They  waved  to  him  in  return,  to  show 
they  had  got  the  signal,  and  he  disappeared.  All 
pushed  on  to  follow  him.  Dj'ke  shouted  and  sang,  as 
they  swept  into  the  entrance  of  this  the  last  of  the 
valleys,  his  own  valley. 

Plainly  it  was  the  ancient  bed  of  a  torrent  that  once 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  177 

used  to  pour  down  into  the  wide  valley  they  had  left; 
strewn  with  rocks  large  and  small,  it  looked  even  now 
so  much  like-  a  water-course  that  one  could  scarcely 
believe  it  was  dry.  The  hour  was  still  so  early  that  the 
high  frowning  cliffs  filled  it  with  grey  shadow,  and  made 
the  sunlight  overhead  seem  trebly  vivid. 

Then  they  saw  Manuel  riding  back  towards  them 
with  breathless  haste.  They  could  see  him  belabour 
the  galloping  mule,  urging  it  to  its  full  speed,  oblivious 
of  all  obstacles.  He  pulled  the  poor  brute  almost  upon 
its  haunches  when  he  reached  Dyke,  and  spoke  in  wild 
excitement. 

"  Don  Antonio,  we  are  forestalled.  There  are  men 
there  already." 

Dyke  would  not  believe.  He  laughed.  "  Manuel, 
old  chap,  you  have  been  dreaming." 

But  Manuel,  gesticulating,  swore  that  he  was  very 
wide  awake  —  happily  so,  perhaps,  for  everybody's 
sake.  He  had  seen.  He  could  trust  the  evidence  of  his 
eyes. 

"  How  many  men  did  you  see?  " 

"  Two  only.  But  there  may  be  more,  many  more, 
hidden  there  among  the  rocks." 

"  What  sort  of  men  are  they?  " 

"How  can  I  say?  Brigands!  A  gang  perhaps? 
Not  Indians." 

"What  were  they  doing?" 

"  Watching  —  those  two  —  as  if  on  guard  —  as  if 
they  certainly  knew  we  were  coming  —  and  so  watched 
and  waited  for  us." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Dyke  quietly.  "  I  carCt 
believe  it.  It's  impossible.  Emmie,  fall  back  a  bit, 
and  keep  with  the  others.    And  he  ordered  the  men  to 


178  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

unsling  their  rifles  and  to  follow  him  slowly,  leaving  the 
pack-mules  behind.  "  Now,  Manuel,  old  boy,  come 
along  with  me." 

The  thing  was  a  fact,  no  day-dream,  no  optical  de- 
lusion. 

Dyke  saw  them  plainly,  unmistakably,  when  Manuel 
drew  rein  and  pointed  with  outstretched  hand.  At  per- 
haps five  hundred  yards  distance  the  sun's  rays,  pour- 
ing down  through  a  break  in  the  cliff  top,  had  invaded 
the  lower  ground  and  made  a  bright  patch  of  coloured 
rock  and  sand ;  and  here,  apparently  crouched  beneath 
a  huge  boulder,  but  in  the  full  sunlight,  the  two  men 
were  sharply  visible,  although  one  had  an  impression 
that  they  themselves  were  perhaps  not  aware  of  how 
conspicuous  they  had  become.  Dyke  rode  boldly  on 
and  Manuel  reluctantly  for  another  four  hundred 
yards ;  and  the  men,  though  seeming  to  watch  them, 
did  not  once  stir. 

Dyke  dismounted,  gave  his  mule  to  Manuel,  and 
walking  on  slowly,  with  his  revolver  in  his  hand,  called 
to  the  two  watchers.  They  did  not  answer,  they  did  not 
move.  They  were  seated  side  by  side,  but  at  a  few 
yards  one  from  the  other ;  their  hats  were  drawn  down 
upon  the  brow,  so  that  Dyke  could  not  see  the  e^^es 
which  seemed  to  be  watching  him  with  such  intentness ; 
their  attitude  was  identical,  backs  slightly  bowed,  hands 
clasped  about  their  knees. 

When  he  got  within  fifty  yards  of  them,  he  put  the 
revolver  in  his  pocket,  turned  round,  and  beckoned  to 
Manuel  and  the  others  to  come  on. 

He  knew  now  why  these  men  remained  so  strangely 
motionless.  They  were  dead.  They  had  been  dead  for 
a  long  time,  possibly  for  years ;  the  cold  and  the  rare- 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  179 

fied  air  had  preserved  their  bodies,  their  mummified 
hands  were  intact,  all  the  flesh  of  their  faces  that  one 
could  see  beneath  the  broad-brimmed  hats  was  free  from 
any  sign  of  decomposition.  Dyke,  looking  sadly  down 
at  one  of  them,  judged  him,  by  the  grizzled  hair  upon 
his  chin  and  the  deep  wrinkles  at  each  side  of  the  mouth, 
to  have  been  a  man  of  over  fifty  years  of  age,  and 
noticed  how  the  sun  had  obliterated  the  colour  of  the 
once  scarlet  shawl  that  was  bound  about  his  waist,  and 
faded  the  brown  leather  of  his  belt  and  pouches.  With 
gentle  reverent  hands  he  raised  the  soft  brim  of  the  hat, 
and  looked  at  the  whole  face. 

Then  he  started  back  in  horror  and  disgust.  Not  the 
faintest  suspicion  of  the  truth  had  come  to  him  till  the 
lifted  hat  disclosed  the  nose,  the  eyes,  the  forehead ;  and 
all  the  features,  swiftly  assembled,  flashed  into  a  long 
familiar  mask.    It  was  his  old  comrade,  Pedro  del  Sarto. 

He  sprang  to  the  other  body,  and  took  it  rouglily 
by  the  shoulder.  It  fell  over  sidewa^'s,  queerly  and 
lightly,  like  a  thing  made  of  basket-work  and  hooped 
steel,  and  lay  there  with  its  hands  still  clasping  its 
knees,  in  the  frozen  attitude  that  could  not  change. 
But  the  hat  had  rolled  away,  and  Dyke  saw  the  face 
that  he  had  expected  to  see.  It  was  Juan  Pombal, 
del  Sarto's  underling  and  constant  associate. 

Dyke  went  back  to  the  other  body,  knelt  by  it,  and 
searched  it.  There  was  no  weapon  of  any  kind;  there 
was  no  food  in  a  wallet  on  the  ground ;  but  in  the  belt 
pouches  he  found  dollar  notes,  a  small  pocket  book,  and 
some  papers  —  amongst  them,  tattered  and  stained,  the 
map  that  he  himself  had  given  to  Pedro  at  Buenos 
Ayres  over  two  years  ago. 

Manuel    and    his    fellow    Argentines    had    gathered 


180  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

round ;  they  were  gesticulating,  chattering,  asking  each 
other  questions ;  while  the^'^  feasted  their  curiosity  in 
scrutinising  the  dead  men.  How  had  they  come  here, 
whence,  why?  The  four  Indians  stood  where  the  mules 
had  been  left  and  would  approach  no  nearer. 

Dyke,  going  to  Emmie,  told  her  the  nature  of  the  dis- 
covery he  had  made.  He  understood  at  once  all  that  it 
implied.  His  comrade,  his  friend,  the  man  he  trusted 
as  a  brother,  had  played  him  false,  had  tried  to  cheat 
liim,  and  in  making  the  attempt  had  thus  miserably  met 
with  disaster.  No  other  explanation  was  possible. 
Pedro,  falling  into  low  water,  as  people  reported  at 
Buenos  Ayres,  had  3'ielded  to  the  temptation  offered  by 
a  chance.  He  knew  that  the  friend  he  was  betraying 
would  not  return  for  a  year  and  a  half  at  least ;  there 
would  be  plenty  of  time  to  come  up  here,  put  his  dirty 
hands  in  the  pocket  of  treasure,  and  get  safely  away. 
As  to  facing  Dyke  afterwards,  he  probably  made  no 
plans ;  he  left  the  future  to  take  care  of  itself. 

"  And  I  loved  him,  Emmie,"  said  Dyke  bitterly,  "  I 
loved  that  man." 

Bat  Pedro  and  Pombal  did  not  venture  to  come  here 
alone.  No,  obviously,  they  must  have  brought  mules 
and  muleteers  with  them;  they  fitted  themselves  out 
much  as  Dyke  had  done,  although  in  more  meagre  style, 
before  they  risked  themselves  in  the  wilderness.  What 
had  happened  to  their  hireling  followers? 

The  bitterness  passed  from  Dyke's  tone,  as  little  by 
little  he  reconstructed  the  horrible  details  of  the 
traged}'.  Their  muleteers  had  deserted  them.  But 
why?  Perhaps  Pedro  bullied  the  men,  drove  them  too 
hard,  or  fed  them  badly.  Or  the  men  took  fright, 
thinking  their  provisions  might  give  out.     Something 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  181 

had  frightened  them,  and  they  had  consummated  the 
hideous  deed.  The  betrayers  had  themselves  been 
betrayed. 

Working  backwards  to  the  date  of  Pedro's  disap- 
pearance from  Buenos  Ayres,  he  hit  upon  the  most 
probable  cause  of  the  men's  fright.  It  was  the  menac- 
ing state  of  the  weather  that  struck  fear  into  their 
craven  hearts.  Dark  snow-laden  clouds  banking  up 
from  the  south,  a  spatter  of  rain  and  sleet,  a  wind  with 
ice  needles  in  its  breath  —  and  they  had  thought  that 
the  winter  was  upon  them.  Pedro  had  started  too  late ; 
he  himself  must  have  known  it  by  then.  But  he  would 
not  give  in.  Perhaps  the  men  urged  him  to  turn  back, 
pleaded  with  him;  but  dogged,  and  resolute  even  to 
ferocity,  he  drove  them  on.  Then  waiting  for  an  occa- 
sion, they  fell  upon  him  and  his  fellow  slave-driver,  dis- 
armed them,  and  left  them  to  perish.  The  doomed 
pair  wandered  hither  and  thither,  lost  themselves  in  a 
gathering  darkness  of  sluggish  death.  Storms  of  snow 
hid  the  faint  light.  The  wind  cut  them.  They  sat 
down  in  the  shelter  of  these  rocks  to  wait  till  the  wind 
dropped.  It  was  a  bad  place,  the  worst  possible  place, 
if  the  wind  changed  its  quarter  and  the  snow  began  to 
drift.  They  slept,  and  woke  no  more.  The  snow 
covered  them;  the  sun  melted  the  snow.  Twice  they 
had  been  covered  and  uncovered. 

Rancour  against  a  treacherous  friend  had  vanished, 
and  a  fierce  impersonal  indignation  moved  Dyke  as  he 
thought  of  the  treachery  of  those  half-bred  dogs.  The 
damnable  curs  —  to  leave  their  leaders,  taking  food, 
arms,  everything.  It  made  one  sick.  But,  as  he  knew, 
things  like  this  happen  in  the  Andes  —  have  always 
been  happening. 


182  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Philosophising  presently,  he  spoke  of  fear,  and  of 
what  a  horrible  force  it  is.  The  most  degrading  of  all 
passions,  it  would  seem  also  the  most  powerful.  Half 
the  wickedness  of  the  world  can  be  traced  to  it.  When 
it  binds  five  or  six  people  together  in  its  loatlisome 
clutch,  there  is  no  enormity  tliat  they  may  not  commit, 
because  —  and  this  is  so  terrible  —  fear  felt  in  common 
by  five  or  six  men  is  not  five  or  six  separate  fears  added 
together,  but  multiplied  together  man}"  times. 

And  Emmie,  looking  round  her,  tliought  that  this 
place  might  well  be  the  primeval  home  of  fear ;  in  this 
overwhelming  loneliness,  among  these  dark  cliffs,  the 
stealthy  grey  shadows,  and  the  sunlight  that  seemed  to 
make  the  solid  rock  tremble,  fear  was  originally  engen- 
dered ;  so  that  the  first  live  matter,  waking  to  life  here, 
was  afraid  —  afraid  of  all  things,  even  of  itself.  It 
was  only  her  transient  thought.  She  herself  had  no 
fear.     Why  should  she?     She  was  with  Anthon}^  Dyke. 

They  resumed  the  march.  There  was  a  question  of 
burying  the  corpses,  but  in  view  of  the  evident  reluc- 
tance of  Manuel  and  the  others,  DA^ke  gave  up  this 
intention.  The  pious  task  would  have  entailed  a  con- 
siderable labour  and  waste  of  time.  "  Leave  them  there 
as  a  warning,"  said  Manuel,  not  to  Dyke  but  to  the 
empty  air.  He  had  fished  out  his  crucifix,  and  looking 
back,  he  crossed  himself  and  shivered.  "  Leave  them 
to  the  condors,"  said  one  Indian  to  another.  "  The 
condors  left  them  so  long  without  touching  them.  Let 
no  one  touch  them  now."  All  were  eager  to  get  away 
from  the  sinister  spot. 

A  profound  depression  of  the  spirits  had  fallen  upon 
them.  Again  they  moved  languidly  and  needed  frequent 
rallying.     They  spoke  apathetically,  if  not   sullenly. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  183 

Dyke  dealt  gently  with  them,  and  pleased  them  by 
making  the  day's  march  shorter  than  he  had  wished. 
At  night,  when  they  had  eaten  their  food  and  Dyke 
as  usual  went  and  talked  to  them,  they  seemed  con- 
tented enough. 

They  camped  at  a  point  where  one  enormous  rock  — 
a  monster  carried  by  ice  and  stranded  here  thousands 
of  years  ago  —  stood  isolated  in  the  middle  of  the  way. 
!Manuel  Balda  pitched  Dyke's  tent  and  made  the  sleep- 
ing-place behind  this  rock,  out  of  siglit  of  the  camp- 
fire  and  the  men,  very  neatly  and  snugl}^  More  silent 
than  was  his  wont,  but  as  efficient  as  ever,  he  carried  out 
his  customary  duties,  boiled  their  tea,  gave  them  their 
supper. 

The  moon  had  risen  high  and  was  shedding  its  gentle 
radiance  far  and  near,  as  Emmie  and  Dyke  came  round 
the  broken  angles  of  the  big  rock,  and  standing  side  by 
side,  looked  down  at  their  little  camp.  All  was  peace- 
ful ;  the  familiar  aspect  of  the  nightly  assemblage  gave 
one  a  sense  of  comfort  and  security.  The  men  lay 
huddled  on  the  ground  with  saddles  for  pillows ;  the 
mules,  some  with  shining  moonlit  coats,  some  dark  and 
shadowy,  were  ranged  behind  their  deposited  burdens. 
In  the  profound  silence  one  could  hear  the  slightest 
movement,  and  a  note  of  the  bell  as  the  madrina  raised 
her  head  startled  one  by  the  sharpness  of  the  sound. 
Beyond  tliis  one  spot  of  animated  existence  the  moon- 
light showed  them  the  valley  stretching  away  tenant- 
less  through  its  stone  walls,  like  an  unused  passage  in 
a  dead  world.  There  was  no  need  to  post  sentries  on 
guard;  there  were  no  living  foes  that  could  attack  the 
camp.  Dyke  and  Emmie  went  back  behind  their  rock, 
and  they  too  lay  down  to  sleep. 


184  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Dyke  woke  at  dawn,  and  mechanically  groped  for  the 
revolver  that  from  habit  he  kept  within  reach  of  his 
hand  while  sleeping.  His  hand  did  not  encounter  it. 
No  doubt  it  lay  buried  in  the  blankets  and  the  rugs. 
He  crept  from  the  tent,  got  upon  his  feet,  stretched 
himself,  and  went  yawning  round  the  rock.  Then  he 
uttered  a  roar  of  anger. 

The  place  was  empty.  The  camp  had  vanished.  Not 
a  sign  of  man  or  beast  was  anywhere  visible.  Like 
Pedro  del  Sarto,  he  had  been  abandoned  by  his  cowardly 
followers.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  —  and  that 
was  for  many  miles  —  the  valley  lay  grey  and  void. 
Those  scoundrels  already  had  made  good  their  escape 
from  it ;  their  resented  intrusion  no  longer  troubled  its 
blackened  heights  and  barren  flats ;  it  had  swept  them 
away  with  the  deadly  impalpable  force  that  it  con- 
tained. They  were  gone  again,  by  the  path  on  which 
they  had  dared  to  come ;  and  Fear  triumphant  laughed 
in  the  sunlight  above  the  deserted  valley  and  lay  down 
to  rest  in  its  shadowed  depths. 

Presently  Dyke  found  a  small  pile  of  tinned  meat 
neatly  arranged  near  the  ashes  of  the  fire.  The  de- 
serters had  left  him  food,  then?  Not  a  great  deal,  but 
some.  He  stood  looking  at  the  piled  tins  and  thinking. 
The  germ  of  panic  had  entered  the  blood  of  those 
Indians  when  they  first  heard  what  they  called  the  bad 
word,  and  hence  onwards  they  were  diseased,  sickening 
creatures  able  to  spread  contagion  to  the  rest  of  his 
crowd;  the  sight  of  the  dead  men,  scaring  them,  seem- 
ing to  confirm  their  notion  of  a  curse  upon  an  impious 
quest,  had  made  it  almost  certain  that  they  would  try 
to  do  what  they  had  now  done.  All  of  them  together 
had  become  resolved  to  go  no  further.    The  Spaniards, 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  185 

little  less  superstitious  than  themselves,  agreed  to  their 
plan.  And  Manuel?  He  too  was  afraid,  and  yet  per- 
haps he  endeavoured  to  be  faithful  and  staunch ;  but  if 
those  others  stood  round  him  with  their  knives  at  his 
breast,  his  fidelity  would  not  avail.  They  would  simply 
tell  him  what  they  had  resolved;  they  would  give  him 
orders,  and  he  must  obey.  They  had  no  grudge  against 
the  chieftain.  Dyke  knew  that  they  liked  him  —  until 
they  began  to  fear  him.  Thus,  if  Manuel  asked  them 
to  leave  that  food,  they  would  be  willing  to  do  so.  They 
took  the  riding  mules  because,  if  left,  these  would  have 
provided  the  means  of  pursuit.  Dismounted,  he  could 
never  catch  them.  When  one  of  the  Indians  crawled 
on  his  belly  like  a  snake,  and  with  careful  hand  beneath 
the  flap  of  the  tent  abstracted  his  revolver,  it  was  a 
necessary  precaution,  nothing  more.  They  disarmed 
him  merely  to  prevent  any  dangerous  interference 
should  he  chance  to  wake.  Then,  their  precautions 
taken,  the  madrina's  bell  muffled,  and  all  being  ready, 
they  stole  off  in  the  moonlight  —  with  ]\Ianuel  Balda, 
perhaps  looking  back,  trembling,  crossing  himself, 
feeling  pity  and  regret.     What  must  be  must  be. 

Dyke  shook  his  fist  in  the  direction  the  runaways  had 
taken.  Every  bone  in  their  bodies  should  eventually 
be  broken;  but  meanwliile  old  A.  D.  had  allowed  them 
to  put  him  in  a  very  tight  place.  He  did  not  doubt 
that  he  could  get  out  of  it  easily,  on  his  head,  if  —  It 
would  be  almost  amusing,  a  sprightly  continuation  of 
the  lark,  if —      Yes,  if  he  had  been  alone. 

An  immense  remorse  seized  him,  and  he  stood  for  a 
few  moments  with  bowed  head,  staring  at  the  stony 
pitiless  ground.  Why  had  he  brought  her  here? 
Wrong  —  very  wrong.     But  it  was  not  in  his  nature 


186  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

to  remain  brooding  on  past  mistakes  when  the  future 
demanded  prompt  activity.  He  roused  himself, 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  gave  a  grunt. 

Those  blackguards  had  left  tins  of  meat  but  no  tin- 
opener.  He  smashed  a  tin  against  the  rock,  and  he  and 
Miss  Verinder  had  their  meagre  breakfast.  He  offered 
her  his  apologies  before  sitting  down. 

"  I  blame  myself  —  I  should  have  forseen  —  guarded 
against  it.  Of  course,"  and  he  laughed  ruefully,  "  my 
emeralds  have  gone  up  the  chimney.  And  for  ever 
probably  —  for  goodness  knows  if  I  can  find  time  to 
come  back  here  again  later  on.  A  disappointment,  I 
admit.  But  I  am  not  thinking  of  that.  Certainly  not. 
I'm  only  thinking  of  you.  Emmie  —  you  plucky,  jolly 
little  Emmie  —  it's  going  to  be  difficult  —  for  2/o*tt  "; 
and  he  looked  at  her  wistfully.  "  On  foot,  you  know ! 
Without  our  furs  we're  going  to  feel  cold  at  night. 
We're  going  to  miss  our  nice  hot  tea,  too.  Yes,  we're 
ill  provided  with  comforts  now."  And  he  laughed 
again,  but  gaily  this  time.  "  I  have  plenty  of  money  — 
my  pockets  are  full  of  money.  That's  rather  funny, 
isn't  it?  An  object  lesson,  what !  No  grocer's  shops  — 
or  Army  and  Navy  Stores  handy. 

"  But,  of  course,  you  understand,  Emmie,  my  pretty 
one,  that  there's  not  the  least  cause  for  anxiety.  It 
will  be  absolutely  all  right  if  we  go  slow  and  don't  fuss. 
That's  the  one  great  thing  on  these  occasions  —  never 
fuss  yourself." 

While  he  talked  he  was  thinking  hard.  He  decided 
to  strike  for  Chile  and  hit  off  one  of  the  hill  roads  at  its 
nearest  accessible  point.  That  way  they  would  have 
nothing  to  climb;  it  would  be  all  down  hill.  And  he 
calculated  the  distance  and  the  number  of  days  that 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  187 

would  be  required.  Could  she  do  as  much  as  twenty 
miles  a  day,  on  an  average?  Then  he  calculated  the 
amount  of  nourishment  contained  in  the  tins.  How 
long  would  it  last  her?  He  saw  plainly  that  it  was 
going  to  be  a  desperate  race  against  starvation. 

He  took  two  blankets  for  her;  he  dared  not  cumber 
himself  with  more. 

"  Now,  Emmie,  my  lad,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her,  just 
before  they  started.  "  Left  foot  foremost.  And  don't 
hurry." 


CHAPTER    X 

IT  was  nine  days  later  before  they  met  their  first 
chance  of  aid.  They  had  emerged  from  the  laby- 
rinth and  were  coming  down  the  seaward  slopes, 
along  a  flat  gulley  between  two  low  ridges  of  granite. 
Before  them  at  a  great  distance  lay  the  surface  of  the 
ocean,  placid  as  its  name,  majestic  as  death,  like  a  vast 
enveloping  obliviousness  on  the  confines  of  man's  brief 
futile  life;  between  this  and  them,  but  still  invisible, 
stretched  a  broad  land  of  hope  and  plenty,  the  grazing 
grounds  of  Chile,  woods  as  pretty  as  gardens,  little 
nestling  hamlets,  and  then  thriving  towns,  splendid 
cities,  the  noise  and  bustle  of  prosperous  ports ;  — 
but  as  yet  nothing  of  all  tliis  in  sight,  not  one  stunted 
shrub,  not  a  trace  left  by  human  kind.  Behind  them 
lay  those  nine  pitiless  days  and  the  eight  unendurable 
nights ;  a  plodding  delirium  of  cold,  hunger,  and  toil. 
For  more  than  forty-eight  hours  he  had  not  been  able 
to  give  her  anything  to  eat.  How  long  it  was  since 
he  liimself  had  eaten  he  did  not  count.  He  was  carrying 
her  on  his  back,  his  arms  about  her  thighs,  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  her  blackened  shrunken  face  close 
against  his  hairy  dust-begrimed  cheek.  At  intervals 
he  had  carried  her  in  this  manner  throughout  the 
ordeal,  but  now  his  burden  was  becoming  pitifully  light. 
"  It's  all  right,  darling,"  he  whispered  as  he  stalked 
along.  "  Keep  up  3'our  spirits.  On  my  honour  I  see 
daylight  at  last.  We  have  come  out  just  where  I 
wanted.     Sense  of  direction,  what !     Trust  A,  D." 

188 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  189 

"  Put  me  down,  Tony.  You  must  be  tired.  Let  me 
walk  again." 

"  Yes,  directly.     There's  another  steep  bit  ahead." 

He  set  her  upon  her  feet  soon,  and  helped  her  to 
scramble  with  him  from  the  gulley  down  into  a  sort  of 
plateau  or  wide  terrace  running  north  and  south  upon 
the  hillside.  At  the  southern  end  of  this  terrace  they 
stopped  to  rest. 

They  were  a  pair  that  might  well  arouse  swift  pity  in 
all  but  the  hardest  of  hearts.  Their  thinness  alone 
suiEced  to  tell  their  story  and  to  urge  their  immediate 
need.  The  manifold  print  of  famine  was  upon  them. 
Dyke,  ragged  and  dirty,  had  mysteriously  preserved 
his  strength;  while  Emmie  rested  he  examined  the 
ground,  peered  over  the  edge  of  the  plateau  at  the  pre- 
cipitous but  not  impossible  cliff,  went  forward  to  find  a 
better  way ;  moving  to  and  fro,  he  looked  gaunt,  dingy, 
dangerous  as  a  famished  wolf.  Emmie,  with  lips  that 
the  sun  had  split  for  want  of  grease,  with  blood  rusty 
and  dry  upon  her  chin,  with  matted  hair  plastered  to 
her  forehead,  looked  like  an  emaciated  boy  who  had 
been  huddled  into  the  worn-out  garments  of  a  grown 
man.  She  seemed  weak  to  the  verge  of  complete  ex- 
haustion; her  eyes  in  the  enlarged  orbits  seemed 
enormous,  spheres  of  dull  glass  without  flash  or  glow. 
Yet  her  faith  in  her  companion  was  quite  undaunted, 
her  love  for  him  quite  untouched. 

He  came  and  stood  by  her,  snapped  his  bony  fingers 
and  produced  a  chuckle  in  his  hollow  throat.  He  said 
that  there  was  an  unmistakable  track  straight  through 
this  ledge  and  at  the  end  descending  in  zig-zags  as  far 
as  he  could  see.  It  most  certainly  would  lead  them  to 
habitations  and  the  road. 


190  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  they  heard  the  sound  of 
a  human  voice.  Dyke  looked  round  eagerly.  As  if 
from  nowhere,  as  if  he  and  his  mule  had  dropped  out 
of  the  sky,  a  man  was  riding  towards  them.  He  sat 
high  upon  a  padded  and  peaked  saddle,  and  as  well  as 
himself,  the  mule  carried  a  couple  of  large  sacks  of 
forage  and  various  wallets  and  bags ;  till  he  drew  con- 
siderably nearer  he  had  the  aspect  of  a  Chilian  farmer, 
who  on  a  business  journey  had  somehow  attempted  a 
short  cut  along  the  face  of  the  hills.  He  shouted  to 
them  in  Spanish,  telling  them  to  stand  still ;  and  even 
before  noticing  that  he  had  drawn  a  pistol,  Dyke  whis- 
pered a  warning. 

"  Emmie,  I  don't  like  the  look  of  him.  Take  every- 
thing quietly.  Don't  interfere,  whatever  I  say  or  do. 
And,  Emmie,  this  fellow  mustn't  know  your  sex." 

Indeed,  one  could  not  like  the  look  of  him,  now  that 
he  drew  close.  He  was  a  thick-set  man  of  about  forty, 
with  small  blood-shot  eyes  in  a  swarthy  scarred  face; 
his  whole  air,  suggesting  sullen  fierceness,  stupid 
cruelty,  unreasoned  suspicion,  was  very  distasteful  to 
Dyke.  This  peremptory  stranger  seemed  far  from 
being  the  friend  in  need  for  whom  one  had  hoped. 

Dyke,  obeying  his  order  and  the  menace  of  his 
levelled  revolver,  stood  now  with  raised  hands ;  and 
Emmie  had  to  rise  too  and  assume  the  same  attitude. 

"  We  are  neither  of  us  armed,"  said  Dyke,  meekly. 
"  But  my  boy  there  is  very  tired.  Please  don't  trouble 
him." 

The  man  told  them  to  pull  up  their  outer  garments, 
in  order  to  see  if  there  was  anything  concealed  about 
their  waists.  They  obeyed  him.  And  he  then  told  them 
to  turn  round,  so  that  he  could  look  at  the  backs  of 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  191 

their  breeches.  Then,  satisfied  that  they  were  weapon- 
less, he  allowed  Dyke  to  drop  his  hands  and  the  boy  to 
lie  down  again.  With  an  oath  he  asked  what  they  were 
doing  here,  and  what  they  wanted. 

Dyke  said  they  were  doing  nothing,  and  they  wanted 
food. 

"  Food?  "  the  man  echoed.  "  Food?  "  And  bring- 
ing his  mule  still  nearer,  he  stared  at  Dyke's  high  cheek- 
bones and  bearded  mouth.  "  Have  you  any  money  to 
buy  food?  " 

Dyke  said  he  had  no  money, 

"  That's  a  silly  lie,"  said  the  man.  "  People  don't 
come  up  here  without  money." 

"  No  more  did  I,"  said  Dyke.  "  But  I've  been 
robbed." 

"  By  whom?  " 

"  By  bandits,"  said  Dyke.  "  There  are  many  of  them 
about." 

The  man  grinned,  as  if  amused,  and  said  something 
to  the  effect  that  such  a  great  hulking  rascal  ought  to 
be  able  to  defend  himself.  To  this  D^^ke  replied  that 
he  might  have  tried  to  do  so,  but  he  was  so  completely 
exhausted  by  hunger.  "  My  boy  and  I  are  almost  at 
our  last  gasp.  You  can  see  that  for  yourself."  Then 
humbly  and  plaintively  he  begged  for  food,  saying  that 
the  man  assuredly  had  food  stowed  away  in  those 
wallets,  and  imploring  him  to  spare  a  few  morsels  of  it. 
"  Have  pity  on  us.     Please  have  pity  on  us." 

The  man  sat  upon  his  mule,  staring  stupidly ;  hardly 
seeming  to  listen  to  these  piteous  appeals,  but  to  medi- 
tate. With  his  eyes  still  on  Dyke's  face,  he  dropped 
his  rein  round  his  saddle-peak,  passed  the  revolver  from 
his  right  to  his  left  hand,  drew  from  his  belt-sheath  a 


192  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

formidable  knife,  and  then  replaced  the  revolver  in  Ss 
holster. 

"  You  are  lying,"  he  said,  with  some  more  oaths,  but 
with  no  sign  of  real  anger.  "  You  may  have  money 
concealed  about  you,  as  surely  as  I  have  food  in  my 
bags.  Perhaps  if  I  searched  your  filthy  carcase,  I 
should  find  it."  Then  he  began  to  grin  again,  as  if  an 
idea  had  come  into  his  sluggish  mind.  "  AVhere  do  you 
think  you're  going?  " 

Dyke  said  he  was  going  down  the  hillside  towards 
the  high  road. 

"  And  further,  perhaps,"  said  the  man.  "  To  hell,  if 
I  choose  to  send  you  there.    Eh?  " 

Dyke  gave  a  little  groan,  and  began  to  tremble  very 
perceptibly.  He  gazed  at  the  man  in  mute  despairing 
entreaty. 

It  was  horrible.  One  could  see  the  man's  mind  dully 
working ;  these  poor  wretches  were  utterly  in  his  power, 
and  he  was  cudgelling  his  slow  wits  for  a  means  of 
gratifying  himself  by  making  them  suffer.  Merciless 
as  a  tiger,  stupid  as  a  wild  hog,  he  meant  to  torment 
them;  their  helpless  condition  afforded  the  chance  of 
inflicting  pain,  and  pain  must  be  inflicted.  To  run  his 
knife  into  them  would  be  pleasurable,  but  too  tame  a 
jest.  Here  was  the  chance  of  real  fun.  He  wished,  if 
he  could,  to  work  the  thing  up  into  a  huge  side-splitting 
joke  that  he  could  brag  about  afterwards. 

And  presently  he  got  upon  what  he  felt  to  be  the 
right  line.  Grinning,  and  with  the  conscious  effort  of 
one  who  forces  himself  to  appear  as  a  wit  although 
nature  has  not  given  him  an  original  sense  of  humour, 
he  said  it  was  true  that  he  had  food,  but  he  did  not  feel 
disposed  to  part  with  it  for  nothing.    Yes,  he  had  good 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  193 

food  —  bread  and  meat  —  wine  too ;  and  telling  Dyke 
to  keep  his  distance,  he  opened  a  wallet  and  turned  its 
gaping  mouth  so  that  the  food  could  be  seen. 

"  There,  that's  what  you  want?     Eh?  " 

Dyke,  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  stared  at  the 
food  and  groaned,  as  if  in  the  agony  of  his  craving. 

"  Ha,  ha."  The  man  laughed.  Then  he  said,  with 
the  same  pompous  and  straining  effort,  that  he  was 
quite  willing  to  trade  his  food.  If  they  had  no  money, 
they  at  least  had  clothes.  He  would  give  them  a  little 
food  in  exchange  for  their  garments  —  say  a  bit  of 
bread  as  big  as  his  finger  for  their  boots ;  another  such 
mouthful  for  their  breeches;  another  for  their  socks; 
and  so  on.  Then,  having  satisfied  their  hunger,  they 
could  continue  the  journey  in  their  shirts.  That  would 
keep  them  cool  after  their  repast.  It  would  also  be 
very  amusing  to  him,  and  make  a  merry  tale.  He  said 
he  loved  a  bit  of  fun.  He  and  his  friends  were  famous 
for  their  jokes:  good  fellows  all,  liking  to  make  the 
rocks  echo  to  their  laughter. 

In  vain  Dyke  pleaded.  The  man  said  those  were  his 
terms.  If  Dyke  and  the  boy  accepted  them,  they 
would  all  three  sit  down  quietly  and  make  the  ex- 
changes ;  and  he  laughed  at  the  gaunt  starving  creature 
who  shivered  and  quailed  and  at  last  consented.  Emmie 
had  risen  to  her  feet,  and,  silent  and  intent,  was 
watching. 

They  had  no  choice  but  to  agree,  said  Dyka, 
tremblingly. 

Then  the  man  dismounted.  He  suffered  Dyke 
humbly  to  hold  the  mule's  rein  as  he  did  so ;  not  turn- 
ing his  back  as  he  got  out  of  the  saddle,  but  swinging 
his  right  leg  high  over  its  peak  so  that  he  came  dowa 


194  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

facing  his  victim.  But  in  the  very  moment  that  his 
feet  touched  the  ground  he  fell.  In  that  brief  fraction 
of  time  Dyke  had  slipped  his  left  arm  through  the  rein 
and  struck  with  his  right  fist. 

The  man  went  down  exactly  after  the  style  of  the 
prize  ring,  when  something  nearly  if  not  quite  as  good 
as  a  knock-out  blow  lands  upon  the  jaw;  and  his  atti- 
tude on  the  ground  was  similarly  characteristic  —  face 
downwards  as  he  struggled  to  rise. 

Dyke  sprang  upon  his  back,  frustrating  the  attempt ; 
with  the  terrified  mule  rearing  above  them,  nearly 
wrenching  out  the  shoulder  of  Dyke,  he  nevertheless 
kept  his  place.  He  was  battering  the  man's  face  upon 
the  stony  earth  because  of  his  reluctance  to  let  go  the 
knife;  he  was  throttling  him  as  well,  working  hard  at 
his  windpipe ;  he  was  giving  the  man  no  respite  or  ease. 

He  got  up  presently  with  the  knife  in  his  own  hand. 
He  patted  and  soothed  the  mule,  led  it  a  few  paces 
away,  gave  it  some  hay  to  nibble  from  one  of  the  forage 
bags.  Tranquil  and  composed  at  once,  in  the  manner 
of  mules,  it  allowed  Emmie  to  take  charge  of  it.  The 
man  lay  quietly  where  he  had  been  left,  emitting  groans 
—  real  ones,  not  sham  ones. 

Dyke  went  to  him,  kicked  him,  and  told  him  to  get 
up.  He  obeyed  at  once,  staggering  to  his  feet  and 
moving  his  hands  vaguely.  He  was  dazed,  but  could 
understand  all  that  was  said  to  him. 

Dyke  had  a  very  ugly  smile  as  he  looked  at  his 
bleeding  face,  but  he  spoke  quietly  and  with  a  great 
affectation  of  politeness.  He  told  him  that  he  might 
go  now.  They  would  retain  the  mule,  but  they  did  not 
require  his  company  any  further. 

The  man  obeyed,  beginning  to  move  stumblingly  in 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  195 

the  direction  of  the  zig-zag  path,  but  Dyke  barred  his 
progress. 

"  No,  not  that  way,"  he  said.  "  That's  the  way 
we're  going  ourselves.  You  would  taint  the  air  for  us. 
You  smell  of  garlic.  That  way,  please " ;  and  he 
pointed  with  the  knife  to  the  cliff. 

The  man,  as  if  waking  from  his  stupor,  pleaded 
anxiously ;  the  cliff  was  too  steep,  to  attempt  it  meant 
certain  death.  But  Dyke  said  no,  he  had  examined  it ; 
any  agile,  fearless  person  could  easily  manage  it. 

"  Besides,  this  is  my  fun.  You  fellows  can't  have  all 
the  fun  to  yourself.  I,  too,  like  a  joke  —  even  a  stale 
joke  —  the  joke  you've  seen  so  often.  Please  tell  your 
master  how  well  I've  learnt  the  trick  of  it  " ;  and  he 
pricked  him  lightly  with  the  knife.  "  Now,  skip  — 
spring  like  a  guanaco,  dance  like  a  mountain  goat.  Let 
the  rocks  echo  to  our  laughter." 

It  was  dreadful  to  see.  With  clumsy  antics,  in  a 
sullen  rage  and  despair,  the  man  retreated  from  the 
goading  knife.  Driven  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  edge 
of  the  cliff,  he  made  strange  abrupt  pauses  and  capered 
heavily  before  moving  nearer  still ;  then,  shrinking,  re- 
coiling, on  the  very  brink  he  really  danced. 

Emmie  called  to  Dyke  — "  Tony,  don't.  Tony, 
don't  " ;  but  at  first  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  her. 

"  Tony,  stop,"  she  called  again.  "  You  are  making 
me  feel  faint.    I  shall  lose  the  mule." 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  said  Dyke,  grumblingly. 

And  he  ceased  to  use  the  knife,  and  used  his  boot 
instead.  The  man  crouched  on  all  fours,  lowered  him- 
self .over  the  brink,  hung  by  his  hands,  disappeared. 
Dyke  stood  there  watching  him,  laughing  at  him,  as  he 
scrambled,  fell,  and  rolled.    About  a  hundred  feet  down 


196  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

he  seemed  to  stick  fast ;  or  fear  prevented  him  from 
launching  himself  further.  Dyke  went  to  the  mule, 
came  back  with  the  revolver.  "  Go  on,  you  clumsy  fool. 
Gro  on,  or  I'll  shoot."  The  man  looked  upward,  but 
disobeyed  the  order.  "  Go  on,  I  tell  you.  Very  well  " ; 
and  Dvke  fired  —  not  at  the  man  but  near  him.  Imme- 
diately he  went  on  again,  fell,  rolled,  scrambled,  and  at 
last  was  gone. 

Then  Dyke  and  Emmie  dined.  It  was  a  never-to-be- 
forgotten  meal.  They  ate  sparingly,  feeling  their  in- 
ternal cramps  and  pains  melted  by  the  warmth  of  a 
divinely  gentle  fire,  and  yet  almost  dreading  that  what 
gave  back  their  lives  might  take  them  away  again  if 
they  were  not  careful.  Above  all  else,  the  wine  seemed 
to  restore  their  forces  and  set  the  blood  flowing  in  their 
veins. 

Dyke,  dangling  his  legs  over  the  abyss,  talked  gaily 
but  philosophically. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  have  let  him  go  with  his  life.  No,  I 
really  ought  to  have  killed  him,  Emmie.  But,  then,  I 
knew  you  wouldn't  like  —  And  I  never  like  to  myself, 
either  —  if  it  can  be  a\'oided.  Of  course,  I  spotted  at 
once  that  so  poor  a  specimen  as  that  couldn't  work 
alone  —  that  he  was  just  an  understrapper."  And 
Dyke  explained  and  apologized  for  the  slight  untruths 
that  he  had  felt  compelled  to  tell  in  regard  to  the 
money.  "  You  can't  call  that  lying,  Emmie.  I  never 
lie.  I  hate  lies.  That  was  mere  poker  talk.  If  he  had 
known  I  had  it,  and  I  hadn't  been  nippy  enough  to 
down  him  first,  he'd  have  sent  a  bullet  through  me  and 
you  too.  I  thought  it  all  out  while  he  was  riding  up 
to  us  —  in  fact,  the  moment  I  guessed  he  was  one  of  the 
gang.     If  I  was  to  spare  his  life,  I  must  conceal  the 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  197 

money,  or  he'd  tell  the  others.  He  hasn't  anything  to 
tell  them  now."  Dyke  chuckled  as  he  said  this.  "  And 
it'll  take  him  some  time  to  get  home." 

It  was  past  noon.  Emmie  mounted,  and  Dyke  led  the 
mule.  Thus  they  proceeded  very  comfortably,  encoun- 
tering no  difficulties,  on  a  track  that  grew  plainer  and 
more  easy  all  the  way.  Before  long  they  stopped  and 
ate  again.  After  another  two  hours  they  took  another 
snack.  Before  the  sun  went  down,  they  came  in  sight 
of  what  Dyke  had  been  seeking.  "  There,"  he  said, 
pointing  downward,  "  do  you  know  what  that  means, 
Emmie?    It  means  safety.    Yes,  safety  at  last." 

It  was  a  base  camp  of  the  engineers  —  not  the 
engineers  of  the  railway,  but  those  employed  in  relay- 
ing the  underground  telegraph  cable.  One  saw  two 
rows  of  sheds  where  the  men  slept,  and,  close  by,  some- 
thing that  might  almost  be  called  a  house.  This,  as 
Dyke  knew,  was  an  inn  that  had  been  established  there 
four  years  ago  when  the  cable  people  first  appeared  in 
the  hills.  All  round  and  about  these  buildings  were 
scattered  heaps  of  material,  broken  implements,  balks 
of  timber. 

Dyke  said  that  on  the  other  side  of  it  they  would 
find  the  open  road,  only  a  mile  away. 

"  So  we  shan't  want  the  mule  any  more.  And  in  any 
case  it's  just  as  well  to  leave  him  here,  and  save  our- 
selves the  bother  of  answering  questions.  But  we'll 
keep  this  " ;  and  he  took  the  revolver  from  the  holster. 
"  It  might  come  in  useful  —  even  yet.  One  never  knows. 
Where  did  our  friend  keep  his  cartridges?  Ah,  here 
we  are."  He  refilled  the  empty  chamber  of  the  revolver 
after  extracting  the  spent  case,  and,  laughing,  drew 


198  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Emmie's  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  weapon  was  of 
Enghsh  make  and  Army  Service  pattern.  "  Where  did 
the  blackguard  get  it,  Emmie?  Between  you  and  me 
and  the  post,  people  ought  to  be  a  lot  more  careful 
than  they  are  in  bringing  fire-arms  into  these  South 
American  republics.  It  pays,  but  I  begin  to  think  it 
isn't  really  right." 

He  stripped  the  mule  of  saddle  and  everything  else, 
shook  out  a  heap  of  hay  for  it  to  munch,  and  left  it. 

Some  prowling  dogs  barked  at  them  in  timid  fury  as 
they  stood  at  the  inn  door,  but  no  watchful  attendant 
came  out  to  welcome  them.  The  door  was  locked,  and 
none  of  the  engineering  folk  showed  themselves  in 
response  to  Dyke's  shouting.  Then  after  a  little  while 
a  man  came  round  from  the  back  of  the  house.  He 
was  a  shambling,  hang-dog  sort  of  fellow,  and  he  seemed 
afraid  of  his  visitors.  He  said  he  could  not  possibly 
take  them  in;  although  it  was  true  that  the  place  had 
once  been  an  inn,  it  was  an  inn  no  longer.  The 
engineers  had  gone  a  week  ago,  taking  all  possible 
custom  with  them.  He  and  his  wife  were  ruined.  Dyke 
said  that  he  and  the  boy  must  spend  the  night  there, 
and  they  would  pay  for  their  accommodation.  Fear- 
fully and  unwillingly,  the  man  opened  the  door,  saying 
that  they  should  settle  the  matter  with  his  wife.  Dyke 
followed  him  into  the  house.  The  wife  proved  to  be  a 
small,  alert,  brown  woman,  and  obviously  very  much 
the  better  half  of  the  firm.  Of  uncertain  nationality, 
she  jabbered  French  and  Spanish  alternately,  sprink- 
ling her  discourse  with  a  few  English  words  also.  She 
showed  no  fear,  but  she  was  as  reluctant  as  her  husband 
to  perform  an  innkeeper's  task.  She  said  tliere  was  no 
food,  no  drink,  nothing.     She  urged  the  visitors  to 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  199 

proceed  on  their  journey.  But  Dyke  made  short  work 
of  her  scruples,  and  ignoring  her  inhospitable  manner, 
promised  ta  pay  her  well.  She  said  then  that  if  they 
insisted,  they  must  have  their  way.  "  We  are  all  alone 
here,  my  husband  and  I.  We  are  very  helpless.  Often 
we  are  forced  to  do  what  we  are  told,  whether  we  like 
it  or  not."  As  to  food,  she  could  give  them  coffee, 
bread,  perhaps  some  cheese.  Dyke  said  that  this  was 
*^nough. 

The  building  consisted  of  three  rooms :  in  the  middle 
a  public  room,  that  they  had  already  entered,  and  on 
each  side  a  smaller  room ;  one  the  guest-chamber,  and 
the  other  used  by  the  innkeepers  as  their  kitchen  and 
bed-room.  Dyke  took  possession  of  the  guest-chamber. 
For  furniture  it  had  a  low  truckle-bed,  a  small  table, 
and  some  three-legged  stools.  Tlie  woman,  bustling  in 
and  out,  brought  coffee  cups,  hung  a  metal  lamp  to  a 
hook  on  the  wall,  and  asked  them  innumerable  questions, 
looking  at  them  curiously  with  her  quick  little  eyes. 

While  waiting  for  their  coffee,  Emmie  lay  down  upon 
the  bed,  and  immediately  slept.  Dyke  strolled  out  of 
the  house,  walked  all  about,  and  presently  went  into 
the  kitchen  and  talked  to  the  man  as  well  as  to  the 
woman.  In  his  turn  he  asked  questions.  He  asked 
if  by  chance  they  were  expecting  any  other  visitors. 
The  woman  said  no,  certainly  not.  Who  should  ever 
come  here  now  that  the  engineers  had  gone?  Then  he 
asked  if,  since  the  engineers  left  a  week  ago,  anybody  at 
all  had  been  there.  They  both  said  no,  not  a  soul. 
Had  there  been  any  passers-by?  No.  Were  they  sure 
that  they  had  not  seen  any  horsemen  —  one  horseman 
—  or  a  farmer  on  a  mule?    No. 

He  went  then  and  stood  at  the  open  doorway,  looking 


200  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

across  at  the  vacated  sheds  and  the  refuse  of  timber 
and  iron.  The  night  had  now  fallen,  thinly  and  greyly, 
more  than  dusk,  and  yet  much  less  than  darkness,  so 
that  one  could  see  all  salient  objects,  even  at  a  little 
distance  away.  Dyke  stood  there,  noticing  everything, 
thinking  about  everything.  He  did  not  feel  easy  in  his 
mind.  There  was  sometliing  very  suspicious,  if  not 
quite  inexplicable,  about  this  inn  and  its  landlords. 
He  did  not  want  to  make  any  more  mistakes.  Emmie 
was  in  sore  need  of  a  night's  rest.  He  was  keenly 
anxious  that  she  should  get  it.  But  he  thought  now 
that  perhaps  it  might  be  wiser  to  forsake  the  comfort  of 
a  bed,  and,  pushing  on  farther,  sleep  in  the  open  by  the 
roadside.     Should  they  drink  their  coffee  and  go? 

The  woman  came  out  of  the  kitchen,  and  passing 
through  the  room  behind  him,  said  that  the  coffee  was 
ready.  She  took  it  in  to  the  guest-chamber,  but  he  did 
not  follow  her.  He  remained  in  the  doorway.  He  was 
doing  more  than  looking  out  now;  he  was  listening. 

In  the  guest-chamber,  the  landlady  set  down  the 
steaming  pot  of  coffee,  and,  bright-eyed,  jabbering, 
quick-moving,  called  to  Emmie  on  the  bed.  Emmie 
raised  herself,  sat  up,  stretched  her  arms ;  and  the 
woman,  who  had  sidled  close,  with  an  action  as  quick 
and  sudden  as  that  of  an  animal,  slid  a  brown  hand  into 
the  opening  of  Emmie's  coat,  and  felt  her  bosom.  Then 
swiftly  she  stepped  back  and  laughed.  "  Yes,  a  woman  1 
I  thought  so  " ;  and  as  Emmie  rose,  angry  and  dis- 
gusted, she  laughed  again,  and  with  darting  hand  gave 
her  a  playful  pat  beliind.  "  Yes,  a  woman  all  over." 
And  roguishly  nodding  her  head,  she  bustled  from  the 
room. 

Dyke  at  the  doorway,  listening  intently,  had  fancied 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  201 

that  he  heard  a  sound  of  horses'  hoofs,  but  it  was  gone 
again,  and  he  thought,  "Yes,  but  the  ground  looked 
almost  like,  a  meadow  beyond  those  sheds  —  smooth 
and  s toneless."  Then  he  heard  the  sound  close  and 
near,  and  almost  immediately  saw  two  horsemen  riding 
towards  the  door.  They  came  on  until  he  could  see 
them  distinctly  —  two  men  in  cloaks  and  sombrero  hats, 
riding  small  mettlesome  horses.  He  drew  back  and 
watched  them.  It  was  too  late  for  him  and  Emmie  to 
get  away  now ;  and,  as  he  guessed,  they  were  in  a  peril 
greater  than  any  they  had  met  in  the  mountains. 

The  two  men  did  not  immediately  enter  the  house. 
The  innkeeper  came  from  the  kitchen  with  a  lantern, 
and,  after  tying  their  horses  to  posts  near  the  door, 
they  walked  away  with  him  talking.  They  seemed  to  be 
waiting  for  something.  Then  more  men  arrived,  per- 
haps ten  or  a  dozen,  all  mounted,  but  on  mules,  not 
horses.  These  bestowed  themselves  and  their  animals 
in  the  empty  sheds.  The  light  from  the  lantern,  carried 
now  by  one  of  the  horsemen,  showed  them  fitfully  —  as 
an  ugly  lot.  Orders  were  asked  for  by  some  of  them 
and  instructions  given  by  the  man  with  the  lantern. 
He  said  they  would  move  from  here  at  two  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  they  could  sleep  till  then. 

Who  were  they.?  Dyke  without  difficulty  guessed; 
and  he  wondered  if  one  of  their  crowd,  a  man  with  torn 
clothes  and  a  broken  face,  had  yet  joined  them.  The 
nature  of  their  attitude  to  himself  might  be  affected  by 
the  presence  of  that  stupid  swine.  Why  were  they  here 
and  upon  what  errand  were  they  engaged.?  Planning 
to  pounce  at  daybreak  on  some  carefully  tracked  booty 
—  a  pack  train,  a  government  consignment  of  gold, 
mail  bearers,  something  weak  and  defenceless  that  they 


202  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

could  surprise  and  overpower?  Dyke  did  not  tax  his 
brain.    They  were  here.    That  was  what  concerned  him. 

He  went  back  to  the  inner  room.  Emmie  had  drunk 
her  coffee  and  was  again  sleeping  on  the  bed.  He  did 
not  disturb  her.  The  oil  lamp  burning  on  the  wall 
showed  him  the  disconsolate  bareness  of  the  room;  the 
one  window  high  against  the  ceiling  was  too  small  for 
anybody  to  get  through,  even  at  a  pinch ;  there  was  no 
way  of  leaving  the  room  except  by  passing  through  the 
public  room.  He  picked  up  one  of  the  clumsy  three- 
legged  stools,  and  looked  at  it  reflectively.  Then  he  put 
it  down,  sat  on  it,  and  continued  to  meditate.  Yes,  let 
Emmie  sleep.  There  was  not  anything  to  be  done  — 
certainly  not  anything  until  those  fellows  in  the  sheds 
had  had  time  to  settle  down  to  their  slumbers.  They 
were  to  move  on  at  two  —  that  was  the  order.  At  two 
they  would  begin  to  stalk  their  game;  after  two  they 
would  be  busy ;  till  two  they  were  free.  Then  the  longer 
one  let  them  sleep,  the  nearer  it  came  to  two  o'clock, 
the  better  chance  one  would  have  in  any  attempt  to  slip 
out  of  this  undesirable  company.  He  decided  to  post- 
pone personal  effort  as  long  as  he  possibl}^  could. 

Those  two  horsemen  came  into  the  house,  and  were 
welcomed  and  made  much  of  by  the  landlady.  One  had 
a  gruff  loud  voice,  the  otnar  spoke  quietly,  drawlingly. 
The  drawling  man  called  the  other  Martinez.  The 
landlady  was  finding  various  food  for  them,  although 
she  had  an  empty  larder  for  ordinary  travellers,  and 
there  was  talk  of  wine,  their  own  wine,  the  wine  that  she 
had  in  keeping  for  them.  They  talked  freely  ;  but  Dyke, 
listening  with  his  door  ajar,  knew  instinctively  that 
they  were  aware  that  the  inner  room  was  occupied. 
The  landlord,  of  course,  had  told  them  about  his  un- 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  203 

expected  guests.  Then  all  at  once  the  drawling  man 
spoke  of  these  wanderers,  saying  he  would  go  in  and  see 
them  presently.  There  was  laughter  —  the  man  called 
Martinez  laughing  gruffly  and  the  woman  shrilly. 
Then  the  voices  ceased,  and  Dyke  understood  that  all 
three  of  them  had  gone  into  the  kitchen  and  that  they 
were  still  talking  of  him  out  there. 

They  returned,  and  the  woman  came  to  the  inner 
room  to  fetch  the  coffee-pot  and  cups. 

"  Good  trade  to-night,"  said  Dyke,  smiling  at  her. 
"  Plenty  of  custom  all  of  a  sudden.  That's  fine  for 
you." 

"  One  never  knows,"  she  said,  darting  her  eyes  here 
and  there.  "  People  come  and  they  go.  Strange 
people  sometimes  —  like  you  two  " ;  and  glancing  at  the 
recumbent  figure  on  the  bed,  she  gave  a  short  shrill 
laugh.  Then  she  stooped  towards  him  and  spoke  in  a 
low  voice.  "  Don't  trouble  them  until  they  trouble 
you.    Perhaps  they  will  leave  you  alone." 

"  Yes,  but  one  must  be  civil,"  said  Dyke,  sufiiciently 
loud  to  be  heard  in  the  other  room ;  "  one  can't  ignore 
the  claims  of  courtesy." 

And  he  followed  her  through  the  door  and  closed  it 
behind  him. 

"  Good  evening,  gentlemen." 

They  were  seated  at  the  long  table  where  the  innocent 
laborious  engineers  used  to  eat  their  well-earned  food. 
The  man  called  Martinez,  a  brutal-looking  ruffian, 
stared  at  Dyke,  but  took  no  notice  of  his  bow  or  greet- 
ing. The  other  man  rose  immediately,  took  off  his  hat, 
and  sat  down  again.  He  was  the  person  of  importance, 
and  Dyke  concerned  himself  with  him  and  paid  little 
regard  to  the  uncourteous  lieutenant. 


204  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

As  well  as  a  lamp  on  the  dresser,  there  were  two 
candles  stuck  in  bottles  on  the  table,  so  that  one  had 
him  fairly  illumined  and  easy  to  study.  He  was  tall 
and  thin,  so  sallow  of  complexion  as  to  seem  like  a  sick 
man ;  every  tint  of  him  was  vague  and  unnatural,  from 
the  sunken  yellowish  eyes,  the  blue  mistiness  of  his 
shaved  cheeks,  the  umber-coloured  lips  and  blackened 
teeth,  to  the  undj^ed  shaggy  cloth  of  his  coat  and  the 
tarnished  velvet  of  his  broad  belt;  for  the  rest,  there 
was  about  him  the  air  of  something  that  must  neces- 
sarily cause  fear  and  shrinking  in  all  that  looks  at  it  — 
as  of  a  pallid  ghost  in  a  graveyard,  or  the  body  of  a 
hanged  murderer  brought  into  a  dissecting  room  and 
there  come  to  life  again  —  an  arrogance  of  sheer  re- 
pulsiveness  that  seemed  to  defy  one  to  look  at  it  a 
second  time.  Dyke  observed  the  mark  of  a  sword  cut 
on  his  forehead,  the  saliva  at  the  corners  of  the  brown 
lips,  and  the  spasmodic  flicker  of  his  hairless  eyelids. 
He  wore  two  unusually  long  knives  in  a  leather  belt 
above  the  velvet. 

"  A  pleasant  calm  night,"  Dyke  said  carelessly,  as  he 
crossed  the  room  and  opened  the  door  of  egi-ess.  He 
stood  there  looking  out,  taking  the  air.  The  two  horses 
were  in  the  same  place ;  all  was  dark  now  at  the  sheds ; 
the  landlord  had  left  his  lantern  on  the  ground  by  the 
corner  of  the  house.  Overhead  the  stars  shone  brightly 
from  a  purple  sky. 

Dyke  strolled  back  to  the  door  of  his  own  room,  and, 
leaning  against  its  jamb,  talked  to  the  pallid  man.  He 
spoke  politely  enough,  but  with  the  careless,  indefinably 
contemptuous  tone  that  he  might  have  employed  to  a 
stranger  at  his  club,  somebody  who  ought  to  be  a  gentle- 
man and  yet  isn't. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  205 


"  You  are  moving  on  soon,  I  hear  —  before  to- 
morrow." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  man,  drawling  and  blinking  his  eyes, 
*'  I  do  not  stay  long  anywhere.  So  I  may  go  soon  from 
here.     With  me  it  is  always  uncertain.     And  you?  " 

*'  As  soon  as  I  can.  I  have  a  boy  here  with  me,  and 
he's  very  tired.  I  want  him  to  get  a  good  night's  rest, 
and  then  — " 

"  Ah,  yes."  The  man  interrupted  him.  *^  There  is 
a  boy.  You  are  not  alone.  There  is  your  boy  " ;  and 
he  turned  his  eyes  from  Dyke  and  blinked  at  the  ceiling. 

"  Moving  as  I  do,"  he  murmured,  after  a  pause, 
'*  now  here,  now  there,  not  sure  myself  where  next  I 
may  be,  I  do  not  care  to  account  for  myself.  In  truth 
—  as  is  generally  known  —  I  prefer  not  to  be  met  with 
or  observed,  even  involuntarily." 

Then  he  asked  Dyke  how  it  was  that  he,  who  appeared 
to  be  an  Englishman,  had  so  reduced  himself  in  baggage 
and  belongings,  when  visiting  a  neighbourhood  as  un- 
frequented as  this.  In  the  same  careless  tone  as  before. 
Dyke  gave  him  a  brief  but  entirely  truthful  outline  of 
his  trip :  describing  how  he  had  gone  far  north  in  search 
of  an  ancient  mine,  and  how  his  followers  had  decamped, 
leaving  him  and  his  young  servant  to  get  out  of  the 
scrape  as  best  they  could. 

"  And  you  succeeded  in  getting  out  of  that  scrape. 
It  was  well  done.  And  the  boy,  too."  As  the  man  said 
this,  a  flutter  seemed  to  pass  from  his  eyelids  downward 
through  the  flesh  of  his  cheeks  till  it  played  about  his 
moist  lips  as  a  sickening  deadl}!^  sort  of  smile.  "  Yes, 
you  and  your  boy !  "  And,  his  face  rigid  again,  he 
showed  for  a  moment  the  underpart  of  his  tongue 
obtruding  through  his  opened  teeth. 


206  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

He  asked  a  few  more  languid  questions,  but  not  one 
in  regard  to  Dyke's  possible  possession  of  any  money; 
and  Dyke  knew  that  this  apparent  lack  of  curiosity  on 
the  point  was  a  bad  sign. 

While  they  talked  the  woman  brought  in  the  food  — 
an  omelette,  some  cold  chicken,  and  a  flask  of  wine. 
She  hummed  a  few  notes  of  a  song  as  she  bustled  in  and 
out.  Acting  as  waitress,  she  moved  swiftly  round  and 
about  the  table,  and  every  now  and  then  darted  at 
Dyke  a  glance  that  seemed  to  have  meaning  in  it.  The 
man  called  Martinez  ate  gi-eedily,  but  his  leader 
scarcely  at  all.  He  sat  staring  at  the  wine  in  his  glass, 
held  the  glass  up  to  the  flame  of  the  nearest  candle, 
and  slobbered  its  edge  as  he  took  an  occasional  sip. 

Then  abruptly  he  asked  Dyke  to  leave  them  alone 
now,  adding  that  he  would  join  him  later. 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Dyke ;  and  he  went  back  into 
the  other  room  and  closed  the  door. 

"  Emmie,  wake."  He  was  shaking  her  by  the 
shoulder,  but  holding  his  hand  firmly  over  her  mouth 
lest  in  waking  her  she  should  cry  out.  "  Listen,"  he 
whispered,  "  and  don't  speak.  We  have  got  to  do  a 
bolt.  Not  yet,  but  soon.  First,  hide  this  for  me.  Put 
it  right  under  you  and  lie  on  it."  And  he  pushed  the 
revolver  into  her  hands.  "  Now  can  you  keep  awake? 
Emmie,  you  must.  Somehow  keep  awake  and  listen  to 
what  goes  on  —  but  pretend  to  be  asleep.  Then,  when  I 
call  to  you,  come  straight  to  me  and  give,  me  the  re- 
volver —  as  quick  as  possible.  Lie  still,  darling  —  and 
for  God's  sake  keep  awake." 

Then  he  moved  hastily  to  the  table  and  sat  on  one 
of  the  stools.  He  looked  back  towards  the  bed  and  saw 
that  Emmie  was  lying  motionless,  sprawled  in  an  atti- 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  207 

tude  of  deep  sleep ;  then  he  turned  again  to  the  door. 
Without  the  slightest  sound  it  had  been  opened  wide, 
and  the  pallid  man  stood  on  the  threshold  looking  at 
him. 

"  We  will  not  keep  you  waiting  long,"  he  drawled. 
**  Only  a  few  minutes." 

"  Don't  apologize,"  said  Dyke.  "  My  time's  your 
time." 

"  Thank  you  " ;  and  the  man  half  closed  the  door  and 
withdrew.  He  could  be  heard  speaking  to  Martinez, 
and  for  a  little  while  Martinez  growled  and  muttered 
to  him.  Then  they  moved  about  the  outer  room,  and 
there  was  silence.  Dyke  sat  quietly  waiting  and  Emmie 
did  not  stir. 

Then  he  heard  the  woman  humming  and  the  chink  of 
crockery  as  she  began  to  clear  the  table.  Next  moment 
she  had  slipped  through  the  doorway  and  was  at  his 
side.  She  touched  his  forehead  with  her  fingers  and 
spoke  cautiously.  "  They  have  gone  to  their  horses  — 
and  to  fetch  something.     They  will  come  back." 

"Are  you  a  friend?  "  said  Dyke,  looking  up  at  her 
and  smiling  gravely. 

"  Yes,  I'll  be  your  friend  now." 

"  So  I  guessed.  That  was  what  you  meant  when  you 
made  those  signs?  " 

"  Yes."  And  nodding  her  head  she  went  on  rapidly. 
"  Because  you  are  so  brave ;  and  because  I  am  sorry. 
Very  sorry  since  I  told  him  " ;  and  she  pointed  to  the 
bed.  "  I  should  not  if  I  had  thought.  You  must  risk 
everything  to  get  away." 

"  That  seems  the  idea,"  said  Dyke,  still  smiling  at 
her. 

"  See."    She  stooped  suddenly,  pulled  up  her  skirts, 


208  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

and  whipped  a  knife  from  the  clip  that  held  it  to  her 
girdle.     "  I  bring  you  this." 

Dyke  shook  his  head  negatively. 

"  Not?     Why?     You  have  a  gun?  " 

"  Not,  so  to  speak,  about  me." 

"  Then  take  this.     It  is  something.     Wh}^  not?  " 

"  Because  directly  they  come  in  here  they'll  search 
me.     Put  it  away,  please." 

She  did  so,  talking  fast.  "  I  will  help  3^ou.  I  will 
watch.  And  you  will  take  your  chance  —  you  are  very 
brave.  If  you  could  once  get  out.  There  are  the 
horses." 

"  Exactly.  It  had  occurred  to  me.  If  I  could  get 
the  horses." 

"  I'll  try  my  best.     I'll  watch.    Hush." 

Swift  as  a  lizard  she  glided  into  the  outer  room,  and 
begun  to  hum  merrily  as  she  picked  up  the  plates. 

The}^  had  come  back.  Dyke  heard  them  lock  the 
outer  door  and  drop  a  cross-bar  into  its  socket.  Then, 
obedient  to  an  order,  the  woman  entered  the  inner  room 
carrying  the  two  candles  in  the  bottles.  The  pale 
captain  of  the  revels  followed  her,  pointed  with  his 
hand,  and  she  set  the  candles  on  the  table.  Martinez 
had  come  in  too.  He  dropped  some  sacking  and  a  coil 
of  rope  upon  the  floor-boards  near  the  door,  and  stood 
there.  The  woman  went  out,  glancing  back  at  Dyke. 
The  captain  called  after,  telling  her  to  get  wine  ready. 

"  Now  we  will  talk,"  he  said,  "  and  perhaps  drink. 
But  first  of  all  —  if  you  permit  — " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Dyke.  "I  have  no 
weapon  about  me  of  any  sort  or  kind." 

"  If  you  will  be  good  enough  to  prove  that,  we  can 
talk  comfortably." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  209 

Dyke,  with  a  contemptuous  smile,  stood  up,  opened 
his  garments,  slapped  his  large  breeches  pockets,  showed 
them  the  tojps  of  his  boots,  and  satisfied  them  that  he 
was  without  means  of  defence. 

"  That  is  quite  satisfactory." 

"  But  I  notice,"  said  Dyke,  *'  that  you  don't  return 
the  compliment." 

*'  Ah,  no.  With  us  it  is  different,"  said  the  captain, 
and  he  picked  up  one  of  the  candles,  and  sauntered 
towards  the  bed. 

Dyke  was  there  before  him  and  stood  in  his  way. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Only  another  peep  at  the  boy  —  the  wonderful  boy. 
No,  I  will  not  wake  him  —  not  yet.  I  will  attend  to  him 
later.  But  soon."  Mistily  and  vaguely,  the  man  moved 
his  disengaged  hand  as  though  sketching  in  the  air  the 
shape  of  the  recumbent  form.  Then  he  went  back  to 
the  table  and  invited  Dyke  to  sit  down  again.  He 
himself  sat  down,  drew  one  of  his  long  knives  from  its 
sheath,  and  laid  it  across  his  knees. 

"  Martinez,  the  wine.  Get  some  wine  ready  " ;  and  he 
sat  looking  at  Dyke  over  the  table  until,  after  a  minute 
or  two,  Martinez  returned  with  a  small  tray,  three 
glasses,  and  two  flasks  of  wine.  "  No,  not  on  the  table. 
Put  it  on  that  stool." 

"  Well,"  said  Dyke,  "  I  am  at  your  service.  What  do 
you  want  with  me?  " 

"  With  you  not  much  " ;  and  once  more  there  was  the 
muscular  flicker  about  the  brown  lips.  "  But  for  my- 
self I  would  like,  if  possible,  to  have  a  little  fun." 

"  Oh,  damn  your  fun,  Ruy  Chaves,"  said  Dyke 
forcibly.  "  You  are  Chaves  himself,  aren't  you?  But 
of  course  you  are.    There  couldn't  be  two  such  jokers 


210  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

knocking  about  at  the  same  time." 

"  Martinez." 

Martinez  was  growling.  He  picked  up  the  coil  of 
rope ;  but  at  a  sign  from  the  chieftain  dropped  it  again. 

"  Well  then,  Chaves,  I'm  tired  of  your  fun,"  Dyke 
went  on  quietly.  "  Get  to  business.  WHiat's  the 
game?  " 

"  So  you  don't  like  fun.  But  your  boy?  Is  not  all 
tliis  funny?  Oh,  that  boy!"  And  for  the  first  time 
he  laughed.  It  was  a  rasping,  whistling  snigger. 
"  Suppose  now  I  ask  you  to  spare  me  your  boy." 

"  I  can't  do  that." 

"  Oh,  ho.  You  speak  resolutely.  Suppose  then  the 
fancy  comes  to  take  him  without  your  permission." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  for  you  to  try  to  do  that, 
Chaves." 

"  If  it  amused  me !  To  keep  him  with  me  in  the 
mountains.  Ho,  ho.  You  flush.  Be  calm.  I  said,  to 
keep  him  in  the  mountains,  make  of  him  my  pet  and 
my  toy,  as  you  seem  to  have  done." 

"  Ruy  Chaves." 

"  Yes,  perhaps  to  put  him  in  girl's  frocks  —  and 
when  I  have  played  with  him  so  —  dressing  and  undress- 
ing him  —  then  hand  him  on  to  my  men  for  their  doll." 

"  Chaves,"  said  Dyke,  raising  his  voice,  "  that's 
enough.  I  am  asking  myself  if  it  can  possibly  be  true 
—  what  people  say  —  that  you  were  once  a  soldier  — 
consorting  with  other  soldiers  —  fighting  fair,  as  they 
fight.  When  did  they  find  you  out?  When  were  you 
first  flogged,  or  branded  —  or  whatever  they  did  to 
you,  to  show  what  they  thought  of  you?  "  He  went  on 
speaking,  grimly  and  defiantly,  scarcely  knowing  and 
not  really  caring  what  he  said.     From  the  bed  he  had 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  211 

heard  the  sound  of  Emmie's  breathing,  quickened  and 
sharpened  by  fear ;  and  he  wanted  to  drown  the  sound. 

"  I  think,"  said  Chaves,  "  jou  had  better  have  a 
drink  now." 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  am  not  thirsty." 

"  Martinez,  pour  out  wine  for  him.  From  his  own 
bottle.  Let  him  have  a  bottle  to  himself.  There,  Toss 
it  off." 

"  Thanks,  no." 

"  Then  I  think  you  had  better  go  to  sleep." 

"  I  am  not  sleepy." 

**  Drink.  Then  you  may  feel  ready  to  sleep.  Sleep 
is  so  good,  so  comfortable.  And  remember,  I  have 
yet  to  attend  to  the  boy.  When  one  sleeps  one  sees 
nothing,  one  knows  nothing.  Whereas  to  a  wakeful 
man,  bound  fast  with  cords,  and  compelled  to  watch, 
while  — " 

Once  more  Dyke  talked  loud.  Again  he  had  heard 
the  terrified  breathing  from  the  bed.  But  he  chose  his 
words  now,  such  word  as  might  possibly  relieve  the 
strain  of  the  listener. 

"  Chaves,  drop  all  this  rubbish  and  rot.  Stop  chat- 
tering. Talk  sense.  There's  nothing  in  what  3^ou're 
saying  to  frighten  anybody.     It's  ridiculous." 

"  Be  it  so.  Then  drink.  We'll  drink  together ;  and 
happily  you  may  sleep.    Take  your  glass." 

Behind  the  bulky  frowning  Martinez,  the  innkeeper's 
wife  showed  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  and  Dyke 
saw  her  sign  to  him  not  to  drink.  The  warning  was 
of  course  unnecessary.  Indeed,  the  bandit  had  himself 
plainly  indicated  that  he  was  offering  a  drugged 
beverage. 

I  am  obliged  to  you  —  but  no." 


« 


212  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  Take  the  glass." 

Dyke  took  it  then,  and,  looking  steadily  at  Chaves,  he 
poured  the  wine  on  the  floor  and  replaced  the  glass 
on  the  table. 

"  Martinez." 

Martinez  displayed  a  cutlass,  and  taking  a  step  for- 
ward from  the  wall,  felt  the  blade  with  his  nail. 

"  Keep  where  3'ou  are,  but  be  ready,"  said  Chaves ; 
and  he  refilled  the  glass.  "  Drink.  I  have  told  you  to 
drink  —  and  I  don't  like  to  be  refused.  Drink  this  to 
the  dregs." 

For  the  second  time  Dyke  took  the  glass.  He  held  it 
high  in  the  candlelight,  sniffed  at  it,  and  again  held 
it  poised. 

"  Drink.  It  is  good  stuff  for  you.  It  will  save  you 
pain.    Drink  and  forget." 

"  Emmie !  "  Dyke  called  the  name  loudly,  as  he 
drove  the  rim  of  the  glass  against  the  bandit's  sunken 
eyes  and  flooded  them  full. 

Chaves  gave  a  yell  of  pain,  and,  blinded,  spluttering, 
sprang  up  with  his  knife.  But  already  Dyke  had  the 
wooden  stool  high  in  the  air ;  he  crashed  it  down,  broke 
it  on  Chaves's  head,  and'  sent  him  senseless  to  the  floor. 
Turning,  he  tried  to  ward  off  Martinez  with  the  frag- 
ments of  the  stool ;  but  his  foot  slipped  on  the  wet 
boards.  Martinez  cut  at  him,  closed  with  him,  and  both 
went  down  together,  D^^ke  underneath. 

It  was  all  in  a  moment,  this  sudden  tumult  and 
struggle.  Emmie  had  leaped  to  the  signal,  and,  half 
mad  with  terror,  she  screamed  aloud  as  Dyke  fell. 
Twice  she  screamed,  in  her  agony  of  dread,  as  the  two 
men  fought  at  her  feet.  Then  some  one  fired.  One 
after  another,  three  shots  were  fired,  filling  the  room 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  213 

with  smoke,  seeming  to  split  the  walls  with  the  force  of 
the  explosions.  And  then  in  the  cloud  of  smoke  Dyke 
was  up,  gripping  her  hand,  dragging  her  through  the 
doorway. 

"  Be  quick  now.  Not  that  way.  Here."  The 
woman  was  there.  She  took  Dyke  by  the  arm,  led  him 
through  the  middle  room,  through  her  kitchen-bedroom, 
and  out  into  the  cold  clean  air.  Dyke  looked  round  the 
corner  of  the  house.  The  horses  were  no  longer  there. 
There  were  shoutings  in  the  sheds,  the  men  all  stirring, 
roused  by  the  noise. 

"  Come  quick,"  said  the  woman,  hurrying  them  away, 
chattering  as  she  went.  "  My  husband  has  the  horses 
ready.  My  husband  is  good  too.  He  was  set  to  guard 
the  other  door,  but  he  opened  it  for  me.*' 

They  came  to  the  man  meekly  holding  the  horses. 
But  pursuit  was  too  close  at  hand.  Some  one  —  Chaves 
possibly,  certainly  not  Martinez  —  had  recovered  suffi- 
ciently to  unbolt  the  main  door  and  yell  frenzied  orders 
to  the  gang.  One  could  hear  the  mules  coming  out  of 
the  sheds.  Then  the  men  began  to  fire  their  rifles, 
blindly,  down  the  path  towards  the  high  road.  It 
seemed  to  Dyke  that  it  was  too  dangerous  to  use  the 
horses  as  he  had  intended.  Emmie  was  in  no  state  to 
mount  and  run  the  gauntlet  in  the  dark.  Yet  the 
horses  might  be  useful  in  another  way. 

He  took  them  from  the  man,  set  their  heads  towards 
the  road,  loosed  them.  Then  he  kicked  the  stomach  of 
each  in  turn,  and  they  galloped  away.  As  he  guessed, 
they  knew  the  road  and  would  surely  make  for  it. 

As  he  and  Emmie  ran  off  in  the  opposite  direction,  he 
heard  the  men  firing.  Then  evidently  they  mounted 
their  mules  and  started  on  a  stern  chase  of  the  gallop- 
ing hoofs. 


214^  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Presently  he  dived  with  her  down  a  sharp  slope  until 
they  lodged  themselves  in  a  horizontal  ravine.  They 
waited  there  for  sunrise,  and  then  worked  their  way 
back  along  the  hillside,  far  below  the  now  silent  camp, 
and  onward  till  they  came  to  the  high  road.  Trudging 
down  the  road,  they  met  almost  immediately  a  Chilian 
officer  with  a  couple  of  gendarmes.  Their  troubles 
were  over. 

The  officer,  courteously  turning,  took  them  to  a  place 
that  was  at  once  post-house  and  barracks,  and  there 
provided  them  with  a  two-horse  wheeled  conveyance 
which  he  grandiloquently  called  a  carriage.  He  told 
Dvke  that  two  troops  of  cavalry  had  gone  up  to  the 
hills,  and  spoke  hopefull}'^  of  those  pests,  those  dis- 
graces to  civilization,  being  sooner  or  later  cornered 
and  caught.  He  said  that  they  had  been  too  long  per- 
mitted. He  promised  that  within  a  few  hours  the  inn- 
keeper and  his  wife  should  be  rescued  from  their  pre- 
carious situation,  that  they  should  suffer  no  reproaches 
for  any  indiscreetness  of  which  they  might  have  been 
guilt}'^  as  compelled  accomplices  of  the  gang,  and  that 
he  would  hold  as  a  sacred  charge  the  money  that  Dyke 
gave  him  for  their  future  use. 

The  travellers  drove  away  then,  after  breakfast,  in 
their  carriage  —  jolting,  bumping,  making  the  dust  and 
the  stones  fly,  as  they  whirled  downward  side  by  side; 
downward,  with  feathery  tree-tops  rising  to  enchant 
their  eyes,  green  meadows,  sparkling  streams,  brilliant 
many-coloured  flowers  —  downward  into  the  kindly 
smiling  paradise  that  nature  has  spread  out  between 
the  foot-hills  and  the  sea. 

"  Oh,  for  a  bath,  Emmie !  And  what  price  a  bed 
with  sheets.'^    That's  what  I  always  tell  people.    If  you 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  215 

want  to  enjoy  —  But,  by  Jove,  I've  forgotten  some- 
thing. The  revolver!  I  must  make  quite  sure."  And 
he  opened  the  breach  of  the  weapon  and  emptied  the 
six  chambers.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  just  as  I  thought." 
Three  of  the  cartridges  were  intact,  the  other  three 
had  been  fired.  "  You  saved  my  life !  You  killed 
Martinez." 

And  suddenly  he  burst  into  tears.  The  tears  ran 
down  in  rivulets,  melting  the  dirt,  whitening  his  cheek- 
bones, bringing  out  the  red  here  and  there  on  his  dusty 
beard.  "  You  killed  him,"  he  sobbed,  "  dead  as  mutton. 
How  the  devil  you  missed  me  in  doing  it,  I  don't  know. 
All  —  all  the  more  to  your  credit.  Oh,  Emmie  —  my 
little  fragile,  delicate  girl  —  the,  the  bravest  creature 
that  ever  lived,  as  well  as  the  most  divinely  precious. 
Oh,  Emmie,  Emmie." 

Miss  Verinder,  herself  affected  by  emotion  with  her 
arm  round  his  neck  soothed  and  quieted  him. 

"  Don't,  Tony,  don't." 

She  said  that  she  did  not  really  know  what  happened 
in  that  horrible  room,  except  that  she  was  crazy  with 
fear.  She  never  wanted  to  think  of  the  place  again, 
and  it  would  be  unkind  of  him  if  he  did  not  help  her  to 
forget  the  agony  she  felt  during  the  moment  when  he 
was  rolling  about  the  floor  and  she  was  trying  to  get 
the  revolver  into  his  hand.  She  knew  that,  despairing, 
she  had  pulled  the  trigger  once.  But  surely  not  more 
than  once?  It  had  seemed  to  her  then  that  all  the 
people  in  the  room  and  in  the  house  were  firing  to- 
gether —  not  merely  revolvers  but  large  cannon.  It 
was  hot,  too,  as  if  the  house  was  on  fire.  She  remem- 
bered no  other  sensations  of  any  kind  whatever,  until 
the  choking  smoke  lifted  and  she  felt  cold  air  upon  her 


216  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

face  and  Dyke's  hand  dragging  her  along. 

They  left  the  carriage  at  the  nearest  railway  town, 
and  went  on  by  train  to  Santiago.  Here,  in  perhaps 
the  most  beautiful  city  of  the  world,  they  stayed  three 
days,  washing  themselves,  sleeping,  eating.  Here  too 
they  bought  clothes^  and  became  once  more  Mrs.  Flem- 
ing the  journalist  and  Mr.  Dyke  her  guide. 

At  Santiago  he  learned,  in  telegraphic  communica- 
tion with  his  agent  at  Buenos  Ay  res,  that  Australia  was 
clamouring  for  him  as  much  overdue.  Important  work 
awaited  him;  and  he  was  at  once  in  a  fever  to  be  off, 
willing  to  forgo  or  indefinitely  postpone  bone-breaking 
vengeance  on  muleteers,  thinking  only  of  the  new  ad- 
venture. He  flushed  with  delight  when  he  found  that  a 
steamer  was  on  the  point  of  sailing  from  Valparaiso  for 
Brisbane.  Since  Emmie  showed  a  strong  disinclination 
to  recross  the  mountains  by  herself  and  go  home  the 
shortest  way  via  Buenos  Ayres,  he  said  she  must  travel 
in  one  steamer  to  Panama,  in  another  to  San  Francisco  ; 
and  thence  in  a  train  to  New  York,  where  she  would 
have  a  choice  of  Atlantic  liners. 

They  parted  at  Valparaiso ;  and  six  weeks  later  she 
was  sitting  at  breakfast  in  the  coffee-room  of  a  private 
hotel  in  the  Cromwell  Road,  Kensington. 


CHAPTER    XI 

OTHER  people  having  breakfast  in  the  room 
glanced  from  time  to  time  at  the  lady  with  the 
short  hair  who  was  sitting  all  alone  at  a  table 
near  the  window.  Gently  stirred  by  the  vapid  curiosity 
that  would  seem  to  be  the  atmosphere  itself  in  private 
hotels,  they  had  already  put  themselves  to  the  trouble 
of  ascertaining  that  she  was  a  Miss  Verinder  who  had 
arrived  last  night  from  foreign  parts,  and  they  won- 
dered if  the  oddly  shortened  hair  meant  that  she  had 
suffered  from  a  fever  while  abroad.  One  or  two  of  the 
old  ladies  determined,  since  she  was  obviously  quite 
proper  and  genteel,  to  make  her  acquaintance  before 
luncheon  —  by  rolling  a  ball  of  crochet  silk  across  the 
floor  at  her,  by  inquiring  if  they  had  inadvertently 
taken  her  chair,  or  by  some  other  polite  method  usual 
in  such  places. 

A  large  proportion  of  the  visitors  were  old  ladies, 
some  of  them  very  old  indeed,  and  each  had  a  com- 
paratively young  lady  as  attendant  or  companion  — 
a  granddaughter  or  great-niece,  or  merely  a  nice  girl 
glad  to  see  London  under  any  conditions  —  who  re- 
adjusted the  white  woollen  shawl,  cut  bread  into  con- 
venient slices,  and  made  herself  generally  serviceable. 
There  was  talk  about  the  inclemency  of  the  weather, 
the  unusualness  of  it  so  late  in  the  year;  and  these 
juvenile  aids  were  sympathetic  and  thoughtful,  saying 
"  Auntie,  you  won't  venture  out,  of  course."     At  a 

217 


218  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PAMSH 

table  larger  than  the  others  there  was  a  family  group, 
father,  mother,  governess,  and  well-grown  children, 
visitors  from  the  northern  provinces.  The  father  stood 
in  the  windoAv  to  eat  his  porridge,  and  without  search- 
ing for  pretexts,  spoke  genially  to  the  solitary  break- 
faster  ;  telling  her  that  his  way  of  eating  porridge  was 
the  only  correct  one,  and  advising  her  to  adopt  the 
method.  "  At  hoam  'tis  always  served  to  us  on  the  side- 
board, never  on  the  table."  Then  he  jerked  his  head 
towards  the  windowpanes.  **  Give  it  an  hour,  an'  all 
that  snow  will  have  turned  to  fair  sloosh.  I've  ben 
watching  those  la'ads  shoovel  away  wi'  it  oif  the  steps 
and  the  footway." 

It  was  Sunday  mornincp:  and  Miss  Verinder,  auto- 
matically  resuming  one  of  her  old  customs,  set  forth 
an  hour  later  to  attend  divine  services  at  Brompton 
parish  church.  The  hotel  manageress  insisted  upon 
lending  her  a  pair  of  indiarubber  goloshes,  and  praised 
her  for  her  temerity  while  the  page-boy  knelt  and  put 
them  on  her  feet.  "  Yes,  I  do  call  you  brave,"  said  the 
manageress,  "  to  face  the  elements  on  such  a  morning 
as  this.  I  wouldn't  have  the  courage  " ;  and  she 
shivered.  "  No,  I  wouldn't.  And  walking  too !  Why 
don't  you  let  me  send  Charles  to  fetch  you  a  cab? 
.  .  .  Oh,  shut  that  door,  Charles.  I  declare  the  cold 
comes  in  enough  to  cut  you  in  half." 

Miss  Verinder  did  not  feel  the  cold  —  she  was  inured 
to  cold.  In  fact,  the  air  out  of  doors  seemed  to  her 
only  remarkable  for  its  flatness  and  heaviness.  She 
observed  the  snow  —  if  one  must  honour  with  the  name 
of  snow  that  niggardly  smoke-stained  deposit  which  men 
with  tools  had  scraped  from  the  pavement  into  mean 
little  banks  and  defiled  with  a  crust  of  mud  as  they 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  219 

swept  it  here  and  there.  Changing  already  to  "  sloosh  " 
in  the  roadway,  with  wet  tracks  made  by  cart  wheels, 
and  pools  of  primrose-coloured  water  where  the  faint 
wintry  sunlight  touched  it,  any  approximate  white- 
ness that  it  still  retained  served  only  to  make  the  house 
fronts  seem  darker,  more  offensively  drab,  more  over- 
whelmingly dismal.  Out  of  the  porches  and  down  the 
steps  came  people  who  seemed  to  be  in  some  queer 
manner  parasitic  to  the  houses,  rather  than  their 
owners  or  leaseholders ;  as  if  the  architect's  incessantly 
repeated  design,  the  builder's  profuse  stucco,  and  the 
plumber's  leaden  pipes,  had  mysteriously  engendered 
human  tenants.  Born  of  the  Cromwell  Road,  they 
closely  resembled  it;  they  were  uniform,  drab  of  com- 
plexion, with  a  dingy  respectability  that  took  the  last 
fading  lustre  out  of  the  trodden  snow  and  obliterated 
every  spiritless  effort  of  the  sunlight.  All  similar, 
but  of  both  sexes,  well  wrapped  in  coats  and  furs,  with 
prayer-books  in  their  hands,  they  moved  slowly  and 
cautiously,  begging  one  another  to  beware  of  slipping, 
to  avoid  puddles,  and  to  step  back  and  stand  still  when 
a  passing  carriage  splashed  the  mud  dangerously. 
They  seemed  to  Miss  Verinder  strange,  small,  pitiful. 
Moreover  the  roadway  that  she  used  to  think  so  wide 
had  contracted,  the  lofty  line  of  the  house  cornices 
came  crushing  down  upon  her,  a  narrowing  vista  of 
plate  glass  and  window  curtains  seemed  to  close  any 
chance  of  escape  into  freedom  and  open  spaces.  Even 
the  terra-cotta  mass  of  the  Natural  History  Museum 
shrank  to  nothing  as  she  approached  it,  and  offered  to 
her,  instead  of  the  dignity  of  soaring  towers  and 
vaulted  vastness,  a  fantastic  little  toy,  or  that  picture 
of  a  toy  that  is  pasted  on  the  lid  of  a  child's  box  of 
bricks. 


220  SPINSTER    OF    THIS   PARISH 

Why  had  she  returned  to  this  particular  neighbour- 
hood —  like  the  wounded  animal  creeping  back  to  the 
place  it  used  to  haunt  before,  largely  straying,  it  re- 
ceived its  wounds?  As  though  exhausted  by  rebellious 
originality  she  seemed  meekly  to  have  surrendered  to 
the  force  of  habit.  Or  perhaps  when  the  cab-driver 
asked  where  he  should  take  her  she  had  said  Kensington 
as  the  only  name  of  a  locality  belonging  to  this  hemi- 
sphere that  she  could  remember  in  her  great  weariness. 
Because  the  effort  required  for  thinking  hard  was  just 
now  impossible,  because  nothing  that  concerned  herself 
personally  was  any  longer  of  the  least  consequence; 
because  one  place  was  the  same  to  her  as  another,  since 
more  than  half  of  the  world  had  become  quite  empty 
and  she  was  condemned  to  live  alone  in  it? 

She  mingled  with  the  small  stream  of  worshippers 
passing  beneath  the  drip  of  the  trees  by  the  blank  wall 
of  the  Oratory,  threaded  her  way  past  two  or  three 
broughams  regretfully  brought  there  by  devout  masters 
or  mistresses  who  could  not  walk  but  hated  troubling 
their  stable  on  the  day  of  rest,  and  then  just  outside  the 
church  door  she  came  almost  face  to  face  with  her 
parents. 

Sweeping  into  the  sacred  edifice,  they  both  cut  her  — 
Mr.  Verinder  in  the  manner  known  as  dead;  Mrs. 
Verinder  with  a  vacillation  of  gait,  a  fluttering  of  furs 
and  feathers,  the  first  rough  sketch  of  a  gesture,  and  a 
look.  It  was  in  its  essence  a  look  that  Emmie  had  often 
seen  at  home;  the  look  that  came  when  servants  had 
committed  an  accident  with  valuable  glass  or  rare  por- 
celain, angry  but  not  really  inexorable,  seeming  to 
say :  "  I  cannot  ignore  it.  You  have  broken  our  hearts, 
and  we  are  very  much  annoyed." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  221 

In  spite  of  the  disastrous  turn  of  events  that 
occurred  last  August,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Verinder  through- 
out the  monih  and  during  half  of  September  were  still 
sustained  by  a  modified  form  of  hope,  and  still  making 
strenuous  efforts  to  conceal  the  disgrace  that  had  be- 
fallen them.  They  felt  that  they  were  engaged  in  a 
contest  with  time.  If  they  could  "  hush  things  up  " 
until  their  enemy  went  back  to  the  wilds  no  one  need 
know  of  this  truly  fin-de  Steele  escapade,  and  Emmeline 
need  not  be  given  that  horrible  up-to-date  label  of 
"  The  woman  who  did."  Dyke  was  leaving  England 
about  the  middle  of  September  —  really  going  —  no 
doubt  of  it.  Not  only  the  newspapers  said  so,  but  Mr. 
Verinder  —  without  the  aid  of  detectives  —  had  assured 
himself  of  the  truth.  When  once  Dyke  was  gone  all 
would  be  over;  Emmeline  would  come  to  her  senses, 
rub  her  eyes  as  one  awakening  from  an  ugly  delirium, 
and  be  very  grateful  to  find  her  reputation  still  intact. 
They  could  then  do  anything  they  liked  with  her  — 
for  instance,  marry  her  to  that  old  widower  who  hired 
the  Grosvenor  Gallery  for  his  concert,  and  thus,  as 
Mr.  Verinder  put  it,  "  save  her  from  her  temperament.'* 

Straining  therefore  towards  these  ends,  they  for  the 
moment  gave  their  daughter  what  she  had  already 
taken,  absolute  freedom;  they  frustrated  the  desire  of 
Eustace  to  get  Dyke  out  on  the  sands  of  Boulogne; 
and  they  officially  intimated  to  their  servants,  through 
the  housekeeper  and  butler,  that  a  very  slight  tiff 
recently  existing  between  Mr.  Verinder  and  Miss 
Verinder  had  now  been  completely  smoothed  away, 
leaving  father  and  daughter  the  very  best  of  friends 
as  in  the  past.  The  faithful  servants  were  glad  to  hear 
this;  they  knew  they  had  a  good  master,  and  never 


222  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

meaning  to  quarrel  with  him  themselves,  they  could  not 
understand  why  anybody  else  should  fall  foul  of  him. 
They  thought  that  the  girl  Louisa  Hodson  had  acted 
like  a  rare  fool  in  forfeiting  her  situation  —  for  it 
should  be  mentioned  that  Louisa  had  been  despatched 
with  a  month's  board  wages  as  well  as  salary,  in  lieu 
of  notice.  She  was  dismissed  not  because  her  com- 
plicity had  been  established,  but  because  Mrs.  Verinder 
could  no  longer  bear  the  sight  of  her. 

Then  came  the  middle,  the  end  of  September,  and 
the  total  vanishment  of  Louisa's  late  charge.  The 
enemy  had  gone  and  his  victim  with  him.  Nothing 
more  could  now  be  done  by  her  tormented  father.  In 
the  whole  circle  of  the  family  acquaintance  the  dread- 
ful affair  became  more  or  less  known.  Within  those 
limits  it  was  a  very  solid  scandal  —  a  scandal  that 
could  only  have  been  allayed  by  the  production  of 
Emmeline  herself,  and  Mr.  Verinder  was  unable  to  pro- 
duce her.  He  abandoned  fictional  enterprise,  clothed 
himself  in  a  garment  of  silence,  and  suffered.  Conscious 
that  the  local  society  was  talking  about  him,  he  had 
the  illusion  that  it  was  talking  of  nothing  else;  when 
old  friends  like  Sir  Timothy  shook  hands  with  him  he 
seemed  to  feel  an  added  pressure  on  his  fingers  and 
winced  beneath  this  contact  with  sorrowful  sympathy; 
if  people  spoke  of  such  matters  as  public  morality  or 
licentious  domestic  habits  and  then  broke  off  the  con- 
versation, he  believed  they  had  all  at  once  remembered 
his  misfortune.  Doubtless,  he  thought,  they  con- 
demned him  for  failing  to  bring  up  a  family  in  the 
way  it  should  go,  for  being  unable  to  govern  his  own 
household,  for  letting  things  drift  until  they  came  to  a 
pretty  pass  indeed.     If  now  it  had  been  necessary  to 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS  .  PARISH  223 

issue  debentures  of  those  paper  mills,  he  felt  that  the 
terms  would  be  less  favourable  than  in  the  past  and 
the  response- not  so  large,  because  confidence  was  with- 
drawn from  one  of  the  principal  directors  of  the  com- 
pany. If  a  man  can't  look  after  his  own  daughter,  you 
don't  trust  him  to  look  after  anything. 

In  this  winter  of  1895-96,  he  suffered,  feeling  as  he 
w^alked  to  the  house  and  away  from  it  that  invisible 
eyes  were  looking  at  him  from  all  the  neighbours' 
windows  and  that  he  was  not  holding  up  his  head  as 
he  used  to  do.  Only  in  the  spacious  tranquillity,  the 
well-warmed  atmosphere  of  egoism,  the  nicely  arranged 
comfortable  total  indifference  to  all  things  except  one- 
self, that  permeates  and  makes  up  the  charm  of  a  really 
good  London  club  —  only  there  could  he  shake  off  his 
depression  and  feel  sure  that  nobody  was  sympathising 
with  him.  pitying  him,  or  blaming  him;  that  if  mem- 
bers laughed  at  the  story  of  his  fugitive  child,  they 
immediately  forgot  what  had  set  them  laughing;  that 
if,  going  into  the  coffee-room,  they  connected  the  names 
of  Anthony  Dyke  and  Emmeline,  they  disconnected 
them  again,  and  probably  for  ever,  in  the  moment  of 
asking  for  red  currant  jelly  with  the  hot  mutton  or 
mixed  pickles  with  the  cold  beef. 

At  Kensington  these  names  had  been  fatally  con- 
nected. Kensington  knew  that  Dyke,  the  famous  An- 
thony Dyke,  was  at  the  bottom  of  everything,  at  the 
side  of  it  too,  and  all  round  it.  The  most  faithful 
servants  will  chatter,  even  at  the  risk  of  losing  the  best 
of  places.  If  people  are  quick  at  putting  two  and  two 
together  to  make  four,  they  are  quicker  still  at  putting 
one  and  one  together  to  make  two.  Perhaps  Miss 
Marchant,  emissary  to  Mrs.  Pryce-Jones,  not  really 


224  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

hoodwinked  by  Mrs.  Verinder's  explanation,  had  con- 
tinued to  keep  a  watchful  eye.  Perhaps  as  well  as 
Miss  Marchant,  the  mournful  angels  on  top  Ok  the 
Albert  Memorial  had  seen  the  infatuated  couple  walk- 
ing side  by  side,  and  had  told  the  summer  wind  while 
begging  it  not  to  carry  the  news  any  further.  Such 
things  always  leaked  out  somehow  —  more  or  less. 
Thus  rumour,  busy  with  both  names,  had  enlivened 
drawing-rooms,  by  swift  amplification ;  and  in  the  pro- 
tracted absence  of  Miss  Verinder  there  had  been  re- 
ports that  somebody  or  other  had  met  her  and  Mr. 
Dyke  at  Monte  Carlo,  had  lodged  next  door  to  them  at 
Folkestone,  had  bumped  into  them  at  Tunbridge  Wells. 

During  the  church  service  she  meditated,  without 
emotion,  upon  her  new  social  status.  Glancing  at  one 
or  two  familiar  faces  she  thought  she  could  observe  a 
rigidity  of  feature,  a  marble  restraint  of  expression, 
that  was  something  more  than  should  be  produced  by 
absorbed  interest  in  a  religious  exercise.  They  could 
not  of  course,  at  such  a  time  and  in  such  a  place,  even 
faintly  nod  or  smile  at  an  old  friend;  but  their  devo- 
tion was  not  surely  quite  so  profound  in  past  days; 
this  statuesque  aspect  of  the  pra^dng  saint  was  surely 
new  and  significant.  She  felt  a  numb  grief  at  having 
caused  pain  to  her  parents ;  but  she  cared  nothing  for 
the  mental  perturbation  of  these  other  people. 

Except  perhaps  Mrs.  Bell!  She  felt  a  sting  of 
regret,  a  sudden  realisation  of  forlornness,  as  she 
noticed  that,  far  from  assuming  that  air  of  sculptured 
oblivion,  Mrs.  Bell  from  time  to  time  looked  at  her  in  a 
most  distressful  manner.  Mrs.  Bell  had  always  shown 
strong  regard  for  her.    Emmie  was  fond  of  Mrs.  Bell. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  225 

As  has  been  mentioned,  Mrs.  Bell  owned  one  of  the 
largest  houses  in  Queen's  Gate,  and  it  may  now  be 
added  that  her  heart  was  as  large  as  her  house.  She 
was  a  childless  widow  of  forty-two  who  had  earned  a 
widowhood  in  which  she  frankly  delighted  by  assiduous 
care  of  an  elderly  invalid  husband;  loquacious  but 
devoid  of  malice,  indeed  exuberantly  good-natured, 
she  loved  to  clothe  her  pleasant  expansive  figure  with 
grand  garments ;  fair  of  complexion,  gracious,  smiling, 
when  dressed  at  her  grandest  she  looked  blondly 
opulent  like  the  queen  of  diamonds  in  the  very  best  and 
most  expensive  packs  of  cards.  She  was  waiting  on 
the  porch  steps,  when  Emmie,  after  allowing  the  con- 
gregation to  depart,  herself  left  the  church. 

"  Now,  my  dear  girl  —  my  dearest  Emraeline  —  you 
are  coming  home  to  lunch  with  me.  That  goes  without 
saying." 

She  would  take  no  refusal.  Her  brougham,  the  last 
of  the  carriages  remaining  on  the  wet  gravel,  stood 
with  its  door  open;  she  pushed  Miss  Verinder  into  it 
and  the  footman  smothered  them  with  a  fur  rug.  As 
they  drove  away  Miss  Verinder's  eyes  for  a  moment 
filled  with  not  easily  repressible  tears.  She  was  touched 
by  the  warmth  of  her  friend's  greeting. 

"  Now  I  want  to  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Bell,  with  af- 
fectionate impressiveness,  when  she  and  Emmie  had 
crossed  the  hospitable  threshold  and  were  alone  to- 
gether, "  I  want  to  tell  you  at  once  that  nothing  that 
has  happened  makes  the  least  difference  to  m^." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Mrs.  Bell,"  said  Emmie  gratefully. 

"I  am  not  even  going  to  ask  you  what  has  happened.'* 

Miss  Verinder  thanked  her  again. 

"  I  shall  not  ask  a  single  question ;  and  I  want  you 


226  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

to  know  that  you  will  be  welcomed  in  this  house  pre- 
cisely as  before  —  at  all  times  and  seasons,  do  you 
understand?  If  any  of  my  friends  object,  then,"  said 
Mrs.  Bell  firmly  and  grandly,  "  they  can  stay  outside. 
Yes,  they  shall  soon  find  I  will  not  stand  anything  of 
that  sort.  You  see,  I  am  perfectly  frank  with  3"ou, 
Emmeline.  I  should  be  less  than  a  friend  if  I  attempted 
to  conceal  the  truth  from  you.  You  have  the  whole 
world  against  you.  So  far  as  worldly  opinion  is  con- 
cerned, your  only  chance  is  to  live  it  down  —  just  to 
live  it  down.  And,  as  I  say,  by  Tne  you  will  be  asked 
no  questions  of  any  kind.  But,  oh,  my  dear  child,  what 
on  earth  have  you  done  with  your  hair?  " 
"  I  had  it  cut,"  said  Miss  Verinder  meekly. 
«  But  why?  " 

''  I  mean  to  let  it  grow  again,"  said  Miss  Verinder, 
evading  an  answer. 

"  I  hope  so  indeed.  Now  we  will  go  into  the  other 
room  and  have  lunch."  But  before  opening  the  door 
good  Mrs.  Bell  put  her  hands  on  the  visitor's  shoulders 
and  administered  a  warmly  affectionate  kiss.  Then  she 
looked  at  Miss  Verinder  doubtfully,  distressfully,  and 
with  a  slight  piteousness  of  appeal.  "  As  I  have 
promised  you,  I  shall  not  ask  questions  —  unless,  my 
dearest  Emmeline,  you  yourself  would  like  to  tell  me 
every  single  little  thing.  If  you  feel  it  would  be  a  relief 
to  you  for  me  to  know  exactly  where  you  have  been  and 
exactly  what  you  have  been  doing  since  you  left  Eng- 
land—  but,  no,  I  see  you  would  rather  not.  Then 
come  along." 

And  with  that  tremendous  adventure  for  ever  locked 
in  her  heart,  Miss  Verinder  sat  down  to  luncheon. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  227 

She  remained  in  the  neighbourhood.  Cut  by  her 
friends  and  cast  off  by  her  family,  she  calmly  settled 
in  the  flat  at  the  corner  of  Oratory  Gardens  and  went 
about  just  as  if  she  had  been  anybody  else  instead  of 
the  disgraced  Miss  Verinder.  The  arrangement  of  the 
flat  pleased  her;  she  liked  the  narrow  steep  staircase 
with  its  private  street-door  beside  the  auctioneer's 
office ;  when  she  closed  that  door  behind  her  she  felt  safe, 
and  when  she  passed  through  the  door  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs  she  felt  that  she  was  in  an  impenetrable  strong- 
hold. She  furnished  the  flat  charmingly,  with  antique 
things  that  as  yet  were  not  valued  by  everyone.  Mrs. 
Bell  said  she  had  made  it  "  too  pretty  and  comfy  for 
words."  Louisa  Hodson,  discovered  without  much 
trouble,  came  to  the  flat  as  factotum,  and  added  to  Miss 
Verinder's  sensation  of  being  finally  established  in  a 
shelter  and  retreat  that  was  quite  unassailable.  No  one 
on  earth  could  interfere  with  her  here.  Even  when  the 
street  door  stood  wide  and  an  invader  mounted  the 
stairs,  there  was  Louisa  at  the  top  of  them  to  bar 
further  progress  and  send  him  down  again.  In  these 
days  visitors  were  of  the  kind  that  wish  to  sell  tea 
or  dispose  of  tickets  for  a  benevolent  concert;  but 
neither  then  nor  at  a  later  period  could  anyone  get 
past  Louisa  when  her  mistress  desired  brief  or  lengthy 
seclusion;  no  one  —  not  even  Mrs.  Bell  of  Queen's 
Gate. 

At  once  Miss  Verinder  began  to  occupy  herself  in 
the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  as  though  attempting  a  sort 
of  higher  or  secondary  education.  She  read  scientific 
treatises  and  learned  to  draw  maps.  She  studied  such 
impossible  things  as  logic,  rhetoric,  and  English  com- 
position.    She  joined  a  literary  society,  attended  lee- 


228  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

tures  and  classes;  wrote  essays  on  subjects  chosen  by 
a  severe  young  professor,  and  humbly  carried  them 
back  to  him  for  sharp  censure  or  faint  praise.  She 
was  in  many  ways  busy. 

Almost  at  once  too  there  fell  upon  her  that  air  of 
self-reliance   which,   whether   proudly   deprecating   or 
gently  defiant,  is  observable  in  all  women  who  are  for 
any  length  of  time  compelled  to  manage  without  assist- 
ance both  their  outward  and  their  inward  lives.     All 
people  knowing  her  story  must  see  in  her  appearance 
as  well  as  her  manner  a  confirmation  of  their  own  way 
of  interpreting  it.     Even  her  cheerful  resignation  was 
suspicious;  they  looked  for  the   sadness   in  her  face 
when  she  thought  herself  unnoticed.    To  such  critics  she 
was  in  every  detail  precisely  what  might  be  expected 
in  one  who  has  forfeited  all  chances  of  respectful  at- 
tention, who  is  left  to  herself  because  she  deserves  to  be 
left  to  herself.     To  those  who  knew  nothing  about  her 
she  was  merely  old-maidish.    Her  hair  grew  again,  long 
and  thick,  but  the  brightness  of  youth  had  irrevocably 
gone  from  her.    Her  complexion  slowly  faded,  the  tints 
of  the  frail  blush  rose  giving  place  to  the  waxen  per- 
manence of  the  lily.     At  twenty-eight  she  looked  at 
least  thirty-five. 

And  the  long  years  began  to  glide  away.  Colourless, 
without  salient  features,  swift  in  their  cold  monotony, 
the  yeax  -  were  like  ghosts  of  years  flitting  across  a  half- 
lit  room  into  the  endless  dark  passages  that  leads  to  the 
eternal.  Mrs.  Bell  had  said  that  she  must  live  down 
the  past,  but  it  seemed  that  her  real  task  was  to  live 
do^Ti  the  future. 

At  least  thus  it  all  appeared  to  external  observers. 
Events  of  one  sort  or  another  were  truly  happening  in 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  229 

the  flat  all  the  while.  For  instance  —  as  observed  by 
Mrs.  Bell  —  after  a  time  a  parrot  arrived,  to  be  petted 
and  fed  and  cared  for.  Then  Louisa,  the  maid-house- 
keeper, asked  permission  to  keep  a  cat.  Louisa  did  not 
intend  to  marry ;  she  had  established  herself  in  the  flat 
as  firmly  as  her  mistress ;  she  and  Miss  Verinder  under- 
stood each  other  —  they  played  with  the  cat  in  its 
kitten  stage,  they  made  much  of  the  solemn  and  prob- 
ably very  aged  parrot.  Seemingly  they  were  just  two 
old  maids  together. 

During  tliis  period  the  illustrious  name  that  had  been 
whispered  in  Kensington  drawing-rooms  sounded  at 
intervals  loud  and  clear  on  the  public  tongue.  As 
hitherto  in  the  career  of  Dyke,  he  was  alternately  lost 
to  view  for  long  stretches  of  time  and  lit  up  by  a  blaze 
of  publicity  for  brief  spaces.  Throughout  the  year 
1897  those  deserts  of  Australia  hid  him  completely. 
Then  early  in  1898  he  was  very  much  before  the  world 
again.  His  book  Sunshine  and  Sand  gave  the  history 
of  his  most  recent  vicissitudes  and  successes,  and  ap- 
pearing at  a  moment  when  the  ultimate  confederation 
of  the  Australian  Colonies  was  being  widely  discussed, 
the  book,  as  critics  said,  was  not  only  more  entrancing 
than  any  novel,  it  took  its  place  as  an  indispensable 
volume  of  reference  for  all  students  of  imperial  history. 
Also  at  some  time  early  in  this  year  1898  he  was  in 
London,  being  interviewed  by  newspapers  and  delivering 
a  lecture  before  the  Royal  Geographical  Society.  Then 
tlie  dark  curtain  promptly  descended  upon  him  once 
more.  He  had  been  sent  to  examine  the  interior  of 
British  New  Guinea  and  to  explore  any  unvisited  islands 
to  the  east  of  it;  and  the  newspapers  had  not  much  to 
say  about  him  for  two  or  three  years,  except  that  he 


230  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

was  alive  in  spite  of  the  insatiable  craving  of  the  canni- 
bals with  whom  he  now  consorted.  Then  came  the  publi- 
cation of  Among  the  Papuans  in  two  bulky  volumes, 
which  the  press  welcomed  with  compliments  similar  to 
those  showered  upon  his  previous  work.  Critics  said 
that  since  there  could  be  little  doubt  that  the  Crown 
would  cede  its  interests  in  New  Guinea  to  the  Common- 
wealth of  Australia  as  soon  as  that  federation  should  be 
finally  constituted,  these  two  illuminating  and  compen- 
dious volumes  of  Mr.  Dyke's  appeared  at  a  most  oppor- 
tune hour.  Then  soon  one  heard  that  Mr.  Dyke  was  in 
the  United  States  lecturing,  and  trying  to  collect  money 
for  another  Antarctic  voyage,  which  should  start,  as  he 
hoped,  in  1902,  or  at  latest  in  1903.  The  lecture  tour 
closed  stormily  in  a  pitched  battle  with  American  critics 
who  had  thrown  doubt  on  his  records  of  the  Patagonian 
pigmies  and  the  Andine  temples.  1'he  noise  of  this 
contest  echoed  loudly  even  on  our  side  of  the  Atlantic. 
Thus  Miss  Verinder  was  not  allowed  any  true  chance 
to  forget  the  man  who  had  been  so  much  to  her.  For 
her,  one  must  suppose,  even  the  occasional  mention  of 
his  name,  a  mere  newspaper  reference  to  him,  should 
prove  stirring  to  the  memory,  if  not  absolutely  upset- 
ting to  her  peace  of  mind.  And  above  all,  those  books  of 
his  —  always  running  into  a  new  edition  or  being  ad- 
vertised by  the  publisher  as  about  to  appear  in  a 
cheaper  form !  The  earlier  ones,  too,  got  themselves  re- 
issued—  First  Antarctic  Cruise  (1888);  The  Second 
Cruise  (1890);  "At  all  booksellers,  uniform  with  A 
Walk  in  the  Andes  ";  and  so  forth!  Perhaps  she  was 
reading  one  or  other  of  these  works  and  suffering  in 
consequence,  when  she  lay  indisposed  behind  her  shut 
doors,  or  suddenly  and  abruptly  disappeared  from  the 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  231 

flat  altogether  on  one  of  her  strange  lonely  excursions. 
Louisa,  growing  older  and  sterner  every  year,  merely 
reported  that  Miss  Verinder  was  unwell  and  could  see 
no  one;  or  that  Miss  Verinder  had  left  London  and  it 
was  quite  uncertain  when  she  would  return. 

Moreover,  had  Miss  Verinder  been  in  any  danger  of 
forgetting  the  man  himself  and  his  more  intimate  char- 
acteristics, she  received  at  least  one  sharp  reminder. 

On  a  certain  winter  afternoon  his  father  came  to 
call  upon  her,  by  appointment. 

"  I  was  so  glad  to  get  j^our  note  giving  me  permis- 
sion," said  the  elder  Mr.  Dyke.  "  It  is  very  kind  of 
you." 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  said  Emmie ;  using,  as  so  often 
happens  when  we  feel  that  an  occasion  is  momentous, 
the  tritest  and  most  simple  form  of  words.  *'  Do  please 
sit  down  " ;  and  she  indicated  that  she  wished  him  to 
choose  the  sofa  as  his  seat.  Her  nerves  were  fluttered 
and  her  thoughts  in  some  disorder  during  these  first 
civilities. 

"  It  is  a  great  pleasure,  Miss  Verinder,  to  make  your 
acquaintance." 

"  And  I,"  said  Emmie  earnestly,  "  have  wanted  to 
know  you,  Mr.  Dyke.  I  have  wanted  it  so  much  —  so 
very  much." 

"  Thank  you.  It  is  good  indeed  of  you  to  say  that. 
I  should  have  wished  to  come  long  ago  —  but,  well, 
somehow  I  did  not  venture  " ;  and  he  had  a  smile  that 
seemed  to  shoot  like  an  arrow  into  Emmie's  gentle 
breast  and  set  it  throbbing  with  exquisite  pain.  Almost, 
for  that  instant,  Anthony  might  have  been  there  smiling 
at  her.  "  No,  I  wished  to  do  so  —  but  one  is  always 
afraid  of  seeming  intrusive.  Only  when  he  wrote  to 
me — " 


232  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Mr.  Dyke  sat  then  upon  the  sofa,  and  they  began  to 
talk  about  his  son. 

He  was  a  much  smaller  man  than  Anthony,  very 
thin  and  spare,  and  yet  obviously  possessing  something 
of  Anthony's  iron  strength;  so  that,  although  sixty- 
four  or  sixty-five  years  of  age,  he  gave  one  an  impres- 
sion of  a  person  who  will  go  on  living  for  a  great  while 
without  ever  growing  really  old.  He  too  had  blue  eyes 
and  a  straight  nose,  but  one  could  not  imagine  this  face 
becoming  hawklike  or  fierce.  He  was  quite  dignified, 
yet  devoid  of  all  commanding  or  majestic  attributes. 
His  manner,  reminding  her  of  Anthony's  now  and  then 
in  its  deferential  courtliness,  more  particularly  as  ex- 
pressed by  bowing  the  head,  was  quite  that  of  a  man 
of  the  world.  And  Emmie  noticed  that  his  sacred 
calling  was  not  indicated  by  the  slightest  sign  in  the 
clothes  he  wore.  Then  as  her  nerves  steadied  them- 
selves, w^hile  he  went  on  talking  and  she  listening,  she 
thought  of  nothing  beyond  the  one  fact  that  he  was 
Anthony's  father. 

He  was  telling  her  about  Anthony's  birthplace,  their 
home  in  Devonshire,  and  the  time  of  Anthony's  boy- 
hood. "  Endells  —  that  is  the  name  of  our  house,  you 
know  —  quite  a  small  place,  but  in  a  way  very  charming 

—  to  us,  at  least  —  we  all  love  it.  Close  to  the  sea, 
you  know.  Endells  —  so  many  places  in  our  part  of  the 
world  have  a  plural  name.  Abertors  —  that's  the  big 
place,  the  show-place.     An  old  house,  ours,  you  know 

—  and  the  most  delightful  old  church  close  by,  on  our 
own  ground.  I  am,  you  know,  what  they  used  to  call 
'  a  squarson,'  "  and  he  smiled  again.  She  could  bear 
it  now ;  and  it  was  not  really  Anthony's  smile.  It  was 
full  of  goodness  and  kindness,  but  it  had  not  that  warm 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  233 

flood  of  light  as  of  the  sunshine  bursting  through 
splendid  dark  clouds  and  making  the  whole  world 
happy.  "  At  the  time  I  speak  of,  I  was  still  doing  my 
clerical  duties.  I  hadn't  then  turned  lazy  and  handed 
everything  over  to  a  curate.  And  will  you  believe  it, 
Miss  Verinder?  I  then  thought  that  Anthony,  when 
he  grew  up,  would  be  ordained  and  follow  in  my  foot- 
steps. His  mother  thought  so.  Poor  dear  " ;  and  he 
sighed.  "  We  lost  her  before  he  was  fourteen.  As  a 
boy  he  was  religious  —  unusually  religious.  But  now, 
I  fear  —  well,  you  know  his  inmost  thoughts  a  great 
deal  better  than  I  do.    We  won't  speak  of  that." 

Then,  continuing,  he  said  he  felt  it  would  interest 
her  to  hear  that  as  a  boy  Anthony  showed  no  sign  of 
the  adventurous  spirit.  "  Isn't  it  strange.  Miss 
Verinder?  But  so  it  is."  He  was  a  dreamy  boy,  loving 
mystical  books,  with  a  hankering  after  magic,  astrol- 
ogy, and  spiritualism.  He  had  never  been  seen  to  read 
tales  of  travel.  Nor  was  he  fond  of  athletic  sports. 
He  did  not  care  for  riding.  "  You  know,  there  are 
hounds  of  course  witliin  reach  of  us.  And  sometimes 
he  would  follow  them  on  foot,  but  never  on  horseback. 
Always  a  prodigious  walker."  Then  Mr.  Dyke  laughed 
gently.  "  He  would  not  come  in  to  meals.  It  worried 
his  poor  mother,  and  our  housekeeper  —  who  had  been 
his  nurse  —  used  to  say  nature  never  put  a  clock  or 
dinner  bell  inside  Master  Anthony's  stomach  as  it  does 
with  other  children.  He  would  climb  along  the  cliffs 
and  lie  on  his  back  on  some  ledge  or  other,  looking  at 
the  sky  or  watching  the  seagulls,  and  dreaming  — 
dreaming  hour  after  hour;  the  whole  day  often,  in 
summer.  All  one  can  imagine  is  that  during  these  long 
reveries    great    purposes    were    slowly    shaping  —  un- 


234  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

known  to  himself  perhaps.  At  any  rate  not  one  single 
word  about  it  did  he  utter  to  me  —  and  we  were  friends. 
Miss  Verinder  —  a  very  real  affection,  thank  God,  re- 
mained always  between  us  two  —  I  fancy,  something 
more  than  is  common  with  fathers  and  sons."  And 
Mr,  Dyke  paused  to  blow  his  nose.  "  Not  one  word 
until  he  was  approacliing  his  nineteenth  birthday. 
Then  he  said  to  me  —  I  was  never  more  astonished  in 
my  life  —  he  said,  '  Father,  I  can't  stand  this  any 
longer.  I  am  starting  for  Africa  to-morrow.'  Just 
like  that.     And  he  went,  you  know. 

"  The  rest  —  if  a  father  may  say  so  —  is  history. 
It  is,  isn't  it,  Miss  Verinder?  Now  I  musn't  tire  you  by 
too  long  a  visitation.  But  I  felt  that  these  little  early 
details  would  interest  you.  They  are  so  little  and  yet 
so  much.  And  they  should  certainly  come  into  his  life 
when  it  is  written.  I  think  it  is  a  mistake  in  biographies 
to  omit  all  the  slight  and  seemingly  trivial  details  and 
give  one  only  the  big  events.  Nothing  is  trivial  in  the 
lives  of  really  great  men." 

Miss  Verinder  assured  him  that  she  had  been  en- 
thrallingly  interested;  and,  taking  leave,  he  detained 
her  hand  in  his  for  a  moment  while  he  asked  if  he  might 
call  again  in  a  few  days'  time  before  he  returned  to 
Devonshire.  She  was  conscious  during  these  moments 
of  a  constraint  or  uneasiness  that  he  had  seemed  to  feel 
even  when  he  was  talking  to  her  so  gently  and  kindly. 
It  had  been  as  if  the  talk  was  merely  superficial,  and 
that  beneath  it  there  was  a  communication  that  he  de- 
sired to  make  but  could  not.  Now  it  seemed  that  this 
had  risen  close  to  the  surface,  and  with  her  hand  in  his, 
she  braced  herself  to  meet  it.  Perhaps  that  mental 
preparation  on  her  side,  detected  and  misunderstood^ 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  235 

was  sufficient  to  check  him  again;  for,  without  saying 
anything  further,  he  went  away. 

Thinking  about  this  afterwards,  Emmie  felt  that  it 
had  spoilt  everything.  It  was  not  difficult  to  find  inter- 
pretations of  a  reticence  or  shrinking  that  would  check 
Mr.  Dyke's  flow  of  words  and  make  him  hesitate  each 
time  that  he  approached  a  fuller  confidence ;  yet  if  such 
thoughts,  however  natural  they  might  be,  were  really  in 
his  mind,  she  did  not  wish  ever  to  see  him  again.  If 
they  were  not  there,  Ihen  she  wished,  without  doubts  or 
self-questionings,  to  enjoy  the  immense  comfort  and 
support  that  the  sight  of  his  face  and  the  sound  of  his 
voice  gave  to  her.  She  determined  at  once  to  lay  the 
doubt  at  rest,  and  when,  fulfilling  his  promise,  he  re- 
appeared at  the  flat,  she  asked  him  a  very  simple 
question. 

"  Mr.  Dyke,  do  you  blame  me  for  what  I  have  done  ?  " 

"Blame  you?  Oh,  how  could  I?  How  can  I?  Oh, 
my  goodness,  no,"  said  Mr.  Dyke,  in  visible  agitation, 
and  he  sprang  up  from  the  sofa  and  stood  looking  down 
at  Emmie,  who  was  seated  on  one  of  her  lowest  chairs. 
"  But  I  see  what  you  mean.  A  clergyman?  I  feared 
you  might  think  —  That  is  why  I  have  been  so  anxious 
to  see  you.  That  is  what  I  wanted  to  say  —  but  it  was 
so  difficult."  He  was  stooping,  and  he  took  her  hand 
and  raised  it  to  his  lips.  "  To  tell  you  my  gratitude 
to  you  for  your  love  of  my  son.  And  that  I,  just  as 
much  as  he,  can  measure  the  extent  of  your  sacrifice  — - 
its  nobility  and  its  completeness." 

The  barrier  between  them  falling  thus,  she  was  free  to 
take  such  comfort  from  him  as  he  could  convey.  They 
sat  on  the  sofa  together  now,  and  patting  her  hand  and 
calling  her  his  dear  Emmeline,  he  talked  again  of 
Anthony. 


236  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

That  afternoon  he  told  her  among  other  things  the 
story  of  Dyke's  miserable,  fatal  marriage.  Although 
the  mother  of  Dyke's  wife  and  her  other  relations  were 
dreadfully  common  people,  the  girl  herself  was  decently 
educated  and  showed  a  certain  refinement  inherited 
from  her  father,  who  had  been  both  a  gentleman  and  a 
scholar.  Unliappily,  she  inherited  from  him  also  the 
strain  of  madness  that  in  his  case  had  led  to  violent 
mania  and  suicide.  Before  Dyke  ever  saw  her,  incipient 
insanity  at  least  had  declared  itself  in  the  daughter, 
and,  as  was  discovered  afterwards,  her  wretched  rela- 
tives had  been  warned  by  doctors  that  it  would  be  a 
monstrous  wickedness  to  allow  her  to  marry  anybody 
at  all.  But  when  the  ardent,  impetuous  Anthony  fell 
into  their  hands  they  made  remorselessly  short  work 
of  him.  He  was  then  only  twenty-one,  just  back  from 
his  first  visit  to  Africa,  full  of  chivalry  and  altogether 
devoid  of  caution ;  and  to  such  people  as  these  he  would 
naturally  seem  a  grand  prize.  The  girl  —  Mr.  Dyke 
believed  —  practised  no  deception,  and  indeed  was 
wholeheartedly  in  love  with  her  splendid  wooer. 

Three  weeks  after  the  wedding  she  entered  an  asylum 
in  the  Midlands,  and  she  had  remained  there  ever  since. 
She  was  incurably  insane  —  with  a  sort  of  dull  religious 
melancholia  that  flickered  up  into  mildly  homicidal 
tendencies  at  intervals.  Dyke  from  the  beginning  had 
taken  every  possible  measure  for  her  comfort  and  se- 
curity. It  was  a  good  asjdum,  and  the  annual  charges 
were  not  light.  In  order  to  insure  the  payment  of  these, 
Dyke  had  invested  money  left  to  him  by  his  mother ;  so 
that,  whatever  happened  to  him,  the  asylum  would  con- 
tinue to  receive  the  half-yearly  amounts.  For  a  con- 
siderable number  of  years  he  had  not  been  allowed  to 


SPINSTER   OF   THIS    PARISH  237 

see  his  wife  —  or  rather,  she  had  not  been  allowed  to 
see  him ;  for  the  sight  of  him  threw  her  into  a  dangerous 
kind  of  excitement.  But  Dyke  was  never  in  England 
without  paying  a  visit  to  the  asylum.  He  went  down 
there,  to  make  certain  that  she  was  being  properly 
treated;  after  an  interview  with  the  doctors,  one  of  the 
attendants  guided  him  to  some  part  of  the  grounds 
where  he  could  stand  unobserved  and  watch  her  as  she 
passed  by  in  charge  of  her  nurse.  In  this  manner  he 
had  seen  her  many  times. 

Her  mother  and  the  other  relations  had  more  or  less 
blackmailed  him  as  long  as  they  lived,  and  he  had  been 
generous  to  them  in  spite  of  the  wrong  they  had  done 
him.  Now  they  were  all  of  them  dead,  except  an  aunt 
—  a  horrible  old  woman  who  from  time  to  time  wrote 
abusive  letters  to  Anthony  and  his  father. 

"  A  sad  case,  my  dear  Emmeline.  And  I  must  say  I 
find  it  difficult  not  to  condemn  the  cruelty  of  a  law  that 
refuses  to  annul  such  marriages.  I  should  tell  you 
that  my  boy  tried  to  obtain  release  by  appealing  to 
the  law  courts.  Yes,  he  brought  a  case  —  but  without 
success." 

One  after  another  the  years  glided  past.  In  1904 
Anthony  Dyke,  the  explorer,  was  about  to  do  his  third 
Antarctic  cruise  in  command  of  an  expedition  that*  had 
been  organized  for  purely  scientific  purposes,  and  with 
no  intention  of  pushing  far  south.  But  newspapers 
said  that  it  would  be  strange  if  Dyke  did  not  make 
some  sort  of  dash  and  attempt  to  lower  the  record 
that  he  himself  still  held. 

Long  before  this  year  of  1904  the  number  of  people 
who  condescended  to  be  aware  of  Miss  Verinder's  exist- 


238  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

ence  had  largely  increased.  After  the  tea-sellers  there 
had  come  in  due  course  clergymen  or  church  lay- 
helpers  ;  for,  however  much  you  may  disapprove  of  a 
lady's  former  way  of  life,  you  cannot  be  so  uncharitable 
as  to  preclude  her  from  herself  exercising  the  virtue  of 
charity ;  and,  moreover,  the  acceptance  of  a  donation 
or  subscription  commits  you  to  no  real  friendliness. 
Then  came  a  chance  acquaintance  who<  had  been  warned 
against  her  but  could  not  bother  about  the  warning,  or 
thought  that  in  regard  to  scandal  there  ought  to  be  a 
statute  of  limitations ;  and,  adopting  this  broad-minded 
view,  they  even  asked  her  to  dine  with  them  quietly  and 
at  short  notice  —  more  especially  when  they  were  at 
their  wit's  ends  to  find  a  fourth  for  bridge.  Then  she 
began  to  be  "  taken  up  again,"  as  they  termed  it,  by 
a  few  of  her  old  friends  —  the  few  still  remaining  in 
the  locality.  Staggered  by  the  countenance  given  to 
her  by  Mrs.  Bell,  or  moved  to  pity  by  their  own  reflec- 
tions on  her  lonely  blameless  life,  they  essayed  a  smile 
and  nod  when  they  passed  her  in  the  street,  and,  en- 
couraged by  her  unresentful  courtesy,  a  little  later 
attacked  Louisa  with  a  packet  of  their  visiting  cards. 
So  the  legend  of  Miss  Verinder's  wickedness  slowly 
tended,  if  not  yet  to  fade  and  die,  at  least  to  lose  its 
strength  and  high  colour.  Young  people  yawned  and 
refused  to  learn  when  elderly  people  narrated  the  legend 
for  their  benefit.  "  Hot  stuff,"  was  she,  when  she  was 
young?  But  all  that  must  have  been  a  mighty  long  time 
ago.  It  was  as  if  the  house  walls  absorbed  whispers 
concerning  her  past,  instead  of  echoing  them  as  they 
used  to  do.  It  was  as  if  the  varnished  front  doors  and 
plate  glass  windows  of  the  straight,  correct  roads,  con- 
spiring with  iron  rails  and  neat  rectangles  of  grass  and 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  239 

gravel  in  the  gardens  of  the  squares,  had  now  deter- 
mined, if  they  could^  slowly  to  obliterate  all  vivid  recol- 
lection of  a  glaring  irregularity.  It  was  as  if  the  whole 
monotonously  respectable  neighbourhood  had  said  to  its 
parasitic  inhabitants,  "  We  never  experienced  any- 
thing of  the  sort  till  then.  Let  us  now  try  to  forget 
that  it  ever  happened." 

At  last  her  family  forgave  her,  and  for  form's  sake 
insisted  that  there  should  be  some  slight  intercourse, 
although  Miss  Verinder  herself  declined  or  evaded  any 
resumption  of  real  intimacy.  To  her  relatives  it  had 
become  so  very  awkward  to  go  on  cutting  her,  and  with 
all  the  children  growing  up,  to  have  an  aunt  that 
mustn't  be  mentioned.  It  was  far  more  convenient  to 
know  her  and  name  her  again.  Margaret  Pratt  was 
now  the  mother  of  five  and  putting  on  flesh  rapidly. 
But,  because  of  her  shortness,  she  could  never  hope  to 
be  as  big  round  as  Mrs.  Verinder.  Eustace  had  married 
with  the  utmost  propriety,  and  his  wife  in  an  equally 
becoming  manner  had  given  him  first  a  female  and  then 
a  male  infant.  It  was  Eustace  who  advised  a  reconcilia- 
tion with  his  erring  sister,  and  Mr.  Verinder  at  once 
agreed. 

Mr.  Verinder  had  been  badly  shaken  by  the  South 
African  War  —  a  rebellion,  a  defiance  of  authority, 
that  should  not  have  been  called  a  war  at  all ;  during  the 
early  reverses  he  could  not  sleep  at  night,  although  he 
doggedly  declared  at  the  breakfast  table  that  he  was 
not  anxious  and  that  everything  would  could  right  in 
the  end.  He  sincerely  mourned  the  death  of  Queen 
Victoria,  that  august  lady  who  had  been  as  fond  of 
the  Albert  Hall  as  he  was  himself.  He  described  this 
great  loss  as  "  the  breaking  of  a  link." 


240  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Already,  in  Mr.  Verinder's  opinion,  his  beloved  neig^h- 
bourhood  was  changing.  He  could  not  disguise  from 
himself  that  it  was  not  all  that  it  used  to  be.  That  old 
closely-bound  society  was  breaking  up.  The  war  had 
shaken  things  as  well  as  people.  New  ideas  were 
creeping  in,  with  a  new  monarch  on  the  throne;  that 
grand  old  British  institution,  the  dinner-party,  was 
threatened  by  the  new  fashion  of  entertaining  at 
restaurants. 

Then  soon  be  began  to  suffer  in  health,  and  submit- 
ting to  the  most  terrific  of  all  possible  upheavals,  he 
consented  to  sell  his  house  and  go  to  live  with  Mrs. 
Verinder  at  Brighton.  Mrs.  Verinder  had  fallen  in  love 
with  Brighton,  having  there  found  a  row  of  houses 
almost  exactly  like  Prince's  Gate  —  same  colour,  same 
porches,  cornice,  everything;  only  smaller,  and  there- 
fore requiring  a  less  ample  and  more  easily  managed 
style  of  household. 

From  Brighton  Mr.  Verinder  wrote  to  Emmeline  in- 
viting her  to  spend  Easter  with  them,  saying  that 
Eustace,  Margaret,  and  the  little  people  would  be  there, 
and  all  of  them  glad  to  see  her.  He  underlined  that 
word  all;  but  Emmeline  could  not  accept  the  invitation. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  the  kindly  feeble  old  man  to  be 
able  to  write  to  Emmeline  now  and  then,  or  to  talk 
about  her  once  in  a  way  at  dinner;  and  it  was  an 
immensely  greater  comfort,  a  comfort  always  with  him, 
to  know  that  the  ancient  dreadful  affair  was  so  com- 
pletely over  and  done  with.  To  his  mind,  Emmeline 
had  finally  lived  it  down.  He  knew  that  Dyke  had  been 
in  England  during  these  years  at  least  twice,  and  — 
again  without  the  aid  of  detectives  —  he  had  ascer- 
tained that  Emmeline  had  not  renewed  relations  with 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  241 

the  man;  indeed,  had  not  even  attempted  to  see  him. 
All  the  time  Dyke  was  in  London  the  last  time,  Emme- 
line  had  been  away  somewhere  in  the  country.  She  did 
not  return  to  that  little  flat  of  hers  until  the  man  had 
gone  once  more.  All  this  Mr.  Verinder  had  learned 
from  Mrs.  Bell,  who  vouched  for  the  truth;  and  he 
admired  his  daughter's  fortitude  and  strength  of  mind 
in  thus  running  away  to  avoid  any  possibility  of 
temptation. 

A  closed  chapter.     Yes,  thank  goodness,  over  and 
done  with. 


CHAPTER    XII 

IT  was  about  half-past  nine  o'clock  on  a  bright  crisp 
morning  in  early  Spring;  the  sun  shone  gaily  into 
Miss  Verinder's  drawing-room,  eclipsing  the  genial 
red  glow  of  the  fire;  the  leafless  branches  of  the  plane 
tree  tapped  against  the  window  panes ;  and,  although 
one  could  not  see  it,  one  had  a  feeling  of  there  being 
a  blue  wind-swept  sky  with  little  white  clouds  racing 
giddily  above  the  highest  chimney  pots.  Miss 
Verinder  herself,  seeming  if  not  quite  as  sunny  and 
bright  as  the  weather,  at  least  strangely  gay  and  alert, 
had  been  in  and  out  of  the  room  two  or  three  times ; 
wliile  Louisa  bustled  hither  and  thither,  giving  last 
touches  to  the  breakfast  table  that  she  had  set  forth 
between  the  sofa  and  the  fire. 

Louisa  was  indeed  laying  out  a  lovely  breakfast,  and 
her  mistress  glanced  with  pleasure  at  the  honey,  the 
various  jams,  and  the  hot-plate  and  the  kettle,  under 
both  of  which  a  lamp  burned  cheerfully.  Over  the  back 
of  the  sofa  were  about  half-a-dozen  diiferent  news- 
papers. With  a  smile  upon  her  unusually  carmine  lips, 
Miss  Verinder  unfolded  one  of  these  and  read  the 
account  of  how  Mr.  Anthony  Dyke  had  arrived  in 
London  yesterday  afternoon.  This  particular  journal 
stated  that  the  famous  explorer  appeared  to  be  in  the 
most  robust  health  and  the  highest  spirits.  He  would 
say  little  about  the  ill-fated  expedition  or  the  series 
of  mishaps  that  had  led  to  the  return  of  the  ship  and 

242 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  243 

the  postponement  of  her  voyage  to  another  season ;  but 
he  explained  that  he  would  give  the  fullest  details  of 
results  so  far  achieved  in  the  lecture  that  he  proposed 
to  deliver  shortly.  "  He  left  at  once  for  Devonshire, 
to  pass  a  few  days  in  complete  quiet  with  his  relatives." 

Louisa  brought  in  three  silver  dishes,  a  glass  jar  of 
marmalade,  a  china  basket  full  of  apples;  but  Miss 
Verinder  was  thrown  into  slight  agitation  by  the  dis- 
covery that  there  was  still  something  wanting  to  perfect 
the  breakfast.  The  hot  rolls  had  not  arrived.  Louisa, 
even  more  distressed  and  worried  by  this  failure,  said 
the  baker  had  faithfully  promised.  "  It's  that  wretched 
boy  of  his  who  has  played  us  false  " ;  and  Louisa  used 
an  odd  expression,  and  using  it  laughed  in  spite  of 
her  annoyance.  "  I'd  like  to  break  his  bones  for  him, 
I  would." 

She  had  left  the  hall  door  ajar  at  the  top  of  the 
flight  of  stairs,  and  for  about  the  fifth  time  she  pushed 
it  open  and  looked  down.  There  was  not  a  sign  either 
of  the  boy  or  the  rolls.  She  went  into  her  neat  little 
pantry,  fuming.  Then  after  a  minute  she  heard  a 
footstep  on  the  stairs,  and,  rejoiced  that  the  rolls  had 
come  at  last,  she  called  gaily,  "  Put  them  down,  you 
imp.    And  shut  the  door." 

"  What  is  that?  "  said  a  totally  unexpected  voice. 

Next  moment  Mrs.  Bell  of  Queen's  Gate  had  passed 
through  the  hall  and  entered  the  drawing-room.  Miss 
Verinder,  turning,  was  really  much  agitated  by  the  sight 
of  the  visitor  with  Louisa  behind  her  in  the  doorway 
showing  a  scared  face.  She  made  desperate  signs  to 
Louisa,  who  precipitately  sprang  away ;  and  kind  Mrs. 
Bell  in  her  astonishment  nearly  let  fall  the  large  parcel 
of  hot-house  grapes  that  she  was  carrying. 


244  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Yesterday  Mrs.  Bell  had  been  refused  admittance 
because  of  an  indisposition  that  had  overtaken  Miss 
Verinder.  This  morning,  being  out  earlier  than  was 
customary,  she  had  come  to  bring  the  grapes  and  to 
inquire  after  the  state  of  her  cherished  invalid. 
Naturally  she  was  now  amazed  to  find  Miss  Verinder 
up  and  about,  and,  as  she  said  at  once,  "  looking  better 
than  I've  seen  you  for  years." 

Miss  Verinder  said  that  she  was  indeed  quite  well 
again.    Her  slight  illness  had  entirely  passed  off. 

Then  Mrs.  Bell  noticed  the  breakfast  table,  so  nicely 
prepared,  here,  in  the  drawing-room,  with  silver  dishes 
and  cups  and  plates  for  at  least  two  people  —  yes,  with 
two  chairs,  one  on  each  side  of  it. 

Miss  Verinder  explained  that  she  had  a  friend  stay- 
ing with  her. 

"  Now  that's  very  wrong  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Bell  in 
good-natured  reproof.  "  You  have  struggled  up  to 
entertain  your  friend  when  you  ought  to  have  remained 
in  bed.  I  can  see  now  that  you  are  not  at  all  well, 
really.  You  are  feverish,  I  believe  —  yes,  feverish  and 
shaky.  Why  did  you  allow  her  to  come  at  such  a  time? 
Why  didn't  you  put  her  off?  You  should  not  have 
studied  her  convenience.  Who  is  she?  Do  I  know  her?  " 

Miss  Verinder  said  "  No." 

"  Take  care  of  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Bell,  going. 
Then  she  paused,  one  of  her  usual  kindly  ideas  having 
come  into  her  mind.  "  Listen,  dear.  If  your  friend  is 
on  your  nerves  —  you  didn't  mention  her  name  —  send 
her  round  to  me.  I'll  take  her  off  your  hands  for  the 
day." 

"  You  are  too  good,  dear  Mrs.  Bell.  But  really  I 
wouldn't  think  of  it." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  245 

Miss  Verinder  saw  her  safely  out  of  the  hall,  and 
bolted  the  door  behind  her  —  that  door  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs  -that  had  been  left  open  in  such  a  reckless, 
dangerous,  unheard-of  fashion  by  Lousia,  merely  be- 
cause it  was  early  in  the  morning  with  nobody  about. 

"  You  old  goose,"  said  Miss  Verinder  to  the  culprit, 
as  she  returned  to  the  drawing-room.  "  It's  all  right. 
Mrs.  Bell  has  gone.     But  that  was  a  narrow  squeak." 

"  All  right,"  said  Louisa,  loudly  repeating  the  words 
of  her  mistress.     "  She's  gone." 

And  next  moment  a  great  big  laughing  man  came 
into  the  drawing-room. 

"  Anthony,"  said  Miss  Verinder,  "  you're  a  very 
naughty  boy  to  be  so  late.  Your  breakfast  is  getting 
cold." 

"  Oh,  this  room,"  he  cried  ecstatically.  "  This  room ! 
Let  me  look  at  it." 

"  You  saw  it  last  night." 

"  But  by  lamp-light.  It's  by  daylight  that  I  always 
see  it  in  my  dreams.  I  want  to  feel  that  I  am  really  in 
it  —  awake  and  not  dreaming.  Let  me  touch  things." 
And  he  moved  about,  putting  his  hands  softly  on  pieces 
of  furniture,  cautiously  picking  up  delicate  fragile  bits 
of  china,  admiring  them,  and  putting  them  down  again. 

"  Tony,  your  breakfast." 

"Oh,  damn  the  breakfast.  Don't  you  understand 
what  these  moments  are  to  me?  "  And  he  told  her  for 
the  hundredth  time  how  he  carried  with  him  always  the 
whole  of  this  room  in  his  thoughts  —  a  picture  of  it  and 
its  minutest  details  so  indelible  that  thought  instan- 
taneously recreated  it.  He  was  verifying  the  picture 
now.  If  there  was  anything  changed,  anything  miss- 
ing, he  would  certainly  know.  "  And  now  let  me  look 


246  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

at  you.''  He  said  this  with  infinite  pride  and  love. 
"  My  girl  —  my  own  little  girl."  He  was  holding  her 
hands  apart,  as  he  always  did,  while  these  first 
transports  lasted,  so  that  her  arms  were  opened  and  she 
could  not  push  him  from  her.  "  Emmie  —  my  darling." 
Emmie,  under  this  attack,  was  vainly  struggling  to 
maintain  her  dignified  primness  of  manner ;  she  uttered 
bashful  remonstrances,  hanging  her  head,  laughing 
and  blushing,  but  was  in  rapturous  joy  all  the  while. 
"  Angel  of  my  life  " ;  and  suddenly  he  took  possession 
of  her,  hugged  her,  and  smothered  her  warm  face  with 
kisses. 

Louisa  brought  in  the  tardy  rolls  while  he  was  doing 
it,  and  as  if  blind  and  preoccupied  went  out  again. 

"  You're  too  silly  —  really  too  silly,"  said  Miss 
Verinder.  She  had  withdrawn  to  the  bevelled  looking- 
glass  in  the  front  of  the  Queen  Anne  bureau  and  was 
arranging  her  hair. 

They  sat  down  to  breakfast,  and  she  made  the  tea  for 
him  exactly  as  she  would  have  made  it  for  Mrs.  Bell 
or  the  vicar  of  the  parish,  had  either  been  visiting  her ; 
but  her  eyes  were  bright,  and  the  colour  still  glowed  in 
her  cheeks.  Dyke  watched  each  precise  little  movement 
with  a  sort  of  swooning  ecstasy.  First  she  warmed  the 
tea-pot,  then  she  began  to  load  her  tiny  shovel  from  the 
silver  tea-caddy,  and  as  she  transferred  each  shovelfull 
she  demurely  recited  the  habitual  incantation.  "  One 
for  me ;  one  for  you,  Tony  ^  one  for  the  pot  —  and  one 
for  luck.  Shall  we  have  one  more?  Yes,  I  think  one 
more  for  luck.     Now  the  kettle,  please." 

"Go  on,"  cried  Dyke,  with  a  roar  of  delighted 
laughter.  "  Say  it."  He  wanted  the  rhymed  couplet 
to  finish  the  unchanging  rite,  that  foolish  rhyme  that  he 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  247 

himself  had  taught  her.    "  Say  it,  Emmie." 

And  she  said  it,  quietly  and  gravely,  as  if  there  was 
nothing  ridiculous  about  it.  "  *  For  if  the  water  not 
boiling  be,  filling  the  tea-pot  spoils  the  tea.'  Push  back 
that  little  bolt  under  the  kettle.    Thank  you,  dear." 

They  spent  four  or  five  heavenly  days  together  in  the 
flat,  never  issuing  from  it  till  after  dark,  and  not  then 
without  a  preliminary  reconnaissance  by  Louisa  and  her 
report  that  the  coast  was  clear.  All  day  long  they  were 
perfectly  blissful,  making  up  to  each  other  in  endless 
talk  fci  the  vast  tracts  of  time  during  which  neither 
could  hear  the  other's  voice.  It  was  during  one  of  these 
secret  visits  that  Dyke  taught  the  parrot  to  say  "  Look 
sharp,  Louisa."  Emmie  could  never  have  done  it  with- 
out aid. 

Under  the  friendly  cloak  of  darkness  they  used  to 
take  long  walks  about  the  huge  town.  They  had  jolly 
little  treats  too.  Dyke  loved  the  "  moving  pictures  " 
from  their  very  first  introduction,  and  Emmie  was  de- 
voted to  this  form  of  entertainment  for  the  reason  that 
it  afforded  her  an  opportunity  of  holding  Dyke's  hand 
and  squeezing  it  while  the  lights  were  down.  They  also 
attended  representations  of  the  legitimate  drama,  going 
to  the  cheaper  seats  of  unfashionable  theatres  on  or 
beyond  the  four-mile  circle;  and  they  found  and 
cherished  the  strangest  sort  of  restaurants  or  cafes  far 
from  the  more  frequented  haunts  of  well-to-do  mankind, 
where  they  dined  and  supped  with  the  utmost  enjoy- 
ment. Some  of  these  eating-places  were  almost  too 
humble  and  doubtful,  scarcely  better  than  cabmen's 
shelters;  for  Dyke,  fresh  from  New  Guinea  or  an  un- 
inhabited island,  was  almost  incapable  of  differentia- 
tion.    To  him,  at  any  rate  for  a  while,  the  Ritz  Hotel 


248  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

and  a  refreshment  room  at  an  Underground  railway 
station  seemed  equally  magnificent  and  luxurious. 

Emmie's  favourite  restaurant  was  at  least  clean  and 
respectable,  a  little  place  kept  by  Italians  in  a  side 
street  near  Hammersmith  Broadway ;  and  thither  she 
guided  her  illustrious  traveller  when  he  wished  to  invite 
a  guest  to  join  them  at  dinner.  These  guests  were 
always  of  the  same  class,  rough  simple  fellows,  generally 
colonials,  with  whom  Dvke  had  sailed  the  seas  or 
plodded  the  earth  at  some  time  or  other  in  the  past. 
He  had  promised  to  have  an  evening  with  them  when 
the  chance  came  and  was  anxious  not  to  break  his  word. 
So,  Emmie  consenting,  he  sent  off  a  slap-dash  line  in- 
viting them  to  meet  him  at  Spinet ti's. 

One  night  dear  old  Captain  Cairns  of  the  Mercedaria 
dined  with  them  there. 

"  Well,  upon  my  life,  Tony,  it's  a  sight  for  sore  eyes 
to  see  you  again,"  said  Cairns.    "  And  you  too,  miss." 

He  was  just  as  he  had  been  when  she  first  saw  him  at 
that  Johnsonian  chop-house  in  the  City ;  wearing  a  pea- 
jacket  with  a  blue  shirt  collar,  and,  although  so  short, 
seeming  excessively  broad  and  powerful.  His  stubby 
beard  was  perhaps  a  little  greyer,  his  big  round  head 
balder,  and  the  network  of  wrinkles  on  his  sun-burnt 
cheeks  had  become  more  intricate.  His  weight  and 
solidity  inspired  confidence  in  her  just  as  they  had  done 
at  their  very  first  meeting ;  but  Emmie  had  a  premoni- 
tion that  he  would  certainly  break  the  fragile  cane 
chair  on  which  he  had  seated  liimself,  and  gracefully 
vacating  her  own  place,  she  manoeuvered  him  to  the 
more  substantial  foundations  of  the  velvet-covered 
bench  against  the  wall.  He  sat  there,  beside  Dyke,  and 
beamed  at  her  across  the  table. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  249 

"  Oh,  how  he  did  make  me  laugh  about  them  Papuans. 
Yes,  I  can  see  the  old  chap's  going  as  strong  as  ever. 
Meanin'  to  have  another  bang  at  the  South  Pole,  isn't 
he,  miss?  "  And  Captain  Cairns's  sense  of  humour 
induced  a  fit  of  chuckling.  "  Him  and  that  Pole !  I 
wrote  and  told  him  he's  like  the  baby  with  the  cake  of 
soap.    He  won't  be  happy  till  he  gets  it." 

They  had  a  jolly  evening. 

"  Ah  well."  Captain  Cairns  sighed  when  taking 
leave.  "  Here's  my  address,  Miss  Verinder,  if  you 
should  have  news  you'd  like  to  send  me  at  any  time  — 
for  he  doesn't  answer  my  letters.  Good-night,  and 
thank  you.  Those  were  happy  days  on  the  poor  old 
Mercedaria,*' 

"  What  is  she  doing  now?  "  asked  Emmie. 

"  She's  broke  up  " ;  and  Captain  Cairns  sighed  again. 
"  She  was  a  good  ship,  she  was  —  in  her  time.  But  her 
time  was  mostly  over,  when  you  honoured  us,  miss." 

Then  Dyke,  laughing,  said  he  had  a  little  tale  to  tell ; 
and  he  insisted  that  Cairns  should  sit  down  again  and 
have  another  whisky  and  soda. 

"  If  so,  it  must  be  a  small  one,"  said  Cairns.  "Really 
only  a  spot." 

They  sat  down  and  Dyke  gleefully  narrated  how, 
after  saying  good-bye  to  the  Mercedariay  they  got  into 
a  tight  place  —  and  Miss  Verinder  saved  his  life  by 
killing  a  man. 

In  vain  Emmie  protested ;  he  would  go  on. 

"  It's  too  bad  of  you,  Tony.  I  asked  you  never  to 
remind  me  of  all  that  —  never  to  speak  of  it  to  any- 
body." 

"  Only  to  Cairns.  Such  a  real  true  pal  as  old 
Cairns ! " 


250  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  Well,  I'm  blessed,"  said  Cairns,  when  he  had  heard 
the  story ;  and  he  looked  at  her  with  the  deepest  admira- 
tion. "  That  was  grit,  and  no  mistake.  Whips  out  a 
revolver,  and  — " 

"  Mr.  Cairns,"  said  Miss  Verinder,  pulling  on  her 
black  suede  gloves  and  speaking  rather  primly,  "  please 
forget  this  nonsense.  You  know  Tony's  way.  In  order 
to  make  out  that  I  did  something  remarkable,  he  is  led 
into  exaggerations.  Good-ni^ht.  It  has  been  so 
pleasant  to  see  you,  and  I  hope  we  shall  meet  again 
before  very  long." 

After  five  or  six  days  spent  in  this  manner  Dyke 
would  disappear  from  the  flat  and  give  himself  to  the 
public.  There  were  interviews  in  the  newspapers;  he 
delivered  his  lecture,  asked  for  financial  support,  visited 
his  publisher,  was  seen  at  his  club,  attended  one  or  two 
public  dinners.  Some  time  was  spent  with  his  father  at 
that  old  house  called  Endells.  Then  perhaps  he  was 
secreted  at  the  flat  again.  Then  once  more  he  was  gone 
from  England ;  and  Miss  Verinder,  shopping  with  Mrs. 
Bell  at  Knightsbridge,  or  taking  a  walk  by  herself  in 
Kensington  Gardens,  felt  that  she  herself,  all  that  was 
real  and  solid  in  her,  had  gone  too. 

It  was  she  who  had  decided  on  the  necessity  of  this 
long-sustained  concealment  of  their  love,  and  not  he. 
Truly  she  was  not  a  woman  to  shirk  consequences  —  she 
had  proved  that  handsomely ;  but  not  for  nothing  had 
she  been  born  at  Prince's  Gate  and  reared  in  the 
Verinder  tradition.  She  knew  her  England,  which 
never  really  changes,  however  much  people  talk  of 
change.  She  knew  that  to  this  day,  just  as  in  the  time 
of  Parnell,  no  public  man  is  allowed  to  have  an  un- 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  251 

authorized  intimacy  with  a  person  of  different  sex  —  in 
other  words,  if  he  cannot  show  his  wife,  he  must  not 
show  anybody  else.  And  more  especially  would  this  be 
so  in  the  case  of  a  man  appealing  to  the  public  for 
money  to  carry  on  his  public  work.  Had  the  fact  been 
discovered,  it  would  have  meant  an  extinguishing  cap 
(of  the  requisite  size  —  very  big)  over  the  head  of 
Anthony  Dyke. 

It  had  been  necessary  to  hide  him,  and  she  had 
hidden  him.  With  regard  to  this  achievement  one  may 
perhaps  for  a  moment  consider  how  excessively  difficult 
it  is  for  a  woman  to  hide  a  man  in  a  life  that  to  all 
appearances  is  being  conducted  on  a  conventional 
pattern,  a  life  that  seems  open  to  observation  by  every 
curious  person ;  and  one  may  further  remark  that  of  all 
men  Anthony  Dyke  was  obviously  the  most  difficult  to 
hide,  because  of  his  large  proportions,  his  loud  voice^ 
his  terrific  explosiveness  —  not  to  mention  the  fact  that 
he  was,  if  not  yet  as  famous  as  he  desired,  at  any  rate 
sufficiently  so  to  be  a  well-known,  closely-marked  public 
character ;  some  one  worth  following  by  newspaper  re- 
porters, always  remunerative  for  a  chatty  interview, 
and  of  market  value  as  a  snap-shot,  take  him  how  or 
where  you  would. 

Nevertheless  she  had  done  it.  If  the  truth  must  be 
owned,  since  there  was  but  a  single  aim  to  her  existence, 
she  had  welcomed  as  likely  to  aid  her,  the  very  hard- 
ships under  which  she  was  supposed  to  be  suffering 
acutely;  such  as,  the  loss  of  reputation,  ostracism  by 
near  relatives,  coldness  at  the  hands  of  friends. 

Louisa,  the  tried  and  faithful  servant,  had  also  been 
a  heaven-sent  gift.  But  perhaps  the  real  key  to  the 
triumphant  deception  had  been  her  own  unflinching 


252  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

audacity  —  the  bold  idea  carried  out  with  a  boldness 
that  never  faltered.  For  at  the  beginning,  when  people 
were  naturally  most  suspicous  and  keeping  a  sharp 
watch  for  the  man  Dyke,  not  the  most  suspicious  of 
them  all  could  suspect  that  the  place  to  look  for  him 
was  SQ  outrageously  near  home  as  Oratory  Gardens. 

She  was  successful,  then,  and  as  time  went  on  the 
thing  grew  easier.  At  those  queer  haunts  of  theirs 
they  scarcely  ever  met  anybody  who  knew  him,  and 
never  anybody  who  knew  her.  They  had  no  accidents ; 
that  narrow  shave  with  her  solicitous  kind-hearted  Mrs. 
Bell  was  the  closest  approach  to  catastrophe.  But  on 
the  last  evening  of  this  same  visit  of  Dyke  to  his  native 
land  they  had  a  really  unfortunate  encounter. 

They  were  coming  along  the  Brompton  Road,  past 
the  top  of  Thurloe  Square,  when  a  small  elderly  woman 
caught  sight  of  Dyke  in  the  full  light  beneath  a  lamp- 
post, and  accosted  him.  He  told  Miss  Verinder  to  go 
on,  and  stopped  to  talk  to  the  woman.  Miss  Verinder, 
obeying  him,  went  by  herself  slowly  to  the  corner  of 
Oratory  Gardens  and  round  it.  Then,  turning,  she 
strolled  back  again  to  meet  him.  He  was  hurrying 
towards  her,  waving  liis  arm  as  if  as  some  kind  of 
signal,  and  the  woman  was  following  him  and  calling 
after  him  angrily. 

"  Straight  on,  Emmie,"  he  whispered,  taking  Miss 
Verinder's  arm,  "  and  step  out." 

He  led  her  rapidly  past  the  two  corners  that  would 
have  taken  them  home,  round  into  Ovington  Square, 
Pont  Street,  Sloane  Street,  and  thence  by  devious 
twists  back  to  Oratory  Gardens ;  explaining  while  they 
took  their  sharp  bit  of  exercise  that  he  wished  "  to 
shake  off  that  old  devil,"  who  was  by  no  means  to  learn 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  253 

where  Miss  Verinder  resided.  When  they  were  safe  in 
the  flat  he  further  explained  that  the  old  devil  was  an 
aunt  of  his  wife,  a  dangerous  objectionable  person  with 
whom  Emmie  must  never  come  into  contact.  He  was 
sorry  that  Emmie  had  made  that  rather  significant  turn 
towards  the  flat,  but  he  hoped  that  it  had  not  been 
noticed. 

But  next  day,  after  Dyke  had  gone,  the  woman  called 
at  the  flat,  and,  as  reported  by  Louisa,  asked  who  lived 
there.  Louisa  refused  to  sa}^,  and  shut  the  street  door 
in  the  woman's  face.  Then,  after  a  little  while,  opening 
it,  she  saw  the  woman  come  out  of  the  auctioneer's 
office.  Either  from  the  auctioneer  or  somebody  else 
the  woman  obtained  the  information  she  desired.  She 
was  in  fact  that  connection  by  marriage  whom  the  elder 
Mr.  Dyke  had  described  as  a  pertinacious  writer  of 
abusive  or  blackmailing  letters  to  him  and  his  son. 
Soon  now  she  wrote  a  letter  to  Miss  Verinder. 

The  last  post  brought  it  one  night  when  Emmie  was 
sitting  by  the  fire  and  thinking  of  the  man  who  had 
gone.  Louisa,  looking  stately  in  her  black  silk  dress 
and  apron,  laid  it  on  the  small  table  beside  her  mistress ; 
and  there  for  a  little  while  it  remained  unopened. 

The  evening  had  begun  with  desperate  sadness  as 
Emmie  lived  again  in  memory  those  perfect  days,  and 
thought  that  once  more  the  joy  had  fled  and  life  for 
another  merciless  stretch  of  time  could  be  summed  up 
by  the  two  words,  waiting  and  hoping.  She  must  get 
through  it  somehow,  as  she  had  hitherto  got  through 
these  dreadful  empty  intervals,  and  fortunately  he  had 
left  her  work  to  do.  Work  was  always  a  comfort. 
Then  she  thought  of  his  recent  disappointment  —  the 
first  failure  of  the  scientific  expedition  —  and  of  his 


254  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

anxiety  that  the  second  attempt  should  be  a  complete 
success.  She  felt,  although  he  had  not  said  so,  that 
he  was  dissatisfied  with  the  reception  given  to  him  in 
England.  Some  of  the  newspapers  had  anno>'ed  him  by 
taking  the  wrong  side  of  the  quarrel  with  that  French 
explorer  Saint-Bertin,  had  condemned  him  for  hastiness 
and  overbearingness.  She  remembered  with  burning 
indignation  something  really  rude  that  had  been  said 
about  him  by  one  newspaper.  None  of  them,  as  it  now 
seemed  to  her,  had  been  as  eulogistic  as  they  used  to  be ; 
they  did  not  recapitulate  sufficiently  the  magnificent 
achievements  of  the  past ;  they  dwelt  too  much  on  a 
temporary  set-back. 

As  much  as  he  himself,  she  was  eager  that  he  should 
ultimately  attain  undying  fame.  She  knew  too  that  he 
would  never  settle  down  and  be  quiet  until  he  had 
reached  the  goal.  And,  alas,  he  was  growing  older ;  the 
years,  however  lightly  they  dealt  with  him,  left  some 
marks.  The  time  available  was  not  infinite.  He  him- 
self asked  for  luck;  and  the  luck  was  always  against 
liim. 

Sitting  by  the  fire,  and  feeling  the  natural  depression 
of  spirits  caused  b}^  the  sense  of  loneliness  after  com- 
panionship, she  was  attacked  again  by  a  horrible  doubt 
with  which  more  than  once  she  had  been  compelled  to 
fight.  Was  bad  luck  the  only  explanation?  It  was 
most  horrible  to  her  when,  as  now  for  a  few  moments, 
she  seemed  to  hear  mocking  questions  which  she  dis- 
dained to  answer,  but  which  she  could  not  silence. 
Why  always  the  bad  luck?  That  little  trip  of  his  to  the 
Andes  was  typical;  representing  on  a  small  scale  the 
big  adventures  of  his  life.  Again  and  again,  if  not 
always,  the  tale  had  been  the  same.     He  fitted  himself 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  255 

out  for  an  expedition,  plunged  into  the  wilderness,  and 
was  heard  of  no  more,  until  he  emerged  starving,  with 
nothing  but  the  shirt  on  his  back.  Should  not  this 
make  one  doubt  his  powers,  and  admit  that,  splendid  as 
he  is,  there  may  be  some  flaw  in  his  mental  equipment 
—  some  clumsiness  of  thought  that,  in  spite  of  his 
brilliant  qualities,  makes  him  less  than  the  truly  great ; 
so  that  he  will  never  really  achieve  what  he  desires? 
As  on  previous  occasions,  she  fought  with  all  her 
strength  against  this  disloyal  and  treacherous  doubt, 
and  drove  it  away  to-night  perhaps  for  ever. 

It  is  love  that  kills  doubt  of  every  kind.  She  thought 
of  the  love,  and  of  that  only.  These  seemingly  inter- 
minable absences  must  be  supported  with  joy  and  pride 
as  a  part  of  the  love  itself;  far  from  spoiling  it,  they 
made  it  what  it  was,  unique  and  glorious ;  they  lifted  it 
high  above  the  common  bond  of  any  ordinary  marriage. 
She  need  not  envy  any  woman  who  ever  lived  or  think 
any  more  fortunate  than  she. 

There  was  a  smile  on  her  lips  now;  she  folded  her 
hands  and  half  closed  her  eyes,  as  she  thought  with  an 
immense  pride  that  no  woman  ever  made  a  man  more 
completely  hers  or  gave  herself  to  a  man  so  utterly. 
He  was  her  lover,  whom  she  loved  with  a  flaming  pas- 
sionate strength ;  he  was  her  faithful  mate,  her  partner, 
so  that,  as  much  as  in  any  business  partnership,  any 
"ftrm,  all  that  struck  at  him  struck  her  also ;  he  was  her 
child  too,  over  whom  she  yearned  with  more  than  a 
mother's  tenderness  —  her  wayward  noble  boy,  who 
sometimes  acted  with  rashness  from  sheer  nobility  of 
spirit ;  who  must  be  thought  for,  cherished  as  well  as 
encouraged;  wLo  must  be  subtly  guarded  and  secretly 
aided  by  the  poor  weak  half  of  him  that  watched, 


256  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

waited,  hoped  at  this  fireside  while  his  other  splendid 
half  battled  magnificently  in  the  frozen  darkness  twelve 
thousand  miles  away.  Still  preserving  that  character- 
istic attitude,  with  meekly  folded  hands,  she  thought 
thus  rhapsodically  of  her  love,  and  the  glory  of  it  — 
yes,  the  wonder  and  the  glory  of  it. 

Then  she  opened  the  letter,  which  tried  to  put  every- 
thing in  a  different  light.  Cruelly  abusive,  it  produced 
the  effect  upon  her  of  something  vile  and  incongruous 
and  stupid,  seen  suddenly  in  a  beautiful  or  sacred  place 
—  as,  shall  one  say?  mud-stained  feet  upon  a  marble 
floor  or  a  bundle  of  filthy  rags  dropped  by  a  passer-by 
on  the  steps  of  a  cathedral  altar.  The  writer  signed 
herself  "  Mrs.  Janet  Kent  " ;  she  headed  the  letter  with 
the  name  of  a  midland  town ;  and  she  began  by  saying 
that  she  had  just  paid  a  visit  to  "  the  Assylam  "  and 
seen  her  niece,  Mrs.  Dyke. 

..."  the  lawful  wife  of  the  man  who  keaps  you. 
And  I  say  it  is  a  shame  for  a  wicked  kept  woman  to 
keap  my  niece  in  prison  as  she  is.  Miss  Verinder,  she 
is  no  more  mad  than  I  am,  and  would  not  be  if  proparly 
treated  with  a  house  of  her  own,  and  those  who  love 
her  to  take  the  care  as  I  have  told  him  I  am  ready  to 
do.  But  no  he  says.  Notwithstanding  I  say  for  a 
miss  like  you  he  can  spend  all  the  money  required  to 
make  his  own  wife  comfatable  with  me.  You  ought  to 
be  exposed  for  what  you  are." 

And  lapsing  from  the  abusive  to  the  blackmailing 
habit,  the  writer  threw  out  a  not  ambiguous  hint  that  it 
would  be  wise  to  avoid  exposure  by  prompt  generosity. 

"  Miss  Verindej',  waiting  your  answer,  I  am,  Yours 
truely,  Mrs.  Janet  Kent." 

This  letter  remaining  unanswered,  Emmie  soon  re- 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  257 

ceived  another  of  the  same  sort ;  and  after  that  more 
letters  until  at  last  one  came  with  very  direct  threats  in 
it.  Writing  to  Dyke,  Miss  Verinder  refrained  from 
speaking  of  the  annoyance  to  which  she  was  subjected. 
Why  worry  him?  It  would  be  time  enough  to  tell  him 
when  she  had  him  safe  home  again.  But  she  went  now 
for  advice  to  a  solicitor  —  not  to  Messrs.  Williams,  the 
family  solicitors,  but  to  some  one  whose  name  she  had 
chanced  to  read  of  in  a  newspaper  as  connected  with 
criminal  proceedings. 

This  gentleman  appeared  to  be  as  clever  as  he  was 
sympathetic;  surprisingly  few  words  enabled  him  to 
grasp  the  whole  matter,  but  he  told  Emmie  that  hers 
was  one  of  those  cases  in  which  the  law  unfortunately 
could  be  of  little  assistance  to  the  injured  party.  He 
pointed  out  that  the  only  way  of  bringing  the  horrid 
old  woman  to  book  would  be  by  police  court  proceed- 
ings, and  it  did  not  seem  to  him  they  could  very  well 
face  the  publicity  that  such  action  would  entail.  In- 
deed there  could  be  little  doubt  that  the  old  woman 
understood  this  quite  well.  It  was  probably  her  perfect 
understanding  of  it  that  made  her  so  bold  and  impudent. 
He  thought  that  perhaps  the  best  chance  would  be  for 
him  to  write  her  a  "  frightening  "  letter. 

He  wrote  his  letter,  but  Mrs.  Janet  Kent  was  not 
frightened ;  and  his  final  regretful  advice  was  that  in 
his  opinion  it  would  be  worth  while  giving  her  a  little 
money  "  to  shut  her  mouth."  He  said  he  would  do  it 
for  his  client,  adding  that  of  course  if  the  abominable 
old  wretch  were  paid  once  she  would  probably  have  to 
be  paid  again.  The  pride  of  Miss  Verinder  revolted 
from  the  advice;  but  she  saw  no  escape  from  follow- 
ing it. 


258  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

In  this  manner  the  last  living  relative  of  Dyke's  wife 
became  a  humble  pensioner  on  the  bounty  of  the  lady 
whom  he  was  precluded  from  marrying. 

He  knew  nothing  about  it,  and  perhaps  would  never 
know.  He  was  busy.  The  good  ship  Commonwealth 
with  all  the  scientific  gentlemen  on  board  was  skirting 
the  northernmost  fringe  of  the  pack-ice.  The  last 
letter  that  Emmie  received  from  him  for  many  many 
months  contained  a  photograph  taken  on  deck  just 
before  they  left  New  Zealand  —  Anthony,  looking 
enoi-mous,  in  the  middle,  Mr.  Wedgwood,  the  physicist, 
on  his  right ;  Mr.  Cleeve,  the  biologist,  and  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton, the  geologist,  on  his  left ;  Lieutenant  Barry  and 
the  rest  of  the  officers  with  their  names  written 
underneath  them,  and  the  crew  unnamed.  She  put 
it  away  carefully  with  her  collection  of  similar 
pictures. 

And  she  went  on  with  her  work.    He  had  left  her  all 
the  materials  for  the  short  volume  that  was  to  appear 
later  on  under  the  title  of  The  Third  Cruise.    All  those 
studies  of  hers,  the  classes  in  logic  and  rhetoric  and 
composition,  at  which  Mrs.  Bell  and  others  smiled  in- 
dulgently or  contemptuously,  had  been  undertaken  in 
order  to  render  herself  capable  of  helping  him  with  his 
books.     Dyke,  as  often  happens  with  authors  of  his 
character,  had  no  notion  of  style  or  of  construction. 
When  he  first  honoured  her  with  the  task  of  knocking 
his  stuff  into  shape  for  publication  and  she  found  her- 
self confronted  with  the  mass  of  manuscript,  the  muddle 
and  tangle  of  it  threw  her  into  such  despair  that  she, 
the  assistant,  called  for  assistance,  and  the  publisher 
sent  her   a   real  literary   person   to   put   the   opening 
chapters  into  literary  form.     It  was  the  book  called 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  259 

Sand  and  Sunshine y  and  the  expert  strongly  objected 
to  Dyke's  initial  sentences,  condemning  them  as  naive 
and  childish.  "  Sand  and  sunshine,"  Dyke  had  begun, 
**  are  very  nice  things  in  their  way,  but  you  can't  eat 
them."  She  herself  did  not  much  care  for  this  turn  of 
phrase,  and  she  connived  at  very  large  modifications. 
But  when  the  proofs  of  those  early  chapters  were  sent 
out  to  Dyke,  then  eleven  thousand  miles  away,  he 
almost  went  mad  with  indignation;  so  that  the  explo- 
sion of  his  wrath,  even  at  that  great  distance,  made  the 
flat  in  Oratory  Gardens  tremble  and  shake.  He  said 
he  would  break  the  bones  of  the  literary  man.  He 
cursed  his  impertinence,  for  tampering  with  "  a  docu- 
ment." She  finished  the  book  herself;  and  then,  and 
afterwards.  Dyke  allowed  her  to  take  any  liberties  she 
pleased.  He  would  accept  anything  from  that  hand  — 
in  fact  he  never  appeared  to  observe  that  she  had 
changed  things ;  and  she  always,  with  great  tact,  mini- 
mised what  she  had  done.  "  A  word  here  and  there, 
Anthony,  and  of  course  the  punctuation ;  but  my  effort 
is  simply  to  make  your  meaning  clear  —  never  to  alter 
it  in  the  slightest  degree." 

Each  year  becoming  more  skilled,  she  altered  just  as 
she  chose,  anything  or  everything  —  except  the  titles  of 
the  books.  Those  she  dared  not  touch.  They  were 
idiosyncratic.  A  certain  arrogance  or  assumption  in 
the  sound  of  them  had  meaning  for  her,  although  the 
rest  of  the  world  might  not  understand.  They  linked 
themselves  in  her  mind  with  that  other  mannerism,  the 
habit  of  speaking  of  himself  in  the  third  person  — 
"  Dyke  will  be  heard  of  again ;  Anthony  Dyke  is  not 
conscious  of  failure,"  and  so  on ;  speaking  as  he  wished 
the  universe  to  speak  of  him.    Thus  the  bare  simplicity 


260  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

of  these  titles  —  The  First  Cruise,  The  Second  Cruise, 
The  Third  Cruise  —  meant  that  they  were  chosen  for 
posterity  rather  than  for  the  passing  hour.  In  future 
generations  when  people  saw  these  words,  The  First 
Cruise,  they  would  be  in  no  doubt  as  to  whose  cruise  it 
was.  They  would  all  know  that  the  cruises  made  by 
Dyke  were  the  only  ones  that  had  really  counted  in  the 
century-long  siege  of  the  South  Pole. 

So  skilled  was  she  now  that  she  saw  The  Third  Cruise 
through  the  press  without  submitting  the  proofs  to 
anybody,  but  not  without  those  fears  and  agonies  from 
which  all  very  conscientious  people  suffer  when  they 
feel  that  they  are  engaged  upon  a  task  of  supreme 
importance.  She  had  nightmare  dreams  about  the 
maps  and  the  illustrations,  dreaming  once  that  three 
photographs  of  herself  and  Dyke,  taken  years  ago  at 
Buenos  Ayres,  had  crept  into  the  binding;  and  she 
woke  early  in  the  morning  after  she  passed  the  last 
revise  with  a  cold  certainty  that  she  herself  had  made 
some  such  abominable  slip  as  saying  seven  hundred 
degrees  South  Latitude  instead  of  seventy  degrees. 
But  everything  was  correct.  She  had  done  her  work 
well,  and  the  book  was  so  favourably  received  that  she 
soon  had  a  fine  batch  of  press-cuttings  laid  by  for 
Dyke's  gratification  on  his  return. 

That  fourth  cruise  was  a  long  business.  Throughout 
one  year  she  thought  he  was  coming  home,  and  waited 
full  of  hope.  In  that  year  she  did  not  see  him ;  he  never 
came.  Then  during  the  next  year  she  saw  him  once  — 
for  half  an  hour. 

In  a  letter  despatched  from  New  Zealand  he  told  her 
what  she  had  already  learnt  by  reading  the  telegraphic 
news.    The  fourth  cruise  had  not  beea  very  successful. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  261 

Those  scientific  gentleman  had  squabbled  among  them- 
selves and  Dyke  had  squabbled  with  all  of  them;  at  a 
certain  point  he  wanted  to  let  science  go  hang  and  push 
boldly  south,  while  each  of  the  others  wanted  special 
facilities  for  his  own  line  of  research  —  ocean-sounding, 
magnetic  observation,  dredging,  scraping,  altitude- 
measuring,  or  whatever  it  might  be.  Dyke,  making  his 
southern  dash,  soon  got  the  ship  tight-locked;  provi- 
sions ran  scarce,  scurvy  appeared,  one  of  the  scientists 
died ;  then  when  the  ice  set  them  free  and  he  reluctantly 
turned  northward,  they  encountered  terrible  weather. 
Moss  scraped  off  rocks,  stuff  dredged  up  from  the 
bottom  of  the  sea,  and  other  treasures,  were  lost;  the 
dead  man's  diary  was  destroyed  by  salt  water;  the 
homeward  voyage  of  the  battered  ship  became  a  chapter 
of  accidents. 

Dyke  wrote  with  the  best  attempt  at  cheerfulness 
that  can  be  made  by  a  sick  man  who  is  heavily  bruised 
in  spirit.  He  was  ill  —  he  had  to  confess  it  —  and  as 
soon  as  the  ship  reached  Brisbane  they  would  put  him 
into  a  hospital.  He  said  he  knew  he  would  get  well 
again  directly,  but,  oh,  how  he  wished  that  he  had  his 
little  Emmie  there  to  console  him. 

Of  course  he  had  not  meant  that  she  was  to  go  to 
him ;  but  she  sent  off  a  cable  message  and  started  next 
day.  At  Marseilles  she  overtook  and  caught  a  steamer 
of  the  Orient  Line.  Many  people  on  the  vessel  noticed 
her  and  several  talked  with  her  —  that  old  maid  who 
used  to  sit  out  on  deck  knitting,  always  knitting,  look- 
ing up  with  a  pensive  smile  sometimes  while  her  fingers 
continued  to  move  the  needles  busily. 

At  Brisbane  she  found  him  strong  and  well,  entirely 
recovered,  but  in  the  very  act  of  departing  for  New 


262  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Guinea,  whither  he  was  being  sent  again  on  government 
work.  Delay  was  impossible.  They  had  thirty  minutes 
together  in  an  hotel  drawing-room. 

Half-an-hour.  It  was  enough  —  if  there  could  be  no 
more.  It  was  worth  all  the  trouble.  She  came  back  to 
England  at  once,  by  a  steamer  of  the  P.  &  O.  Line  — 
sitting  on  deck,  knitting,  the  old  maid  to  whom  people 
spoke  because  of  her  loneliness  and  her  gentle  smile. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THE  two  books  New  Guinea  Revisited  and  A 
Further  Investigation  give  the  three  years 
narrative  of  Dyke's  exploratory  work  in  the 
mountains,  with  his  study  of  the  various  native  races, 
and  his  adventures  among  the  lesser  islands.  These 
matters,  as  his  father  said,  belong  to  history ;  and  there 
is  also  historical  record  of  his  having  been  at  home,  or 
very  near  home,  in  the  year  1908.  It  was  in  this  year 
that  the  lingering  quarrel  between  him  and  Saint- 
Bertin,  the  French  explorer,  found  its  culmination  in  a 
duel  "  a  outrancey^  which  took  place  somewhere  on  the 
outskirts  of  Paris.  Saint-Bertin  was  the  challenger 
and  in  regard  to  the  combat  itself  there  were  many 
stories  afloat  in  both  countries;  the  accepted  Englis^h 
version  being  that  four  shots  were  exchanged  and  that 
Dyke  fired  his  two  straight  into  the  air,  although  he 
had  received  a  scrape  on  the  thigh  from  the  enemy's 
first  round.  The  Frenchmen  were  undecided  whether 
to  take  this  as  a  further  insult  or  a  heau  geste,  until, 
as  it  was  alleged.  Dyke  said  the  whole  thing  was  damned 
nonsense  and  he  would  continue  to  shoot  at  the  sky  all 
the  afternoon,  since,  however  much  he  disliked  Monsieur 
de  Saint-Bertin  personally,  he  refused  to  risk  injuring 
France  by  incapacitating  one  of  her  bravest  sons.  If 
indeed  he  said  anything  of  the  sort,  one  may  suppose 
that  he  did  so  in  his  grandest  manner,  with  a  Spanish 
bow  or  two  and  with  all  sincerity  of  spirit.    For,  what- 

263 


264  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

ever  accusations  might  be  justly  levelled  against 
Anthony  Dyke  for  arrogance  or  overbearingness,  no 
one  could  charge  him  with  a  lack  of  magnanimity.  At 
any  rate  his  late  foe  was  satisfied  by  his  demeanour  —  a 
satisfaction  proved  by  Saint-Bertin's  dedicating  his 
next  book  to  Dyke. 

Emmie  was  satisfied  too,  when  the  packet  arrived  at 
the  flat,  forwarded  by  Dyke's  publishers,  and  she  read 
the  dedication :  "  I  offer  myself  the  signal  honour  "  — 
all  in  the  most  beautiful  French  —  "  of  inscribing  on 
this  page  the  name  of  a  good  comrade,  a  courteous 
gentleman,  a  knight  who  has  wandered  from  the  age 
of  chivalry  to  teach  in  this  epoch  of  low  ambitions  and 
sordid  concurrences  the  lesson  that  men  may  be  rivals, 
and  yet  friends,  of  different  fatherland  but  one  brother- 
hood, united  to  death  and  be3'^ond  it  by  mutual  admira- 
tion, esteem,  respect,  homage  " ;  and  so  on  and  so  forth. 
Miss  Verinder,  thrilling  to  the  lavish  praise  of  her 
knight  errant,  liked  the  beginning  of  the  inscription 
better  than  the  end.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  French- 
man, winding  up,  put  himself  too  much  on  a  level 
with  D^'ke. 

She  was  doing  more  and  more  for  him.  All  his  cor- 
respondence was  sent  to  her  by  the  bank  or  the  pub- 
lishers and  she  dealt  with  it  as  best  she  could.  Among 
these  business  people  she  was  known  as  his  authorised 
representative,  his  "  attorney."  She  had  long  ago 
bought  a  tin  deed  box  for  the  safe  keeping  of  his 
papers,  and  in  course  of  time  she  bought  another  of  the 
same  shape  and  size.  These  boxes  stood  in  her  bed- 
room, disguised  by  brocade  covers  that  she  had  made 
and  embroidered  with  her  own  patient  hands;  and  she 
was  never  happier  than  when  they  were  pulled  forward 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  265 

from  the  wall,  uncovered,  showing  the  white  letters  of 
the  name  on  the  shining  black  enamel  — "  Anthony 
Dyke,  Esq.,  C.M.G.,  etc.,  etc."  On  her  knees  before 
them,  tidying  their  always  tidy  contents,  docketing  and 
stringing  the  various  packets,  she  had  wonderful  sen- 
sations of  power  and  importance  —  as  if  she  had  been 
rearranging  Dyke's  life  itself  instead  of  its  scribbled 
records,  setting  it  in  order  for  him,  making  it  easier 
and  more  comfortable. 

Amongst  the  neatly  folded  packets  there  was  one  with 
the  label,  "  Mrs.  Anthony  Dyke  " ;  and  to  this  Emmie 
added  every  six  months  a  receipted  account  from  the 
asylum  in  the  midlands  —  Upperslade  Park,  as  they 
called  it.  The  sight  of  that  address  on  the  stamped 
piece  of  paper  always  gave  her  a  little  shock  of  pain 
or  discomfort ;  she  hated  that  particular  bundle  in  the 
box,  and  used  to  shrink  involuntarily  from  the  task 
of  opening  it  and  retying  it.  Her  hands  grew  slow  as 
she  touched  it,  and  she  lapsed  into  a  waking  dream 
while  she  thought  of  the  great  irrevocable  fact,  and  of 
what  his  life,  their  life,  might  have  been  if  the  fact 
had  not  been  there. 

Since  his  banking  account  came  entirely  into  her 
charge  and  duty  compelled  her  to  examine  the  pass- 
book with  close  attention,  she  had  made  the  discovery 
that  another  person  beyond  herself  was  taking  liberties. 
As  well  as  subscribing  rather  large  sums  anonymously 
to  the  funds  of  those  various  expeditions  and  thereby 
to  a  certain  extent  "  dipping  her  capital,"  as  her  old 
friend  and  adviser,  the  late  Mr.  Williams,  would  have 
described  it,  she  had  also  paid  smaller  sums  directly  to 
Anthony's  account  at  the  bank.  She  began  this  prac- 
tise in  fear  and  trembling.    But  Anthony  never  detected 


266  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

that  he  was  being  thus  mysterously  aided.  He  never 
counted  his  money,  knowing  always  that  he  had  not 
enough,  and  devoting  always  every  penny  he  possessed 
to  the  needs  of  a  work  insufficiently  supported  by  the 
State  and  the  people.  Now  she  discovered  that  old  Mr. 
Dyke  also  fed  balances  or  reduced  overdrafts  from  time 
to  time  by  unacknowledged  contributions. 

Her  own  father  was  now  dead,  but  in  old  Dyke  she 
had  found  another  father  —  a  father  who  understood 
her.  There  was  nothing  that  she  need  keep  back  from 
him,  nothing  that  she  might  not  discuss  with  him.  She 
knew  the  house  called  Endells  better  than  she  had 
known  her  home  in  Prince's  Gate,  and  felt  more  truly  at 
home  there.  Everything  about  it  was  old,  settled,  full 
of  time-honoured  repose ;  when  she  and  Louisa  arrived 
upon  a  visit,  the  old  servants,  the  old  walls,  the  dear 
quaint  old  furniture  itself  welcomed  them.  Neighbours 
thought  she  was  a  relative  of  the  house;  the  people  of 
the  village  smiled  at  her,  and  remembered  her  as  some- 
how belonging  to  Endells  although  not  regularly  living 
there.  She  might  have  lived  there,  had  she  wished,  in 
all  the  time  of  Anthony's  absences,  but  she  continued 
to  be  merely  a  frequent  visitor.  And  not  once  did  she 
go  there  with  the  son  and  future  owner  of  the  house. 
A  delicacy  that  all  three  felt  but  never  spoke  of  de- 
barred her  from  that  joy.  The  precious  days  that 
Anthony  gave  to  Endells  were  lost  to  her  entirely. 

At  the  side  of  the  house  there  was  a  bit  of  walled 
garden  where  she  used  to  sit  with  Mr.  Dyke.  The 
ground  sloped  down  slightly,  so  that  the  tops  of  the 
side  walls  were  not  horizontal  but  slanting,  and  you 
looked  upward  to  the  house  with  its  modest  terrace, 
broad  eaves,  and  latticed  windows ;  sheltered  from  the 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  267 

wind,  the  little  place  was  such  a  sun-trap  that  you  could 
sit  there  even  on  winter  days.  But  it  was  prettiest 
and  most  delightful  in  early  summer.  If  Emmie,  walk- 
ing along  the  ugly  Brompton  Road,  cared  to  shut  her 
eyes  and  think  of  it,  she  could  always  see  it  —  those 
flint  walls  with  the  odd  pent-house  roof  to  protect  the 
blossoming  peach  trees,  the  borders  of  bright  flowers, 
the  trim  grass  path  and  stone  steps;  dark  green  ilex 
trees  against  a  blue  sky,  and  a  glimpse  of  one  of  the 
old  servants  moving  to  and  fro  behind  the  open  case- 
ments. Over  her  head  the  sweet  sea  breeze  was  blowing, 
bees  were  humming  in  the  fragrant  lavender,  and  per- 
haps the  bells  of  the  church  began  to  sound  behind  the 
pointed  gables  and  huge  chimney  stacks  at  the  end 
of  the  house.  Seeing  and  feeling  it  thus  imaginatively, 
she  had  a  consciousness  always  of  comfort  and  rest; 
the  kindly  friendly  little  spot  of  earth  had  sunshine 
in  it  that  filled  and  warmed  her  heart.  Its  walls  were 
buttresses  against  which  she  could  lean  when  she  felt 
her  weakness  and  longed  for  supporting  strength. 

Here,  during  her  last  visit,  she  had  unburdened  her 
mind  of  the  distress  caused  by  the  treatment  of  Dyke  in 
newspapers  and  reviews.  As  his  publicity  agent  as  well 
as  liis  man  of  business,  she  was  pained  by  a  change  of 
tone  that  she  found  it  difficult  to  define ;  it  was  not  that 
press  writers  —  at  any  rate  those  of  the  better  sort  — 
were  ever  disrespectful,  but  they  were  too  often  ob- 
livious. Mr.  Dyke,  sitting  beside  her  on  the  garden 
bench,  patted  her  hand  and  told  her  not  to  fret. 

The  fact  was  there  had  come  to  Anthony  Dyke  what 
comes  to  all  who  have  built  a  reputation  by  startling 
the  public,  as  soon  as  they  cease  to  startle.  Moreover, 
people  were  busy  saying  about  others  all  that  for  so 


268  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

long  they  had  said  about  him.  The  many  new  names 
demanded  loud-voiced  recognition  —  Nansen,  Jackson, 
Scott,  Shackleton,  and  others. 

Reeling  off  the  new  names,  writers  merely  touched  on 
the  old  names  in  parentheses  —  "  nor  must  we  forget 
the  pioneer  work  done  by  Anthony  Dyke  "  —  or  "  such 
men  as  Bruce,  de  Gerlache,  and  Dyke."  They  spoke  of 
him  as  "  the  veteran  explorer  " ;  "  still  active,  unless 
we  are  mistaken,"  and  so  on.  One  hateful  rag,  using 
the  newly  introduced  phrase,  even  spoke  of  him  as  "  a 
back  number."  And  several  times  the  list-makers  for- 
got him  altogether;  his  name  was  omitted  from  their 
roll  of  honour.  Then  Emmie,  with  her  facile  pen,  was 
compelled  herself  to  write  "  A  Correction,"  indignantly 
asking  for  space  to  point  out  that  Mr.  Anthony  Dyke 
by  piercing  the  vale  of  m3'stery  in  the  year  1888  had 
opened  the  southern  path  which  all  others  had  since 
then  followed;  or  that  it  appeared  strangely  ungrate- 
ful when  speaking  of  Antarctic  explorers  not  to  men- 
tion that  Mr.  Anthony  Dyke  had  held  the  Farthest 
South  record  for  fourteen  years. 

But  his  father  said  all  this  was  of  no  consequence. 
It  was  an  experience  through  which  the  greatest  men 
invariably  passed.  Matters  would  right  themselves. 
And  he  reminded  Emmie  of  the  splendid  solidification 
of  Anthony's  earlier  work,  of  the  proof  during  recent 
years  of  all  that  had  aroused  question  or  doubt  — 
those  pigmies,  the  sacred  remains,  everything.  Each 
year  the  foundations  of  his  fame  were  being  ren- 
dered firmer  by  the  continually  enhancing  value  of  his 
discoveries,  and  the  edifice  raised  thereon  would  stand 
lofty  and  secure  ages  after  all  these  scribbling  worms 
had  returned  to  the  dust  from  which  they  came. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  269 

'*  Dear  Mr.  Dyke,"  said  Emmie,  "  you  are  always  so 
wise.  You  always  are  able  to  make  me  see  things  again 
in  their  proper  proportions.  Yes,  I  remember  what 
Tony  once  said.     Justice  is  done  in  the  end." 

They  were  fond  of  each  other,  these  two,  bound  close 
by  their  fondness  for  that  other  one.  The  friendly 
village  folk  liked  to  see  them  in  church  together  using 
the  same  hymn-book ;  or  on  the  cliff  path,  the  old  gentle- 
man leaning  on  the  lady's  arm. 

He  was  glad  of  this  assistance  sometimes ;  for  he  had 
not  borne  out  that  promise  of  the  man  who  will  never 
grow  older.  After  his  seventy-third  birthday  he  began 
to  age  rapidly ;  and  although  he  still  preserved  an  out- 
ward aspect  of  alertness  and  carried  his  thin  frame 
erectly,  he  had  become  frail.  His  walks  were  restricted ; 
at  each  visit  Emmie  noticed  a  diminution  of  their  range. 
A  certain  bench  on  the  cliff  path  that  they  used  to  pass 
swingingly  was  now  his  farthest  goal,  and  he  was  glad 
to  sit  and  rest  before  turning  homeward.  They  sat 
there  one  Sunday  morning,  high  above  the  many- 
coloured  sea  and  the  dark  rocks,  and  he  spoke  to  her 
of  religion. 

"  Emmie  dear,  it  is  good  of  you  to  go  to  church 
with  me." 

"  I  love  it,"  she  said.    And  this  was  true. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said.  "  Was  it  Anthony  who  took 
your  religious  faith  from  you?  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Dyke !  "  She  gave  a  little  cry  of  surprise 
and  distress.  "  Of  course  not.  Tony  and  I  haven't 
discussed  sacred  matters  for  ever  so  long." 

"  But  you  don't  believe  —  I  mean,  as  we  church 
people  —  do  you,  dear?  " 

Emmie  made  a  fluttering  movement  of  her  gloved 


270  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

hands,  then  folded  them  on  her  lap,  and  with  puckered 
brows  looked  across  the  sea  to  the  faint  silver  line  of  the 
horizon.  "  It  would  be  wicked  of  me  to  pretend.  I'll 
tell  you  what  I  believe."  But  what  did  she  believe.'' 
It  was  not  easy  to  say,  although  she  spoke  with  abso- 
lute sincerity.  She  told  him  that  all  her  faith  in  the 
orthodox  Christian  doctrine  had  gone  from  her  so 
gradually  —  and  she  must  add  so  easily  —  that  she 
scarce  knew  how  it  went  or  when  it  was  gone  finally. 
She  thought  —  now  that  she  considered  it  —  that 
association  with  a  mind  as  bold  as  his  son's  had  per- 
haps had  its  part  in  rendering  her  old  submissive  faith 
impossible.  But  the  loss  of  orthodoxy  had  not  made 
her  a  materialist  —  oh,  far  from  that.  She  firmly 
believed  in  some  supreme  and  beneficent  force  that  ruled 
the  spiritual  universe.^  That,  she  thought,  was  his 
son's  belief  also.  And  she  wound  up  with  words  to 
the  effect  that  it  would  be  most  terrible  to  her  if  she 
might  not  go  on  hoping  there  would  be  some  kind  of 
after  life  in  wliich  she  and  Anthony  could  clasp  im- 
palpable hands  and  exchange  the  phantom  equivalent 
of  kisses. 

"  I  see  —  I  understand,"  said  Mr.  Dyke  gently ;  and 
he  got  up  from  the  bench.  "  Perhaps  very  few  people 
could  say  more  nowadays.  I  don't  know.  I  never 
judge.  It  is  all  a  mj^stery  —  but  I  am  too  old  to 
change,  myself.  Shall  we  toddle  back  to  our  roast 
beef?  If  we're  late  Hannah  will  scold  us  again.  Thank 
you,  dear  " ;  and  he  took  her  arm. 

He  said  he  was  old,  and  he  looked  old;  she  noticed 
then,  more  clearly  than  before,  the  uncertain  footsteps, 
the  riolent  yet  feeble  effort,  the  moving  fragility  of  age. 

Why  should  she  be  surprised.'^     Time  was  standing 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  271 

still  for  nobody.  The  blondness  of  comfortable  Mrs. 
Bell  of  Queen's  Gate  had  gone.  She  had  lost  that 
appearance  of  an  expensive  court  card,  she  had  been 
shuffled  from  the  pack  or  had  become  a  queen  dowager ; 
she  was  out  of  breath  when  she  got  to  the  top  of 
Emmie's  steep  staircase,  and  she  went  regularly  to 
Homburg  or  Harrogate  for  the  waters.  When  she 
gave  parties  her  fine  big  rooms  were  thronged  with 
another  generation,  who  asked  leave  to  push  the  valu- 
able furniture  on  one  side  in  order  to  dance,  and  then 
didn't  dance,  but  romped  in  a  thing  they  called  "  the 
Boston." 

Wherever  Emmie  turned  her  large  mild  eyes,  she 
could  see  the  changes  wrought  by  unstationary  time. 
It  was  becoming  dangerous  to  cross  the  Brompton 
Road  because  of  the  buzzing  motor  cars,  which  travelled 
faster  than  the  motor  'buses.  The  tube  railway  had 
been  opened.  Men  were  flying  in  the  air  and  going  in 
boats  below  the  surface  of  the  water;  members  of  the 
female  aristocracy  were  dining  in  low  necks  at  the 
Carlton  Hotel;  Mr.  Lloyd  George  was  a  responsible 
cabinet  minister.  What  would  Mr.  Verinder  have 
thought  and  said?  In  Exhibition  Road  one  met  well- 
to-do  young  men  smoking  pipes,  wearing  preposterous 
knickerbockers,  and  carrying  golf  clubs ;  young  ladies 
rode  astride  past  the  windows  of  Prince's  Gate;  only 
the  will  of  Queen  Alexandra  kept  mechanically  pro- 
pelled traffic  out  of  Hyde  Park  itself. 

In  the  golden  summer  of  1909  she  had  the  wanderer 
with  her  for  a  long  while. 

She  knew  that  he  was  coming,  but  had  not  been  pre- 
pared for  his  actual  advent.     It  was  after  luncheon, 


272  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

the  room  full  of  sunlight,  and  she  sat  in  a  corner  busily 
t3^ewriting;  with  a  tray  of  papers  on  a  table  at  her 
elbow  and  slips  of  printers'  proofs  lying  on  the  floor  by 
her  feet.  Louisa  shouted  in  the  passage,  and  when 
Emmie  heard  his  voice  she  jumped  up,  knocking  down 
the  tray  and  its  papers  as  she  did  so.  She  nearly  sent 
the  typewriting  machine  after  the  tray  as  she  sprang 
forward  to  meet  liim  at  the  opened  door.  Then  some- 
thing brought  her  to  a  dead  stop. 

He  was  grey.  His  beautiful  dark  hair  had  lost  its 
black  lustrousness ;  it  was  the  dull  colour  of  a  grey  silk 
dress.  She  gave  a  little  shiver,  and  then  took  his  hand 
and  looked  into  his  face  as  if  not  not  noticing  any 
difference. 

"  Emmie !     Let  me  look  at  you." 

As  always,  he  held  her  arms  apart  before  drawing  her 
to  him,  studied  her  with  adoring  eyes ;  and  she  knew 
without  the  possibility  of  doubt  that  he  could  not  or 
would  not  see  the  slightest  change  in  her.  So  far  as 
she  was  concerned,  she  need  never  fear  the  years  or 
their  marks ;  always  he  would  see  not  what  she  was 
really,  but  the  girl  that  she  had  once  been. 

Soon  they  laughed  together  at  the  new  colour  of  his 
hair,  and  Emmie  said  it  was  an  improvement.  It  gave 
him  greater  dignity.  He  would  look  very  handsome  in 
the  portrait  tliat  a  famous  artist  was  going  to  paint. 
Truly  the  grey  hair  hair  did  not  make  him  look  any 
older;  although  now  fifty-one  he  was  wonderfully, 
almost  incredibly  young;  sometimes  making  her  and 
Louisa  feel,  as  they  had  felt  long  ago,  that  they  were 
hiding  in  the  flat  an  overgrown  schoolboy  and  not  a 
middle-aged  public  character.  He  chafl'ed  and  teased 
Louisa;  he  took  the  parrot  out  of  its  cage  and  could 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  273 

not  get  it  back  again ;  he  spent  one  whole  day  in  teach- 
ing the  new  white  cat  to  jump  from  between  his  knees 
over  his  clasped  hands. 

He  was  cheerful  and  gay ;  yet  beneath  the  high  spirits 
Emmie  detected  his  occasional  sadness.  After  running 
down  to  Devonshire  for  a  few  days  he  returned  to  her ; 
and  never  had  he  been  so  entirely  sweet  or  more  abso- 
lutely devoted;  and  yet,  nevertheless,  she  understood 
that  he  was  restless  in  mind  and,  except  for  the  com- 
fort of  their  love,  unhappy.  It  would  pass  —  as  all 
signs  of  weakness  passed  from  him  —  but  she  knew  that 
he  was  feeling  the  smart  of  disappointment.  It  was 
more  than  his  own  failure  in  the  fourth  cruise,  it  was 
the  knowledge  that  his  province  had  been  invaded. 
That  ocean  which  he  had  come  to  consider  as  belonging 
to  Anthony  D3'ke  had  been  attacked  by  so  many  others. 
The  hidden  mystery  of  its  continent  was  imminently 
threatened  not  by  him.  Dyke,  but  by  the  new  men. 

He  was  still  generous  in  his  praise,  trying  hard  to 
conceal  the  touch  of  bitterness  caused  by  personal  con- 
siderations. "  Nansen  is  a  splendid  fellow.  Take  it 
from  me,  Emmie,  he  deserves  all  that  is  said  of  him  — 
and  they  have  made  a  deuce  of  a  fuss,  haven't  they? 
He  has  been  lucky,  of  course  —  devilish  lucky.  Mark 
my  words ;  the  North  Pole  will  be  reached  " ;  and  walk- 
ing about  the  room,  he  paused  to  make  a  widely 
magnanimous  gesture,  as  though  giving  away  the 
North  Pole.  After  all,  the  North  Pole  was  nothing  to 
him;  he  had  never  marked  it  down;  anybody  might 
have  it  —  that  is,  anybody  who  deserved  it.  "  They  are 
wonderful  people,  the  Norwegians,  Emmie.  I  suppose 
you  know  they  are  fitting  out  the  Frara  for  a  third 
voyage.    Yes,  Roald  Amundsen  will  be  in  command  — 


274  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

topping  chap,  Amundsen  —  he'll  get  there."  Then  she 
saw  him  wince  as  he  went  on  to  speak  again  of  things 
relating  to  the  other  Pole,  the  South  Pole,  his  Pole. 
"  That  was  a  tremendous  performance  of  Shackleton's, 
Emmie.  Great.  Lucky  beggar,  Shackelton.  Scott 
too.  I  take  oiF  my  hat  to  Scott."  And  he  sighed. 
"  Scott  ought  to  be  invincible  —  sent  out  as  they  mean 
to  send  him  —  with  all  that  money  behind  him.  You 
remember  what  Sir  Clements  Markham  said  about  Ant- 
arctic exploration  —  he  wanted  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  pounds  to  send  a  man  in  proper  style."  Then, 
after  looking  ruefully  at  Emmie,  he  laughed  and 
snapped  his  fingers.  "  Poor  old  Dyke  never  scraped 
together  a  tenth  part  of  that  sum,  did  he?  " 

When  she  suggested  that  they  should  hire  a  motor- 
car, cross  the  channel,  and  go  for  a  tour  in  Brittany, 
he  eagerly  embraced  her  idea,  vowing  that  it  was  an 
inspiration.  Those  three  weeks  on  wheels  were  idyllic 
—  rest  in  motion,  quiet  introspective  joy  with  a  chang- 
ing outward  panorama  of  pleasant  images.  He  seemed 
perfectly  happy,  scarcely  once  mentioning  the  South 
Pole ;  and  she,  watching  him  as  a  mother  watches  a  son 
who  has  been  crossed  in  love,  hoped  that  he  was  not 
secretly  grieving. 

As  soon  as  they  were  back  in  London  he  grew  rest- 
less. He  would  sit  looking  at  her,  pretending  to  listen 
to  her,  and  then  suddenly  go  and  ask  Louisa  to  see  if 
the  coast  was  clear,  because  he  wanted  a  walk.  He 
walked  by  himself  on  these  occasions,  fast  and  furiously, 
"  blowing  off  steam,"  as  he  explained  to  Emmie.  At 
other  times  he  would  stand  by  the  window,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  motionless  for  an  hour  and  more, 
staring  down  through  the  foliage  of  the  plane  tree  as  if 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  275 

trying  to  look  through  the  whole  globe  and  see  what 
was  happening  down  there  at  the  antipodes. 

The  news  had  come  of  the  Japanese  Antarctic  ex- 
pedition; the  newspapers  were  always  talking  of  Cap- 
tain Scott's  preparations;  there  were  vague  rumours 
of  other  carefully  planned  attacks.  It  seemed  that  all 
the  world  was  "  chipping  in,"  and  that  poor  old  Dyke^s 
white  garden  was  to  have  its  ice  flowers  snatched,  as  if 
by  marauding  gangs  of  mischievous  children. 

There  was  talk  also,  well  maintained,  of  Amundsen 
and  the  Fram;  and  again  Emmie  observed  that  Dyke 
could  speak  of  the  gaUant  Norwegian  without  wmcmg. 
Amundsen  — topping  fellow  — was  for  the  North. 
More  power  to  him.  Only,  confound  these  Japanese, 
and  the  rest  of  them,  southward  bound. 

Beyond  the  restlessness  there  was  irritability.    Often 
he  was  irritable  with  his  Emmie,  rudely  impatient  at 
least  once  when  she  was  not  quick  enough  to  grasp  the 
point  of  intricate  explanations  concerning  the  various 
plans  of  these  other  adventurers ;  and  he  snapped  at 
faithful  Louisa  — a  thing  he  had  never  done  till  now. 
Miss  Verinder  bore  with  him,  showed  always  an  infinite 
patience.     She  could  interpret  all  his  emotions ;  even  if 
she  got  muddled  now  and  then  in  latitudes  and  longi- 
tudes.    He  was  suffering  in  its  acutest  form  the  nos- 
talgic longing  that  is  felt  by  the  disabled  fox-hunting 
squire  when  he  has  to  lie  in  bed  and  listen  to  the  hunts- 
man's voice  and  horn  while  hounds  are  drawing  the  home 
coverts.     "  Oh,  damn  the  doctor.     Get  my  boots,  and 
saddle  any  old  crock  that'sleft  in  the  stable.  I'm  going." 
He  began  to   tell  her  of  what  he  would  do  if  he 
«  made  a  bid  for  it  "  himself,  at  this  eleventh  hour. 
«  Do  you  foUow  me,  Emmie?     There  are  more  ways  of 


276  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

killing  a  dog  than  by  choking  him  with  butter."  He 
said  that  if  he  could  put  his  hands  on  so  small  a  sum  as 
ten  thousand  pounds,  he  would  join  the  race  —  even 
now.  "  Listen,  Emmie.  These  are  my  notions  of  a 
chance  to  get  ahead  of  them  all  —  even  now."  She 
listened  meekly'  and  attentively  to  his  interminable 
harangues ;  she  watched  him  as  he  paced  to  and  fro, 
still  talking,  quite  late  at  night  sometimes,  long  after 
they  ought  to  have  been  asleep ;  and  she  never  blinked 
an  eye.  Nor  did  she  demur,  unless  conscience  obliged 
her  to  question  his  too  sanguine  calculations. 

Then  at  last  he  said  some  words  that  wounded  her 
most  dreadfully. 

"  Upon  my  soul,  Emmie,  you  seem  as  if  you  could 
never  understand  anything." 

She  uttered  one  of  her  faint  little  cries ;  but  he  went 
on,  not  seeing  that  he  had  caused  her  pain.  He  went 
on  until,  pausing  for  breath,  he  noticed  that  her  lips 
were  quivering,  while  her  hands  agitated  themselves 
queerly ;  and  she  said  in  a  strained  voice  that  she  knew 
very  well  how  she  failed  him  for  want  of  intelligence, 
but  she  was  always  trying  to  improve  herself. 

"  You  fail  me,  what !  "  He  gave  a  roar  as  of  a 
stricken  beast,  and  dropped  on  his  knees,  with  his  arms 
round  her,  imploring  forgiveness.  "  My  darling  little 
Emjnie  —  my  guardian  angel.  Oh,  I  ought  to  be  kicked 
from  here  to  Penzance.  I  didn't  mean  it.  On  my 
honour  I  never  meant  it.  Yet,  clumsy  lout  that  I  am, 
I  said  it.     Forgive  me,  oh,  forgive  me." 

And  she,  stroking  his  bowed  head,  her  face  shining, 
said  that  it  was  "  quite  all  right  " ;  never  could  she 
really  doubt  his  indulgence  towards  her,  his  loving 
kindness. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  277 

But  it  was  long  before  she  was  able  to  comfort  him  or 
make  him  forget  the  offence  of  which  he  had  been  guilty ; 
remaining  on  his  knees  he  continued  to  apologise. 

"  Emmie,  you're  such  an  angel  —  you  can  make 
allowances  and  find  excuses.  It's  only  that  I  am  so 
cursedly  miserable  about  all  this.  If  you  think,  it  is 
devilish  bad  luck,  isn't  it.'^  To  be  kicked  up  to  the 
equator  as  I've  been  —  to  be  cooked  in  that  damned 
Turkish  bath  of  a  New  Guinea  —  to  be  kept  there  these 
years  —  how  many  ?  —  with  the  very  colour  bleached 
out  of  my  hair  and  the  marrow  grilling  to  nothing  in 
my  bones  —  while  your  Newnesses  and  your  Harms- 
worths,  your  admirals  and  cabinet  ministers,  your  lords 
and  fine  ladies,  have  all  been  putting  their  heads  to- 
gether and  opening  their  purse  strings  —  yes,  and  your 
kings  and  mikados  too  —  to  fit  out  and  give  carte 
blanche  to  any  one  who  has  the  cheek  to  tell  'em  he 
knows  the  way  to  the  South  Pole!  And  I'm  not  as 
young  as  I  used  to  be,  Emmie.  I  don't  feel  it  myself, 
but  the  others  say  it;  they  throw  it  in  my  face.  I'd 
show  them,  if  I  had  the  chance  —  now.  In  another  ten 
years  it  may  be  too  late  and  I  may  be  really  done  for 
then." 

A  few  days  after  this  she  told  him  that  the  balance 
of  his  banking  account  would  very  soon  amount  to  half 
the  sum  he  had  mentioned ;  he  could  rely  on  there  being 
five  thousand  pounds  to  his  credit.  He  would  scarcely 
believe  it  possible.  Had  the  money  fallen  out  of  the 
sky?  She  said  that  the  cheap  editions  of  his  books  had 
been  selling  marvellously  well,  and  reminded  hira  that 
royalties  for  six  months  were  due  from  the  publishers. 

He  asked  no  more  questions.  He  was  frowningly 
absorbed,  he  rumpled  his  grey  hair  and  cogitated ;  then 


278  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

he  laughed  gaily.  "  Five  thousand !  It's  a  nucleus. 
If  only  I  could  add  to  it  somehow." 

It  was  of  course  futile  for  him  to  think  of  taking  the 
hat  round  here  in  England ;  the  public  had  thrown  their 
very  last  threepenny  bits  into  the  hats  of  those  other 
beggars.  Then  suddenly  he  said  he  would  try  America. 
"  Emmie,  there's  a  fellow  out  there  who  believes  in  me 
—  a  prince  of  good  fellows  —  I  stayed  with  him  at  his 
house  on  Long  Island  —  loveU^  place,  like  Hampton 
Court  Palace  on  a  small  scale  —  and  he's  rolling  in 
money.  What  the  devil's  his  name?  Porter?  Potter? 
James  —  yes,  James  L.  Porter !  That's  it.  By  Jove, 
I'll  see  if  I  can  touch  him." 

Immediately  he  cabled  to  Mr.  Porter  of  New  York, 
asking  him  to  put  up  five  thousand  pounds.  He  made 
the  message  as  eloquent  as  possible,  not  sparing  words 
or  considering  rates,  and  he  grinned  while  he  read  it 
with  mock  emphasis  to  Emmie.  He  was  a  schoolboy 
again,  full  of  life  and  impudence;  the  gun-running 
Dyke  of  ancient  days.  "  Now,  old  girl,  if  my  pal's  a 
sportsman  —  as  I  think  he  is  —  he'll  do  it." 

He  despatched  his  cablegram  early  in  the  morning 
and  fidgeted  all  day,  calculating  the  difference  of  time 
between  London  and  New  York,  walking  about  the 
rooms  of  the  flat. 

At  six  in  the  evening  the  reply  came.  Mr.  James  L. 
Porter  had  cabled  the  money. 

Dyke  was  almost  delirious.  He  kissed  Louisa  on  both 
cheeks,  he  waltzed  with  Miss  Verinder,  he  executed  a 
yas  seul  and  made  the  cat  do  a  record  jump.  Then  he 
sang  paeans  in  honour  of  the  Yanks  —  those  sportsmen 
over  the  pond  —  with  a  chorus  of  disparagement  for 
the  citizens  of  his  native  land.     "  Is  there  an  English- 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  279 

man  alive  who  would  have  sent  that  answer?  They 
don't  waste  time  talking  over  there,  they  do.  What 
was  it  Tennyson  said?  Our  old  England  will  go  down 
in  twaddle  —  or  was  it  babble?  —  at  last.  And  I 
scarcely  knew  the  fellow.  Any  obligation  was  on  my 
side,  not  his.  He  entertained  me  royally.  Bravo, 
Porter.  What's  the  matter  with  James  L.  P.?  He^s  all 
right." 

At  once  he  sketched  his  plan.  There  could  be  no 
difficulty  in  collecting  staunch  comrades ;  he  knew 
dozens  of  likely  men.  Of  course  everything  must  be 
done  cheaply.  He  would  go  to  Greenland  at  once  to 
get  dogs ;  he  would  buy  a  whaler,  fit  her  out  as  best  he 
could,  and  go  down  light  —  a  scratch  lot,  certainly. 
"  But  with  luck,  Emmie  " ;  and  his  ej^es  flashed.  "  Get 
there  before  Captain  Scott,  eh?     Why  not?  " 

They  went  out  to  dinner,  after  he  had  sent  a  dozen 
telegrams,  and  he  was  on  fire  with  happy  excitement. 

"  I  shall  write  to  Scott  and  tell  him  I'm  chipping  in. 
That's  only  common  courtesy.  Although,  hang  it,  no 
one  asks  my  permission  when  they  chip  in." 

He  had  gone.  She  knew  that  the  thing  was  hopeless, 
and  yet  she  hoped.  The  letters  that  he  sent  her  were 
not  reassuring ;  with  his  scratch  lot  he  would  run  dread- 
ful risks  and  have  no  real  chance  of  success,  but  still 
she  went  on  hoping.  It  is  too  hard  merely  to  wait  and 
not  to  hope  at  all. 

Although  her  financial  position  would  have  been 
described  by  the  late  Mr.  Verinder  as  distinctly  un- 
sound and  she  was  drifting  from  the  smooth  waters  of 
safe  investment  towards  the  maelstrom  of  sheer  specula- 
tion,  she   sometimes    blamed   herself   for   not   having 


280  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

encroached  on  her  already  reduced  capital  to  a  greater 
extent.  It  was  horrible  to  her  to  think  for  a  moment 
or  two  that  if  she  and  J.  L.  Porter  had  given  him  more 
money,  his  perils  might  have  been  less  and  his  prospects 
brighter.  But,  no,  if  she  had  put  her  contribution  at  a 
higher  figure  than  five  thousand  pounds  it  would  have 
aroused  his  suspicion,  and  then  he  would  have  refused 
to  take  anything  at  all.  Moreover,  as  she  consoled  her- 
self by  reflecting,  it  would  not  have  been  right  to  give 
him  more;  she  must  think  of  the  future;  she  miLst  be 
decentl}^  provided  against  the  day  when  his  travels 
would  be  over.  When  that  day  came  he  would  not  of 
course  have  a  shilling  of  his  own;  for  whatever  he 
possessed  or  earned  or  inherited  he  would  certainly 
spend  on  his  work  before  he  ceased  working.  Then,  if 
they  were  both  poor,  what  would  happen  to  them? 

The  time  passed  very  slowly.  Although  he  wrote  to 
her  she  had  lost  touch  with  him ;  after  the  beginning  of 
1910  no  exchange  of  letters  was  possible.  In  March  he 
had  begun  to  work  his  way  southwards,  and  later  he 
wrote  to  her  from  South  American  ports.  She.  sent  all 
her  letters  to  Tasmania.  At  Hobart,  as  he  said,  he 
would  do  a  lot  of  refitting  and  much  valuable  time  would 
be  consumed.  His  letters  showed  that  he  was  happy 
and  hopeful ;  and  she  too  hoped. 

Then  in  September  of  this  year  strange  news  burst 
upon  the  world  and  threw  her  into  a  state  of  white-hot 
indignation.  Amundsen  with  the  Fram  had  arrived  at 
Madeira ;  instead  of  going  north  Amundsen  was  going 
south.  He  was  going  to  the  Antarctic.  It  seemed  to 
Miss  Verinder,  quite  unreasonably,  a  piece  of  dreadful 
treachery.  This  commander,  all  the  while  that  his 
preparations  are  being  made  has  permitted  every  civil- 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  281 

ized  country  co  suppose  that  his  aim  is  northward; 
he  sails  amid  their  good  wishes ;  people  stand  with  their 
e3'^es  turned  northward,  thinking  of  him,  peering  after 
him.  And  suddenly  they  are  told  to  turn  round  and 
look  the  other  way.  He  has  gone  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion, secretly  stealing  a  march  on  innocent  trustful 
rivals/ 

Miss  Verinder  held  forth  on  the  subject  at  an  after- 
noon party  given  by  Mrs.  Bell  in  Queen's  Gate  that 
same  day.  It  was  a  quiet  informal  party,  because 
people  still  wore  mourning  for  King  Edward  and  many 
of  Mrs.  Bell's  acquaintance  had  not  yet  returned  to 
London.  Emmie,  standing  by  the  buffet  and  being 
assisted  to  tea  and  cake  by  two  attentive  clergymen, 
looked  very  nice  in  her  black  dress,  with  a  large  picture 
hat,  and  some  ermine  round  her  slim  neck.  Unusually 
animated,  a  spot  of  wrathful  pink  on  each  cheek,  she 
spoke  in  scathing  terms,  and  almost  choked  once  as  she 
bit  the  rather  dry  cake.  Indeed  she  was  tlirobbing 
with  anger,  although  her  voice,  while  it  emitted  bitter- 
ness, was  still  modulated  and  gentle  of  tone.  She  said 
in  effect  that  it  was  disgraceful  of  Mr.  Amundsen  to 
chip  in.     Captain  Scott  must  be  utterly  disgusted. 

"Who  is  Captain  Scott.?"  asked  Mrs.  Bell.  "Do 
I  know  him,  Emmeline.?  " 

Other  ladies  gathered  round,  telling  each  other  that 
Miss  Verinder  was  speaking  of  the  South  Pole  and  all 
these  explorers.    "  She  is  always  so  well  informed." 

And  Emmie,  firm  and  explanatory,  said  that  such  a 

1  Note.  Readers  will  of  course  understand  that  the  author 
is  not  accusing  this  great  traveller,  nor  hinting  the  faintest 
disparagement  of  his  quietly  matured  plans.  Miss  Verinder's 
indignation  is  logically  baseless.  It  is  merely  the  characteristic 
of  her  extreme  partisanship. 


282  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  chip-in  "  as  Amundsen's  simply  isn't  done.  She  knew 
as  a  fact  that  in  such  cases  warning  was  always  given. 
And  continuing,  she  boldly  named  the  name.  It  was  not 
only  Captain  Scott  who  would  be  upset,  there  were  the 
Japanese  to  think  of  —  and  the  private  expedition 
that  was  being  conducted  by  Mr.  Anthony  Dyke. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  somebody.  "  Dyke.  Yes,  to  be  sure. 
Dyke's  one  of  the  most  famous  of  them  all,  isn't  he?  " 

Mrs.  Bell  had  moved  on  and  was  talking  to  a  middle- 
aged  couple  who  had  just  arrived  at  the  party;  but  if 
she  had  heard  Dyke's  name  mentioned,  it  would  scarcely 
have  aroused  any  recollection  of  the  annoyance  and 
trouble  that  he  had  once  caused.  That  old  scandal  was 
so  completeh^  dead  that  the  most  vindictive  enemy  could 
not  now  have  revived  it,  and  nothing  perhaps  better 
proved  the  esteem  in  which  Miss  Verinder  was  held  by 
all  these  people  than  Mrs  Bell's  manner  when  presently 
introducing  two  of  them  to  her.  They  were  the  late 
arrivals,  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Parker,  of  Ennismore  Gardens. 
They  themselves  had  craved  the  introduction,  and  they 
said  their  nurse  had  told  them  of  the  very  charming 
way  in  which  Miss  Verinder  had  spoken  one  morning  to 
their  little  girl  Mildred  on  her  pony  outside  the  front 
door.     They  thanked  Miss  Verinder  for  her  kindness. 

Miss  Verinder  said  she  deserved  no  thanks ;  she  was 
very  fond  of  children ;  and  she  thought  their  daugliter 
such  an  intelligent,  pretty  little  thing. 

"  Well,  she  really  is,"  said  Mrs.  Parker,  enormously 
gratified ;  and  she  and  Mr.  Parker  together  related  that 
the  child  was  good  as  well  as  attractive ;  a  quite  extraor- 
dinarily obedient  child  — "  so  different  from  her 
brothers  "  —  seeming  to  take  the  sweetest  kind  of 
pleasure  in  doing  exactly  as  she  was  bid. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  283 

Miss  Verinder  said  that  was  very  nice  indeed,  and 
then  she  rather  startled  both  Parkers  by  asking, 
"  What  will  you  do  with  her  when  she  is  grown  up?  I 
suppose  you  mean  to  give  her  some  sort  of  profession?  " 

"  Oh,  come,"  said  Mr.  Parker,  with  a  foolish  chuckle, 
*'  I  shouldn't  have  expected  you  of  all  people.  Miss 
Verinder,  to  say  that." 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Parker.  "  Surely  you' re  not 
modern?  You  don't  believe  in  letting  girls  leave  home, 
and  make  careers  for  themselves,  and  all  that?  " 

"  No,  no,  Miss  Verinder  is  not  serious,"  said  Mr. 
Parker,  smiling  and  nodding  his  head.  "  In  spite  of 
all  the  talk  nowadays,  th€i  best  career  for  young  ladies 
is  just  what  it  always  was  —  marriage!  Unless,  of 
course,"  he  added  hastily,  "  a  young  lady,  to  the  sur- 
prise of  her  friends  and  admirers,  declines  —  ah,  refuses 
—  herself  deciding  that  she  prefers  —  possessing  the 
cultivated  and  informed  type  of  mind  that  does  not 
seek  —  or  perhaps  I  should  say,  does  not  brook  — 
domestic  ties  " ;  and  he  embarrassed  himself  badly  in 
his  efforts  to  convey  the  polite  opinion  that,  although 
Miss  Verinder  was  an  old  maid,  she  might  have  married 
many,  many  times  had  she  wished  to  do  so.  Then  he 
wound  up  in  regard  to  his  own  daughter  by  indicating 
that  when  Mildred  was  old  enough,  say,  in  ten  years 
time,  he  would  select  for  her  a  suitable  husband,  some- 
body that  her  parents  both  trusted  and  liked,  and  the 
docile,  obedient  Mildred  would  take  him  and  say  thank- 
you. 

"  It  has  been  such  a  pleasure  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance," said  Mrs.  Parker ;  "  and  we  should  be  so  very 
glad  if  you  would  visit  us.  Ennismore  Gardens,  you 
know." 


284  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Miss  Verinder,  in  a  somewhat  absent-minded  style, 
said  she  would  be  pleased  to  avail  herself  of  this  invita- 
tion some  time  or  other. 

"  Any  time,"  said  Mrs.  Parker.  "  Of  course,  we 
know  how  much  you  are  sought  after." 

The  year  1911  was  the  longest  that  Emmie  had  as 
yet  experienced.  The  last  of  Dyke's  letters  told  her 
that  he  expected  to  cross  the  Antarctic  Circle  in 
January,  and  then  the  immense  silence  began.  She 
spent  a  couple  of  months  at  least  at  Endells  with  his 
father,  who  had  been  ill ;  and  she  and  the  old  man  en- 
couraged each  other  to  hope  for  almost  impossible 
things.  Notwithstanding  insufficiency  of  preparation, 
unsuitability  of  vessel,  doubtful  allegiance  of  subordi- 
nates, "Why  should  not  Tony  pull  it  off  this  time?  " 
Heavily  handicapped,  yes,  but  with  such  inexhaustible 
power  in  him  himself.  Emmie,  hoping  more  and  more, 
was  ready  to  abandon  painfully  acquired  knowledge, 
and  to  believe  that  only  luck  was  needed.  All  luck 
really.  The  luck  must  turn  in  his  favour  —  he  had 
always  said  so.  Moreover,  who  should  venture  to 
assign  any  limit  to  the  probable  in  the  case  of  such  a 
man?     He  was  so  miraculous. 

Having  no  literary  work  on  hand,  she  went  about 
among  her  neighbours  much  more  than  in  the  past.  She 
liked  and  sympathised  with  the  youthful  generation. 
She  listened  to  music  with  Mrs.  Bell,  and  was  always 
ready  to  join  a  bridge  table  even  at  the  shortest  notice. 
She  played  the  game  accurately  and  boldly;  and  one 
evening,  when  she  dined  at  the  Parkers  and  the  young 
people  prevailed  on  Mr.  Parker  to  countenance  poker, 
she  astonished  everybody  by  her  manner  of  sharing  in 
this  more  reckless  amusement.     There  was  a  gentle 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  285 

inscrutability  about  Miss  Verinder  at  poker  that  proved 
deadly  to  ardent  and  excited  adolescence.  One  of  the 
young  men,  cleaned  out,  stood  dolefully  behind  her 
chair  and  afterwards  reported  that  he  saw  her  do  a 
bluff  big  enough  to  lift  the  roof.  He  said  it  had  given 
him  palpitations  of  the  heart  to  watch  her. 

But  all  these  slight  interests,  the  concerts,  the  cards, 
the  tea-parties,  as  it  were  dancing  and  flickering  on  the 
surface  of  her  existence,  were  as  nothing ;  the  true  Miss 
Verinder  was  far  otherwise  engaged.  The  world  of 
Parkers  and  Bells,  and  tradesmen  and  cabdrivers,  never 
once  met  her.  Or  if  for  a  moment  anyone  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her,  she  had  flown  away  next  moment  and 
was  back  with  her  wandering  man.  So  that  one  may 
truly  say  of  her  that  often,  as  she  passed  along  the 
broad  smooth  pavement  round  the  corner  into  Prince 
Consort  Road,  she  was  in  reality  breathlessly  clamber- 
ing over  hummocks  of  ice;  or  that  when  in  the  quiet 
flat  she  put  down  a  saucer  of  milk  for  Bijou  the  cat, 
that  small  useless  creature  had  swelled  for  her  into 
the  largest  kind  of  Weddell  seal. 

The  silence  remained  unbroken,  over  Christmas  and 
on  into  the  new  year  of  1912.  One  morning  in  March, 
Mrs.  Bell  asked  her  to  come  to  tea  next  day,  the  eighth 
of  the  month.  It  was  a  date  that  Emmie  never  after- 
wards forgot. 

She  said  she  was  sorry ;  she  had  an  engagement. 

"  Oh,  what  a  pity.  I'm  expecting  the  Alderleys  and 
I  wanted  you  to  know  them.  Can't  you  come  in  after- 
wards ?" 

"No,  I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Miss  Verinder.  "I'm 
going  out  of  town  to-morrow  for  the  whole  day." 


286  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 


5> 


"  How  annoying !    Well  then,  the  day  after  ? 

"  Yes,  I  shall  be  delighted." 

"Good,"  said  Mrs.  Bell.  "I  shall  put  off  the 
Alderleys.     Hope  you'll  have  an  enjoyable  day," 

Miss  Verinder's  engagement  was  to  visit  a  certain 
town  in  the  Midlands,  and  truly  she  looked  forward  to  it 
with  no  pleasurable  anticipations,  but  rather  with  a 
sinking  of  the  heart.  She  was  going  to  Upperslade 
Park  only  because  she  felt  that  it  was  her  duty 
to  go  there.  The  asylum  authorities  had  sent  a  very 
troublesome  letter  to  Dyke,  and  she  as  his  representa- 
tive must  attend  to  it  properly.  They  asked  for  a 
large  increase  of  the  annual  payment,  on  the  ground 
of  the  enhancement  of  cost  of  everything  since  the  time 
long  ago  when  the  bargain  was  made.  They  said  that  a 
bargain  was  a  bargain,  and  they  "  would  not  go  back 
on  it  " ;  but  they  could  not  possibly  continue  to  main- 
tain Mrs.  Dyke  as  well  as  in  the  past,  giving  her  the 
greatest  comfort,  the  best  food,  and  the  closest  attend- 
ance, at  a  dead  loss.  If,  then,  it  was  impossible  to 
adopt  their  suggestion,  they  would  go  on  taking  care  of 
her  quite  adequately,  but  much  less  luxuriously.  There 
was  a  possibility,  of  course,  that  her  health  would 
suffer  from  the  deprivation  of  comforts  to  which  she 
had  grown  accustomed.  Farther,  they  pointed  out  that 
although  the  asylum  was  to  some  extent  a  public  insti- 
tution enjoying  an  endowment,  they  had  no  power  to 
devote  a  penny  of  these  funds  to  the  benefit  of  the 
private  paying  patients. 

Emmie  travelled  by  the  North-Western  Railway,  and 
it  was  one  of  those  days  with  which  March  can  surprise 
and  disgust  even  those  who  remember  the  evil  notoriety 
of  the  month.    Dark  skies,  rain,  and  wind  travelled  with 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  287 

her  all  the  way.  She  drove  through  the  ugly  town, 
seeing  nothing  but  wet  pavements  and  tramcars; 
through  outskirts  of  factories  and  smoking  chimneys, 
and  on  to  a  broad  long  road  skirted  on  either  side  by 
villas  and  gardens.  Her  cabman  stopped  at  an  iron 
gateway  in  a  high  brick  wall.  This  was  Upperslade 
Park.  A  man  came  out  of  a  lodge  and  spoke  to  her 
at  the  cab  window.  Then  he  unlocked  the  gate,  and  the 
cab  drove  in. 

Beneath  leafless  dripping  trees,  across  wide  lawns, 
she  saw  the  place  itself  vaguely,  a  mass  of  buildings  with 
wet  slate  roofs  and  towers  that  stretched  and  sprawled 
gigantic.  It  was  like  a  workhouse,  a  gaol,  like  any- 
thing sinister  and  dark  tliat  depresses  the  mind,  at  the 
mere  sight  of  it,  with  painful  associations  and  impotent 
regrets. 

She  was  received  by  a  doctor  in  an  office  that  opened 
from  a  large  and  totally  bare  hall,  and  she  said  that 
she  wished  to  have  her  interview  with  the  patient  before 
entering  into  any  discussion  of  business  matters. 

"  All  right,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Yes,  she'll  have  had 
her  dinner  " ;  and  he  called  for  an  attendant.  "  I'll  tell 
Dr.  Wenham  that  you'd  like  a  chat  with  him  after- 
wards." 

Emmie  was  ushered  then  to  a  waiting-room  or 
parlour,  where,  they  said,  Mrs.  Dyke  would  presently 
be  sent  to  her.  It  was  a  lofty  room,  with  high  windows 
through  which  one  had  a  view  of  the  driving  rain,  the 
sodden  lawns,  and  a  broad  smoke-stained  gravel  path. 
Some  of  those  unreadable  richly-bound  books  that  used 
to  be  displayed  years  ago  in  hotel  sitting-rooms  lay 
on  highly-polished  circular  tables.  Instead  of  a  fire- 
place there  was  a  large  white  earthenware  stove.    Some 


288  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

horsehair  and  walnut  chairs  stood  in  a  row  against  one 
wall,  and  on  each  side  of  the  stove  there  was  a  straight- 
backed  early-Victorian  sofa  covered  with  faded 
green  rep. 

Emmie  waited  for  what  seemed  a  long  time.  She 
was  looking  out  of  a  window  when  the  patient  and  a 
woman  nurse  entered  the  room. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Dyke?"  And  they  shook 
hands. 

Immediately  after  this  conventional  greeting,  Mrs. 
Dyke  seated  herself  on  one  of  the  rep-covered  sofas 
and  laid  upon  her  knees  a  largish  Bible  that  she  had 
been  carrying  under  her  arm.  Emmie  went  and  sat 
beside  her  on  the  sofa.  She  was  a  little  middle-aged 
woman,  dressed  very  neatly  in  a  blue  serge  gown  of  no 
particular  fashion ;  her  hair,  parted  in  the  middle,  was 
drawn  to  the  back  of  the  head  and  there  rolled  into  a 
compact  ball ;  her  manner  was  precise  and  formal,  and 
she  spoke  in  measured  tones,  as  if  weighing  her  words 
and  attacliing  importance,  even  finality,  to  some  of 
them.  It  seemed  to  Emmie  that  only  her  eyes  were 
insane.  Their  colour  was  brown,  with  little  specks 
of  amber,  and  they  had  the  sort  of  shining  intensity 
that  is  to  be  observed  in  the  eyes  of  children  during 
hiffh  fever.  Then  Emmie  noticed  that  there  was  some- 
thing  strange  about  her  hands.  The  left  one,  the  one 
with  the  wedding  ring,  had  marks  of  severe  wounds  on 
the  knuckles,  and  it  appeared  to  be  stiffened.  Emmie 
thought  at  once  —  with  a  queer  feeling  of  already 
having  heard  of  this  —  that  it  had  been  banged  through 
a  window  pane  during  a  fit  of  violence. 

"  Insufficient   organisation   and  want   of  method  is 
usually  to  blame,"  Mrs.  Dyke  was  saying,  in  her  precise 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  289 

way.  She  had  begun  talking  as  soon  as  she  sat  down, 
as  if  resuming  a  conversation  with  Emmie  that  had 
just  been  interrupted.  "  Then  praying  time  is  natu- 
rally forgotten.  Prayers  get  omitted  at  the  appointed 
moment,  and  one  rarely  if  ever  squares  the  account 
and  gets  the  tally  right.  But  in  this  book,"  and  she 
softly  patted  the  Bible,  "  all  such  things  are  noted. 
Did  I  say  this  book?  Pardon  me  —  in  a  very  much 
larger  book,  kept  by  the  recording  angel,  who  neither 
sleeps  nor  accepts  drugs  to  make  him  sleep." 

The  nurse  was  standing  at  a  little  distance,  smiling 
good-naturedly ;  and  she  now  asked  Emmie  if  she  should 
remain  or  go  outside  the  door. 

Emmie  said  she  would  like  to  be  left  alone  with  Mrs. 
Dyke. 

"  All  right,"  said  the  nurse,  and  she  nodded  signifi- 
cantly. "  I  shall  be  just  outside  the  door  —7-  and  I'll 
leave  it  ajar.    Call,  if  you  want  me.  Miss  Verinder." 

"  Nurse  Gale,"  said  Mrs.  Dyke,  quietly  but  authori- 
tatively, "  keep  an  eye  on  the  clock.  Don't  let  the 
proper  moment  slip  by." 

"  Oh,  do  drop  your  rubbish,"  said  the  nurse,  laughing 
good-humouredly,  as  she  went  out  into  the  corridor. 

Mrs.  Dyke  continued  to  speak  of  religious  matters, 
until,  in  a  pause,  Emmie  tried  to  change  the  subject. 

"  Now  shall  we  talk  a  little  about  yourself?  I  want 
to  know  if  you  are  comfortable  here." 

Mrs.  Dyke,  after  a  meditative  silence,  said,  "  No,  I'm 
always  hungry." 

Emmie,  shocked  and  pained,  asked:  "Don't  they 
give  you  enough  to  eat?  " 

"  Too  much,"  said  Mrs.  Dyke  mysteriously.  "  But 
I  daren't  eat  it.     They  want  to  poison  me  " ;  and  she 


290  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

added  after  another  pause  that,  having  defeated  this 
plot  for  a  considerable  number  of  years,  she  hoped  still 
to  get  the  better  of  them. 

Then  it  was  as  if  of  a  sudden  she  had  been  moved  by 
some  strange  glimmer  of  intelligence  or  intuition  with 
regard  to  Emmie.  She  looked  at  her  searchingly  with 
a  changed  expression  in  the  eyes,  and  shrinking  from 
her  on  the  sofa,  spoke  loudly.  "  Are  you  an  enemy  or 
a  friend.''  " 

"  A  friend,"  said  Emmie. 

"  Of  course  she  is,"  said  the  nurse  briskly.  At  the 
sound  of  the  raised  voice  she  had  immediately  come  into 
the  room.  "  And  a  very  kind  friend,  too  —  to  have 
come  all  the  way  from  London  to  see  you." 

"  Who  is  it  that  has  done  me  a  great  wrong?  "  said 
Mrs.  Dj^ke,  still  scrutinising  Emmie.  "Aunt  Janet  told 
me.    Is  it  you?    Have  you  wronged  me?  " 

"  Oh,  what  stuff  and  nonsense,"  said  the  nurse. 
*'  Wronged  you  indeed !  That's  the  silly  way  she  goes 
on." 

Emmie,  pertubed  but  brave,  got  Nurse  Gale  to  leave 
them  alone  once  more.  Then  she  took  the  injured  hand 
and  very  gently  held  it  between  both  her  hands. 

"  Mrs.  Dj^ke,  don't  fear  me ;  don't  suspect  me  of 
evil  intentions.    I  mean  well." 

"  So  be  it,"  said  Mrs.  Dyke,  drawing  nearer  on  the 
sofa  and  allowing,  her  stiff  cold  hand  to  lie  passive  and 
imprisoned.  "  In  the  fullest  confidence."  That  eva- 
nescent aspect  of  normality  had  gone;  she  looked  at 
Emmie  with  mad  eyes,  and  spoke  in  a  tone  that  was 
vibratingly  intense.  "  I  want  my  husband  —  dead  or 
alive.  If  he  is  dead,  I  wish  the  body  embalmed  and  put 
in  a  glass  case.     If  he  is  alive  —  send  him  to  the  devil 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  291 

and  choke  liim.  Look  here.  A  stitch  in  time  saves 
nine.  I  put  my  husband  in  the  bed  —  a  colossal  bed 
that  I  had  built  to  hold  him.  Room  for  five  or  six 
other  people  —  of  ordinary  size.  So  it's  quite  absurd 
to  pretend  that  there  wasn't  room  in  it  for  me.  Very 
well.  When  I  woke  he  wasn't  there.  I  hunted  for  him 
high  and  low.  He  was  under  the  bed  laugliing  at  me, 
or  up  the  chimney.  '  Be  calm,'  they  all  said.  *  That 
is  the  watchword  henceforth  —  Be  calm.'  '  Well,  I  am 
calm,  Aunt  Janet,'  I  said.  '  Could  anyone  be  calmer? 
I  am  quite  reasonable  and  obeying  orders.  But  I 
simply  say  I  want  my  husband.' 

"  But  not  a  bit  —  they  dragged  me  into  the  carriage. 
They  flogged  those  poor  horses  — "  And  suddenly 
her  manner  changed  to  a  sort  of  exalted  fervour. 
"  Glory  be  to  the  Father,  and  to  the  Son,  and  to  the 
Holy  Ghost.  Awake  —  throw  off  the  chains.  For  on 
that  day  there  shall  be  a  great  light  shining  from  the 
high  mountains.  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life. 
Whoso  believeth  in  Me  —  If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  say 
my  prayers.  I  forgot  them  again  " ;  and  she  sank  to 
her  knees  and  laid  her  face  upon  the  seat  of  the  sofa. 
"  Please  ask  them  not  to  disturb  me."  And  she  began 
to  murmur  monotonously. 

Miss  Verinder  waited  a  little  while,  and  then  went  to 
the  door  and  beckoned  the  nurse.  She  asked  her  not  to 
disturb  Mrs.  Dyke. 

"  But  she'll  go  on  like  that  till  midnight." 

^'  As  a  favour  to  me.  Give  her  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 
Emmie  tipped  the  nurse.     "  You  promise,  don't  you?  " 

Emmie,  wrung  with  pity,  stood  at  the  door  looking 
back  into  the  room.  That  was  the  last  sight  and  sound 
—  the  poor  creature  kneeling  in  the  unchanged  attitude 


292  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

and  the  toneless  murmur  of  the  prayer. 

Miss  Verinder  during  her  interview  with  the  head  of 
the  asylum  was  very  business-like.  She  arranged  to 
pay  what  was  necessary  now  and  whatever  might 
be  necessary  in  the  future,  should  a  further  increase  be 
required. 

Thus  oddly  she  began  to  contribute  to  the  comfort 
and  maintenance  of  the  unhappy  soul  whose  place  in 
the  outer  world  she  had  taken.  She  had  not  hesitated 
to  answer  the  call.  Nor  did  there  for  a  moment  pass 
through  her  mind  even  the  vaguely  formulated  thought 
that  she  was  taking  every  possible  means  to  keep  Mrs. 
Dyke  alive,  when  the  death  of  Mrs.  Dyke  might  have 
relieved  her  of  an  embarrassment  which,  although  it 
had  grown  slight,  still  existed. 

She  was  very  tired  when  she  reached  Euston  about 
seven  in  the  evening,  and,  since  she  was  alone  and  with- 
out luggage,  the  porters  neglected  her  in  the  scramble 
on  the  arrival  platform,  and  she  was  unable  to  get  a 
cab.  Advised  to  try  for  one  on  the  departure  side,  she 
went  through  a  subway,  up  into  the  great  hall  among 
hurrying  people;  and  suddenly  heard  two  men  saying 
words  that  made  her  heart  leap  and  sent  the  blood 
rushing  to  her  head.  Hastily  turning,  she  moved  to- 
wards the  bookstall;  and  there  in  bright  strong  light, 
she  saw  the  same  words  that  she  had  just  heard.  All 
round  the  front  of  the  stall  they  were  repeated  in 
enormous  lettering,  on  the  bills  of  the  evening  papers ; 
for  to-night  no  other  item  of  news  was  worth  dis- 
playing —  "  South  Pole  Reached  " ;  "  Discovery  of 
South  Pole  " ;  "  South  Pole." 

In  those  few  moments,  while  she  bought  a  paper  and 
opened  it,  she  believed  that  it  was  her  man.    Her  man 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  293 

—  the  blood  beat  at  her  temples,  her  lungs  were  full  of 
fire,  and  a  wild  passionate  joy' possessed  her.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  station  walls  were  falling,  the  lofty  roof 
bursting  open  and  floating  away;  vistas  showed  them- 
selves, filled  with  vast  pressing  throngs ;  triumphant 
music  swelled  in  her  ears,  and  the  voice  of  whole  nations 
shouting  echoed  and  re-echoed  the  loved  name.  Dyke, 
Dyke,  Dyke!  He  had  done  it.  Nothing  could  stop 
him,  he  had  beaten  them  all  — her  man.  She  held 
the  paper  high  to  read  the  message. 

It  was  Amundsen. 

She  refolded  the  paper  and  looked  at  the  large  clock 
above  the  door.  Ten  minutes  past  seven.  When  she 
got  safely  into  her  bedroom  at  the  flat  the  pretty  little 
Sevres  clock  on  the  chimney-piece  showed  that  it  was 
now  twenty  minutes  to  eleven ;  and,  except  that  she  had 
been  walking,  she  never  knew  why  it  had  taken  her  so 
long  to  get  home  from  Euston. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you?  "  asked  Lousia,  help- 
ing to  put  her  to  bed.  And  she  spoke  again,  in  the 
grumblingly  affectionate  tone  that  trusted  faithful  old 
servants  often  permit  to  themselves.  "  You  don't  take 
proper  care.  You  overdo  it  —  and  then  you  make 
yourself  ill,  like  this." 

"  I  am  quite  all  right,"  said  Emmie.  "  But  I  have 
had  a  rather  agitating  day  " ;  and  she  turned  her  face 
to  the  wall. 


CHAPTER     XIV 

IN  due  course  the  stories  of  the  various  expeditions 
arrived.  Each  had  done  nobly  good  work,  but  in 
the  splendour  of  the  achievement  of  Amundsen  and 
Scott  all  else  paled  to  insignificance.  National  sorrow 
for  the  death  of  its  glorious  representative  made  Eng- 
land at  first  almost  impatient  of  listening  to  the  voices 
of  those  who  remained  alive.  Dyke,  it  seemed,  had 
performed  valuable  services  to  science  —  he  had  cleared 
up  a  good  deal ;  although  behind  the  illustrious  two, 
he  had  crossed  their  tracks,  and  he  had  also  struck 
into  the  Japanese  and  the  Germans.  But  who  now 
could  care  about  discoveries  of  mountain  ranges,  chart- 
ing of  coast-lines,  or  correction  of  surmises  as  to  land 
and  Avater?  The  praise  he  received  in  the  British  press 
was  pitifully  small ;  and  one  American  paper  was  cruel 
enough  to  say  that  "  Comic  relief  had  been  given  to 
the  tragic  drama  by  the  antics  of  elderly  Dyke,  who 
had  been  fooling  around  all  the  time  like  the  clown  of 
the  Antarctic  Circus." 

He  was  in  England  during  the  summer  of  1914;  a 
man  forgotten,  not  given  a  single  newspaper  inter- 
view, not  once  bidden  to  a  public  dinner.  The  birthday 
list  of  honours  was  announced  in  advance  as  including 
recognition  of  all  who  of  late  years  had  served  the 
state  usefully  or  ornamentally ;  yet  neither  in  forecasts 
of  those  to  be  thus  honoured  nor  in  the  list  itself  was 
the  name  of  Dyke  mentioned.     He  did  not  say  a  word 

294 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  295 

to  indicate  that  he  even  noticed  this  neglect.  Emmie, 
however,  thinking  she  understood  what  he  must  neces- 
sarily feel,  took  him  away  from  London  into  the  coun- 
try, where  he  could  no  longer  hear  the  noise  and  fuss 
about  recognition  and  national  gratitude. 

They  stayed  at  a,  farmhouse  on  Dartmoor,  and  they 
were  very  happy;  but  she  had  wronged  him  when  she 
supposed  that  there  was  now  any  bitterness  of  dis- 
appointment in  his  mind.  Alone  with  him  between  the 
sky  and  the  heather,  she  became  aware  of  a  subtle  in- 
ward change.  He  was  never  by  any  chance  irritable. 
He  was  calmer,  more  dignified,  whether  he  spoke  of  the 
past  or  the  future. 

Yes,  as  she  knew,  he  had  irrevocably  lost  what  had 
been  the  hope  of  his  life.  Dimly  she  began  to  guess 
that  it  was  the  very  completeness  of  the  loss  that,  after 
the  first  shock,  had  brought  a  new  tranquillity  of  spirit. 
The  game  with  all  its  excitements  was  over,  and  he 
experienced  a  sensation  of  enforced  rest.  But  truly  it 
was  something  more  and  better  than  this.  It  was  per- 
haps as  near  to  obliteration  of  self  as  the  most  magnani- 
mous men  may  reach  when  they  see  good  work  accom- 
plished and  measure  the  extent  of  the  good  work  that 
still  remains  to  be  done. 

She  did  not  really  understand  until  she  heard  him 
paying  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Captain  Scott ;  and  in 
her  admiration  and  delight  there  went  from  her  then 
thn  last  twinges  of  the  pain  that  had  been  caused  by  her 
own  disappointment.  This  Anthony  that  she  wor- 
shipped and  reverenced  for  every  word  he  said  was  a 
nobler  and  a  bigger  man  than  the  Dyke  who  might  have 
been  —  the  Dyke  who  might  have  come  home  amid 
the  plaudits  of  the  world,  to  drop  his  laurel  wreaths 
at  her  feet. 


296  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

He  was  lying  among  the  heather,  his  head  resting  on 
his  elbow,  and  a  hand  playing  with  the  tiny  crimson 
bells ;  while  Emmie  with  her  holland  parasol  made  a 
screen  to  keep  the  sun  off  them  both.  An  injury  to  the 
head  inflicted  by  a  tumble  on  shipboard  had  left  a  slight 
deafness,  and  because  of  it  he  sometimes  unconsciously 
spoke  louder  than  was  necessary.  Now  his  voice  rang 
out  very  strong  in  the  light,  pure  air;  but  they  were 
quite  alone,  and  indeed  Emmie  would  not  have  minded 
if  all  the  world  had  heard  what  he  said. 

"  You  will  see  it  written  —  it  is  being  written  already 
— '  that  Scott's  noble  gallant  heart  was  broken  by  his 
failure  to  get  there  first  —  that  it  was  the  sight  of  the 
Norwegian  flag  flying  over  the  tent  that  really  killed 
him,  and  not  the  hardship  and  fatigues.  Emmie, 
that's  a  wicked  thing  to  write.  It's  a  wicked  poor- 
spirited  thing  for  anyone  to  believe.  Scott  was  far, 
far  above  all  that.  You  remember  I  wrote  to  him  to 
say  I  was  going?  " 
"  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  never  had  an  answer  to  my  letter.  I'm 
sure  he  sent  me  an  answer,  only  it  missed  me.  I  never 
got  it.     Amundsen  telegraphed  to  him  too." 

"  Did  Mr.  Amundsen  telegraph  to  him?  "  said  Emmie, 
flushing.     "  I  was  not  aware  of  it.     I  fear  I  — " 

"  Scott's  answer  would  have  been  the  same  to  both  of 
us.  I  know  it  as  surely  as  if  I  had  heard  him  say  it  or 
had  read  it  in  liis  hand.  Scott  would  have  said,  '  You 
or  I  or  the  other  fellow,  what  does  it  matter,  so  that  the 
thing  is  done?  '  I  am  so  sure  that,  when  I  was  rather 
down  in  the  dumps  about  myself,  I  took  it  as  a  message 
from  the  dead,  and  it  steadied  me,  Emmie  —  it  steadied 
me  at  once.    As  soon  as  I  can,  I  shall  go  back  there  to 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  297 

carry  on  the  work.  I  consider  it  a  sacred  duty  that  we 
Englishmen  owe  to  his  memory;  and  while  there's  a 
kick  left  in  me  I'll  be  true  to  it.  If  I  can't  get  anyone 
to  trust  me  with  the  command,  I'm  ready  to  serve  under 
anybody  else  —  any  Englishman  —  as  second  in  com- 
mand, if  they  think  me  good  enough ;  —  as  third  mate, 
or  cook,  if  that's  the  best  job  they  think  I'm  worth." 

For  some  reason  or  other  he  was  going  to  North 
China  when  the  outbreak  of  war  stopped  him.  The 
four-years  agony  had  begun.  He  served  first  as  a 
sailor,  then  as  a  soldier ;  and  it  may  be  said  at  once  that 
Emmie  was  never  less  anxious  about  him  than  at  this 
time,  for,  although  the  war  of  course  had  its  risks,  they 
seemed  so  much  smaller  than  those  of  his  ordinary  life. 

But  she  had  anxieties  of  another  kind  —  about 
money.  Fortunately,  with  exploration  at  a  standstill, 
she  was  given  a  breathing  space;  in  fact,  she  was  in 
such  a  mess  financially  that  she  could  not  anyhow  have 
assisted  the  good  cause  by  secret  donations.  For  some 
while  she  had  been  gambling.  There  was  no  other  word 
for  it  —  and  her  very  respectable  stockbrokers  used 
the  word  freely. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Verinder,"  said  Mr.  Burnett,  the 
stockbroker.  "  I  must  really  warn  you  against  this 
sort  of  thing.  It  is  not  investment  at  all ;  it  is  specula- 
tion.   It  is  sheer  gambling." 

Ignoring  his  advice,  she  bought  some  oil  shares  and 
lost  her  money.  She  had  been  impelled  to  make  this 
venture  by  a  hint  concerning  the  future  of  oil  that  had 
fallen  casually  from  the  lips  of  Anthony.  Another 
philosophic  reflection  of  his  led  her  into  copper;  and 
this  commodity  also  played  her  false. 


298  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  What  did  I  tell  you?  "  said  Mr.  Burnett.  "  ^Vhy 
wUl  you  jeopardise  your  position  in  this  manner.  It 
isn't  as  if  you  were  not  well-off." 

Miss  Verinder  demurely  replied  that,  although  origi- 
nally well-off,  her  expenses  had  increased,  and  for  cer- 
tain reasons  she  would  be  pleased  to  add  to  her  income. 
"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,"  cried  Mr.  Burnett,  almost 
writhing  in  his  altruistic  despair.  "  How  often  have  I 
heard  people  like  you  say  exactly  what  you  have  just 
said !  In  this  very  room.  Miss  Verinder  —  clients  who 
really  ought  to  know  better  " ;  and  he  gave  her  a  severe 
little  lecture  on  her  recent  speech,  which,  he  said,  was 
absolutely  typical  in  the  foolishness  of  its  underlying 
ideas.  Widows  and  spinsters,  living  out  of  the  world, 
knowing  nothing  of  business,  with  no  man  to  control 
them,  invariably  talk  in  that  silly  manner  before  they 
fall  into  the  most  frightful  pitfalls. 

But  this  incorrigible  spinster  went  on  with  her  bad 
practices,  buying  this  and  that  queer  thing,  and  once,  to 
the  astonishment  and  annoyance  of  Mr.  Burnett,  secur- 
ing a  little  profit.  Tliat  made  her  worse  than  ever,  and 
she  soon  went  right  doy»^n  all  among  the  pitfalls. 

"  Now  what  do  you  intend?  "  said  the  stockbroker, 
speaking  very  gravely  of  the  catastrophe.  "  Are  you 
going  on,  or  are  you  going  to  stop?  " 

"  I  scarcely  know  how  to  answer,"  said  Emmie,  after 
a  silence.  "  I  have  dropped  so  much  that  it  almost 
seems  as  if  I  couldn't  afford  to  stop.  " 

Mr.  Burnett  writhed  despairingly.  Then  nodding 
his  head,  and  pointed  his  finger  at  her,  he  said,  "  Miss 
Verinder,  may  I  tell  you  a  story?  " 

"  Oh,  please  do,"  said  Emmie.  "  I  should  be  so  glad 
if  you  would." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  299 

"A  client  of  ours  was  bitten  with  this  mania  —  for 
mania  it  is ;  although,  mind  you,  there  was  more  excuse 
for  her,  because  it  was  in  peace-time,  and  not  when  the 
whole  world  has  gone  upside  down  and  from  day  to  day 
one  cannot  make  the  wildest  guess  as  to  v/hat  the  value 
of  anything  will  be  to-morrow.  She  was  not  only  a 
client  but  a  relative  —  my  own  cousin  —  Adela  Burnett 
—  so  I  knew  all  her  circumstances.  She  too  was  an 
old —  Suffice  it  to  say  that  she  was  the  unmarried 
daughter  of  my  uncle  John,  who  had  left  her  quite  a 
good  little  property.  Really  a  jolly  little  place  in 
Sussex  —  perhaps  three  hundred  acres,  not  more  — 
and  I  don't  know  how  many  feet  above  the  sea  —  The 
Mount,  they  called  it  —  not  that  the  name  matters. 
But  there  she  was  —  don't  you  see?  —  surrounded  with 
comfort  —  quite  able  to  play  the  lady  bountiful  in  a 
small  way  —  respected  by  everybody.  The  first  doubt- 
ful order  she  brought  to  me  —  the  very  first.  Miss 
Verinder  "  —  and  he  shook  his  finger  impressively  — 
"  I  said,  *  Adela,  stop  it.'  But  did  she  listen  to  me? 
No.  It  was  nothing  to  her  that  my  firm  is  one  of  the 
oldest  in  the  City  of  London  and  that  her  own  cousin 
is  its  senior  partner.  She  would  sooner  act  on  the 
advice  of  the  local  doctor,  or  the  curate,  or  the  wife 
of  the  master  of  hounds,  than  listen  to  anything  our 
firm  could  tell  her.  Well,  I  warned  her  for  the  second 
time.  And  what  do  you  think  she  did?  What,  Miss 
Verinder,  do  vou  think  she  did?  " 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  said  Miss  Verinder,  feebly. 

"  She  removed  her  business  to  another  firm." 

"  Oh,  what  a  shame !  "  said  Emmie,  with  sympathetic 
indignation.  "  Oh,  I  think  that  was  mean  of  her.  I 
promise  never  to  do  anything  like  that." 


300  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Mr.  Burnett  writhed  again.  It  seemed  that  Miss 
Verinder  was  missing  the  whole  point  of  the  story.  As 
he  hastened  to  explain,  it  was  not  the  loss  of  his  com- 
mission but  the  ruin  of  his  cousin  that  he  deplored. 

"  Yes,  she  ruined  herself.  And  where  is  she  now? 
Where,  Miss  Verinder,  is  she  now?  " 

"  '\Miere  is  she,  Mr.  Burnett?  " 

"  Living  in  one  room  —  in  a  wretched  road  not  far 
from  Clapham  Common.  Pigging  it  in  one  single  room 
—  subsisting  as  best  she  may  on  a  voluntary  allowance 
made  to  her  by  —  her  blood  relations  " ;  and  for  a 
moment  Mr.  Burnett  looked  modest,  as  though  implor- 
ing that  no  compliments  should  be  paid  with  regard  to 
the  generosity  of  Adela's  family.  Then  be  became  more 
impressive  than  ever.  "  To  this  she  has  reduced  her- 
self by  Stock  Exchange  gambling.  Think  of  it.  Here 
you  have  a  delicately  nurtured  lady,  no  longer  young, 
accustomed  to  be  waited  on  by  a  highly-trained  do- 
mestic staff,  now  cooking  her  own  meals  in  a  bed-sitting- 
room.    One  room,  Miss  Verinder.    Just  think  of  it." 

Miss  Verinder  thought  of  it.  The  accommodation 
would  be  hopelessly  inadequate  in  her  case.  Three 
rooms  was  the  very  least  she  could  do  with  —  one  for 
herself,  one  for  Louisa,  and  a  spare  one  for  Tony. 

Should  she  go  on  or  stop?  With  the  cost  of  life 
leaping  upward,  with  a  humble  invalid  pensioner  called 
Aunt  Janet  still  on  her  hands,  with  further  obligations 
to  an  unhappy  prisoner  in  the  midlands  whose  expenses 
had  again  risen,  with  an  income  tax  threatening  to 
absorb  half  her  diminished  dividends,  she  looked  at  the 
future  in  trepidation  and  saw  it  full  of  difficulties  and 
dangers.  She  shook  with  dread  as  she  thought  that  the 
time  might  come  when  she  would  not  be  able  to  maintaiD 


SPINSTER   OF    THIS    PARISH  301 

this  beloved  flat  just  as  it  had  always  been.  Oh,  for 
a  coup,  for  a  stroke  of  luck  that  would  bring  security ! 
During  long  hours  of  feverish  wakeful  nights-  she  asked 
herself  that  question.     Should  she  go  on  or  stop? 

She  went  on.  Perhaps  it  is  impossible  to  consort  for 
a  number  of  years  with  an  adventurer  and  yet  not 
catch  the  adventurous  spirit;  or  to  force  oneself  to 
think  boldly  in  regard  to  a  few  matters  without  acquir- 
ing the  habit  of  bold  thinking  in  regard  to  all  matters. 
And  her  pulses  had  been  stirred  by  what  seemed  to  be 
another  hint  from  her  oracle.  Although  the  submarine 
menace  was  as  yet  nothing  more  than  a  menace,  Dyke 
foretold  the  ultimate  scarcity  of  shipping ;  and  writing 
to  her  from  a  mine-sweeper  in  the  Mediterranean,  he 
said  he  believed  that  anybody  now  could  make  a  certain 
fortune  by  getting  hold  of  ships,  no  matter  how  old 
they  were,  and  selling  them  again  later,  ''  No  doubt," 
he  added,  "  a  lot  of  artful  dodgers  are  doing  it 
already." 

A  fortnight  after  receiving  this  letter.  Miss  Verinder 
was  established  at  the  Adelphi  Hotel,  Liverpool.  She 
had  with  her  as  travelling  companion  Mr.  Cairns,  late 
captain  of  the  Mercedaria;  and  he  and  she,  passing  here 
and  there  unnoticed  among  the  war  crowd  at  the  big 
hotel,  were  exceedingly  busy  —  so  busy,  in  fact,  that 
she  had  no  spare  moments  for  reviving  sentimental 
memories  of  her  only  previous  visit  to  this  great  mari- 
time city. 

Cairns,  although  so  much  older  now  than  then,  still 
gave  one  the  same  impression  of  solidity  and  trust- 
worthiness. He  still  loved  his  joke,  but  the  years  had 
made  him  a  little  asthmatic  and  his  laughter  was  apt  to 
end  in  a  fit  of  coughing.    Emmie,  taking  tender  care  of 


302  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

him,  made  him  give  another  turn  of  the  muffler  round 
his  neck  as  they  rowed  up  the  river  one  morning  and 
met  the  sharp  winter's  breeze  on  their  faces.  In  the 
rowboat  with  them  were  two  shabby-looking  elderly 
men  that  Cairns  had  produced  after  searching  among 
his  seafaring  and  commercial  acquaintance.  These 
queer  associates  were  Mr.  Gann,  a  tall,  mournful  man, 
and  Mr.  Rice,  who  was  stout  and  jovial;  and  by 
Cairns's  arrangement  they  and  Emmie  had  entered  into 
a  little  partnership  for  the  purpose  of  buying  an  iron 
steamer  named  the  Marian  II.,  this  vessel  being  one 
of  three  that  a  panic-stricken  owner  desired  to  shuffle 
off  his  hands.  To-day  the}^  were  going  over  her  for  a 
last  look  round,  before  taking  the  plunge. 

"  I  don't  like  being  mixed  up  in  business  with  a 
woman,"  Mr.  Gann  had  said  sadly,  after  his  first  intro- 
duction to  Emmie's  pale  face,  charming  graceful 
manner,  and  fashionable  London  costume.  "  Always 
lands  3^ou  in  more  than  3^ou  bargained  for." 

"  My  experience  too,"  said  Rice. 

But  Cairns  had  reassured  them,  and,  as  it  were, 
thrown  them  into  Emmie's  arms. 

"  My  lads,"  said  Cairns,  "  don't  you  worry  about  her 
being  a  woman.  Take  it  from  me,  she  has  more  grit 
than  half  a  dozen  ordinar}^  men." 

Now  they  were  beginning  to  think  that  Cairns  was 
right. 

Truly  she  was  wonderful,  ducking  under  a  wet  hawser 
that  caught  one  of  her  partners  as  the  boat  approached 
the  wharf  alongside  which  lay  Marian  II.,  climbing 
slippery  steps,  and  crossing  a  ricket}^  gangway  to  get 
on  board.  Yet  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  imagine 
anybody  who  appeared  more  incongruous  to  the  busi- 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  303 

ness  and  the  scene.  In  the  bright  cold  sunshine  the 
ship  seemed  a  melancholy  ruin,  full  of  rust  and  grime, 
with  the  air  of  forlorn  abandonment  proper  to  a  thing 
created  for  men's  use  but  deserted  by  all  mankind ;  and 
Emmie,  dressed  in  her  fur  coat,  with  her  veil  neatly 
tied  under  her  narrow  chin  and  her  chamois  leather 
gloves  being  blackened  by  each  bit  of  wood  or  metal 
that  they  touched,  was  like  a  lady  going  over  a  house 
that  she  thinks  of  taking  for  a  term  of  years.  As  she 
walked  about  with  Cairns  and  the  caretaker,  now  on 
the  rusting  decks,  now  in  the  gloomy  depths,  she  asked 
a  multitude  of  questions,  all  charmingly  unprofessional 
and  yet  all  full  of  common-sense. 

"  Can  the  machinery  be  put  in  working  order?  Are 
there  no  leaks  ?  Is  she  sound.  Captain  Cairns  ?  I  think 
nothing  of  appearances  —  no  one  cares  now ;  —  but  is 
she  really  watertight  and  seaworthy?  " 

"  Yes,  miss,"  said  Captain  Cairns.  "  The  three  ships 
are  all  right.    You  may  take  my  word  for  it." 

"  But  this  is  the  best  of  the  three,  isn't  she?  " 

"Yes,  I  think  she  is.  She's  the  best-looking,  any- 
how." 

Nothing  tired  Miss  Verinder,  and  she  took  nothing 
for  granted.  Although  they  were  only  concerned  with 
the  Marian  II.,  she  insisted  on  being  rowed  up  the  river 
a  little  further,  to  see  the  other  two  steamers  that  be- 
longed to  the  same  owner.  One  of  these,  the  Osprey, 
was  out  in  the  stream,  black  and  forbidding,  with  the 
water  racing  past  the  faded  paint  beneath  her  load- 
line.  The  third  one,  the  Anemone,  was  literally  on 
the  mud. 

"  Is  her  back  broken?  "  asked  Emmie. 

"Good    Lord,    no,"    said    Cairns.      "She's    right 


304  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

enough.  Get  her  reconditioned,  and  no  one  would 
recognize  her." 

Mr.  Gann  and  Mr.  Rice  were  both  suffering  from  the 
cold,  and  both  weary  of  the  excursion.  At  their  re- 
quest the  boat  was  turned  and  the  party  made  its  way 
back  to  Liverpool. 

Miss  Verinder  was  more  wonderful  still  at  the  final 
meeting  with  the  timorous  owner  and  his  agent.  They 
all  sat  round  a  carved  oak  table  in  a  luxurious  private 
sitting-room  at  the  hotel ;  but,  as  the  manager  had  not 
been  able  to  allow  them  a  fire,  Miss  Verinder  retained 
her  fur  wraps  and  the  gentlemen  their  overcoats.  She 
took  no  part  in  a  lengthy  struggle  with  regard  to  the 
price  they  were  to  pay.  Cairns  and  the  agent  grew 
heated  in  a  contest  of  praise  and  disparagement.  Mr. 
Gann  became  sadder  and  more  sad.  Mr.  Rice  at  last 
told  Mr.  Jones,  the  owner,  that  to  ask  twelve  thousand 
pounds  for  a  rotten  old  tub  like  the  Marian  II.  was 
liigh-seas  piracy;  and  Mr.  Jones  said  that  unless  this 
word  was  immediately  withdrawn  he  would  break  off  the 
negotiation.  To  show  that  he  was  in  earnest,  he 
pushed  back  his  chair  and  put  on  his  hat. 

"  Ladies  present,  kindly  remember,"  said  Cairns. 

''  Oh,  please  don't  mind  me,"  said  Miss  Verinder, 
sweetly.  Tlien  she  went  and  rang  an  electric  bell  while 
the  others  continued  to  wrangle. 

A  waiter  brought,  not  inopportunely,  a  tray  with 
sandwiches,  biscuits,  whisky,  soda  water;  and,  at  Miss 
Verinder's  request,  the  gentlemen  consented  to  take 
light  refreshment. 

Then  she  sat  at  the  table  again,  and  smiled  depre- 
catingly  at  Mr.  Jones. 

"  Will  3'OU  allow  me  to  speak  quite  frankly,  Mr. 
Jones  ?  " 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  305 

Mr.  Jones,  with  his  mouth  full  of  biscuit,  signified 
assent;  and  Emmie  startled  him  and  her  allies  by  a 
quiet  but  entirely  damaging  attack  upon  the  Marian  II, 
She  said  that  if  Mr.  Jones  was  fond  of  Marian  IL  and 
wanted  to  keep  her,  there  was  no  more  to  be  said.  But 
if  he  really  wished  to  sell  the  ship,  she  must  confess 
that  the  price  he  was  asking  struck  her  as  quite  ridic- 
ulous. She  admitted  that  Marian  II,  was  the  best  of 
the  bunch.  "  Oh,  yes,  certainly.  As  to  the  other 
two  — "  and  she  gave  a  little  shiver,  as  if  upset  by  the 
mere  recollection  of  their  state.  One  of  them,  she  went 
on  demurely,  was  to  her  mind  little  better  than  a  dere- 
lict, and  the  other  one  gave  her  an  impression  of  being 
about  to  sink-  at  its  moorings. 

Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Mr.  Jones. 
Well,  that  was  my  impression,"  said  Emmie.     "  I 
don't  profess  to  be  an  expert.     But  I  can  assure  you, 
Mr.  Jones,  we  are  here  to  do  business.    We  want  to  do 
business.    Can't  we  make  a  deal  of  it,  anyhow?  " 

"  Not  on  your  terms.  I'd  sooner  go  to  government. 
You  forget  there's  government  always  ready  to  buy." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Jones !  "  said  Emmie,  as  if  shocked  by  this 
pretence.  "  I  understand  that  the  government  officials 
have  inspected  your  ships  at  least  a  dozen  times." 

"  They  may  change  their  minds." 

*'  Never.  If  the  government  had  wanted  them  they 
would  have  taken  them  long  ago." 

*'  That's  so,"  said  Cairns,  firmly. 

"  Nevertheless,  Mr.  Jones,"  said  Emmie,  resuming  a 
gentle  argumentative  tone,  "  suppose  we  were  to  make 
you  a  sporting  bid  for  the  three  vessels?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  her  partners,  astounded ;  and  Mr, 
Cairns  touched  her  arm  and  began  to  cough.    But  Miss 


306  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Verinder  quietly  went  on  with  it. 

"  A  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush.  Every 
day  your  ships  are  deteriorating  in  value.  Now  a  -firm 
offer,  Mr.  Jones.  Cash!  Twenty-seven  thousand  for 
the  three !  " 

"  No,  no." 

Mr.  Gann  and  Mr.  Rice  both  turned  upon  her ; 
Captain  Cairns,  choking,  took  her  by  the  arm  and  led 
her  to  the  recess  of  the  furthest  window.  There  her 
partners  expostulated  with  her,  declaring  that  they 
could  not  plunge  in  this  manner.  One  ship  was  all  they 
were  good  for. 

"  Very  well,*'  she  immediately  replied ;  "  then  I'll 
do  the  other  two  ships  on  my  own." 

"  And  let  us  stand  or  fall  on  number  one.?  " 

"Yes,  unless  you  think  better  of  it.  Don't,  please, 
suppose  I'm  tr34ng  to  squeeze  you  out.  At  equal 
stakes  we  were  to  have  a  third  share,  weren't  we?  Now 
divide  it  into  twenty- sevenths.  You  see  how  simple 
it  is,  don't  you,  Captain  Cairns?  Instead  of  one-third 
each  of  these  gentlemen  will  have  four  and  a  half 
twenty-sevenths  —  or  whatever  the  correct  fraction 
is.  That  can  easily  be  settled  at  leisure.  But,  please, 
let  me  get  back  to  Mr.  Jones  now.  I  want  to  strike 
while  the  iron's  hot." 

Then  she  returned  to  the  table,  and  with  a  slightly 
ostentatious  flourish  produced  a  cheque  book. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Jones,  I'm  ready  to  write  you  a  cheque 
for  a,  ten  per  cent,  deposit.    Is  the  deal  going  through?" 

The  deal  went  through.  Perhaps  because  of  his 
naturally  timid  nature,  perhaps  because  of  the  obvious 
reluctance  shown  by  the  lady's  partners,  Mr.  Jones 
said  "  Done." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  307 

"  And  done,"  Emmie  echoed  brightly. 

She  seemed  mildly  excited  and  no  more.  As  she 
bowed  to  the  company  and  withdrew,  she  still  had  that 
air  of  a  well-preserved  middle-aged  lady  conducting 
some  little  affair  of  ordinary  well-to-do  life  —  such  as 
taking  a  furnished  house  or  buying  a  motor-car. 

"  Well,  I'm  blowed,"  said  Mr.  Rice,  when  the  vendor 
and  his  agent  had  in  turn  gone  away.  "  She  is  a  card, 
and  no  mistake.  But  confound  her  arithmetic.  Here, 
give  me  a  drop  more  whisky.  I  don't  know  whether 
I'm  on  my  head  or  my  heels." 

"  That's  always  the  outcome,  with  a  woman,"  said 
Mr.  Gann  sadly. 

"  Look  here,"  said  old  Cairns  enthusiastically. 
"  You  stick  it  through  with  her.  For,  take  it  from  me 
—  although  I  was  staggered  a  moment  —  she's  done  a 
big  thing,  and  she's  right.  It'll  turn  up  trumps."  And 
Mr.  Cairns  began  to  laugh  and  cough  at  the  same  time. 
"  What  gets  me,"  he  spluttered,  "  is  the  comic  side  of 
it.  All  our  faces,  when  she  said  —  firm  offer !  Didn't 
I  tell  you  she  had  grit?  Listen  half  a  minute.  As  an 
example  —  in  strict  confidence  —  a  thing  she  did  when 
she  was  quite  a  girl !  "  And,  splutteringly,  he  narrated 
how  once  when  Miss  Verinder  was  travelling  with  a 
friend  in  foreign  parts,  they  were  captured  and  set 
upon  by  bravos;  "and  just  as  it  seem^ed  they  were 
going  to  be  down  and  out,  she  whips  in  with  a  revolver 
and—" 

At  this  moment  Miss  Verinder  herself  interrupted  the 
narration  by  reappearing  at  the  door. 

"  Captain  Cairns,  can  I  have  one  word  with  you?  " 

Outside  in  the  corridor  she  spoke  to  him  tremulously. 
She  was  very  pale,  and  she  betrayed  a  nervousness  and 


308  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

agitation  strangely  out  of  character  with  the  melo- 
dramatic heroine  of  the  Captain's  interrupted  tale. 

"  Oh,  Captain  Cairns,  do  you  think  "  —  and  after 
hesitating  she  used  a  phrase  that  on  several  occasions 
he  had  used  himself  —  "  do  j^ou  think  I  have  bitten  oif 
more  than  I  can  chew?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Cairns  stoutly.  *'  You've  done  a 
good  morning's  work,  and  I,  well,  I'm  proud  of  you." 

The  venture  turned  up  trumps.  After  three  months 
of  painful  hope  and  fear  they  sold  Marian  II.  and  got 
back  all  their  money.  Then  four  months  later  they  sold 
the  last  ship  and  wound  up  the  modest  syndicate  with 
a  profit  of  fifty  thousand  pounds.  Meanwhile,  operat- 
ing alone.  Miss  Verinder  had  bought  and  sold  two 
larger  vessels  and  thereby  gained  nearly  seventy  thou- 
sand pounds.  Then  she  bought  ordinary  shares  in 
shipping  companies,  received  fabulous  dividends,  and 
got  out  again.  Then,  as  a  last  flutter,  returning  to  an 
old  fancy,  she  did  something  really  big  in  oil.  And 
then,  literally  and  metaphorically,  she  folded  her  hands. 

Long  before  this  time  Mr.  Burnett,  the  stockbroker, 
had  ceased  to  talk  to  her  about  his  cousin  Adela,  or  to 
lecture  her  in  general  terms  on  the  foolishness  of  lonely 
widows  and  spinsters.  He  understood  now  that  in  a 
world  which  has  gone  upside  down  wise  saws  and 
ancient  instances  are  out  of  place.  He  hung  upon  her 
words,  he  treated  her  with  the  deference  due  to  an 
important  client ;  as  his  clerks  would  have  said,  "  he 
wished  he  had  half  her  complaint." 

She  herself  was  frightened  by  her  success.  In  the 
inevitable  reaction  after  so  much  nervous  strain  and 
excitement,  she  felt  an  almost  superstitious  fear  of  the 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  309 

flood  of  new  capital  that  was  rolling  in  upon  her.  She 
had  dreaded  poverty,  and  now  it  was  as  if  some  instinct 
warned  her  that  she  might  have  a  greater  cause  to 
dread  the  consequences  of  wealth.  She  told  no  one 
anything  about  it  —  no,  not  even  Tony.  She  guarded 
all  knowledge  of  it  as  though  it  had  been  a  guilty 
secret.  She  flushed  and  felt  ashamed  when  affluent  Mrs. 
Bell  emitted  groans  under  the  war  taxation,  or  when 
people  spoke  with  scathing  contempt  of  war  profiteers. 
She  longed  for  peace. 

But  the  war  went  on.  *'  Will  it  ever  stop  ?  "  wrote 
Mr.  Dyke  from  Endells.  '*  It  is  very  cruel  to  us  old 
people." 

Yes,  it  was  cruel  to  old  people.  It  shook  them,  it 
weakened  them,  it  killed  them.  Emmie  thought  of  this 
—  when  old  Mr.  Dyke  fell  ill  again ;  and  when  her 
mother  died.  Mrs.  Verinder,  shrunk  to  half  her  past 
size,  for  many  years  had  been  an  old  lady  in  a  Bath 
chair  gliding  slowly  along  the  sea-shore  at  Brighton 
with  her  head  a  little  on  one  side;  sometimes  speaking 
of  Mr.  Verinder  as  though  he  was  still  alive;  rather 
doubtful  about  the  identity  of  Emmeline  when  she 
visited  her,  and  always  prone  to  confound  Margaret 
Pratt  with  Margaret's  eldest  daughter.  Now  she  sub- 
sided in  the  chair,  and  vanished.  Then  one  day 
Emmie's  clever  solicitor  wrote  to  inform  her  that  her 
pensioner,  old  Mrs.  Kent,  was  no  more. 

Still  the  war  went  on.  It  had  reached  that  point 
when  one  felt  and  said  that  civilization  was  doomed, 
that  this  planet  was  lapsing  into  irremediable  chaos, 
and  that  the  whole  universe  might  crash  to  fire  and 
dust.  When  Emmie  read  the  obituary  advertisements 
in  The  Times,  she  felt  now  that,  young  or  middle-aged 


310  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

or  old,  the  war  spared  none.  As  many  people  were 
dying  of  it  here  in  England  as  out  there  at  the  front. 
Only  that  unfortunate  life-sentence  prisoner  in  the 
prison  called  Upperslade  Park  remained  quite  undis- 
turbed by  the  war,  and,  as  her  guardians  told  Emmie, 
enjoyed  excellent  health. 

It  was  unending.  Dyke  had  served  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean, in  East  Africa,  in  Mesopotamia ;  and  all  the 
while  he  had  been  getting  more  and  more  angry,  first 
because  the  Germans  took  such  a  lot  of  beating,  and, 
secondly,  because,  although  they  knew  themselves 
beaten,  they  wouldn't  own  it.  "  Do  you  realize,"  he 
wrote  now,  "  that  I  am  fif t^^-eight  ?  If  it  goes  on  much 
longer  I  shall  be  fit  for  nothing  but  to  settle  down  with 
my  old  governor  in  Devonshire,  and  hoe  potatoes  and 
carry  the  muck  pail  to  the  pigs.  Well,  perhaps  it 
might  be  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to  me.  I 
should  be  happy  there  if  my  Emmie  was  with  me." 

Oh,  if  only  that  could  come  true !  His  Emmie  sat 
dreaming  with  the  letter  in  her  hand,  giving  herself  to 
the  mental  vision  that  his  words  had  evoked  —  the 
tranquil  perfect  life  down  there  in  the  house  that  she 
loved,  the  unbroken  companionship ;  Anthony  satisfied, 
with  his  roving  spirit  finally  at  rest ;  he  and  she  as  the 
squire  and  the  squire's  lady,  being  kind  to  everybody, 
doing  a  little  good  with  her  money. 

Then  she  remembered  the  real  Mrs.  Anthony  Dyke. 
Even  if  he  consented  to  remain  in  England,  that  peace- 
ful dual  life  would  be  as  impossible  as  it  had  always 
been.  And  thinking  again  of  all  this  money  of  hers  and 
of  the  power  that  money  brings,  she  grew  cold  and  sad. 
It  was  as  if  already  she  knew  that  the  money  would 
draw  her  irresistibly  to  a  supreme  sacrifice. 


CHAPTER     XV 

IT  had  come  to  an  end;  and  that  first  Christmas 
after  the  Armstice  was  spent  by  Emmie  at  Endells. 
On  Christmas  eve  they  had  an  afternoon  party 
for  the  children  of  the  village ;  with  the  curate,  a  school- 
mistress, Mr.  Sturgess  the  doctor,  and  a  few  friendly 
neighbours  to  assist  Miss  Verinder  in  entertaining  the 
guests.  She  acted  as  hostess  for  old  Mr.  Dyke,  and 
was  indeed  treated  by  all  as  though  she  had  been  a 
daughter  of  the  house.  Everybody  there  knew  her 
and  liked  her. 

After  a  plenteous  tea  she  led  the  company  to  a  hall 
or  annexe  that  had  been  used  as  parish-room  and 
general  meeting-place  in  the  days  when  the  house  was 
the  rectory  as  well  as  the  residence  of  the  squire. 

"  Keep  down  here,  please,"  said  Emmie.  "  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you  all." 

The  children,  surging  into  the  big  room,  had  made 
at  once  towards  a  screen  of  curtains  at  the  far  end; 
from  behind  which  came  the  sound  of  whispers  and 
busy  movements,  suggesting  that  some  mystery  was  in 
preparation  there.  Now  they  obediently  flocked  back 
towards  the  wide  hearth,  and  formed  a  dense  half  cirlce 
of  eager  shining  faces. 

"  That's  right.     Thank  you,"  said  Emmie. 

It  was  a  pretty  old-fashioned  little  scene;  very 
pleasant,  in  its  homelike  character,  to  eyes  that  for  so 
long  had  been   gazing  towards   the  smoke-clouds   of 

311 


312  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

foreign  lands.  The  electric  light  burning  gaily  brought 
out  the  cheerful  colours  of  flags,  paper  festoons,  and 
holly  berries,  with  which  Miss  Verinder  had  decorated 
the  walls  and  ceiling  beams.  The  boys,  smooth  and 
oily  of  pate,  were  still  rather  shy;  the  bigger  girls,  in 
their  very  best  frocks,  looked  dignified  but  self-con- 
scious ;  and  some  tiny  little  girls,  large-eyed  and  fluffy- 
haired,  like  dolls,  hopped  excitedly  and  clapped  their 
small  hands.  One  of  these  animated  dolls  had  attached 
herself  to  Miss  Verinder,  and  moved  with  her  while  a 
chair  was  fetched  from  the  wall  and  placed  in  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

Miss  Verinder  made  Mr.  Dyke  sit  on  the  chair.  He 
had  carried  plates  of  cake,  waiting  on  the  children  at 
their  tea ;  he  was  so  happy,  and  so  much  pleased  with 
the  party,  that  he  would  not  spare  his  old  legs  or  think 
for  a  moment  of  the  danger  of  overtiring  himself, 

"  Now,"  said  Emmie,  with  her  hand  on  the  back  of 
his  chair,  beginning  the  expected  oration.  At  the  same 
moment  the  curate  went  to  the  door,  and  stationed  him- 
self by  the  switches  that  controlled  the  electric  light. 
In  the  background  there  was  a  delighted  whispering 
and  giggling  of  the  servants.  "  Now,  first  I  think  3^ou 
ought  all  to  thank  Mr.  Dyke  for  giving  us  this  treat.'* 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  Thank  you,  sir."  Prompted  by 
the  schoolmistress,  a  noisy  chorus  of  thanks  burst  from 
the  attentive  audience. 

"  Don't  thank  me.  Thank  Miss  Verinder,"  said  old 
Dyke,  beaming.    "  It's  she  who  has  taken  the  trouble." 

"  Thank  you,  miss.     Thank  you,  miss." 

Miss  Verinder  smiled,  blushed,  and  then  continued 
her  speech.  "  I  want  to  speak  about  Father  Christmas, 
It  is  Father  Christmas,  is  it  not.?  who  comes  down  the 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  313 

chimney  at  night  and  puts  things  in  your  stockings. 
It  is  he  who  goes  into  the  dark  woods  and  grubs  up 
the  lovely  Christmas  trees  and  drags  them  over  the 
fields  to  the  village.  You  like  those  trees  of  his,  don't 
you?  Yes,  and  Father  Christmas  carries  a  great  sack 
over  his  shoulder  full  of  toys  to  hang  on  the  tree  —  or 
perhaps  the  sack  is  a  bran  pie!  And  he  has  a  staff  in 
his  hand.  You've  seen  heaps  of  pictures  of  him,  haven't 
you?  But  you've  never  seen  him  himself.  Oh,  how 
nice  it  would  be  to  see  him !  Perhaps  "  —  and  Miss 
Verinder  smiled  archly  —  "I  say  perhaps,  he  is  really 
close  by  —  only  afraid  to  show  himself.  I  believe  he  is 
afraid  of  the  lights.  He  always  moves  about  in  the 
dark.     Shall  we  turn  down  the  lights?  " 

"  No,"  cried  the  little  child  at  Emmie's  skirts,  "  don't 
turn  down  the  lights.  I'm  more  afraid  of  the  dark  zan 
Fazer  Kissmuss  is  of  anysing " ;  and  she  clung  to 
Emmie. 

"  Only  for  a  moment,  dear.  And  you've  got  my 
hand.  There,  I'll  keep  my  arm  round  you.  Now  you 
don't  mind.  Mr.  Vincent !  "  And  the  curate  by  the 
switches  received  his  signal. 

The  room  was  in  darkness,  except  for  the  glow  of 
the  fire  and  certain  gleams  that  came  through  those 
curtains.  One  could  hear  everybody  breathing  hard. 
Then  out  burst  the  lamp-light  again,  dazzling  one. 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh !  "  The  children,  recoiling,  stared  in 
awe  and  ecstasy.    Father  Christmas  was  in  their  midst. 

He  was  enormous,  overwhelming;  a  magnificent 
apparition,  all  in  red,  with  immense  white  beard,  cotton- 
wool eyebrows,  high  reddened  cheek-bones,  and  a  great 
beak  of  a  nose.  He  stalked  towards  the  curtains,  the 
enraptured  children  following  him. 


314  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

He  drew  the  curtains  wide  open ;  and  exliibited  a 
most  splendid  Christmas  tree  as  high  as  the  ceiling 
covered  with  fairy  lamps  and  glittering  ornaments,  its 
branches  hanging  low  under  the  rich  burden  of  to3^s. 
He  began  at  once,  under  the  direction  of  Miss  Verinder, 
and  aided  by  Hannah  the  housekeeper,  to  pluck  the 
fruit  of  the  tree  and  to  distribute  it. 

And  very  soon  the  children  lost  their  awe  of  Father 
Christmas,  hustling  him,  pulling  his  skirts ;  thinking 
only  of  the  to3's,  and  saying,  "  Gi'  me  that  gun  —  oh, 
please.  Hi,  mister,  let  me  have  this  box  o'  dom'nos. 
I'm  older  than  what  she  is.  .  .  .  Sir,  play  fair,  sir. 
My  turn,  sir." 

The  little  girl  alone  still  believed  in  his  supernatural 
attributes,  still  clung  to  Emmie  and  shrank  from  him. 

"  Send  him  away,"  she  implored.  "  I  don't  like 
liim." 

"  He's  only  a  man,  really,"  said  Emmie. 

"  No,  he  isn't.     He's  Fazer  Kissmus." 

Then  Emmie  issued  a  command. 

"  Tony,  pull  off  your  beard." 

Father  Christmas,  willingly  obeying,  divested  himself 
of  beard  and  cotton  wool,  and  thus  brought  into  view 
the  rumpled  grey  hair  and  reddened  cheeks  of  that  well- 
known  and  respected  local  personage,  Mr.  Anthony 
Dyke. 

He  went  away  to  get  the  paint  off  his  face,  and  was 
soon  back  again,  capering  gaily  about  in  an  ordinary 
blue  serge  suit  that  could  frighten  nobody.  He  played 
with  the  boys,  he  danced  with  the  girls,  and  he  kissed 
Hannah  under  the  mistletoe.  Hannah,  resisting,  called 
him  "  Master  Anthony,"  and  told  him  that  he  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  himself. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  315 

Shyness  and  constraint  had  long  since  left  the  young 
guests ;  after  an  orgy  of  cracker  pulling  and  the  loot  of 
the  tree,  the  party  became  a  romp. 

At  dinner,  when  they  talked  it  over,  all  agreed  that  it 
had  been  a  great  success.  They  had  with  them  for 
dinner  the  curate  and  his  wife  and  Mr.  Sturgess,  the 
doctor,  kindly  simple  people  of  whom  Emmie  was  fond. 
Comfort  and  peace  presided  over  the  friendly  meal,  and 
in  this  old  room,  sitting  beside  the  old  old  man,  Emmie 
looked  quite  young.  She  could  see  Anthony  casting 
glances  of  admiration  at  her  throughout  some  very  long 
anecdotes  with  which  Mr.  Sturgess  always  loved  to  re- 
fresh himself  when  he  dined  at  Endells. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  she  and  the  younger  Mr. 
Dyke  had  ever  been  here  together.  The  war,  destroy- 
ing so  much  else,  had  blown  away  that  delicacy  wliich 
used  to  separate  them  during  Anthony's  visits  to  his 
home.  All  over  the  world  —  as  Em.mie  thought,  sending 
back  glance  for  glance  —  this  first  Christmas  of  peace 
had  reunited  those  who  loved  one  another.  Oh,  what 
a  peace  it  would  have  been  if  it  could  have  brought 
with  it  a  law  that  there  were  never  again  to  be  any 
more  good-byes  and  partings !  In  the  midst  of  the 
warmth,  the  joy,  and  the  contentment,  sadness  coldly 
touched  her  heart. 

They  spent  the  evening  in  an  oaken  parlour,  where 
the  polished  floor  reflected  things  as  in  black  water,  and 
round  mirrors  gave  one  small  framed  pictures  of  the 
whole  room  and  its  occupants.  Emmie,  seated  at  the 
immensely  ancient  cottage  piano,  played  pretty  old- 
fashioned  melodies  that  she  used  to  play  in  Prince's 
Gate  as  a  girl ;  the  curate  sang ;  and  the  doctor,  regard- 
less of  the  music,  told  more  anecdotes.    Old  Mr.  Dyke, 


316  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

although  obviously  tired,  would  not  allow  the  guests  to 
leave  early.  Then  when  they  had  at  last  said  Good- 
night and  he  himself  had  gone  upstairs  to  bed,  Emmie 
and  his  son  lingered,  sitting  together  before  the  fire. 

Hannah  came  in  to  tell  them  that  it  was  nearly 
twelve  o'clock  and  she,  too,  was  retiring. 

"  I've  seen  to  the  shutters,"  she  said  severely.  "  But 
now  can  I  trust  you,  Mr.  Anthony,  to  turn  out  all  the 
lights,  and  make  sure  the  fires  are  safe  in  here  and  the 
dining-room?  " 

Mr.  Anthony  promised  to  do  his  duty. 

Then  Hannah  turned  to  Emmie.  "  Your  hot-water 
bottles,  miss !  Louisa  took  them  up  an  hour  ago  or 
more." 

"  Thank  you,  Hannah." 

Just  before  midnight  Dyke  went  and  undid  some  of 
Hannah's  shutters  in  order  to  open  the  front  door.  He 
wrapped  Emmie  in  one  of  his  overcoats,  and  they  stood 
side  by  side  on  the  gravel  outside  the  house.  The  night 
was  fine  and  still  with  the  stars  very  bright  in  a  dark 
but  cloudless  sky.  Above  the  black  mass  of  the  ilex 
trees  they  could  see  vaguely  the  church  tower. 

"  Will  the  bells  be  rung?  "  asked  Dyke. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Emmie.  "  That's  the  new  year, 
you're  thinking  of.    They  don't  ring  in  Christmas." 

Presently  the  church  clock  began  to  strike  the  mid- 
night hour.  Dyke  counted  the  strokes,  and  when  the 
twelfth  came  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"  A  happy  Christmas,  Emmie." 

"  And  to  you,  Tony  dear.  But  are  you  happy,  I 
wonder? " 

"  As  happy  as  several  birds  " ;  and  he  put  his  arm 
round  her  waist.     "  How  could  I  be  otherwise?  " 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  317 

They  came  in  again,  and  barred  the  door.  As  she 
went  upstairs  she  looked  down  at  him  and  saw  him 
looking  up  at  her,  his  face  all  gay  and  bright. 

"  Good-night.     Good-night." 

From  the  landing  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  she  looked 
down  again,  and  saw  his  whole  attitude  relax.  His 
head  drooped,  his  shoulders  hunched  themselves ;  and 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  he  went  slowly  back  to 
the  room  they  had  left. 

In  spite  of  his  eighty-five  years  and  bodily  weakness, 
the  old  man  got  up  long  before  daylight  and  attended 
the  early  celebration.  They  went  with  him  to  the 
ordinary  service  at  eleven  o'clock;  he  leaning  on 
Emmie's  arm  as  they  walked  through  the  garden,  and 
Anthony  solemnly  following.  Anthony  looked  fantastic 
as  well  as  solemn  in  an  astounding  top-hat  and  a 
skimpy  black  coat,  at  least  thirty  years  old,  that  he  had 
unearthed  from  a  wardrobe  of  his  dressing-room.  At 
certain  of  the  sacred  words  that  they  presently  heard 
Emmie  turned  her  eyes  towards  him  with  unutterable 
love  in  them,  and  she  felt  a  great  tenderness  and  com- 
passion as  she  held  the  hymn-book  for  his  father  and 
listened  to  his  thin  quavering  voice  as  he  piped  the 
sweet  Christmas  songs ;  but  during  most  of  the  service 
there  was  rather  a  far-away  look  on  her  face.  She  was 
in  truth  thinking  very  deeply. 

The  sun  shone  on  them  as  they  came  out  of  the 
church,  and  after  all  the  greetings  and  interchange  of 
good  wishes  with  neighbours  on  the  church  path, 
Emmie  and  the  old  man  went  to  sit  in  that  small  walled 
garden  that  they  both  loved.  It  was  really  warm  here. 
The  sunshine  made  strong  dark  shadows  as  well  as 


318  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

bright  patches  among  the  stalks  and  branches  of  the 
flowerless  borders.  Mr.  D^^ke  said  he  could  feel  it  on 
his  hands.  She  had  wrapped  a  rug  about  his  knees 
and  under  his  feet ;  and  she  turned  up  his  coat  collar 
and  muffled  his  neck  with  a  big  scarf.  Here,  sitting 
comfortably  in  the  sun  and  out  of  the  wind,  they  had  a 
long  serious  talk. 

Anthony,  having  cast  his  ancient  finery  and  clothed 
himself  in  a  loose  Norfolk  jacket,  was  on  the  little  ter- 
race and  busily  engaged  with  the  man  who  worked  the 
electric  light  engine.  They  were  mending  a  kitchen 
box  for  the  cook.  Anthony,  thoroughly  enjoying  this 
carpenter's  job,  only  ceased  his  chat  with  the  electrician 
to  fling  a  cheery  word  from  time  to  time  towards  the 
sunlit  pair  on  the  bench  down  below. 

"  Mr.  Dyke,  we  must  face  the  fact,"  Emmie  was  say- 
ing. '•  He  is  not  happy.  It  is  all  pretence.  Ever 
since  he  came  home  he  has  been  trying  hard  not  to  let 
me  see  what  he  feels.  But  I  can  see  always  —  knowing 
him  as  I  do.     He  wants  to  go  back  there  once  more." 

"  Go  back  there !  "  And  she  saw  the  sun-warmed 
hands  begin  to  shake  upon  the  shrunken  knees.  "  Not 
—  not  to  the  Antarctic?" 

Emmie  nodded  her  head.  "  Yes,  he  can't  deceive  me. 
It  is  more  than  a  wish  —  he  feels  that  it  is  a  duty." 

"  Oh,  no,  he  has  other  duties." 

"  But  he  feels  that  this  duty  is  sacred  —  a  sort  of 
charge  upon  him.  Unless  he  fulfils  it  —  or  at  least 
tries  to  fulfil  it  —  I  know  that  he  will  never  be  really 
happy  or  at  peace." 

"  Oh,  no  " ;  and  the  poor  weak  hands  were  shaking 
very  visibly.    "  He  mustn't  do  it.    He  is  too  old." 

"  Well,  that  is  what  I  want  us  to  consider  care- 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  319 

fully,"  Emmie  said  in  a  quiet  business-like  tone.  "  7* 
he  too  old?  He  is  fifty-nine.  That  of  course  would  be  too 
old  for  any  one  else;  but  then  he  is  not  like  other  men." 

Instinctively  they  both  looked  upward  to  the  terrace. 
Anthony,  after  stooping  over  the  box,  was  standing  at 
his  fullest  height  and  stretching  his  arms.  He  stooped 
a  little  even  now,  as  if  the  weight  of  his  big  shoulders 
was  not  quite  so  easy  to  carry  as  it  had  once  been ;  but 
his  head  and  neck  were  magnificent,  with  the  sunlight 
on  the  thick  grey  hair,  the  strong  bold  features,  and  the 
close-cropped  beard.  If  you  judged  him  merely  by  the 
indefinable  impression  that  age  itself  produces,  and  at 
this  slight  distance,  you  would  have  said  that  he  was  a 
man  of  forty-five  whose  hair  had  become  prematurely 
grey. 

"  He  says  himself  that  he  feels  all  right  —  ready  for 
anything.  He  is  not  conscious  of  the  smallest  diminu- 
tion of  his  strength.  Mr.  Dyke,  his  health  is  wonder- 
ful"; and  as  Emmie  said  this,  she  was  like  a  sensible 
unemotional  mother  speaking  about  a  grown-up  son. 
"  Have  you  noticed,  too,  that  he  is  less  deaf  —  scarcely 
deaf  at  all?  "  And  Emmie's  tone  changed,  and  her 
face  grew  sad.  "  No,  I'm  afraid  we  can't  in  justice 
rule  him  out  on  the  score  of  health  and  age.  Three  or 
four  years  hence  perhaps.     But  not  now." 

She  looked  up  to  the  terrace  again,  and  then  spoke 
with  great  firmness.  "  Of  course,  if  he  does  go,  it  must 
be  his  very  last  voyage.  There  must  be  no  nonsense 
about  that.    He  must  solemnly  promise  us  both." 

"  Emmie,  he  musn't  go  " ;  and  the  old  fellow  put  a 
trembling  hand  on  her  arm.     "  Don't  encourage  him." 

"  You  shall  advise  me,  dear  Mr.  Dyke.  But  let  me 
tell  you  everything  first." 


320  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  Yes ;  but  ne  mustn't  go,"  he  said  eagerly.  "  He 
can't  go  —  if  you  consider  it.  We  needn't  frighten 
ourselves.  You  and  I  may  think  he  is  still  young  — 
not  yet  too  old  for  it.  But  he'll  never  persuade  other 
people  to  think  that.  He'll  never  get  anyone  to  give 
him  another  chance." 

"  Ah !  "  Emmie  winced,  and  moved  her  hands  swiftly. 
"  When  I  remember  what  has  always  happened,  I  be- 
lieve that  he  will  go  anyhow  —  somehow.  The  real 
question  is  the  Jiow.'* 

Then  she  told  Mr.  Dyke  all  about  her  money. 

"  My  dear  Emmie,  what  an  astounding  affair !  It 
sounds  like  a  fairy  tale." 

"  I  wish  it  was  a  fairy  tale,"  she  said ;  "  but  unfor- 
tunately it  is  sober  truth.  No,  I  ought  not  to  say  that. 
It's  very  wrong  of  me.  Only,  now  you  see  the  position 
in  which  I  am  placed  —  with  all  this  money  —  so  much 
more  than  I  want  or  could  possibly  use  —  with  this 
power  in  my  hands.  Oh,  Mr.  Dyke,  what  am  I  to  do? 
You  see  what  I  mean?  He  need  not  persuade  other 
people  to  give  him  a  last  chance.  I  myself  can  give  it 
to  him." 

"  Oh,  no,  he  would  never  take  money  from  you." 

"  I  think  he  would.  I'm  sure  he  would.  To  begin 
with,  I  could  show  him  that  I  should  still  have  enough, 
even  after  he'd  taken  all  that  he  needed  —  all  that  he 
needed  to  do  things  in  such  a  style  as  has  never  been 
possible  to  him  till  now.  So  there  would  be  no  question 
of  leaving  me  impoverished." 

"  That  would  make  no  difference.  He'd  never  con- 
3ent." 

"  Dear  Mr.  Dyke,  you  may  trust  my  instinct.  He 
Tould  refuse  at  lirst ;  then,  after  a  little  while,  he  would 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  321 

consent.  He  is  eating  his  heart  out  —  so  that  the 
mere  personal  temptation  would  be  more  than  he  could 
resist.  But,  beyond  that,  there  is  this  idea  of  his  that 
has  grown  so  very  strong.  He  feels  that  it  is  not  only 
his  own  duty,  but  the  duty  of  all  English  people  to 
complete  the  work  of  that  brave  Englishman  who  gave 
his  life  down  there  to  bring  honour  to  England.  He 
would  feel  that  I  could  not  spend  my  money  in  a  better 
way —    We'll  say  no  more  for  a  moment." 

Anthony  was  coming  down  the  brick  steps  from  the 
terrace. 

"  I  am  having  a  confidential  talk  with  your  father," 
said  Miss  Verinder,  in  the  primly  crushing  manner  of  a 
grown-up  person  interrupted  by  a  troublesome  child. 

"  Secrets,  what?  "  He  laughed,  and  went  away 
again. 

"  That  is  the  position,"  she  said  quietly,  when  he  was 
back  on  the  terrace  and  busy  with  his  carpentering. 
"  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  help  him  to  his  heart's  desire  — 
I  feel  now  that  I  have  no  choice  really.  But  I  want  you 
to  advise  me  —  to  tell  me  what  you  think." 

"  He  oughtn't  to  go,"  said  Mr.  Dyke,  once  more 
touching  her  arm.    "  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  you." 

"  Oh,  me!  "  Her  lips  twitched,  and  for  a  moment 
her  whole  face  seemed  to  be  distorted,  as  if  with  a  spasm 
of  violent  pain.  "  I  mustn't  be  allowed  to  count  for  a 
moment.    No,  leave  me  out  of  it  altogether." 

"  Emmie,  dear.  Emmie  " ;  and  Mr.  Dyke  kept  his 
hand  on  her  arm. 

Quite  quietly,  without  any  convulsive  movements  of 
her  throat  or  bosom,  she  had  begun  to  cry.  The  tears 
flooded  her  eyes,  rolled  down  her  pale  cheeks,  and  she 
looked  through  them  towards  the  terrace  while  remain- 


322  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

ing  absolutely  still ;  so  that  no  one  up  there  who  saw 
her  rigid  attitude  could  possibly  guess  what  was  hap- 
pening. Presently,  with  furtive  caution,  she  got  out  a 
handkerchief  and  dried  her  ej'es. 

"  I  have  tried  not  to  be  selfish,  dear  Mr.  Dyke  —  all 
along,  you  know.  I  claim  no  merit.  For  how  could  I 
be  selfish,  in  such  a  case?  Indeed  his  work  and  what 
the  world  says  of  him  make  up  my  life  really.  They  are 
my  life  —  that  is,  my  pride  and  my  joy.  But  one  is 
weak.  He  himself  is  so  much  to  me  —  so  dreadfully 
much  —  so  incredibly  more,  it  always  seems,  than  at 
the  very  beginning,  when  I  was  young  —  when  we  were 
both  3'oung.  This  time,  it  seems  as  if  his  going  will  be 
almost  more  than  I  can  bear.  It  will  seem  like  suicide 
if  I  bring  it  about,  myself.  In  these  last  weeks  I  have 
been  struggling  with  myself.  Oh,  dear  Mr.  Dyke,  I 
have  struggled  in  such  terrible  agony.  I  want  him  with 
me  so  dreadfully,  and  yet  he  wants  to  go  away  from 
me.  And  if  he  could  do  something  big  and  splendid  to 
wind  up  his  career  —  well,  I  could  never,  never  forgive 
myself  if  it  was  I  who  prevented  him." 

Mr.  Dyke  was  greatly  pertubed. 

"  I  said  I  wasn't  selfish,"  she  went  on.  "  It  is  selfish, 
what  I  am  doing  now,  pushing  my  burden  on  to  you. 
But  you  are  always  so  brave  and  so  wise  —  and  there 
is  no  one  else  that  I  can  ask  for  counsel.  Besides,  you 
are  his  father.  You  have  the  right  to  be  consulted  — 
to  decide.  A  much  gi'eater  right  than  I  —  everybody 
would  say." 

"  If  he  goes,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I 
shall  never  see  him  again." 

"  Oh,  no,  don't  say  that  —  don't  think  it." 

*'  I  know  it.    I  shan't  be  here  to  welcome  him  home." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  323 

Then  Emmie  shed  tears  again,  and  again  succeeded 
in  wiping  them  away  without  being  observed  by  either 
of  the  box-menders  on  the  terrace. 

"  We  have  to  bear  in  mind,  dear  Mr.  Dyke,  that  it  is 
very  doubtful  if  either  of  us  could  prevent  him  from 
going  sooner  or  later.  And  certainly,  if  he  is  to  go,  it 
should  be  as  soon  as  possible.  But  my  most  dreadful 
thought  is  this.  If  I  don't  give  him  the  money  he  will 
start  as  usual,  poorly  equipped  —  he  will  be  defeated 
by  difficulties  and  turn  back.  Yet  that  perhaps  may 
mean  his  eventual  safety.  Whereas,  if  he  is  really  well 
fitted  out  for  once,  if  he  has  every  possible  chance  in  his 
favour,  then  he  will  be  able  to  push  right  on  —  and  that 
may  mean  his  doom.  It's  a  horrible  responsibility. 
Think  of  it.  It  would  be  /  who  had  sent  him  to  his 
death." 

"  No."  Old  Mr.  Dyke  raised  himself  on  the  bench 
and  looked  at  her.  "  No,  Emmie,  no,"  he  said ;  and  in 
his  dim  eyes  she  saw  a  faint  flash  that  made  him  seem 
like  a  thin  small  ghost  of  Anthony.  "  No.  If  he  is  to 
do  it,  let  him  go  for  the  big  prize.  Give  him  his  full 
chance  and  don't  count  the  risks.  Let  it  be  all  or 
nothing." 

She  jumped  up  from  the  bench  and  stood  looking 
down  at  him. 

"  I  can't  decide,"  he  said.  "  You  only  can  do  that. 
The  sacrifice  will  be  yours,  not  mine.  Only,  as  I  ven- 
ture to  say,  don't  spoil  it  by  half  measures." 

Then  she  called  to  Anthonv.     She  had  decided. 

Anthony  Dyke  refused  her  offer,  and  stood  firm  to 
his  refusal  for  two  daj^s.  Then  on  the  morning  of  the 
third  day  he  accepted.    He  was  of  course  enraptured. 


324  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

He  echoed  Mr.  Dyke's  words  in  saying  that  her  acquisi- 
tion of  comparative  wealth  was  like  a  fair}^  tale. 

"  All  this  time  I  never  knew  I  had  a  fairy  godmother 
—  I  who  have  groused  about  my  bad  luck.  At  the  fate- 
ful moment  you  suddenly  show  the  shining  crown  on 
your  dear  head,  you  wave  your  magic  wand,  you  give 
me  the  enchanted  key.  Oh,  Emmie,  what  can  I  say.'* 
What  can  I  ever  do  ?  " 

"  You  can  come  back  safe  and  sound,"  said  Emmie. 
*'  And  you  can  give  me  your  sacred  word  that  you'll 
never  leave  me  again." 

Kissing  her  with  frenzied  warmth,  he  made  his  vow. 
But  this  first  ecstasy  being  over,  he  began  at  once  to 
treat  her  with  a  new  and  strange  deference.  He  said 
that  she  had  become  the  patron  and  chieftain  of  the 
glorious  project. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it's  your  show  entirely.  You  trust  me, 
you  honour  me  with  your  instructions." 

Before  that  evening  everything  was  settled  between 
them.  She  made  a  proviso  that  he  should  arrange  for  a 
relief  expedition  to  follow  after  him  at  a  certain  date. 
This  must  be  an  integral  part  of  the  plan.  And  the 
whole  thing  must  be  organised  in  its  smallest  details 
before  he  himself  started  southward.  She  was  very 
firm  as  to  all  this. 

He  agreed,  saying  she  was  quite  right  and  he  knew 
the  very  man  to  put  in  command  of  the  relief  ship  — 
"  Twining,  who  was  my  navigating  officer  in  1910." 

He  bowed  deferentially  to  her  decision  with  regard  to 
other  matters ;  saying,  "  Oh,  your  word  would  be  law. 
You  would  be  the  real  head,  and  I  shouldn't  forget  it." 
Then  he  smiled.  "  You  pay  the  piper,  Emmie,  and 
you  call  the  tune." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  325 

She  said  that  there  must  be  no  departure  from  plans. 

"  No,  no.  But  you'd  give  me  a  free  hand  when  I  get 
down  there?  " 

"  Yes,  but  only  within  specified  limits." 

"  Very  good,"  he  said  humbly. 

Then,  in  reply  to  her  questions,  he  said  he  intended 
to  follow  Captain  Scott's  line.  The  fact  that  it  was 
sixty  miles  longer  than  the  other  one  was  of  no  conse- 
quence. He  proposed  to  go  to  America  and  get  his 
ship  and  everything  else  there. 

"  The  Yanks  will  pull  themselves  together  quicker 
than  we  can  hope  to  do  over  here.  America's  the  shop 
to  buy  our  little  bag  of  tricks  in."  And  he  had  a  bright 
idea.  "  I  say,  old  J.  L.  Porter  might  be  willing  to  stand 
some  of  the  racket.  I  let  him  down  rather  badly  last 
time ;  but  he's  a  real  sportsman  —  and  I  may  as  well  try 
to  touch  him  again." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Verinder  firmly.  "This  is  my 
show.    And  I  don't  want  anybody  else  in  it." 


CHAPTER    XVI 

THE  year  1919  was,  for  Miss  Verinder.  quiet  and 
uneventful.  Magnificently  equipped  by  that 
country  which  even  peace  had  not  robbed  of  its 
power  to  hustle,  with  such  a  splendid  command  as  he 
had  never  till  now  enjoyed,  Dyke  reached  Australian 
waters  some  time  in  the  autumn.  He  called  his  ship 
The  Follower,  and  in  it  he  sailed  away  towards  the 
darkness  and  the  silence.  About  March,  1920,  he  must 
have  taken  up  his  winter  quarters ;  and  his  southern 
advance  would  begin,  "  according  to  plan,"  with  the 
opening  of  the  Antarctic  summer. 

Early  in  September  of  1920  the  relief  ship,  named 
the  Heather  Bell,  was  to  sail  from  Hobart;  and  thence 
onward  Miss  Verinder  might  begin  to  count  the  months. 
She  could  scarcely  expect  to  receive  any  news  till  the 
end  of  January  or  the  beginning  of  February,  1921 ; 
and  until  then  there  should  be  no  real  grounds  for 
anxiety.  Or,  in  other  and  more  accurate  words,  the 
fate  of  the  new  expedition  could  not  possibly  be  known 
until  the  new  year. 

Now,  in  this  month  of  September  of  1920,  I\Iiss 
Verinder  received  a  cablegram  from  Hobart,  saying 
that  the  Heather  Bell  and  Twining  had  duly  departed. 

The  message  arrived  in  the  morning,  and  after 
luncheon  she  amused  herself  by  taking  out  and  re- 
arranging the  contents  of  some  of  the  little  drawers  in 

326 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  327 

her  bureau.  She  grew  slower  and  more  dreamy  as  the 
tidying  process  continued,  because  the  sight  and  touch 
of  these  small  treasured  odds  and  ends  carried  her 
further  and  further  backward  into  the  past.  Here,  for 
instance,  in  a  drawer  by  themselves,  lay  some  pressed 
flowers.  They  had  been  picked  in  that  courtyard 
garden  behind  the  hotel  at  Buenos  Ayres.  Here  was  a 
photograph  of  the  Mendoza  valley.  Here  were  a  long 
white  glove  that  she  had  worn  at  Mrs.  Glutton's  party 
on  the  night  of  their  first  meeting,  the  Hurlingham 
polo  programme,  one  of  her  tiny  lace  handkerchiefs  — 
things  that  Dyke  had  stolen  from  her,  kissed  a 
thousand  times,  and  then  after  many  years  given  back 
to  her  for  safe  keeping.  She  was  lost  in  a  gentle  medi- 
tation when  Louisa  opened  the  door  and  announced  an 
expected  visitor. 

"  It's  so  kind  of  you  to  let  me  come,"  said  Mildred 
Parker. 

"  I  won't  be  a  minute,"  said  Miss  Verinder  putting 
the  things  away. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  least  hurry,"  said  Mildred,  with  a 
nervous  gasp. 

Mildred  was  that  pretty  child  to  whom  Miss  Verinder 
had  spoken  kindly  years  ago,  when  the  little  thing  was 
sitting  on  a  pony  outside  her  father's  front  door  in 
Ennismore  Gardens.  Now  she  had  become  a  glowing 
young  woman.  Daintily  dressed  in  the  prevailing 
gossamer  style,  with  mauve-coloured  stockings  and  grey 
suede  shoes,  with  bare  neck  and  looping  curls,  she  had 
such  brightness  of  attire  and  such  a  youthful  bloom 
of  complexion  that,  as  she  settled  herself  on  Miss 
Verinder's  sofa,  she  made  the  whole  room  and  every- 
thing in  it  seem  dull  and  faded. 


328  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 


« 


"  A  place  for  everything  and  everything  in  its  place,' 
murmured  Miss  Verinder,  flicking  some  dust  from  the 
treasures  that  had  set  her  dreaming.  "  These  are 
souvenirs  —  with  only  a  sentimental  value." 

Then,  after  some  conversation  about  the  flat,  she  shut 
the  last  drawer  and  brought  a  chair  to  the  sofa  near 
Mildred. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  I  am  all  attention." 
Mildred  appeared  to  be  overcome  by  shyness. 
Emmie  had  divined  that  the  girl  had  some  smal] 
trouble  of  which  she  wanted  to  speak.  But  she  was 
entirely  unprepared  for  the  actual  fact.  Knowing  that 
the  young  Parkers  were  rather  too  fond  of  cards,  even 
games  of  chance,  she  had  guessed  that  Mildred  had 
burned  her  fingers  at  poker  and  needed  a  small  loan  to 
tide  over  an  awkward  blank  till  her  dress  allowance 
became  due.  Seeing  Mildred's  confusion,  she  patted 
and  caressed  her,  and  further  to  encourage  her  firmly 
promised  help. 

But  it  was  far  more  than  a  game  of  cards.  It  was 
love.  Love,  as  Mildred  confessed,  had  come  upon  her 
"  like  a  thunder-clap." 

Emmie  drew  in  her  breath,  and  sighed. 
Mildred  told  the  tale  of  how  she  had  fallen  desper- 
ately in  love  with  a  man ;  how  her  parents  forbade  her 
to  love  him,  forbade  her  to  meet  him,  forbade  her  to 
think  of  him;  how  Mr.  Parker  threatened  her,  bullied 
her,  vowing  he  would  take  steps  to  separate  her  irrevo- 
cably from  her  beloved ;  and  how,  in  consequence,  that 
once  comfortable  house  in  Ennismore  Gardens  had  be- 
come a  place  of  torment  and  pain. 

Listening,    Emmie    was     stirred    profoundly.       As 
though  the  accident  of  those  retrospective  thoughts  in 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  329 

which  she  had  just  been  indulging  had  rendered  her 
abnormally  sensitive  to  emotion,  she  thrilled  and 
quivered  to  the  shock  of  Mildred's  words.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  was  hearing  her  own  story  from  the  lips 
of  this  innocent  girl.  It  seemed  to  her  that  these 
obdurate  parents  who  threatened  and  ordered  and 
could  not  understand  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Verinder,  not 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Parker;  that  it  was  all  in  the  past,  not 
in  the  present ;  that  the  end  of  the  story  had  been 
reached  ages  and  ages  ago,  when  the  daughter  walked 
out  of  the  home  that  had  become  a  prison-house  and 
never  came  back  again. 

But  Mildred  was  going  on ;  assuring  Emmie  that  she 
was  very  much  in  earnest.  "  It's  no  silliness  —  or  in- 
fatuation, as  mother  says.  .  .  .  It's  the  real  thing." 

Then  soon  she  said  words  so  startling  that  they 
almost  took  Emmie's  breath  away. 

"  I  would  have  you  to  know  also  that  the  man  I've 
fallen  in  love  with  is  very  famous." 

Emmie  sat  staring  at  her  intently.  The  thing  had 
become  fantastic,  like  a  dream. 

"  But  it's  nothing  to  do  with  his  fame  that  has  made 
me  love  him.  Of  course  I  don't  m.ean  to  say  that  I 
wasn't  influenced  by  all  that.    You  know  what  I  mean?" 

Miss  Verinder  was  breathing  fast  and  moving  her 
hands  restlessly. 

Then  her  whole  heart  melted  in  tenderness  as  the  girl, 
analysing  sensations,  hopes,  and  fears,  described  the 
love  itself.  Yes,  this  was  the  real  thing.  This  was  the 
first  wonder  and  glory  of  sudden  overpowering  love,  of 
the  love  that  takes  possession  and  for  ever  changes  its 
victim,  and  yet  itself  will  never  change.  Miss  Verinder 
recognized  it  and  acknowledged  it.     All  the  bliss  and 


330  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

torture  that  Mildred  told  of  had  been  felt  by  herself  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago.  And  she  was  feeling  it  now 
while  she  listened ;  the  years  had  gone ;  she  and  Mildred 
were  both  of  them  love-sick  girls. 

"  You  are  so  kind,"  said  Mildred  presently,  conscious 
of  the  flood  of  sympathy  that  was  pouring  forth  to 
sustain  and  float  her  onward  in  her  romantic  narration. 

After  a  little  while  Miss  Verinder  asked  who  the 
famous  man  was. 

"  But  who  is  he,  Mildred?    You  haven't  told  me  yet." 

Mildred,  smiling  proudly,  said  he  was  Alwyn  Beckett, 
the  actor.  At  the  moment  he  was  not  actually  before 
the  public,  but  he  was  understudying  the  two  big  parts 
in  a  play  called  Five  Old  Men  and  a  Dog, 

"  Ah,  ves." 

An  actor;  a  young  actor!  Miss  Verinder  at  once 
became  inwardly  calm  again.  The  young  man  was  not 
of  course  truly  famous ;  but  some  sort  of  unsubstantial 
fame  he  hoped  to  attain  one  day.  Even  the  opposition 
of  the  parents  was  not  solidly  founded ;  they  merely 
objected  to  the  young  man  because  they  did  not  like  his 
shadowy  precarious  profession,  and  because,  further, 
they  doubted  if  he  would  do  any  good  in  it.  All  her 
sympathy  remained,  but  while  ]\Iildred  went  on  talking 
about  the  attitude  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Parker  she  ceased  to 
listen  with  attention.  This  was  a  trifling  commonplace 
little  business  when  compared  with  the  real  romances, 
the  big  romances  of  life. 

But  then  Mildred  banged  out  something  that  gave 
her  a  violent  shock;  indeed  it  shook  her  to  her  very 
foundations.     She  gasped,  and  uttered  a  faint  cry. 

Mildred  had  been  sa}4ng  that  she  felt  desperate,  and 
inclined  to  run  away. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  331 

"And  marry  him  without  your  parents'  consent?" 
Emmie  had  said  dreamily. 

"  Or  not  marry  him,"  said  Mildred. 

"  Mildred !  "  said  Emmie,  uttering  that  little  cry. 
"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Well,  what  I  mean  is  that  if  they're  so  damned  old- 
fasliioned,  I  don't  see  why  they  shouldn't  stew  in  their 
own  gravy  —  at  least  for  a  bit.  Don't  you  see?  When 
they  find  I'm  gone  in  that  way,  if  they're  really  genuine 
in  their  feelings,  it  will  be  the  regular  mid-Victorian 
business.  The  lost  child  —  our  daughter  gone  to  per- 
dition. Get  her  married  now  to  the  scoundrel  that  has 
lured  her  away.  Make  her  an  honest  woman  at  any 
price  " ;  and  Mildred  laughed. 

Although  still  preserving  an  aspect  of  calmness.  Miss 
Verinder  was  greatly  agitated  by  this  monstrous  sug- 
gestion. Again  for  a  moment  or  two  it  seemed  as  if  all 
this  was  a  dream  —  or  as  if  the  innocent  modern  girl 
was  mocking  her  with  a  travesty  of  her  own  ancient 
experience.  How  could  she  really  contemplate  taking 
so  disastrous  a  step  ?  With  no  insurmountable  obstacle 
between  her  and  her  lover,  with  no  irremovable .  cause 
to  prevent  their  being  eventually  united,  how  could  the 
child  speak  thus  of  throwing  away  her  good  name  and 
bringing  disgrace  on  all  her  family?     It  was  fantastic. 

"  You  and  I  must  talk  very  seriously,"  said  Miss 
Verinder,  with  firmness. 

Louisa  brought  in  tea,  and  throughout  the  meal 
Emmie  was  thinking.  She  watched  little  flashing  palpi- 
tating Mildred  with  critical  eyes  but  affectionate  pur- 
pose. Mildred  was  only  a  child  still,  a  child  who  must 
be  prevented  from  doing  idiotic  things  in  a  fit  of  childish 
impatience. 


332  SPINSTER    OF    THIS   PARISH 

She  thought  of  the  thousand  reasons  why,  even  when 
driven  inexorably,  one  should  not  do  what  she  herself 
had  done  —  the  remorse  for  the  pain  one  has  caused  to 
others,  the  crushing  sense  of  being  outlawed  and  pro- 
scribed, the  slights,  the  humiliations,  the  meek  submis- 
sions that  one  is  called  upon  to  suffer.  Every  year  of 
her  life,  every  day  of  it,  had  shown  her  another  valid 
reason  why  any  ordinary  person  should  regret  an  act 
such  as  hers.  She  herself  had  never  regretted.  She 
had  not  been  able  to  regret  —  because  the  thing  had 
been  done  for  Anthony  Dyke.  She  had  neither  flinched 
nor  faltered.  But  a  pretty  little  flower  like  this  would 
wither  under  the  first  frosty  breath  of  disgrace.  She 
would  soon  be  sorry  that  passion  had  whirled  her  into 
a  reckless  deed.  "  She  is  not  like  me,"  thought  Emmie, 
with  a  faint  smile.  "  She  is  not  by  nature  the  sort  of 
desperate  character  that  sticks  at  nothing." 

Besides,  for  Mildred  to  make  a  hash  of  her  reputation 
would  be  a  quite  meaningless  disaster.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  necessity  for  heroic  measures.  If,  as 
Emmie  hoped  and  was  inclined  to  believe,  the  young 
man  proved  worthy  of  such  a  nice  girl,  then  those  silly 
Parkers  must  be  made  to  consent.  And  again  Emmie 
felt  a  melting  tenderness  and  sympathy  for  this  pretty 
innocent  little  soul  and  her  love-dream.  It  must,  and  it 
should  end  prettily ;  with  music,  marriage  bells,  and 
sunsliine;  with  the  bride  all  in  white  coming  up  the 
aisle  upon  her  father's  arm,  to  be  given  to  her  sweet- 
heart amidst  blessings  and  rejoicings. 

So  she  offered  Milded  —  as  has  been  already  related 
—  some  very  old-fashioned  advice ;  and  finally  made 
her  promise  to  abandon  any  idea  of  acting  rashly  and 
improperly.     Mildred  tore  at  her  gloves,  pouted,  and 


SPINSTER    OF   THIS    PARISH  333 

shed  tears  beneath  the  chilling  wisdom.  But  she  in  her 
turn  was  startled  by  one  or  two  things  that  Miss 
Verinder  said  to  her.  Especially  something  quite  in- 
explicable about  no  women  ever  ceasing  to  wait  a,nd  to 
hope,  moved  her  and  made  her  wonder. 

Miss  Verinder  was  very  severe  about  running  away 
with  people  before  you  married  them,  no  matter  for 
what  motive  the  unsanctified  bolt  might  be  undertaken. 

"  Believe  me,"  she  said,  sitting  beside  Mildred  on  the 
sofa,  and  with  an  arm  round  her  waist,  "  it  is  only  the 
very  strongest  characters  that  can  brave  public  opinion. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  am  sure  —  to  go  right  through  with  any- 
thing of  that  kind  immense  self-control,  really  almost 
an  iron  nerve  is  required.  And,"  she  added,  "  you 
musn't  think  I  don't  know  what  I'm  talking  about." 

She  said  much  more,  but  one  reflection  touched  her 
young  friend  with  greater  strength  than  all  the  rest. 
"  You  have  to  think  of  your  Alwyn  and  the  effect  it 
might  produce  on  him."  While  she  said  it  her  voice 
grew  soft  and  her  eyes  had  an  unexpected  radiance. 
She  was  thinking  of  Anthony  Dyke.  "  Perhaps,"  slie 
went  on,  "  it  is  only  the  very  finest  na-tures  that  can 
accept — ah — this  particular  kind  of  surrender  or  self- 
sacrifice  from  a  woman,  and  still  hold  her  quite  as  high 
in  their  minds  as  they  did  before  —  ah  —  the  sur- 
render occurred. 

"  There,  Mildred  dear,"  she  concluded  cheerfully,  "  I 
am  going  to  help  you  for  all  I'm  worth.  And  you  are 
going  to  be  wise.  And  don't  —  I  beg  you  —  forget 
this.     I  have  my  reasons  for  all  I  have  said." 

Mildred  went  away  wondering  what  on  earth  could 
be  Miss  Verinder's  reasons  for  one  or  two  of  the  things 
said. 


334  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Emmie  had  promised  to  give  help  in  this  simple  love 
affair,  but  truly  it  helped  her.  It  charmed  her  and 
absorbed  her,  filling  several  of  those  months  which  had 
to  be  counted  before  definite  news  could  come. 

In  accordance  with  her  unfailing  habit,  she  was  writ- 
ing every  fortnight  to  Dyke,  although  all  her  letters 
must  lie  waiting  at  Hobart  unseen  by  him  for  a  long 
time ;  and  she  told  him  now  about  Mildred  and  Alwyn. 

".  .  .  The  young  man  was  brought  for  me  to  see  this 
afternoon,  and  I  must  say  I  was  very  much  pleased  with 
him.  He  is  distinctly  handsome  with  a  good  presence 
and  a  strong  but  yet  musical  voice,  so  that  as  far  as  one 
can  judge  he  is  well  fitted  for  his  profession.  He  is 
very  ambitious,  and  I  liked  that  too.  But  with  the 
ambition  he  has  that  kind  of  helplessness  that  seems 
almost  universal  in  this  generation  —  as  though  they 
were  not  really  grown-up,  but  like  children  trust  every- 
thing to  other  people  and  make  no  effort  themselves. 
He  is  only  twenty-eight,  and  he  left  Cambridge,  where 
he  did  a  lot  of  amateur  acting,  in  order  to  join  one  of 
the  new  battalions.  He  was  twice  wounded  and  men- 
tioned in  despatches.     That  is  as  it  should  be. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  touched  I  was  by 
Mildred's  little  proprietorial,  almost  motherly  airs  with 
him;  so  keenly  anxious  that  he  should  make  a  favour- 
able impression,  and  using  all  her  innocent  arts  to 
show  him  off  at  his  very  best.  O  love,  love!  Is  there 
anything  else  that  is  beautiful  in  the  world  beyond  love, 
and  the  manifold  effects  that  love  produces?  I  assure 
you,  dear  Tony,  that  as  I  watched  them,  the  past  came 
right  back  again.  It  was  not  those  two ;  it  was  you 
and  I.  It  was  the  year  1895,  and  not  the  date  that  I 
have  put  at  the  top  of  this  paper. 

"  To-morrow  I  am  to  see  the  brother.  And  after 
that  I  shall  tackle  the  father." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  335 

Hubert  Parker,  Mildred's  brother,  had  been  at  Cam- 
bridge with  Alwyn  Beckett;  and  he  assured  Miss 
Verinder  that  there  was  not  a  better  fellow  alive.  He 
thoroughly  approved  of  him  as  a  husband  for  his  sister. 
Alwyn,  to  his  mind,  was  good  enough  for  a  royal 
princess.  "  I  agree  with  Mildrings,"  he  said,  smiling. 
"  I  think  the  governor  has  been  bitten  by  a  mad  dog." 
Then  Miss  Verinder  had  Alwyn  before  her  again.  He 
sat  in  the  middle  of  the  sofa,  facing  her,  while 
"  Mildrings  "  stood  behind  him,  put  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  told  him  not  to  interrupt  but  to  listen, 
when  he  burst  out  with  vows  and  protestations. 

He  was  protesting  because  Miss  Verinder  said  that 
there  must  be  no  more  of  the  these  clandestine  meetings. 
They  were  not  fair  to  Mildred. 

"  Yes,  but  whose  fault  is  that?  If  her  people  won't 
dlow  me  to  the  house,  if  they  treat  me  like  a  pick- 
pocket, if  they — " 

"Alwyn,"  said  Mildred,  with  severity,  "Miss 
Verinder  is  speaking." 

Miss  Verinder  insisted  on  an  assurance  that  the  un- 
licensed interviews  should  cease  forthwith,  and  it  was 
given  to  her  by  both  of  them.  She  said  it  was  necessary 
that  she  should  feel  on  this  firm  ground  before  she 
approached  Mr.  Parker.  She  for  her  part  promised 
to  begin  the  attack  at  once. 

"  Mildi-ed,  could  you  get  me  asked  to  dinner  infor- 
mally.? " 

"  Rather"  said  Mildred.  "  They'll  jump  for  joy. 
They're  getting  rather  stuffy  because  you  always 
refuse." 

"  Then  the  sooner  the  better,  dear " ;  and  Miss 
Verinder  smiled.    "  Don't  be  surprised  if  I  seem  a  little 


336  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

artful  —  or  even  disingenuous.  I  think,  just  at  first, 
I'll  not  say  I  know  anything  of  your  partiality  for  Mr. 
Beckett  —  or  for  Alwyn,  if  I  may  take  the  liberty  of 
calling  him  by  his  Christian  name." 

"  I  should  adore  it,"  said  Alwyn. 

"  It  is  all  Christian  names  nowadays,  isn't  it?  "  and 
Emmie  smiled  again.  "  Then,  as  I  say,  I'll  open  a 
masked  gambit  for  Mr.  Parker  to  play  to.  You  see, 
the  great  thing  is  to  get  him  accustomed  to  the  idea." 

"  What  a  dear  funny  old  bird  she  is,"  said  Alwyn, 
when  he  and  Mildred  were  outside  the  door  in  Oratory 
Gardens. 

"  She's  divinely  kind,"  said  Mildred  with  enthusiasm. 

As  she  had  predicted,  there  was  no  difficulty  in  re- 
gard to  Miss  Verinder's  invitation. 

"  But  are  you  sure  she  won't  expect  a  regular 
party?  "  asked  Mr.  Parker. 

"  No,"  said  Mildred,  "  she  hates  a  crowd." 

Only  the  family  and  two  very  old  friends  were  present 
therefore,  so  that  the  conversation  was  general.  Mr. 
Parker,  who  had  recently  flown  to  Paris  and  back  in  the 
day,  just  for  fun,  gave  an  account  of  his  interesting 
experience,  to  which  Miss  Verinder  listened  with  great 
attention. 

Then,  towards  the  end  of  dinner,  she  herself  talking 
freely,  told  them  about  a  very  nice  young  man  that  she 
had  met.  She  praised  him  for  his  modesty  as  well  as 
his  niceness.  Quite  the  best  type  of  the  clever  and  yet 
not  conceited  youth  of  the  present  day !  She  under- 
stood that  he  had  done  very  well  in  the  war;  and  he 
was  now  on  the  stage  —  Mr.  Alwyn  Beckett.  "By 
the  way  —  I  believe  he  said  he  knew  you  all,  or  some 
of  you." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  337 

Only  Hubert  Parker  spoke.  "  One  of  my  best  pals," 
said  Hubert. 

Mildred  was  staring  at  the  tablecloth  and  crumbling 
the  remains  of  a  small  roll ;  Mrs.  Parker  seemed  to  have 
been  troubled  with  a  twinge  of  toothache  or  rheuma- 
tism ;  Mr.  Parker,  suddenly  red  in  the  face,  opened  his 
mouth  and,  shutting  it,  breathed  hard  through  his 
nose.  It  was  one  of  those  brief  silences  that  appear  to 
be  long.  Then  Mr.  Parker,  recovering  himself,  asked 
Miss  Verinder  if  she  had  read  Mr.  Locke's  delightful 
new  novel. 

Following  the  modern  fashion,  the  ladies  and  the 
men  left  the  dinner-table  together.  Upstairs,  in  the 
double  drawing-room,  Hubert  and  Mildred  soon  &et  in 
action  a  monstrous  gramophone  of  the  latest  model  and 
most  expensive  style,  both  of  them  giggling  hysterically 
while  they  assisted  each  other  with  the  record  and  the 
mechanism. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  ridiculous.?  "  asked  Mrs.  Parker, 
speaking  to  them  from  the  front  room.  "  What  is 
the  joke.?  " 

Mildred  chokingly  replied  that  there  was  no  joke. 
It  was  only  the  gramophone  that  made  them  laugh. 
In  fact,  they  had  been  overcome  by  the  calm  unscrupu- 
lousness  of  Miss  Verinder's  dinner  gambit. 

The  two  old  friends  liked  the  gramophone;  and 
directly  its  crackling  music  began  to  fill  both  rooms, 
Mr.  Parker  seated  himself  beside  Miss  Verinder  and 
explained  to  her  that  she  had  unwittingly  touched  on  a 
very  sore  spot  when  she  mentioned  the  name  of  "  that 
young  man."  Mrs.  Parker  came  and  sat  on  the  other 
side  of  her,  and  both  together  told  her  all  about 
Mildred's  absurd  infatuation.     Then  they  begged  her 


338  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

aid  in  bringing  Mildred  to  her  senses. 

"  That  is  really  why  I  have  put  you  au  courong" 
said  Mr.  Parker.  "  You  have  influence  with  her.  A 
word  in  season  from  you  may  have  great  effect. 

"  Not  if  her  affections  are  really  engaged,"  said  Miss 
Verinder,  with  one  of  her  deprecating  smiles. 

"  Oh,  no,  nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Parker,  in  a  tone  more 
irritable  than  any  that  he  had  ever  employed  when 
addressing  this  honoured  guest.  "  Don't  let's  have  any 
idiotic  sentimentality,  which  would  merely  encourage 
her.  We  have  never  fostered  anything  of  that  sort,  and 
Mildred,  up  to  now,  has  seemed  to  have  her  head  screwed 
on  all  right.  I  regard  this  as  a  passing  craze  —  due, 
in  great  measure,  to  all  this  preposterous  exaltation 
of  the  stage.  Upon  my  word,  the  illustrated  papers 
make  me  positively  sick  nowadays  —  nothing  but  photo- 
graphs of  actors  and  actresses.  Miss  So-and-So  at 
play.  Mr.  What's-his-name  on  the  golf  links.  The- 
atrical stars  on  the  Riviera !  " 

A  few  days  later  Miss  Verinder  called  upon  the 
Parkers,  and  reported  that,  having  sounded  Mildred, 
she  had  no  doubt  that  the  young  lady's  feelings  for  the 
young  gentleman  were  of  a  deep  and  serious  character. 

Mr.  Parker  immediately  said  that  if  he  accepted  even 
half  the  substance  of  this  report,  the  time  had  come  to 
put  his  foot  down,  and  he  would  either  send  or  take 
Mildred  into  exile  on  the  continent. 

"  I'll  keep  her  out  of  his  way,  until  she  has  got 
over  it." 

An  absorbingly  interesting  discussion  ensued  on  the 
ethics  of  parental  authority.  Miss  Verinder  advised 
them  not  to  attempt  strong  measures  with  Mildred; 
above  all,  not  to  put  restrictions  on  her  liberty  here  in 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  339 

London  or  to  banish  her  from  her  native  land. 

"  I  really  don't  think,"  she  said  meekly,  "  that 
parents  have  the  right  to  act  in  so  violent  a  manner. 
And  I  am  quite  sure,  Mr.  Parker,  that  it  never  pays. 
As  to  banishment  —  well,  you  know,  absence  is  apt  to 
make  the  heart  grow  fonder;  and  if  it  comes  to  giving 
a  young  girl  peremptory  orders  to  stop  being  in  love 
with  somebody  that  she  is  in  love  with,  I  do  really 
think  it  must  always  strengthen  her  resolve.  She  feels 
then  that  she  is  being  unjustly  dealt  with.  After  all, 
it  is  her  destiny  that  is  at  stake.  She  may  love  and 
respect  her  parents,  she  may  regret  —  oh,  yes,  she 
may  most  bitterly  regret  giving  them  pain  "  —  Miss 
Verinder's  voice  faltered,  and  she  showed  other  signs 
of  slight  emotion  —  "but  she  cannot  renounce  the 
whole  happiness  of  her  life,  because  other  people  — 
even  her  father  and  mother  —  order  her  to  do  so. 
She  herself  must  depide.  Believe  me,  Mr.  Parker,  it 
isn't  right  to  use  more  than  argument  and  persuasion. 
Force  is  quite  out  of  the  question." 

Mr.  Parker  walked  about  the  room  fuming;  and  it 
must  be  confessed  that  as  Miss  Verinder  observed  his 
frowning  brows,  his  heightened  colour,  and  the  queru- 
lous lines  at  each  side  of  his  mouth,  she  felt  for  a 
moment  an  almost  mischievous  amusement  in  recogniz- 
ing how  little  human  nature  had  changed  in  the  last 
quarter  of  a  century.  This  room  was  very  different 
from,  any  room  of  that  old  house  in  Prince's  Gate,  and 
yet  the  atmosphere  was  the  same.  Emmie  glanced 
round  at  the  very  modern  decorations  chosen  by  Mrs. 
Parker  with  so  much  pride  and  pleasure.  This  was  the 
boudoir  of  Mrs.  Parker,  and  she  called  it  the  Chinese 
parlour.     The  ceiling  was  red;  the  walls  were  black, 


340  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

with  panels  filled  not  by  pale-limbed  nymphs  of 
Leighton  or  Burne-Jones,  but  by  golden  sprawling 
dragons,  iridescent  fishes,  and  impossible  silver  trees ; 
the  furniture,  instead  of  being  heavy  and  splendid,  was 
light  and  fantastic.  Mrs.  Parker  had  no  comfort- 
able pouf  to  sit  upon.  But  here  was  Mr.  Parker,  who 
believed  himself  to  be  full  of  liberal-mindedness  and  ad- 
vanced up-to-date  philosophy,  who  belonged  to  the 
Automobile  Club  and  went  by  aeroplane  to  Paris,  hold- 
ing in  all  essentials  the  views  that  fathers  held  twenty- 
five  years  ago,  or  a  hundred  years  before  that.  He 
believed  not  only  that  he  had  the  right  to  dispose  of 
his  daughter's  heart,  but  that  if  he  showed  firmness  he 
would  vindicate  this  right.  He  was  more  old-fashioned, 
further  behind  his  times,  than  poor  Mr.  Verinder  had 
been.     He  walked  to  and  fro  and  gloured  at  Emmie. 

"  I  hope,"  she  said,  "  that  you  will  not  think  me 
impertinent  in  venturing  to  give  my  advice." 

"  Oh,  no.  Oh,  certainly  not.  I  am  very  much 
obliged."  Mr.  Parker  stopped  walking,  made  some 
swallowing  movements  in  his  throat,  and  then  spoke 
impressively  but  urbanely.  "  There  are  very  few  people 
for  whose  judgment  I  have  so  much  respect  as  for 
yours,  Miss  Verinder.  The  position  and  the  influence 
that  you  have  rightly  secured  among  all  who  have  the 
honour  of  j^our  acquaintance  is,  if  I  may  say  so,  princi- 
pally due  to  the  very  high  standard  of,  ah,  manners 
as  well  as  morals  that  you  rightly  stand  out  for.  I 
know  that  you  do  not  tolerate  subversive  ideas.  Other- 
wise, frankly,  I  could  not  have  listened  to  you  with  the 
patience  that  I  hope  I  have  shown.  But  I  cannot,  I 
will  not  agree  that  it  is  my  duty  to  allow  a  child  of 
mine  to  make  a  fool  of  herself  if  I  can  prevent  it.    And 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  341 

what  staggers  me,  what  beats  me  altogether  —  and  he 
looked  from  Miss  Verinder  to  his  wife,  with  a  suddenly 
helpless,  baffled  expression  —  "  what  utterly  amazes  me 
is  the  change  in  Mildred.  I  ask  myself  what  has  hap- 
pened to  her.  Is  she  bewitched?  It  is  not  like  her  to 
oppose  any  headstrong  wish  of  hers  to  the  considered 
opinion  of  those  older  and  presumably  wiser.  Up  till 
now  she  has  seemed  to  lean  on  one's  advice,  to  crave  for 
it.  It  is  not  as  if  she  had  ever  been  a  disobedient  girl. 
Why,  good  gracious,  no.  We  used  to  say  from  the 
very  beginning,  even  when  she  was  quite  a  tiny  little 
thing,  '  There  is  never  any  trouble  with  Mildred.'  One 
just  told  her  what  to  do,  and  she  seemed  to  take  a 
positive  pleasure  in  doing  it.    Is  not  that  so?  " 

Miss  Verinder  said  no  more  then;  but  before  many 
days  had  passed  she  returned  to  the  attack.  En- 
deavouring to  accustom  Mr.  Parker's  mind  to  the  idea, 
she  extracted  a  statement  of  his  objections  to  Alwyn  as 
a  possible  son-in-law. 

Mr.  Parker  said  emphatically  that  Alwyn  was  not 
good  enough  for  Mildred,  and  when  gently  invited  to 
consider  if  in  saying  this  he  did  not  mean  that  Alwyn 
was  not  good  enough  for  him,  Mr.  Parker,  he  owned 
that,  beyond  his  distaste  for  the  young  man's  profes- 
sion —  which  he  did  not  admit  really  to  be  a  profession 
—  Alwyn  was  a  nobody  in  it.     He  had  not  "  arrived." 

"  Oh,  but  he  will  arrive,"  said  Miss  Verinder.  "  You 
know,  he  had  now  been  put  on  to  play  one  of  the 
principal  parts  in  that  delightful  comedy  Five  Old  Men 
and  a  Dog.  I  went  to  see  it,  and  I  was  much  struck 
by  his  performance.  I  really  think,  Mr.  Parker,  that 
you  and  Mrs.  Parker  ought  to  go  yourselves." 

"  We  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Mr.  Parker. 


342  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Then,  very  soon  after  this,  Miss  Verinder  attacked 
in  real  earnest.  She  said  that  the  result  of  arbitrarily 
closing  the  house  doors  against  Mr.  Beckett  had  been 
that  these  young  people  met  each  other  in  a  furtive 
undignified  fashion  outside  the  doors ;  that  they  had 
promised  Miss  Verinder  to  discontinue  the  practice,  and 
that  they  had  discontinued  it;  but  that  she  thought 
they  would  certainly  withdraw  the  promise  unless 
Mr.  Parker  adopted  a  more  conciliatory  attitude  to- 
wards them. 

"  And  then,  Mr.  Parker,  who  can  say  what  may 
follow?  At  Mildred's  age  one  is  naturally  impulsive, 
fearless,  disinclined  to  attach  importance  to  what  is 
said  or  thought.  She  might  so  easily  get  herself  talked 
about.    And  we  don't  want  that,  do  we?  " 

Mr.  Parker  did  not  want  it.  The  thought  of  gossip 
about  his  family  life  made  him  pale  and  grave. 

The  embargo  on  Alwyn  Beckett  was  raised,  and  he 
was  given  entry  to  the  house  and  access  to  Miss  Parker 
in  the  capacity  of  her  brother's  friend  and  an  ordinary 
visitor.  But  it  was  to  be  strictly  understood  by  both 
of  them  that  the  possibility  of  an  engagement  was 
neither  contemplated  nor  countenanced.  This  settle- 
ment was  reached  late  one  evening,  and  early  next 
morning  Mildred  ran  across  the  Brompton  Road  to 
thank  and  hug  her  dearest  Emmeline. 

And  now  Miss  Verinder  tackled  Alwyn.  One  after- 
noon when  Mildred  had  brought  him  to  tea  at  the  flat, 
she  told  him  plainly  that  in  her  opinion  he  ought  to  be- 
stir himself,  and  snatch  success  rather  than  wait  for  it. 

"  If  I  may  say  so,  Alwyn,  I  think  it  is  up  to  you  to 
prove  what  you're  made  of." 

Alwyn  looked  rather  blank  beneath  this  assault. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  343 

"  Oh,  but  he  has  proved  it  already,"  said  Mildred, 
at  once  defending  the  beloved  object.  "  He  tries  so 
hard;  he  never  spares  himself.  You  forget  how  he 
played  Mercutio  at  that  charity  matinee  and  what 
splendid  notices  he  had." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Verinder,  "  but  he  must  go  on 
doing  it.  He  must  strike  while  the  iron's  hot.  He 
must  impress  himself  upon  the  public." 

Alwyn,  interposing,  dolefully  said  that  this  was  just 
what  he  would  do  if  he  got  a  chance. 

'*  What  would  give  you  chance  ?  " 

"  A  play  and  a  backer." 

"  Well  then,  find  them,"  said  Miss  Verinder. 

"  My  dear  good  lady,"  said  Alwyn,  in  a  tone  of 
distinct  fretfulness.  "  That's  easily  said.  But  if  you 
knew  a  little  more  about  the  theatrical  — " 

"  Ally,"  said  Mildred  reprovingly. 

"  I  mean  to  say,  don't  you  know  — " 

"  Ally,"  said  Mildred  again.     "  That's  enough." 

His  classical  features  assumed  a  haughty  expression, 
that  olive  complexion  which  Mildred  thought  the  most 
beautiful  thing  in  the  universe  perceptibly  darkened; 
and  he  passed  a  hand  backward  from  the  brow,  over  his 
sleek,  well-brushed  hair,  with  a  grand  gesture. 

"  It's  all  mighty  fine,"  he  said  to  Mildred  afterwards  ; 
"  but  I'm  not  accustomed  to  be  talked  to  like  that. 
And  I  don't  like  it." 

Mildred  was  severe  with  him.  "  How  can  you  be  so 
abjectly  ungrateful  —  after  all  she  has  done  for  us?  " 

But  Miss  Verinder  intended  to  do  much  more  for 
them  yet. 

Alwyn  was  a  really  good  fellow,  but,  as  is  not  infre- 
quently the  case  with  young  actors  who  have  not  quite 


344  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

realised  their  full  ambition,  he  was  just  a  little  touchy. 
Perhaps  the  slight  prick  given  to  him  by  Miss  Verinder 
was  really  a  valuable  stimulus.  At  any  rate,  Mildred 
found  that  he  had  begun  to  bustle  about  with  a  new 
activity. 

Next  time  he  saw  Miss  Verinder  he  told  her,  rather 
grandly,  that  he  had  found  a  play.  It  was  a  very  re- 
markable piece  of  work  by  that  well-known  author 
Mr.  Sherwood  —  real  literature,  with  psj'chology  in  it 
as  well  as  characterisation,  and,  what  was  more  to  the 
point,  a  thumping  fine  part  for  Alwyn. 

"  Been  the  rounds  for  the  last  three  vears,  but  I 
don't  mind  that,"  said  Alwyn,  even  more  grandly. 
"  That  doesn't  frighten  me.  It  was  too  good  for  them 
to  spot  it.  The  same  thing  happened  to  Ring  a  Ring 
o' Roses  ",*  and  he  named  several  other  plays  that, 
after  being  rejected  by  everybody,  had  made  huge 
successes.  "  Of  course,  it's  high-brow.  But  I  want 
high-brow." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mildred.  "  He  must  have  high-brow 
stuff.     I  always  tell  him  so." 

Then,  quite  magnificently,  he  said  he  intended  to 
approach  Leahurst  about  it.  He  thought  he  might 
very  likely  be  able  to  make  an  arrangement  with  Lea- 
hurst, who  was  always  on  the  lookout  for  a  really 
good  thing.  And  he  looked  hard  at  Miss  Verinder,  to 
observe  the  effect  produced  upon  her  by  this  august 
name. 

Unfortunately,  she  had  never  till  now  heard  the 
name.  Alwyn  was  compelled  to  tell  her  all  about  Mr. 
Leahurst ;  and,  doing  so,  he  abandoned  his  magnificent 
air  and  spoke  with  profound  reverence  of  this  Napoleon 
of  the  theatrical  world.     Mr.  Leahurst  owned  or  con- 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  345 

trolled  half  a  dozen  theatres,  he  sometimes  had  nine 
or  ten  shows  going  at  the  same  time,  his  interests  were 
so  wide  that  you  never  got  to  the  end  of  them.  Wher- 
ever you  saw  a  real  success  you  might  ask  if  he  wasn't 
somehow  in  it.  He  had  a  marvellous  flair.  It  was  said, 
too,  that  why  he  scarcely  ever  went  wrong,  was  because 
by  his  own  business  talent  he  could  make  a  success  of 
anything. 

"  Oh,  then  do  approach  him  without  delay,"  said 
Miss  Verinder  eagerly.  "  See  Mr.  Leahurst  at  once ; 
and  come  straight  here  and  tell  me  the  result.  I  shall 
be  longing  to  hear." 

"  Darling  Emmeline,"  said  Mildred,  "  you  are  so 
kind.    It  is  such  a  support  to  both  of  us." 

Not  next  day,  but  a  few  days  later,  she  returned  with 
an  unusually  excited  Alwyn.  The  great  Mr.  Leahurst 
had  considered  his  proposals  in  a  most  favourable 
spirit.  He  had,  indeed,  said  that  he  might  be  inclined 
to  do  something  with  Sherwood's  play  if  Alwyn  had 
behind  him  somebody  willing  to  come  into  it  with  a  few 
thousand  pounds. 

"  Tell  him  you  have  somebody,"  said  Miss  Verinder. 

At  first  they  did  not  understand  what  she  meant,  and 
then  they  said  they  could  not  possibly  trade  upon  her 
kindness  and  generosity.  Oh,  no,  it  would  be  too  mean 
and  selfish  to  risk  her  money  just  for  their  advancement 
in  life!  But  she  was  determined;  and  after  3''ielding 
to  her  persuasion,  Mildred  fell  into  a  sort  of  ecstasy 
of  gratitude  during  which  she  uttered  anything  but 
compliments  with  regard  to  Mr.  Parker. 

"  When  I  compare  you  with  my  own  father.  Oh, 
darling  Emmeline,  I  do  fee!  such  contempt  for  him.  It 
is  he  not  you,  who  should  be  doing  this  for  Ally.    But 


346  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

would  he  have  risked  one  penny-piece?  No,  not  if  we 
had  crawled  round  Ennismore  Gardens  on  our  knees. 
If  you  only  heard  him  grunting  and  grousing  about  the 
super-tax,  when  we  all  know  he  doesn't  spend  half  his 
income.     Oh,  how  I  hate  misers  !  " 

"  jViildred  dear,  don't.  It  is  wrong  to  speak  of  your 
father  like  that.    He  only  wishes  you  good." 

For  the  young  people  th^re  ensued  a  time  of  wild 
excitement;  and  Miss  Verinder  took  her  share  in  it, 
allowing  herself  to  tlirob  or  shiver  sympathically  with 
all  their  hopes  and  fears.  Mr.  Leahurst,  like  other 
potentates,  proved  difficult;  one  day,  Alwyn  said,  he 
was  shilly-shalhdng,  another  day  blowing  hot  and  cold, 
another  day  coldly  doubtful.  Then  Alwyn  gave  a 
Sunday  dinner-party  at  a  restaurant,  in  order  to  clinch 
matters  with  Mr.  Leahurst. 

He  implored  Emmie  to  make  herself  very  agreeable 
to  Mr.  Leahurst,  and  afterwards  Mildred  thanked  her 
for  her  agreeableness. 

Alwyn  gave  her  many  warnings  and  cautions.  He 
said  that  Mr.  Leahurst  was  not  the  kind  of  person  that 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  meet  socially.  How  should 
he  put  it?  "Not  Eton  and  Christ  Church  and  all 
that."  He  also  said  that  she  would  certainly,  sooner 
or  later,  hear  tales  about  Mr.  Leahurst.  He  added 
that  Mr.  Leahurst  was  fifty  years  of  age  or  more. 
This,  he  concluded,  was  merely  "  preparing  "  her  for 
Mr.  Leahurst. 

But  no  preparation  could  really  prepare  one  for  Mr. 
Leahurst.  He  was  the  most  melancholy  man  that  she 
had  ever  seen ;  in  comparison,  the  sadness  of  her  late 
partner,  Mr.  Gann,  was  gaiety.  He  did  not  speak  to 
her  or  anybody  else.     He  ate  his  food  in  profound 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  347 

silence  and  did  not  even  appear  to  observe  that  there 
was  a  band  playing.  He  smoked  cigarettes,  and  had  a 
dreadful  trick  with  his  lips,  to  get  rid  of  bits  of  paper 
or  tobacco  -—  a  perfectly  dry  manoeuvre,  but  it  sounded 
as  if  he  was  spitting.  His  cigarette  case,  Emmie 
noticed,  seemed  as  big  as  a  small  dressing-bag;  but  he 
had  no  matches. 

"Waiter,"  he  said;  and  they  all  jumped  because 
his  speaking  suddenly  was  such  a  surprise.  "  Waiter, 
'blige  me  with  match.  Forgot  my  box.  Thanks  " ;  and 
he  lit  a  cigarette.  This  was  in  the  middle  of  the  meal. 
They  talked  of  the  play,  and  still  he  said  nothing. 
Then  when  the  party  broke  up  and  he  was  going, 
Alwyn  spoke  to  him  about  it. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Leahurst.     "  Yes, 
I'll  tell  'em  to  get  on  with  it  to-morrer." 

"  How  can  I  thank  you.?  "  said  Alwyn,  humbly  yet 
exultantly. 

Mr.  Leahurst  made  that  ugly  sound  and  lit  another 
cigarette. 

"  You'd  better  come  down  to  the  theater  to-morrer 
mornin'." 

"  Which  theatre,  Mr.  Leahurst.?  " 
"  Duke  o'  Kent's.    I've  got  it  on  my  hands  till  Feb. 
eight  " ;  and  going,  he  turned.     "  If  your  thing  should 
catch  on,  I'd  have  to  shift  yer." 

The  venture  was  fairly  started  now,  and  the  excite- 
ment grew  more  febrile.  There  was  difficulty  in  finding 
a  good  title  for  the  play.  The  author's  title  had  at 
once  been  condemned  as  "  tripe."  He  had  called  his 
work  The  Secret  Disaster  of  Mr.  Eadenwell;  meaning 
to  convey  thereby  the  main  point  of  the  fable  —  the 
disaster  being  that  the  imagined  Eadenwell's  private 


348  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

code  of  ethics  would  not  work  and  was  abandoned  by 
him  without  anyone  else  knowing  what  had  happened. 
Alwyn  was  in  favour  of  calling  it  The  Danger  Signal; 
but  somebody  reported  that  Mr.  Leahurst  said  the  sort 
of  titles  he  preferred  were  Love  Wins,  For  Tzco  Bright 
Eyes,  and  The  Tempting  Sex,  Of  course  they  might 
not  use  these,  since  they  were  titles  of  existing  plays. 

Miss  Verinder  and  Mildred  were  present  at  the 
rehearsals.  They  could  not  keep  away.  This  new 
strange  aspect  of  a  playhouse  fascinated  them  —  the 
darkness  of  the  house  itself,  the  seats  all  shrouded  in 
white  wrappers,  with  somewhere  high  up  near  the 
invisible  roof  a  slanting  beam  of  real  daylight ;  and  the 
stage  brilliantly  lit  yet  not  like  the  stage,  with  odd  bits 
of  scenery,  and  the  players  unpainted,  in  commonplace 
every-day  costume. 

Miss  Verinder  sat  in  a  stall  next  the  central  gangway, 
well  back  from  the  empty  orchestra,  and  Mildred  sat 
with  her,  except  when  for  a  few  minutes  Alwyn  was  un- 
occupied and  could  come  down  through  the  pass-door 
from  the  stage. 

Mildred  said,  "  We  mustn't  expect  it  to  shape  all  at 
once." 

That  of  course  was  what  they  were  doing  with  the 
pla}^,  shaping  it.  Everyone  was  busy  —  the  producer, 
Alwyn  himself,  Mr.  Russell  the  stage-manager,  a  Mr. 
Holmdale  with  vaguely  defined  interests  in  Leahurst 
productions,  and  some  one  else  who  appeared  spas- 
modically; so  many  that  it  seemed  as  if  anybody  who 
came  in  from  the  street  took  a  hand  at  it.  They 
chopped  and  changed  little  bits  of  dialogue,  thej 
transposed  scenes,  they  worked  hard. 

People  playing  minor    characters   came  down   and 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  349 

clustered  watching,  and  there  were  a  few  hangers-on  in 
stalls  at  ends  of  rows ;  amongst  them  a  rather  miser- 
able-looking man,  very  nervous  and  shy,  who  bowed 
and  smiled  at  everybody.  No  one  took  any  notice  of 
him.  A  silly  affected  young  woman  playing  the  lady's- 
maid  did  not  know  her  words,  and  with  a  shrill  giggle 
said  they  were  not  worth  learning.  Miss  Millbank, 
who  played  the  principal  female  part,  complained 
bitterly  of  the  things  she  was  made  to  say  —  "  things 
that  I  simply  don't  feel.'* 

"  As  if  she  could  feel  anything,"  said  Alwyn  scorn- 
fully to  his  backer.     "  She  is  made  of  wood." 

At  last  Mr.  Leahurst  appeared.  One  morning  he 
came  mysteriously  from  the  refreshment  bar  beyond 
the  pit,  walked  down  the  central  gangway  to  the 
orchestra,  and  returned  again,  with  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  back.  Everyone  fell  silent,  no  one  moved; 
it  was  as  if  waves  of  awe  had  begun  to  flow  through 
stagnant  air.  One  had  a  paralysing  sensation  of  ex- 
pectancy, one's  heart  gave  heavy  beats. 

"  Don't  take  any  notice  of  me,"  he  said,  walking 
backwards  and  forwards. 

The  rehearsal  proceeded. 

Then  almost  at  once  he  recognized  Miss  Verinder  in 
her  stall  next  the  gangway.  He  stopped  short  in  his 
walk  and  nodded  to  her. 

"Well,  how  goes  it?" 

"  I  really  think  it  is  shaping  all  right,"  said  Emmie. 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  the  play.     Yourself." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  thank  you." 

"  Move  up  one,  will  yer  ?  " 

And  sitting  down  beside  her,  he  remained  silent, 
tapping  himself  on  the  chest  and  sides,  and  feeling  in 


350  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

overcoat  pockets.     Then  he  called  loudly. 

Mr.  Russell,  the  stage-manager,  came  down  the  stage 
at  a  run.  The  rehearsal  stopped  and  there  was  dead 
silence.  Mr.  Russell  leaned  forward  over  the  foot- 
lights, his  face  all  lit  up  and  a  hand  shading  his  eyes, 
as  he  peered  into  the  dark  auditorium  and  spoke 
anxiously. 

"  Was  that  you  calling  me,  Mr.  Leahurst  ?^^ 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Leahurst.  "  Much  ablige  if  you'll 
give  me  box  o'  matches.  Somehow  seem  to  have  forgot 
mine."  And  he  told  the  people  on  the  stage  to  go  on. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  didn't  mean  t'  interrupt  you. 
Very  sorry,  I'm  sure  " ;  and  the  rehearsal  was  resumed. 
"  Ta,  Mr.  RusseU." 

He  lit  his  cigarette,  and  turning  a  shoulder  to  the 
stage,  talked  to  Emmie ;  while  Mildred  and  Alwyn,  spell- 
bound, watched  them  from  the  corner  by  the  pass-door. 

"  We  shall  lose  our  money  over  this,"  he  said, 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not,  Mr.  Leahurst." 

"  I  wonder  what  made  a  lady  like  you  take  up  such  a 
game  as  this.    Ever  done  it  before.?  " 

"No." 

*'  No,  so  I  thought.  I  was  surprised  when  Beckett  made 
me  kno^Ti  to  you.  You  follow  what  I  mean?  Nothing 
of  the  theatre  about  you.  Just  lending  him  a  helping 
hand  ?  Well,  you're  rich,  I  s'pose  —  so  it  won*t  hurt 
you  either  way." 

"Oh,  but  my  wish  is  that  it'll  be  a  great  success." 

"You  won't  get  your  wish."  He  nodded  his  head 
mournfully,  and,  removing  his  cigarette  from  his  mouth 
made  that  trumpeting  sound  with  his  lips. 

"Don't  you  Hke  to  play,  Mr.  Leahurst?" 

"I  dunno  anything  about  the  play.     It's  Greek  to 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  351 

me.  But  I  know  this:  wrong  season  to  produce  any- 
thing important  —  stop-gap  —  no  names  in  the  cast  " ; 
and  he  made  a  movement  with  his  thumb,  as  of  Romans 
at  a  gladiatorial  arena.  "  Right  down  —  unless  by  a 
fluke  Beckett  draws  the  women." 

Emmie  pleaded  against  his  dismal  prognostications. 

"  Oh,  please  don't  make  me  down-hearted." 

"  All  right,"  said  Mr.  Leahurst,  suddenly  smiling  at 
her.  *'  I  don't  want  to  crab  it.  Cert'nly  not  —  since 
you're  so  keen  on  it." 

It  was  quite  extraordinary,  the  effect  of  that  first 
smile.  Emmie,  who  had  been  afraid  of  him  because 
everybody  else  was  afraid  of  him,  had  now  the  weak 
instinctive  gratification  that  even  the  best  people  feel 
when  the  ogre  unbends  to  them.  But  it  was  more  than 
that.  She  had  a  swift  convincing  impression  of  innate 
simplicity  and  good  nature.  Whatever  the  tales  about 
him,  there  was  something  in  this  common  illiterate  man 
that  you  could  not  dismiss  lightly.  She  asked  herself 
what.  Power,  strength  of  purpose,  or  the  concealed 
kindliness  ? 

And  without  prelude  he  began  to  talk  of  himself  — 
with  a  candour  so  astounding  that  Emmie  was  rendered 
breathless.  He  talked  about  himself  as  if  there  was  no 
possible  question  that  it  was  a  subject  of  entrancing 
interest  to  all  the  world;  also  as  if  he  had  detected 
in  Emmie  complete  sympathy,  together  with  burning 
curiosity,  and  it  would  not  be  fair  to  keep  back  any 
detail  from  her.  "  Plays  are  all  the  same  to  me.  The 
best  of  'em  —  I  mean  what  the  critics  call  the  best  — 
give  me  an  headache.  I  never  went  inside  a  theatre  till 
I  was  thirty-seven  —  an'  never  wanted  to.  It  was  my 
late  wife  dragged  me  into  the  business.    That's  all  it  is 


352  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

to  me  —  a  business.     She  was  an  actress  by  profession 
—  and  a  cat  domestically.     I  gave  way  for  peace  and 
quiet.    A  lot  o'  money  I  spent  on  her,  giving  her  shows 
in  this  and  that,  ramming  her  down  tlie  public's  throat, 
and  o'ny  makin'  'em  sick,  all  said  and  done.     But  I 
was  loyal.     I  went  on  with  it  —  till  they   came  and 
told  me  I'd  lost  her.     I  don't  want  to  say  anything 
unkind  about  her.     But  that's  why  you  see  me  here. 
I've  learnt  it  now  —  and  I  wash  one  hand  with  the  other. 
The  people  bred  up  in  the  business  are  like  a  pack 
o'  cliildren.     Natchrally,  any  real  business  man  does 
what  he  likes  with  'em.     Miss  Verinder,  tell  me  if  you 
can:  What  is  the  charm  of  the  theatre?  "     He  did  not 
wait  for  an  answer.    ^'  Vanity,  I  suppose,  at  the  bottom 
of  it.     Same  with  your  friend  Beckett !     I  dunno.     I 
like  Beckett  because  he's  a  manly  young  feller ;  not  like 
these   long-haired  — "     And   to   indicate  the   class   of 
actors  to  whom  he  objected,  he  used  a  technical  term 
that  Emmie  did  not  understand. 

Then  the  producer  spoke  to  him  from  the  stage. 
"  Mr.  Leahurst,  a  point  has  arisen." 
"  Go  ahead,  Mr.  Hope,"  he  said.     "  I  leave  it  to 
you  " ;  and  turning  his  shoulder  a  little  more,  he  went 
on  talking  to  Miss  Verinder. 

"  Take  to-day  —  fine  bright  winter  day.  Fancy  us 
coming  stuffing  in  here,  all  in  the  dark.  I  don't  play 
outdoor  games  myself.  But  surely  to  goodness  one 
might  take  a  'bus  and  have  a  walk  up  Highgate  way; 
or  run  down  to  Brighton  in  the  Southern  Belle  and 
take  a  toddle  on  the  pier.  You  like  open  air,  don't 
you?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do." 
Yes,  I  thought  so.    And  cold  water  too,  unless  I'm 


(C 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  353 

mistaken.    I  mean,  a  tub  every  morning." 

Emmie  was  embarrassed. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Mr.  Leahurst,  quite  heartily. 
"  Keeps  one  fresh  —  and  young.  I  mean,  young  for 
one's  age  " ;  and  he  looked  at  her  with  another  friendly 
smile.  Then  he  became  very  confidential  again.  "  But 
since  I  lost  my  wife  I  feel  myself  in  a  precarious  situa- 
tion. No  proper  home.  Then,  of  course,  these  girls 
take  advantage  of  me." 

"  What  girls.?  "  asked  Miss  Verinder  innocently. 

"  Oh,  I  s'pose  they've  told  you.  I'm  too  easy.  I 
dropped  a  lot  o'  money  in  putting  up  that  revue  — 
bother  the  name  —  for  Mamie  Cockayne.  First  one, 
then  another  " ;  and  he  made  a  gesture,  waving  the 
stump  of  his  cigarette  comprehensively. 

While  he  brought  out  a  fresh  cigarette  Mildred  came 
sidling  along  their  row  of  stalls,  and  whispered  to 
Emmie. 

"  Tell  him  how  bad  we  think  Miss  Millbank." 

"  Who's  she.?  "  asked  Mr.  Leahurst,  when  Mildred 
had  sidled  away  again.     "  Understudy  ?  " 

"  No,  a  friend  of  mine.     Miss  Parker." 

"  Nice  ladylike  person !  S'pose  she  is  a  lady,  if  it 
comes  to  that  —  being  a  friend  of  yours." 

Emmie  presently  conveyed  to  him  the  damaging 
opinion  about  Miss  Millbank.  "  She  doesn't  seem  to 
rmderstand  anything,  and  she  is  so  hard  —  really  as 
hard  as  nails. 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  said  Mr.  Leahurst,  glancing  round 
at  the  stage. 

"  Of  course,  it's  a  Marian  D'Arcy  part ;  and  Mr. 
Beckett  says  if  you  imagine  Miss  D'Arcy  doing  it,  you 
see  at  once  how  dreadfully  Miss  Millbank  falls  short," 


354  SPINSTER    OF    TfflS    PARISH 

But  just  tlien  a  wrangle  had  broken  out  upon  the 
stage  and  people  were  calling  for  Mr.  Leahurst. 

Miss  Millbank  declared  that  again  she  could  not 
say  such  stuff. 

"  Well,  cut  it  out,"  said  somebody.  "  Or  let  her 
speak  that  line  of  Mrs.  Harcourt's,"  said  somebody 
else.  "What's  that  bit  of  Beckett's?"  said  the  pro- 
ducer. "  '  I  wonder  if  women  ever  think  that '  —  How 
does  it  go  on?  Give  Miss  Millbank  the  whole  of  that 
bit,  Beckett.  You  can  spare  it.  No,  that  won't  do 
either.  She  can't  say  your  line  about  poverty  and  her 
trouser  pockets."  And  they  all  of  them  talked  at  the 
same  time. 

Then  all  at  once  they  appealed  to  the  unliappy- 
looking  man  in  the  corner  of  the  stalls.  "  Is  Mr. 
Sherwood  there?  I  say.  Can't  you  help  us  with  a 
suggestion?  Can't  j^ou  write  in  some  lines  here?  You 
must  have  some  opinion.      Sherwood !  " 

And  Emmie  with  a  shock  of  surprise  understood  that 
he  was  the  author. 

He  said,  "  I  think  you're  spoiling  it." 

They  all  turned  against  him  in  furious  indignation. 
"  Did  you  hear  what  he  said?  Mr.  Leahurst,  did  you 
hear  him?  Here  are  we  toiling  for  him  —  grinding 
our  hearts  out  for  liim  —  and  he  says  —  Oh,  gi'eat 
Scott,  that  puts  the  lid  on  everything." 

Mr.  Leahurst  went  down  to  the  orchestra,  and  said, 
"  There's  no  need  for  us  to  lose  our  tempers." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  the  producer,  crimson  with 
passionate  wrath. 

Miss  Millbank,  stepping  forward,  said  she  had  never 
been  asked  to  speak  such  tommy-rot.  Stuff  that  she 
could  not  feel! 


C( 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  355 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Leahurst,  mildly  and  forlornly, 
you  are  doing  your  best.    It's  not  your  fault  if  you 
don't  quite  hit  it  off." 

This  made  Miss  Millbank  exceedingly  angry. 
"What?"  she  said.     "Don't  you  like  my  reading?" 

"  So  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  ascertain,"  said  Mr. 
Leahurst,  "  it's  a  Marian  D'Arcy  part.  Well,  you 
aren't  Marian,  are  you?  " 

The  rehearsal  went  on  again,  and  as  Mr.  Leahurst 
presently  returned  to  his  seat  beside  Emmie,  she  took 
the  opportunity  of  telling  him  that,  in  the  opinion  of 
herself  and  Alwyn,  the  girl  engaged  for  the  lady's-maid 
was  even  worse  than  Miss  Millbank. 

Mr.  Leahurst  blinked  his  eyelids  and  very  slowly  lit  a 
cigarette. 

"  Think  so?  "  he  said,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  do  reaUy." 

"  I  dessay  ^^ou're  nght." 

This  Miss  Yates,  the  incompetent  and  affected  lady's- 
maid,  came  into  the  stalls  after  a  little  while  and  talked 
to  him  in  a  friendly  chaffing  manner.  But  he  did  not 
stay ;  he  got  up  and  went  off  to  some  sacred  managerial 
room.  The  young  lady  flopped  down  in  a  row  of  stalls 
at  a  little  distance  from  Emmie,  and  occupied  herself 
with  a  tiny  gold-framed  mirror  and  a  lip-stick.  She 
had  brought  with  her  also  a  large  cardboard  hat-box. 
Holding  the  box  on  liigh,  she  called  to  a  pallid  young 
man. 

"  Bertie !  Be  a  dear,  and  put  this  in  Mr.  Leahurst's 
car  will  you?  And  ask  some  one  to  let  me  know  as 
soon  as  he's  ready." 

Both  Mildred  and  Alwyn  had  been  as  much  amazed 
as   rejoiced  on  observing  Emmie's   success  with  Mr. 


356  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

Leahurst.  When  the  rehearsal  was  over,  each  of  them 
in  turn  thanked  her  and  congratulated  her ;  and  Emmie, 
pleased  with  herself  without  being  vainglorious,  told 
Alwjn  how  she  had  plainly  said  that  Miss  Millbank 
was  no  good. 

"  Splendid !  "  cried  Alwyn. 

"  And  I  told  him,  too,  that  the  other  girl,  Miss  Yates, 
was  no  good  either." 
Alwyn  nearly  fainted. 

"  Oh,  ye  gods !     Never  mind.     It  can't  be  helped. 
Come  along.     Let's  get  some  food." 

Soon  now  people  in  this  theatre  and  other  theatres 
were  asking  a  question.  What  was  the  matter  with 
Mr.  Leahurst?  L^nlieard  of  things  were  happening. 
He  regularly  attended  rehearsals,  and  telephoned  for 
news  when  he  was  prevented  from  attending.  He  was 
showing  the  most  active  interest  in  what  was,  after  all, 
merely  a  stop-gap  or  fill-in  show. 

He  used  to  occupy  the  same  stall,  smoking,  and  talk- 
ing to  Miss  Verinder.  He  told  her  that  it  rested  him 
to  sit  like  this  and  not  be  bothered  for  an  hour  or  so. 
He  said,  too,  in  this  connection,  that  she  herself  was 
"  reposeful." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  told  that.''    I  s'pose  you  have, 
often." 

At  Emmie's  suggestion  he  got  the  author  to  sit  with 
them  and  explain  the  drift  of  the  play. 

"  Very  clever,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mr.  Leahurst,  not  in 
the  least  understanding. 

Then  one  day,  smiling,  he  asked  her :  *'  Have  j^ou  set 
your  heart  on  this  being  a  success.^  " 

"  Yes,  I  havcy  Mr.  Leahurst,"  said  Emmie  earnestly. 
"  You  don't  know  how  much  hangs  on  it." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  357 

"  Well,  we  must  see  what  can  be  done." 

He  tilted  his  hat  to  the  back  of  his  head,  walked  down 
to  the  orchestra,  and  clapped  his  hands  loudly.  Every- 
thing stopped,  everybody  was  turned  to  stone. 

"  Mr.  Hope,"  he  said,  addressing  the  producer, 
"  I'm  not  satisfied." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Leahurst,"  said  the  producer, 
in  a  dreadfully  crestfallen  way,  "I  have  done  my 
best." 

"  The  thing's  not  going  to  be  ready  by  the  tenth," 
said  Mr.  Leahurst.  "  We'll  postpone  production  for  a 
fortnight.     Tell  'em  there'll  be  no  call  to-morrer." 

Then,  in  the  most  autocratic,  Napoleonic  style,  he 
scrapped  the  company.  Miss  Millbank  was  whirled 
away  in  tears  to  join  a  tour  at  Scarborough.  Marian 
D'Arcy,  ruthlessly  torn  out  of  another  play,  replaced 
her.  Two  of  the  best-known  and  highest-priced  char- 
acter actors  of  Europe  came  in,  and  excellent  trust- 
worthy veterans  were  engaged  to  support  them  in 
minutely  small  roles. 

He  had  turned  it  into  a  star  cast,  and  the  word  went 
round  that  no  expense  counted.  Mr.  Leahurst  had  set 
his  heart  on  a  success.  He  came  every  day  "  to  put 
ginger  "  into  the  fresh  producer ;  he  consulted  Alwyn 
about  his  press  campaign;  and  already  the  advance 
paragraphing  was  tremendous.  The  new  scenery, 
lighting,  and  dresses  were  described  as  likely  to  touch 
a  high  water  mark  of  combined  taste  and  costliness. 

Everything  was  new,  then  —  even  the  lady's-maid. 

"  I  acted  on  your  hint,"  he  said  to  Emmie.  "  I  gave 
her  her  marching  papers  —  in  all  directions,  I  mean. 
Does  that  satisfy  you?  " 

The  excitement  grew  painful  as  the  date  of  the  post- 


358  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

poned  first  night  drew  near.  Now  the  bills  were  up, 
outside  the  theatre.  The  morning  that  they  arrived, 
Mr.  Leahurst  invited  Emmie  into  a  little  office  near  the 
stage  door  and  showed  her  one  of  them  pinned  to  the 
wall.    She  and  Mildred  studied  it  with  rapture. 

"  Sole  Lessee,  Mr.  Crauford.  B}-  arrangement  with 
Mr.  Somebody-else,  Mr.  Leahurst  presents  "  —  then 
came  the  gigantic  lettering  — "  Marian  D'Arcy  and 
Alwyn  Beckett  in  The  Danger  Signal*^ 

"  That's  more  like  it,  eh?  "  said  Mr.  Leahurst. 

On  the  night  itself  Emmie  and  Mildred  sat  hidden  in 
the  recesses  of  a  private  box  and  trembled  for  forty- 
seven  minutes  —  that  is  to  say,  tiU  the  end  of  the  first 
act.  After  that  they  glowed  and  squeezed  each  other's 
hands  ecstatically.  The  act-drop  had  been  raised 
about  thirteen  times,  of  which  the  fii-st  four  raisings 
were  certainly  in  accord  with  the  desire  of  the  audience. 
After  the  second  act  there  could  not  linger  even  a 
faint  doubt.  The  thing  was  unquestionably  a  trium- 
phant success. 

During  this  interval  Mr.  Leahurst  came  into  the  box 
and  trumpeted.  Dressed  in  his  ordinary  costume  of 
dark  grey  frock-coat  and  trousers,  he  kept  well  at  the 
back  of  the  box  so  as  not  to  be  seen  by  the  public, 
and  he  carefully  concealed  a  lighted  cigarette  with  the 
palm  of  his  hand  in  order  that  nobody  should  detect 
that  he  was  breaking  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  regu- 
lations. 

The  ladies  rose  and  went  to  welcome  him  with  radiant 
faces. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  glorious?"  cried  Mildred,  going  close 
to  him,  and  in  her  joy  seeming  as  if  she  wished  to 
throw   her   arms   round  his   neck   and   embrace  him. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  359 

"  But  we  owe  it  all  to  you,  Mr.  Lealiurst  —  every  little 
bit  of  it.  Alwyn  knows  that  well.  And  Miss  Verinder 
knows." 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  Mr.  Leahurst,  turning  to 
go.     "  Bother.     Burnt  my  hand !  " 

Next  morning  the  entire  press  confirmed  the  triumph, 
"  Acclaimed,  without  one  dissentient  note  — "  as  the 
advertisements  said. 

Once  again,  then,  a  venture  of  the  hardened  gambler 
had  turned  up  trumps.  The  money  of  Miss  Verinder 
was  not  only  safe,  she  had  made  the  fortune  of  Mr. 
Alwyn  Beckett.  There  were  interviews  with  him;  his 
photograph  was  everywhere  —  Mr.  Beckett  on  the 
links,  Mr.  Beckett  snapped  in  entering  the  stage  door, 
Mr.  Beckett  hailing  a  taxi-cab.  Full-page  portraits 
of  him  enriched  the  illustrated  weeklies.  And  he  was 
nice  in  his  new  eminence,  not  swollen-headed,  but  modest 
and  gay,  just  a  manly  young  fellow,  who,  although  so 
anlbitious,  valued  success  most  of  all  because  it  brought 
him  nearer  to  the  lady  of  his  love. 

Mr.  Leahurst,  celebrating  the  affair  in  a  manner 
quite  alien  to  his  custom,  gave  a  magnificent  supper- 
party  at  one  of  the  most -fashionable  hotels,  and  Miss 
Verinder  was  placed  at  his  side,  in  the  place  of  honour. 
There  were  speeches,  but  he  himself  made  none. 

"  Funny  thing,"  he  said  to  Emmie,  during  supper, 
"  how  things  falls  out.  To-day  I  finally  got  rid  of  my 
late  wife." 

Emmie  started,  and  looked  at  his  in  astonishment. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  Hasn't  Mrs.  Leahurst  been 
dead  a  long  time?  " 

"No,  she's  still  alive.  O'ny  decree  nisi.  Made 
absolute  to-day," 


360  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

After  supper  he  asked  her  if  she  was  satisfied,  and  he 
added  that  he  had  given  the  supper  on  her  account. 
"  I  have  done  everything  that  I  have  done  for  the 
purpose  of  pleasing  you." 

Emmie  murmured  a  very  faint  acknowledgment ;  and, 
driving  home,  Sihe  felt  grievously  worried  in  the  midst  of 
her  elation.  Like  others,  she  asked  herself  what  was 
the  matter  with  Mr.  Leahurst. 

But  unlike  the  case  of  all  the  others,  it  was  reserved 
to  her  to  find  out.  He  came  to  the  flat  next  day  and 
asked  her  to  marry  him. 

She  noticed  how  very  smart  he  was  directly  he  came 
in,  also  that  he  was  not  smoking;  and  she  was  at  once 
fluttered  by  the  complimentary  things  he  said  about 
the  flat. 

"  Refinement  —  good  taste  " ;  and  he  glanced  sadly 
here  and  there.  "  That's  what  you  can't  buy  with 
money.     This  is  a  home,  Miss  Verinder." 

Then  he  went  straight  ahead.  "  As  things  go,  I'm 
a  rich  man.  I  don't  ask  you  what  you've  got,  and  I 
don't  want  to  know.  You  can  keep  yerself  in  clothes, 
p'raps?  Leave  it  at  that.  I'm  not  after  your  money, 
Miss  Verinder.  It's  you  I  want  —  and  the  refined 
comfortable  home  you  can  give  me.  Inferior  by  birth 
and  education,  granted.  But  if  I  can  shijwsljs  rise  to 
your  level,  I  mean  to  try." 

She  stopped  him  as  soon  as  she  could,  and  said  the 
dreadful  conventional  things  that  used  to  be  said  on 
such  occasions  during  the  middle  period  of  Queen 
Victoria's  reign  —  to  the  effect  that  she  was  honoured 
by  his  wish,  although  she  could  not  respond  to  it,  that 
she  esteemed  and  respected  him,  and  hoped  he  might 
later  on  be  willing  to  accept  her  friendship  in  lieu  of 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  361 

what  he  had  asked  for.  But,  curiously  enough,  the 
things  were  true.  As  Miss  Millbank  would  have  put 
it,  she  felt  them.  Through  it  all  there  was  shining 
forth  at  her  the  unmistakable  fact.  This  Mr.  Lea- 
hurst  was  in  truth  a  simple  kindly  creature  —  a  good 
sort. 

"  Well,  it's  a  hideous  disappointment.  I  don't  mind 
saying  I  thought  the  sympathy  was  mutual.  There, 
it's  my  own  fault.  I  told  you,  not  accustomed  to  the 
ways  of  ladies  —  I  mean,  real  ladies  —  and  I  mistook 
your  polite  manners." 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Emmie,  in  the  same  mid- 
Victorian  stjde. 

"  Well,  there's  an  end  of  it."  He  picked  up  his  silk 
hat  and  malacca  cane,  which  he  had  brought  into  the 
room  just  as  he  had  always  seen  done  by  people  on  the 
stage.  "  I  bear  no  malice,"  and  he  moved  towards 
the  door.  Then  he  turned.  "  Would  you  mind  telling 
me  if  there's  anybody  else." 

"  Mr.  Leahurst,"  said  Emmie,  blushing  hotly,  "  I 
don't  think  you  ought  to  ask  me  that." 

"  Then  one  question.  You're  not  hankering  after 
that  young  Beckett.?  " 

Emmie  was  indignant.  "  Mr.  Leahurst !  He  is  going 
to  marry  Miss  Parker." 

"  That  wouldn't  need  to  make  any  difference. 
There's  such  funny  arrangements  nowadays." 

"  Mr.  Leahurst !  " 

"  All  right."  He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  invincible 
melancholy.  "  I'm  very  helpless.  I  s'pose  I  shall  fall 
back  into  the  clutches  of  those  girls." 

"  Oh,  no !  "  Emmie,  scarcely  knowing  what  she 
said,  implored  him  not  to  do  that.    As  in  a  dream,  she 


362  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

heard  herself  assuring  him  that  he  was  meant  for  a 
better  fate;  urging  him  to  be  true  to  himself,  to  keep 
his  eyes  on  the  heights,  to  climb  upward  from  the 
slough. 

He  went  out  dolefully ;  giving  Louisa  a  couple  of  one- 
pound  notes,  in  order  to  prove  that  he  bore  no  malice. 

These  excitements  and  interludes  had  helped  her 
through  some  of  the  months  that  she  had  been  counting. 
The  pretty  little  love  story  was  going  to  have  a  happy 
ending.  Mildred,  bouncing  in  and  out  of  the  flat, 
brimmed  over  with  joy  as  she  described  the  changed 
attitude  of  her  parents.  Indeed,  if  the  dear  child  could 
have  heard  Mr.  Parker  talking  at  his  club,  she  might 
have  been  able  to  report  a  more  rapid  progress  in  the 
desired  direction.  For  certainly  Mr.  Parker  showed  at 
the  club  that  he  was  at  least  accustoming  himself  to  the 
idea  of  theatrical  connections. 

"  That  young  man  Alwyn  Beckett,"  said  Mr.  Parker, 
"  has  been  offered  two  hundred  pounds  a  week  to  go  to 
America.  Till  recently  I  had  no  notion  that  actors' 
salaries  ever  reached  such  a  figure." 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing,"  said  a  well-informed  member 
of  the  club ;  "  nothing  at  all,  compared  with  what  they 
get  for  film-acting." 

"Is  that  so?  Well,  Beckett  is  on  the  films  too.  It 
seems  he  has  become  a  universal  favourite.  We  know 
him  personally.  He  and  my  son,  Hubert,  were  up  at 
Cambridge  together,  and  they  have  never  lost  sight  of 
each  other." 

Then  one  day  towards  the  end  of  February,  Mildred 
danced  into  the  flat  drawing-room  and  shouted  that  her 
father  had  nearly  consented  to  recognize  an  engage- 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  363 

ment.    A  word  to  him  from  her  angelic  Emmeline  might 
now  make  him  surrender  altogether. 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry.  I  am  disturbing  you." 
Miss  Verinder  was  kneeling  on  the  floor  surrounded 
by  maps  and  open  books.  One  large  map  was  spread 
out  across  the  seat  of  a  chair,  and  in  her  hand  she  held 
the  magnifying  glass  with  which  she  had  studied  its  thin 
lines  and  minute  signs.  That  dark  hair  of  hers,  still 
without  a  touch  of  grey,  flopped  loose  and  untidy ;  her 
face  was  haggard;  her  teeth  showed  strangely  as  she 
made  a  piteous  effort  that  resulted  in  a  wry,  distorted 
sort  of  smile.  Mildred  drew  back  frightened,  and  then 
came  forward  with  outstretched  hands.  This  was  a 
Miss  Verinder  that  she  had  never  seen  before. 

"  I  am  glad,  dear.  He  —  he'll  consent.  But  you 
mustn't  count  on  me  any  more,  Mildred.  Yes,  yes,  yes, 
I  have  been  upset.  But  you  must  leave  me  alone,  please 
—  you  must  leave  me  out  of  everything."  And 
although  the  girl  could  see  all  the  old  affection  in  her 
eyes,  her  voice  was  almost  harsh  and  forbidding.  "I  — 
I  have  no  place  among  happy  people." 


CHAPTER    XVII 

NEWS  had  come;  and  it  was  bad  news.  Except 
that  it  conveyed  desolation  instead  of  comfort, 
she  did  not  yet  fully  understand  the  long  cable- 
gram from  Twining.  Its  one  salient  statement  had 
been  a  blow  sufficiently  cruel  to  strike  her  down. 

Tw'ining  had  returned  to  Hobart  in  the  relief  ship. 
He  had  returned  —  without  Dj^ke.  He  had  brought 
back  other  people  —  but  not  Dyke. 

The  message  had  many  map  references,  and  she 
immediately  recognised  the  first  one  —  in  Latitude 
seventy-seven  degrees,  forty  minutes,  south.  That,  of 
course,  was  Dyke's  base  camp  on  the  Barrier,  near  the 
place  from  which  Captain  Scott  started.  So  it  had 
been  arranged.  He  was  to  follow  Captain  Scott's 
line.  He  said  it  was  a  duty  to  the  dead  —  to  carry  on 
the  work. 

Naturally  it  was  to  that  point  that  Twining  would 
go,  to  succour  and  relieve.    The  message  said : — 

".  .  .  Have  taken  away  everybody  from  there.  The 
large  party  that  Dyke  took  with  him  all  safe  back. 
They  left  him  Latitude  eighty-five  degrees  south.  Dyke 
going  on  with  two." 

Emmie's  teeth,  with  retracted  lips,  began  to  chatter, 
and  she  repeated  the  words  in  a  whisper.  "  Dyke 
going  on  —  Dyke  going  on  with  two." 

364 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  365 

*'  I  did  not  meet  the  Follower.  As  ordered  by  Dyke, 
Follower  sailed  October  last  for  coast-line  Latitude 
seventy-three  degrees  south,  Longitude  twenty  degrees 
west  of  Greenwich.  Gladstone  instructed  to  make  food 
depots  from  Latitude  seventy-four  south.  Longitude 
tw^enty-two  west,  to  as  far  south  as  possible  and 
to  meet  Dyke.  Am  refitting  in  haste  to  start  for 
Follower's  new  station." 

Twining  had  not  seen  Dyke's  own  ship,  the  Follower. 
The  Follower  was  gone  —  somewhere  else.  Why?  She 
could  not  understand.  And  what  was  the  significance 
of  that  instruction  to  make  more  food  depots,  when  all 
depots  were  already  provided?  On  the  supply  of  food 
from  the  base  camp  southwards  depended  all  the 
security  of  Dyke's  return  journey  from  the  Pole.  Was 
there  something  wrong  with  the  carefully  planned 
arrangements  ?  Surely  this  must  mean  that  he  intended 
to  come  from  the  Pole  by  a  slightly  different  line?  But 
then  —  oh,  the  danger,  the  horrible  danger  of  altered 
plans. 

Twining  had  broken  up  the  original  base  camp ;  he 
had  taken  everybody  away.  It  could  have  only  one 
meaning:  that  Dyke  was  not  coming  back  exactly  the 
same  way  that  he  had  gone.  It  could  not  mean  —  no,  a 
thousand  times  no  —  that  he  had  been  so  long  that  they 
did  not  expect  him  back  at  all?  No,  they  expected  him 
at  this  other  place.     They  were  to  meet  him  there. 

She  fell  into  a  fit  of  shivering  as  the  thought  came  to 
her  that  all  this  had  happened  months  ago.  Twining 
was  speaking  of  events  that  were  over,  done  with,  for 
ever.  Already  Dyke's  journey  was  a  thing  of  the  past, 
At  this  hour  Dyke  and  those  two  were  safe,  quite  out  of 
danger,  or  — 


366  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

She  threw  herself  face  downwards  on  the  bed,  writh- 
ing and  moaning. 

Then  after  a  while  she  set  to  work  with  the  map 
again;  trying  to  locate  accurately  that  last  map 
reference  and  find  the  exact  point  of  the  coast-line 
mentioned  as  the  place  of  the  new  base  camp  to  be 
established  by  the  Follower,  In  spite  of  all  her  train- 
ing, she  was  still  apt  to  get  confused  in  regard  to 
Longitude.     Latitude  never  troubled  her. 

Slowly  the  big  map  turned  in  her  hands  as  she  fol- 
lowed those  thin  north  and  south  lines  and  the  tiny  num- 
bers on  the  Antarctic  circle ;  and  as  if  with  her  weak 
trembling  hands  she  had  pushed  the  world  itself  round 
upon  its  axis,  she  stared  in  horror  and  amazement. 
That  point  to  which  Dj'ke  had  ordered  the  Follower 
was  two  thousand  miles,  a  long  sea  vo^'age,  away  from 
the  old  place.  It  was  right  across  the  circle,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  map,  facing  Cape  Horn  instead  of 
Australasia.  The  coast-line  was  in  Coats  Land.  The 
new  food  depots  were  to  be  made  on  the  edge  of  that 
vast  unknown  which  stretches  from  there  to  the  Pole 
without  a  single  mark  on  the  map  to  indicate  men's 
guesses  at  the  secrets  that  it  holds. 

Then  it  was  as  if  a  bright  light  burst  before  her  eyes, 
and  she  shook  as  if  an  explosion  had  set  the  room  and 
the  whole  house  rocking.  She  had  understood  at  last 
the  audacity  and  magnitude  of  Dyke's  aim. 

He  had  never  intended  to  retrace  his  steps.  He 
meant  to  go  straight  on  past  the  Pole,  through  the  un- 
known, unguessed-at  regions  on  that  other  side, 
straight  on,  right  across  the  circle. 

Presently  she  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  bed, 
crying,  and  talking  aloud.     "  O  Tony,  this  is  too  bad 


SPINSTER   OF    THIS    PARISH  367 

of  you.    It  isn't  right.    It  isn't  fair.    You  have  broken 
the  spirit  of  our  agreement,  if  not  the  letter.     You 
knew  very  well  that  I  would  not  have  allowed  it,  if  I 
had  been  consulted.    And  you  said  I  should  be  consulted 
—  you  said  my  word  was  law  —  at  the  time  I  gave  you 
the  money."     She  went  on  talking,  half  hystericaUy, 
just  as  a  mother  talks  when  news  reaches  her  from  a 
distance  of  a  wild  son's  reckless  and  inexcusable  be- 
haviour; saying  the  things  that  even  she,  'his  mother, 
would  have  been  forced  to  say  to  him,  had  he  been  here 
within  sound  of  her  voice.    "  No,  Tony,  I  can't,  I  can't 
forgive  you  for  this.    You  could  not  have  done  it  if  you 
had  thought  of  me." 

She  went  almost  at  once  to  Devonshire,  in  order  to  be 
with  his  father  during  this  dreadful  time. 

Following  on  that  cablegram  from  Lieutenant 
Twining  to  the  unhappy  patron  and  mock  chieftain  of 
the  expedition,  there  came  all  sorts  of  messages  from 
press  correspondents  in  Tasmania.  But  evidently 
Twining  had  told  them  very  little.  They  did  not  know 
what  Emmie  knew.  Soon  however  the  name  of  Dyke 
once  more  became  prominent  in  English  newspapers.^ 

Silent  and  oblivious  all  this  time,  they  now  took  him 
up  again  in  the  interesting  uncertainty  as  to  his  fate. 
The  famous  explorer  lost,  became  worth  space  again. 
Anthony  Dyke  missing,  gone  from  human  ken,  long 
over-due,  was  naturally  more  valuable  than  Anthony 
Dyke  alive  and  well,  ready  to  answer  our  representa- 
tive's questions  at  the  end  of  a  telephone  wire.  He  took 
rank  as  a  sensation  that  appealed  to  all  readers,  and 
was  featured  only  less  conspicuously  than  some  Miss 
Jenkins,  a  pretty  golden-haired  flapper  of  seventeen. 


368  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

who  started  from  home  to  go  to  a  cinema  palace  three 
weeks  ago  and  has  not  been  seen  or  heard  of  since.  A 
strange  disappearance!  His  old  photographs  were 
brought  out.  His  whole  career  was  narrated  —  briefly, 
and  without  any  intimate  details  that  might  discount 
his  obituary  notices.    These  were  all  ready,  waiting. 

As  the  weeks  passed  and  the  view  of  the  newspapers 
grew  more  gloomy,  their  writers  became  more  and  more 
complimentary.  They  spoke  of  him  as  "  the  great 
Englishman."  They  said  that  even  after  a  war  which 
had  shown  us  by  hundreds  of  instances  how  the  fire  of 
patriotism  can  overcome  the  disability  of  age,  one  must 
yet  feel  dumb  with  admiration  as  one  thought  of  such 
an  enterprise  as  this  being  undertaken  by  a  man  of 
sixty-two.  They  wished  they  could  entertain  any  real 
hope  that  he  would  ultimately  work  his  way  back  to 
safety,  but  they  must  point  to  the  adverse  opinion  of 
an  expert  (in  another  column)  who  reminded  one  that 
the  factors  of  time  and  food  allowed  no  possibility  of 
delay.  Neither  seals  nor  birds  would  be  met  with. 
And  to  eat  the  sledge  dogs,  when  it  became  necessary, 
meant  destroying  the  means  of  rapid  movement.  They 
feared  that,  at  this  date,  there  could  be  little  doubt 
that  the  tragedy  of  ten  years  ago  had  been  re-enacted. 
Dyke  and  his  two  companions  had  perished  on  their 
way  back  to  the  base.  And  venerable  admirals,  writing 
in  confirmation  of  this  verdict,  paid  eloquent  tributes 
and  called  it  a  national  loss. 

It  was  a  part  of  Emmie's  task  at  Endelis  to  keep  all 
these  horrible  newspapers  out  of  reach  of  the  poor  old 
man.  She  said  it  merely  lacerated  one's  feelings  to 
read  them,  and,  as  they  were  without  information  that 
he  and  she  possessed,  their  opinion  was  quite  valueless. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  369 

Twining's  letter  came  to  her  at  EndcUs  six  weeks 
after  his  cabled  message.  He  was  scarcely  more  hope- 
ful than  the  newspapers.  And  a  little  after  this  the 
newspapers  themselves  ceased  to  speak  of  Dyke.  There 
was  no  more  to  be  said. 

Plainly  old  Mr.  Dyke's  bodily  strength  was  ebbing 
fast.  That  seat  on  the  cliff  saw  them  no  more.  It 
was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  walk  to  church,  with  the 
aid  of  Emmie's  arm.  In  church  he  sat  while  others 
stood  or  kneeled;  and  always  when  the  time  came  for 
the  curate  to  read  the  prayer  of  promise  that  when  two 
or  three  are  gathered  together  in  God's  name  their 
requests  will  be  granted,  Emmie  saw  his  hands,  and 
then  his  whole  body,  begin  to  tremble.  He  used  to  close 
his  eyes,  and  Emmie,  looking  down  at  him,  saw  the 
deep  lines  on  his  shrunken  cheeks,  his  veined  eyelids, 
and  his  bloodless  lips,  all  in  a  sort  of  fluttering  move- 
ment that  was  produced  by  the  rapidity  of  his 
breathing. 

In  the  mild  spring  weather  they  drove  in  a  little  old- 
fashioned  phaeton  with  a  staid  old  pony  —  Emmie 
driving  and  the  old  man  at  her  side  —  through  the 
deep-sunk  lanes,  never  on  the  high  road,  along  the 
sheltered  valleys  and  sometimes  high  enough  on  the 
hillside  to  find  a  point  where,  stopping  for  a  few  minutes 
to  rest  the  pony,  they  could  look  through  the  bars  of  a 
field  gate  across  sloping  grass  land  to  the  wide  calm 
sea.  He  loved  these  outings  in  the  pony  carriage,  and 
they  did  him  good.  They  talked  all  the  while  of 
Anthony ;  he  as  a  rule  telling  her  of  incidents  connected 
with  his  son's  youth  or  early  manhood,  and  she  gener- 
ally speaking  of  things  that  were  to  be  done  in  the  fu- 


370  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

ture.     They  comforted  each  other  as  best  they  could. 

"  As  soon  as  he  comes  home,  Mr.  Dyke,  he  must  help 
you  to  make  the  tenants  do  their  duty  in  repairing  these 
banks.    They  really  are  neglecting  them." 

"  Yes,  I'll  get  him  to  help  me  about  that  —  and 
other  matters,  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  negligent  my- 
self this  last  year.  But  if  Tony  will  settle  down  here, 
and  — " 

"  Oh,  he  promised.  He'll  keep  his  promise.  He 
promised  us  both  that  he  would  never  go  away  again." 

For  although  they  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  the 
torture  of  anxiety  that  both  were  suffering,  neither  had 
ever  admitted  even  a  transient  fear  that  their  belief  in 
his  return  might  not  be  justified.  Nothing  should 
shake  her  own  faith,  and  she  thought  that  the  old  man's 
faith  was  as  firm.  But  then,  during  one  of  these  drives, 
he  unconsciously  allowed  her  to  divine  that  it  was 
not  so. 

They  had  been  almost  laughing  as  they  spoke  of  the 
remarkable  fact  that  Mr.  Sturgess,  the  doctor,  had 
added  a  really  new  anecdote  to  his  repertory. 

"  It  would  have  amused  Tony  to  know  that,"  said 
Mr.  Dyke. 

"  I  will  tell  him  in  my  next  letter,"  said  Emmie. 

The  old  man  turned  his  thin  nose  and  dim  eyes,  and 
looked  at  her  in  startled  wonder. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  he  said,  "  that  you  are  still  writing 
to  him?  " 

"  Of  course  I  amj"  she  said,  with  a  gasp.  *'  I  write 
every  week  now,  instead  of  once  a  fortnight.  Naturally 
there  will  be  a  great  many  letters  —  counting  those 
that  Mr.  Twining  had  taken  with  him  on  the  Heather 
Bell.  And  Tony  won't  get  the  rest  till  he  arrives  at 
Hobart.     But  he'll  like  having  them,  no  matter  how 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  371 

many  they  are  " ;  and  she  tried  to  smile.  "  He  can 
read  them  —  or  glance  through  them  —  on  the  voyage 
home."  Then  her  voice  broke.  "  Oh,  dear  Mr.  Dyke, 
you  have  hurt  me  so  dreadfully.  Why  did  you  seem 
surprised?  Why  did  you  look  at  me  like  that  —  as  if 
you  thought  it  was  useles-s  to  go  on  writing  to  him  ?  " 

"  My  dearest  Emmie,  nothing  of-  the  sort."  The  old 
fellow  made  a  gallant  effort  to  speak  firmly  and  cheer- 
fully. "  You  are  absolutely  right.  I  don't  know  what 
I  was  thinking  about.  My  mind  had  wandered  —  it 
does  now,  occasionally.  Yes,  tell  him  that  Sturgess  has 
been  to  London  and  learnt  a  fresh  tale.  Tell  him  all 
the  news.  Abertors !  Don't  forget  to  say  that  Aber- 
tors  has  been  let  furnished. 

No  one  believed  really,  except  her.  Only  she  who  did 
not  dare  to  doubt,  contrived  to  go  on  believing.  The 
others  merely  pretended.  In  the  village  the  kindly 
friendly  little  shop  people  assimied  a  pitying  expres- 
sion that  betrayed  them  at  once. 

"  Mr.  Dyke  du  sim  poorly.  Very  old  he  is,  for  sure," 
said  Mrs.  Prince,  the  post-mistress,  to  Miss  Verinder, 
who  was  buying  stamps.  "  A  great  age  it  is  —  and 
now  what  with  his  grief  too  — " 

Miss  Verinder,  so  firm  as  to  seem  stern  and  haughty, 
said  that  Mr.  Dyke  was  feeling  anxiety  but  no  grief. 
Why  should  he  grieve  when  there  was  nothing  to  grieve 
about  ? 

"  Oh,  have  yu  a'  had  good  tidings,  miss?  "  asked  the 
post-mistress  eagerly. 

"  No,  it  is  improbable  that  we  shall  have  tidings  of 
any  kind  for  a  long  time.  I  have  told  you  so,  again 
and  again.  Don't  you  understand  that  the  seasons  are 
different  down  there?  " 


372  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  Yes,  miss,  so  jou  did  mention  to  my  husband." 

"  Down  there  the  winter  is  beginning.  The  ship  that 
has  gone  to  look  for  Mr.  Anthony  will  encounter  frozen 
seas.  Mr.  Anthony's  own  ship  —  unless  he  has  already 
got  away  —  will  be  fast  in  the  ice.  If  so,  he  cannot  be 
expected  at  any  navigable  port  until  the  autumn." 

It  was  just  the  same  with  those  old  serv^ants  at  the 
house.  Talking  to  her  of  Master  Anthony  they  spoke, 
as  their  master  did,  nearly  always  of  his  3'outh. 
Hannah,  standing  with  Emmie  in  his  dressing-room, 
pointed  down  into  the  walled  garden  and  said  how  when 
he  was  quite  a  little  chap,  and  she  herself  a  young  girl, 
he  had  a  lovely  black  velvet  suit  with  a  lace  collar; 
and  wearing  this  much  admired  costume,  he  lay  upon 
the  grass  down  there  on  an  April  day.  Then  a  sharp 
shower  began;  but  Master  Anthony,  never  seeming  to 
notice  the  downpour,  still  lay  there,  till  he  was  wet 
through  and  through.  "  Oh,  there  was  a  to-do,  for 
fear  he  should  take  cold."  Everybody  in  the  house  had 
loved  the  child. 

All  this  was  naturally  put  by  Hannah  into  the  past 
tense;  but  Emmie,  wincing,  noticed  that  Hannah  still 
used  the  same  tense  as  she  went  on  to  speak  of  later 
days,  when  she  said  how  it  was  his  kindness,  his  un- 
failing kindness,  that  had  won  the  hearts  not  only  of 
the  tenants  but  of  every  man  and  woman  for  miles 
round. 

"  Yes,"  said  Hannah  finally,  with  a  sigh,  "  he  was  a 
kind  gentleman." 

"  He  is  a  kind  gentleman,"  said  Miss  Verlnder. 
"  And  a  great  hero  too.  As  you'll  say,  when  he  comes 
home  and  all  the  world  is  praising  him." 

"  I'm  sure  we  do  hope  so,  miss." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  373 

But  she  knew  that  they  merely  acted  hope ;  they  had 
no  hope,  truly.  She  ceased  to  talk  to  them  in  the 
friendly  open  way  that  had  become  habitual.  She  let 
the  house  itself  talk  to  her  about  him,  and  not  its 
servants. 

Everything  spoke  of  him.  There  was  not  a  room 
that  had  not  legends  to  tell  and  memories  to  revive. 
Sometimes  on  these  mornings  of  early  spring  she  went 
by  herself  into  his  dressing-room,  and  remained  there 
for  a  long  while.  It  was  a  large  comfortable  room, 
beautifully  neat  and  clean,  smelling  of  lavender;  with 
two  spacious  walnut  wardrobes,  a  big  writing-table,  and 
chairs  covered  in  newly-washed  chintz  —  a  room  that 
seemed  to  have  been  occupied  quite  recently  and  to  be 
waiting  for  some  one  to  use  it  again  to-morrow.  She 
opened  the  latticed  casements  more  widely  to  let  in  more 
air  and  sunlight,  and  stood  looking  down  into  the  little 
garden,  and  thought  of  him,  dreamed  of  him.  In 
imagination  she  could  hear  him  down  below  on  the  ter- 
race, banging  away  at  the  cook's  box  as  he  and  the 
electrician  mended  it  —  a  splendid  grey-haired  giant, 
full  of  power  and  will.  In  imagination  she  could  see  him 
moving  along  the  grass  path  between  the  crocuses  and 
daffodils  —  a  child  dressed  in  black  velvet  and  white 
lace ;  a  child  with  a  man's  great  soul  already  developing 
in  him,  careless  of  rain  and  storm,  incapable  of  petty 
fears,  daring  and  yet  loving  nature. 

Sometimes  she  played  with  his  things,  rearranging 
the  writing  materials  in  the  small  cabinet  on  the  table, 
or  she  opened  the  wardrobes,  and  fetching  out  the  old- 
fashioned  garments,  shook  them,  brushed  them,  refolded 
them.  This  made  him  seem  more  certainly  alive.  These 
things  were  not  a  dead  man's  property. 


374  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  But  he  shan't  wear  them  again,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  We'll  make  a  bonfire  of  them.  It  is  absurd  not  to 
have  got  rid  of  them  ages  ago.  I  won't  have  him  look- 
ing as  he  did  that  last  Christmas,  in  this  horrid  little 
black  coat.     No,  we'll  have  a  bonfire." 

At  night  when  Mr.  Dyke  had  gone  to  bed  and  all  the 
house  was  shuttered  and  barred,  she  sat  alone  by  the 
dying  embers  in  the  oak  parlour,  or  stood  looking  into 
the  round  mirrors  as  if  almost  expecting  that  they 
would  show  a  reflection  of  something  more  than  empti- 
ness behind  her.  She  had  then  a  feeling  of  vagueness 
and  unreality,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  too  was 
acting.  What  was  it  all  about  —  tliis  tightening  of 
the  throat,  this  beating  of  the  heart,  this  hot  dull  ach- 
ing of  the  brain?  Why  had  she  begun  to  pace  the  room, 
like  a  tragedy  queen,  with  clenched  hands  and  wild 
eyes?  Pretence?  There  was  no  real  necessity  for  these 
exaggerated  poses  in  order  to  shew  an  empty  room  and 
a  vacant  chair  the  ravages  of  mental  agony. 

"  Courage,  Emmie.     Sit  down.     Don't  walk  about." 

Who  said  that?  She  stood  listening  and  trembling. 
No  one,  of  course.  But  it  was  what  he  would  have  said, 
had  he  been  here.  The  place  was  not  really  haunted. 
There  are  no  ghosts  —  and  if  there  were  ghosts  they 
must  be  ghosts  of  the  dead  not  of  the  living.  No  one 
had  spoken.  She  had  merely  supplied  ordinary  words 
to  an  ordinary  thought. 

She  sat  down  on  one  side  of  the  hearth  and  looked  at 
the  big  deep  chair  on  the  other  side  of  it.  She  had 
found  him  sitting  there  that  Christmas  eve  long  after 
she  herself  had  gone  upstairs,  long  after  midnight. 
She  had  come  down  again.  The  fire  had  burnt  itself 
out,  the  hearth  was  cold,  and  he  was  so  completely 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  375 

lost  in  thought  that  he  did  not  hear  her  slippered  foot- 
fall. She  had  known  then  that  she  must  let  him  go, 
that  she  could  not  keep  him  with  her,  that  the  sacrifice 
was  inevitable. 

"  Tony,"  she  had  said,  "  this  is  disgraceful  of  you. 
What  do  you  mean  by  staying  down  here,  hours  after 
you  ought  to  have  been  in  bed?  " 

''  If  it  comes  to  that,"  he  said,  shaking  off  his  reverie 
and  speaking  gaily,  "  why  haven't  you  gone  to  bed 
yourself?  " 

And  again  it  was  as  though  she  heard  his  voice,  clear 
and  distinct,  speaking  to  her  from  the  empty  chair  in 
this  haunted  room. 

She  was  sleeping  very  badly  at  this  time,  often  hear- 
ing the  church  clock  strike  the  hours  till  dawn  before 
she  fell  into  light  dozes.  Now  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
there  came  a  knocking  at  the  door  of  her  room. 
Startled,  she  called  out  loudly. 

The  door  opened  a  little  way,  and  the  old  man  spoke 
to  her. 

"Emmie,  forgive  me.  Can  you  get  up?  I  have 
something  to  tell  you." 

She  had  turned  on  the  light,  and  hastily  putting  a 
cloak  round  her  she  went  to  him  in  the  corridor.  He 
was  wrapped  in  the  loose  folds  of  a  dressing-gown,  so 
white  and  feeble  a  thing  as  seen  thus,  so  bony  and  thin, 
that  his  aspect  gave  her  a  new  shock  of  pain.  Because 
of  the  confusion  of  his  spirit,  forgetting  the  electric 
light,  he  carried  a  candle  that  was  guttering  and 
smoking  in  his  shaky  hand. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mr.  Dyke?  Are  you  ill?" 
And  she  took  the  candle  from  him  and  blew  it  out. 


376  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  No,  dear  —  not  ill.  But  I  have  been  thrown  into 
great  agitation  by  a  dream.  Emmie  dear,  I  am  still 
under  the  influence  of  it.  Help  me.  It  was  like  a 
vision.  But  dare  one  attach  importance  to  it?  Emmie, 
it  was  so  wonderful.  I  did  not  know  I  was  asleep  — 
but  I  suppose  I  must  have  been." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Dyke,  what  was  it?  "  She  too  was  shak- 
ing now,  so  much  that  the  candle  fell  from  its  socket 
and  rolled  against  the  wainscoat.  "  Tell  me  what 
it  was." 

"  Anthony,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  Anthony.  I  knew  it  " ;  but  she  clung  to  him. 
"  What  did  you  see?    ^What  did  you  hear?  " 

"  I  saw  him,  but  I  could  not  hear  anything." 

"Dead?" 

"No,  alive.  Oh,  yes,  I  saw  him  move  —  he  raised 
his  arm,  he  seemed  to  hold  his  hand  to  his  eyes,  and 
then  —  But,  Emmie,  I  heard  nothing.  That's  what 
makes  me  so  doubtful.  Tell  me  what  you  think.  No, 
don't  tell  me  —  I  can't  get  rid  of  this  agitation.  I 
can't  think  clearly."  Then  it  was  as  if  the  old  man  had 
suddenly  convinced  himself.  "Why  should  I  doubt? 
He  is  alive.  My  boy,  m}^  boy  still  lives.  Some  merci- 
ful power  has  sent  me  this  message." 

"Yes,  yes  —  that  is  what  we  will  think.  But,  dear 
Mr.  Dyke,  you  mustn't  stay  here  or  you  wiU  catch 
cold."  And  with  her  arm  round  him  she  led  him  back 
into  his  room. 

He  looked  about  him  vaguely. 

"  Get  back  to  bed  now." 

"  Yes,  dear.  But  first  I  want  to  tell  vou  all.  I 
want  to  describe  everything,  for  you  to  remember  it. 
He  seemed  to  be  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  looking 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  377 

forward.  And  when  he  dropped  his  hand  I  saw  the  face 
very  bright,  with  a  very  strong  light  upon  it  —  like  the 
strongest  sunshine.  He  wasn't  alone,  Emmie.  There 
was  some  one  else,  on  the  ground  by  his  feet.  And  then 
he  seemed  to  be  calling  out  —  though  I  couldn't  hear. 
Yet  I  seemed  to  understand  that  he  was  calling  to  me 
—  asking  me  to  wait  for  him  —  or  to  stay  with  him  — 
not  to  desert  him.  Then,  Emmie  dear,  though  there 
was  no  sound  to  his  voice,  I  spoke  myself.  I  called  to 
him  to  be  quick,  because  I  couldn't  wait.  Then, 
immediately  it  was  gone  —  and  I  felt  I  must  go  to  you." 

"  Yes,  yes.    I'm  glad  you  came.    But  now  — " 

**  Emmie,  I  don't  like  to  ask  you.  Yes,  I  will.  Pray 
with  me  a  minute.  When  two  or  three  are  gathered 
together.  Would  you  mind?  You  said  once  that  you 
did  believe  in  some  universal  power.  Well,  will  you 
pray  to  that?  I  don't  know  if  I  believe  in  much  else 
myself.     Everything  is  slipping  from  me." 

He  sank  upon  his  knees,  and  Emmie  took  the  quilt 
from  the  bed  and  held  it  round  him,  kneeling  by  his 
side  while  he  prayed.  It  was  pitiful,  heart-rending,  the 
weak,  weak  voice  quavering  breathlessly  in  the  silent 
nigtt. 

"  O  merciful  God,  make  this  thing  true.  O  God  of 
mercy  grant  our  prayer.  Have  mercy  on  us,  have 
mercy  on  us.  Oh,  spare  my  boy.  Have  mercy  on  my 
brave  boy.  Grant  to  us  two  who  love  him  that  he  may 
come  back  to  us  safely." 

She  got  him  into  bed  again,  covered  him  warmly,  and 
he  feebly  pressed  her  hand. 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Emmie.  That  was  kind  of  you. 
Yes,  when  two  or  three  are  gathered  together.  Very 
kind.     But  you  are  always  kind." 


378  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

She  stayed  there  for  some  time  after  he  had  fallen 
asleep,  and  then  went  back  to  her  room.  She  was 
exhausted  by  the  agitation  that  had  been  communicated 
to  her;  but  before  lying  down  she  wrote  a  note  in  her 
memorandum  book.  "  During  the  night  of  April  18-19, 
Mr.  Dyke  dreamed  that  he  saw  Tony,"  and  so  on. 
Then,  worn  out,  she  slept  deeply,  dreamlessly. 

Louisa,  rousing  her  in  the  morning,  said  that  Mr. 
Dyke  was  ill  and  Dr.  Sturgess  had  been  sent  for. 

The  poor  old  man  was  light-headed,  babbling  con- 
fusedly, unable  to  recognize  Emmie  or  anybody  else; 
and  Dr.  Sturgess  told  her  immediately  that  the  illness 
could  have  but  one  termination. 

A  little  more  than  a  fortnight  later  she  was  writing 
to  Anthony  to  tell  him  of  his  loss. 

".  .  .  We  had  Dr.  Gordon  Giles  over  from  Plymouth, 
and  two  very  good  nurses  from  Exeter.  We  did  every- 
thing that  was  possible.  It  began  with  a  chill,  then  it 
was  a  dreadful  rapid  pneumonia  that  simply  burned 
him  up.  He  had  no  strength  to  withstand  the  disease, 
and  both  doctors  agreed  that  in  any  case  he  could  only 
have  lived  a  very  little  longer. 

"  You  know,  dear  Tony,  that  he  felt  himself  that  his 
course  was  nearly  run.  He  said  to  me  before  you  left 
that  he  would  not  be  here  to  welcome  you  home.  Of 
course  you  will  grieve,  but  you  must  take  consolation  in 
thinking  of  his  long,  long  life,  and  of  all  the  pride  and 
joy  that  came  to  him  from  being  your  father.  He  loved 
you  so  much.  In  the  ni^ht  when  his  illness  began  he  had 
a  very  vivid  dream  about  you;  and  I  shall  ask  you 
later  whether  you  were  thinking  of  us  at  that  par- 
ticular time.  On  that  same  night  I  had  myself  a 
strange  feeling  that  you  seemed  near  to  us.  Can  it  be 
that,  with  your  dear  father  standing  on  the  borderland, 


SPINSTER    OF   THIS    PARISH  379 

and  the  veil,  as  they  call  it,  become  very  thin,  he  was 
indeed  able  to  reach  you  in  the  spirit  ?  I  wonder.  You 
and  I  will  talk  of  this. 

"  You  know,  dear  Tony,  that  I  loved  him.  Indeed, 
how  could  I  do  anything  else,  when  he  was  so  good  to 
me  from  the  very  beginning? 

"  I  have  attended  to  all  business  matters  with  Mr. 
Sadler,  and  everything  is  all  right.  The  house  will  be 
carried  on  as  you  would  wish,  and  of  course  none  of  the 
servants  will  be  dismissed.  I  know  you  would  not  like 
any  petty  economies  to  be  made.  You  can  trust  old 
Hannah  to  keep  order  and  see  that  your  home  is  ready 
for  you  when  you  return  to  it. 

"  I  am  going  back  to  London  to-morrow.' 


» 


She  shut  herself  in  the  flat,  and  would  see  no  one  — 
not  loyal  Mrs.  Bell  clambering  up  those  steep  stairs 
breathlessly,  not  even  affectionate,  grateful  Mildred 
lightly  springing  up  them  to  be  rebuffed  at  the  guarded 
door  again  and  again,  not  anyone  at  all.  She  had 
ceased  to  count  the  months  now,  dreading  the  tale 
of  them,  refusing  to  recognize  their  numbers.  She  only 
knew,  by  the  warm  air  and  the  brilliant  sunbeams  that 
sent  dancing  fire  between  the  leafy  branches  of  the 
plane-tree,  that  it  was  high  summer  and  that  all  the 
world  of  the  noisy  streets  was  gay. 

Reverting  to  an  old  habit,  she  used  to  go  out  at 
night,  and  even  then  it  was  not  dark  enough  to  har- 
monise with  her  thoughts.  Louisa  always  accompanied 
her.  They  crossed  the  Brompton  Road,  seeking  the 
silence  and  darkness  beside  the  closed  churchyard, 
wandered  through  Ennismore  Gardens  into  Prince's 
Gate;  flitting  like  ghosts  in  the  grey  lamp-light  and 
vanishing  in  the  grey  shadow  —  like  two  faded  and 
fading  ghosts  that  haunted  the  broad  roads  and  empty 


380  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

spaces  which  they  had  both  known  in  lifetime  and 
youth.  On  into  Queen's  Gate,  past  its  largest  house, 
shrinking  from  those  lighted  windows  and  the  sound  of 
music ;  along  the  Cromwell  Road,  round  and  about  the 
once  animated  neighbourhood ;  to  and  fro  —  thus  they 
did  their  phantom  walk,  night  after  night. 

She  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  the  daylight  crowd. 
She  felt  hatred  and  contempt  for  these  thousands  of 
well-fed  comfortable  people  who  ate,  slept,  and  amused 
themselves  in  mean  security,  while  the  great  men,  the 
heroes,  the  Dykes  of  the  world,  were  giving  their  noble 
lives  to  distant  peril  and  toil.  Nothing  short  of  an 
urgent  call  of  duty  would  force  her  to  face  the  garish 
sunlight  and  the  heartless  mob. 

But  such  a  summons  came,  and  with  Louisa  she  went 
for  two  days  to  that  town  in  the  midlands. 

They  returned  by  an  evening  train,  sitting  side  by 
side  at  a  table  in  the  Pullman  car;  Emmie  looking  pale 
and  well-bred,  Louisa  grey-haired,  solid,  severe,  but  so 
well-dressed  and  dignified  as  to  seem  a  friend  of  the 
other  lady  and  not  her  servant.  No  one  would  have 
noticed  them  or  thought  about  them,  if  they  had  not 
aroused  a  little  curious  attention  by  asking  for  tea  and 
eggs  instead  of  the  table-d'hote  dinner  that  the  rest  of 
the  passengers  were  devouring.  When  they  had 
finished  their  tea,  Louisa  put  on  spectacles  and  read  the 
Strand  Magazine;  while  Miss  Verinder  thought  of  what 
had  happened  at  Upperslade  Park,  and  of  what  this 
release  might  have  meant  to  her  once,  a  long  time  ago, 
many,  many  years  ago.  Coming  now,  it  seemed  like  the 
last  cruel  mockery  of  fate. 

That  same  night,  although  she  was  very  tired,  she 
wrote  to  Anthony  to  tell  him  of  this  second  death. 


SPINSTER   OF   THIS    PARISH  381 

",  .  .  Dr.  Wenham  says  that  in  such  cases  the  end 
very  often  comes  like  this,  with  haemorrhage  (I  do  not 
think  I  have  spelt  it  correctly)  of  the  brain.  Poor 
soul,  she  never  recovered  consciousness  and  she  passed 
away  quite  peacefully  without  any  suffering.  And  I 
want  to  say  that  I  am  quite  sure  she  really  loved  you  at 
first,  dear  Tony,  and  that,  so  far  as  anything  like 
connected  thought  or  sustained  feeling  was  possible  to  a 
person  in  that  darkened  condition,  she  loved  you  to  the 
last.     She  never  forgot  you;  she  always  spoke  of  you. 

"  You  will  be  surprised  at  my  saying  all  this,  but  I 
will  explain  by  telling  you  something  that  I  have  not 
told  you  till  now.  Only  do  not  for  a  moment  suppose 
that  I  kept  it  back  because  I  was  afraid  you  might 
not  approve.  I  knew  very  well  that  you  would  think 
it  right  and  wish  me  to  do  it ;  as  it  was  what  you  used 
to  do  yourself  until  your  work  prevented  you.  I  said 
nothing  to  you  simply  because  I  did  not  want  to  trouble 
you. 

"  For  a  number  of  years  I  have  been  in  touch  with 
her,  and  have  regularly  visited  the  asylum.  Dr.  Wen- 
ham  seemed  to  think  that  my  visits  did  her  good,  as 
proving  to  her  that  there  was  still  somebody  in  the 
world  who  took  an  interest  in  her;  although  I  cannot 
say  that  I  ever  could  see  that  she  felt  this.  At  any 
rate,  by  going  I  was  enabled  to  make  sure  that  she  was 
being  well  treated  and  having  good  food,  and  so  on. 
This,  I  think,  you  will  be  glad  to  know.  After  the 
death  of  that  hateful  aunt  of  hers,  it  seemed  that, 
except  you  and  me,  there  was  literally  nobody  who  even 
knew  of  her  existence. 

"  I  will  explain  everything  else  about  it  when  we 
meet." 

She  continued  to  write  to  him  even  more  often ;  telling 
him  about  Louisa  or  the  cat,  telling  him  anything  that 
could  possibly  interest  him. 


382  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

"  They  say  the  price  of  food  has  fallen  again,  but 
Louisa  says  the  good  shops  are  as  dear  as  ever.  .  .  . 
Mildred  Parker  is  going  to  be  married  early  in  Septem- 
ber. I  wish  I  had  you  here  to  help  me  choose  a  present 
for  her.  I  feel  so  dull  and  uninventive  that  I  dare  say 
I  shall  sneak  out  of  the  difficulty  by  sending  a  cheque. 
Mildred  is  a  dear  girl." 

After  the  evening  walk  she  used  to  sit  at  her  desk, 
with  only  her  reading  lamp  to  make  a  bright  circle  of 
light  and  with  all  the  rest  of  the  room  in  darkness.  If 
not  writing  a  letter  to  him,  s-he  read  his  old  letters  to 
her.  The  thin  paper  rustled  and  shook  in  the  lamp- 
light ;  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  man  whom  all  the 
world  believed  to  be  dead  was  standing  close  behind  her ; 
that  at  any  moment  he  might  step  forward,  put  his 
hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and  speak  to  her. 

Did  she  still  truly  believe  that  he  was  alive?  She 
went  on  writing  to  him.  In  some  oppressively  hot 
weather  during  the  month  of  August  she  suffered  from 
great  lassitude;  her  head  ached  day  after  day,  and 
noises  in  the  head  bothered  her.  Louisa  wanted  her  to 
see  a  doctor,  but  she  resolutely  refused.  Alone  in  the 
room,  with  the  sides  and  corners  of  it  all  vague  and 
shadowy,  where  the  light  of  her  single  lamp  did  not 
reach  them,  she  distressed  herself  by  imaging  that  she 
could  hear  voices  —  not  his  voice  ever,  the  voices  of 
other  people,  strangers,  talking  about  Anthony.  It  was 
not  an  illusion;  because  she  knew  perfectly  well  that 
she  was  merely  imagining  it.  This  imagined  talk  was 
just  a  translation  of  her  own  thoughts.  But  she  could 
not  stop  it ;  for  a  little  while  it  was  quite  bej^ond  her 
control. 

These  unknown  imaginary  people  were  saying  that 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  383 

he  was  alive  and  they  had  seen  him.  They  had  met 
him  in  Bond  Street.  "  Yes,  I  didn't  recognize  him  at 
first.  I  thought,  there's  a  thundering  big  man.  Where 
have  I  seen  those  big  shoulders  before?  Then  I  saw  it 
was  Dj^ke.  You  know,  the  man  they  said  had  perished 
five  hundred  miles  on  the  other  side  of  the  Pole. 
Anthony  Dyke.     Dyke.     Dyke.     Dyke ! " 

And  suddenly  she  began  to  laugh  and  beat  upon  the 
desk  with  her  open  hand.  A  thought  had  come  to  her 
that  seemed  to  be  at  once  tragic  and  ludicrous.  "  Am 
I  going  mad?  "  she  asked  herself;  and  for  perhaps  a 
minute  she  laughed  unrestrainedly.  "  That  would  be 
too  bad,"  she  said,  aloud.  "  No,  I  won't  go  out  of  my 
mind,  Tony.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  —  for  you  to  have 
had  a  mad  mistress  as  well  as  a  mad  wife  " ;  and  she 
became  quite  quiet  again.  Then,  looking  round,  she 
saw  that  Louisa  had  entered  the  room. 

"  I've  nothing  to  do,"  said  Louisa.  "  May  I  sit  in 
here  with  you  till  you  go  to  bed?  " 

"  No,"  said  Emmie.     "  Leave  me  alone,  please." 

"  I  fancied  I  heard  something  —  as  if  you  were  mak- 
ing a  noise." 

"  Don't  believe  what  you  hear,"  said  Emmie,  with  a 
faint  smile,  "  and  only  half  that  you  see  " ;  and  the 
smile  vanishing,  her  face  became  rigid. 

On  another  night  she  suddenly  sprang  up  from  her 
desk,  hurried  across  to  the  door,  and  turned  on  all  the 
light  switches.  Every  lamp  glowed  and  grew  bright. 
She  had  been  on  the  point  of  starting  a  letter  when  an 
agony  of  horror  and  dread  took  possession  of  her.  She 
stood  now  clinging  to  the  back  of  a  chair,  her  teeth 
chattering,  her  face  ghastly.  He  was  dead  —  while  the 
horror  lasted  she  seemed,  in  this  brightly-lit  room,  to 


384  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

have  visions  of  him.  She  saw  him  lying  stiff  on  the 
snow,  a  huge  black  form  stretched  upon  the  dazzling 
whiteness.  And  she  saw  him  seated,  staring  at  her, 
with  his  hands  clasped  about  his  knees  —  like  those 
frozen  figures  in  the  Andes  —  dead  now  for  many 
months. 

She  made  no  noise.  She  fought  the  hallucination,  she 
fought  the  abominable  mind-destroying  thoughts  that 
had  produced  it ;  she  fought,  as  if  for  her  own  life  and 
his.  And  gradually  the  horror  passed,  the  anguish 
lessened.    Finally  they  were  gone. 

She  sat  down  at  the  desk  again,  shaking  and  sobbing. 
Her  tears  fell  upon  the  paper  after  she  had  written  a 
few  words,  so  that  she  had  to  tear  it  up  and  throw  it 
away.    Then,  drying  her  eyes,  she  started  once  more. 

*'.  •  .  You  must  never  leave  me  after  this.  I  have 
your  solemn  promise,  have  not  I?  I  couldn't  stand 
any  more  of  it,  the  loneliness.  I  must  feel  that  when 
I  put  out  m}^  hand  it  will  touch  you  and  not  close  upon 
the  empty  air.  You  must,  you  ranst  give  me  a  few 
happy  years  after  all  the  waiting.  You  said  once  you 
could  be  happy  with  me  in  Devonshire  —  in  the  dear 
west  country  that  people  have  called  the  land  of  sunsets. 
That'll  seem  the  right  place,  Tony,  for  our  sunset  —  I 
mean,  the  closing  of  our  day. 

"  Oh,  Tony  "  —  and  she  had  another  fit  of  sobbing 
before  she  could  go  on  writing  —  "  God  or  Fate  cannot 
mean  to  separate  us.  If  3'ou  were  dead  I  should  die 
too.  Not  by  my  own  hand.  But  I  simply  could  not  go 
on  living  without  you. 

"  There."  She  was  dabbing  her  eyes ;  and  after 
forcing  back  the  tears,  she  sniffed  courageously.  "  You 
will  read  this  and  laugh  your  big  laugh,  and  make  a 
noise  of  crackers  with  your  bony  fingers,  and  tliink  how 


SPINSTER   OF    THIS   PARISH  385 

cowardly  and  faint-hearted  your  little  Emmie  has  be- 
come. I  wasn't  cowardly  in  the  beginning,  was  I, 
darling?  It  is  the  waiting  that  has  worn  me  out  and 
broken  my  nerve.  Good-night  and  God  bless  you  and 
guard  you." 

She  refused  now  even  to  glance  at  the  newspapers ; 
she  would  not  look  at  anything  that  could  remind  her  of 
the  passing  days  —  those  days  that  she  dared  not 
count.  September  was  close  upon  her,  and  still  she 
went  on  writing  to  him. 

Old  Louisa  came  into  the  room  late  one  night,  to 
fetch  the  cat. 

"  Won't  you  go  to  bed,  miss?  " 

"  No,"  said  Emmie,  "  I  am  busy.  I  have  something 
to  finish." 

"  Is  it  so  very  important?  "  asked  Louisa.  "  Won't 
it  keep  ?  " 

Emmie  answered  with  great  firmness.  "  No,  it  won't. 
The  mail  goes  to-morrow.    I  am  writing  to  Mr.  Dyke." 

Louisa  looked  at  her, 

"  Why  are  you  looking  at  me  like  that?  "  said  Emmie, 
wildly  and  fiercely.  "  I  tell  you  I'm  writing  to  Mr. 
Dyke." 

"Yes,  miss,"  said  Louisa;  and  she  went  out  of  the 
room  very  softly,  leaving  the  cat.  "  I'll  come  back," 
she  whispered,  on  the  threshold. 

Emmie  wrote :  *'  Darling,  it  is  late,  and  Louisa  is 
fussing.  You  know  her  ways.  Well,  I  have  told  you  all 
my  gossip,  and  made  it  another  long  letter  to  add  to 
the  pile  you  will  have  to  wade  through.  Au  revoir,  my 
beloved.     Good-night.     Good-night." 

September  had  come;  and  Mildred  Parker  was  talk- 


386  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

ing  to  her  on  the  telephone,  reminding  her  that  there 
would  be  no  Miss  Parker  after  Thursday  next,  but  a 
Mrs.  Beckett  instead. 

Mildred  spoke  of  the  wedding  arrangements,  the  in- 
exhaustible success  of  The  Danger  Signal,  the  amazing 
affability  and  good  humour  of  Mr.  Parker. 

"  He  monopolises  Alwyn.  He  trots  about  after  him 
and  crows  over  him  as  if  Alwyn  was  a  wonderful  egg 
that  he  had  laid,  or  a  treasure  that  he  had  pecked  out 
of  the  gravel.  Sometimes  I  can't  get  near  Ally  because 
of  him.  Honestly,  Emmeline,  he  and  mummy  both  go 
on  as  if  it  was  they  who  had  found  me  a  husband,  and 
I  ought  to  thank  them  on  my  knees  for  finding  me  such 
a  nice  one."  And  Emmie  heard  the  girl's  fresh  young 
laughter. 

Then  Mildred  spoke  seriously  and  with  intense  affec- 
tion. She  said  she  knew  quite  well  that  Emmeline  had 
some  great  sorrow,  and  it  had  almost  broken  her  heart 
to  be  stopped  alwa3^s  by  that  inexorable  door,  and  never 
once  to  be  allowed  to  give  a  hug  of  sympathy.  She  was 
thinking  of  Emmeline  constantly.  She  hoped  and 
prayed  that  Emmeline's  private  grief,  whatever  it  might 
be,  would  presently  pass  away. 

"  Thank  you,  Mildred." 

Then  Mildred  gave  thanks  for  the  cheque,  saying  she 
felt  ashamed  to  take  it  because  it  was  "  such  a 
whopper."  And  after  that  she  said,  although  she  must 
not  urge  Emmeline  to  come  to  the  wedding  itself,  she 
wondered  if  Emmeline  would  feel  up  to  coming  to  a 
little  afternoon  party  at  which  friends  would  see  the 
presents  all  laid  out  on  tables. 

**  No,  dear.     I'm  afraid  you  must  excuse  me." 

«  All  right,"  said  Mildred.    «  Then  I  won't  be  hateful 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  387 

and  selfish  about  it.  Only  I  hope  you  do  know,  darling 
Emmeline,  what  a  tremendous  difference  it  would  make 
to  us,  and  how  dreadfully,  dreadfully  I  miss  you.  I  am 
so  happy  that  I  must  not  say  it  spoils  my  happiness. 
No,  that  would  be  wicked,  and  ungrateful  too  —  when 
perhaps  I  really  owe  it  all  to  you.  But  if  anything 
could  spoil  it  for  me,  it  would  be  your  absence.  .  ,  . 
One  moment.  Can  you  hold  on,  please?  Alwyn  wants 
to  speak  to  you  himself." 

Then  she  heard  the  young  man's  voice,  deep  and 
strong,  yet  very  musical;  seeming  to  vibrate  with 
tenderness  although  so  firm. 

"  Miss  Verinder,  is  that  you?  I  wanted  to  say  I  feel 
just  what  Mildrings  feels.  It  would  make  all  the  differ- 
ence in  the  world  to  us.  I  must  not  press  it,  but  I 
shall  think  it  most  awfully  ripping  of  you  if  you  do 
come." 

She  went.  It  was  another  fight  with  herself;  but  if 
her  presence  would  really  give  any  pleasure  to  this  girl 
and  boy,  why  should  she  spare  her  own  pain? 

Louisa  dressed  her  wi-th  great  care,  in  one  of  those 
greyish  frocks  covered  in  transparent  black  lace  and 
gauze  that,  except  for  their  length  or  shortness,  belong 
to  no  pai'ticular  age  and  fashion.  Her  shoes,  stock- 
ings and  hat  were  of  the  most  modern  style. 

"  Can  I  wear  a  veil  with  this  hat?  "  asked  Emmie. 

"  I  should  certainly  wear  a  veil,"  said  Louisa,  looking' 
at  the  dark  circles  round  her  eyes,  and  at  that  some- 
thing more  than  pallor,  the  dull  opaque  waxenness  of 
complexion  that  comes  to  people  when  for  a  long  time 
they  have  been  deprived  of  sunlight. 

Like  all  such  small  parties,  it  was  a  very  big  one. 
The  house  in  Ennismore  Gardens  was  scarcely  large 


388  SPINSTER    OF   THIS   PARISH 

enough  for  it.  Mildred  and  her  future  husband  de- 
voted themselves  to  Miss  Verinder,  waiting  upon  her  at 
tea,  whispering  tlie  names  of  celebrated  actors  and 
actresses,  then  leading  her  through  the  throng,  and 
taking  her  upstairs  to  see  the  lovely  presents. 

The  presents  and  the  long  tables  occupied  both  the 
back  and  the  front  drawing-room,  and  all  about  them 
there  was  pressure  and  excitement.  The  great  majority 
of  the  guests  were  young  people;  their  bright  faces 
glowed  with  life  and  hope.  The  atmosphere  seemed 
full  of  pretty,  kindly  thoughts.  Even  the  stout  and 
heavy  elders  felt  a  stirring  of  sentimental  memories  and 
an  over-brimming  sympathy.  It  was  so  pleasant  to 
think  of  the  happy  young  girl  about  to  be  united, 
amidst  the  joy  and  satisfaction  of  parents  and  relatives, 
to  the  honest  young  man  that  she  loved. 

Only  here  and  there  a  matron  of  years  pushed  along 
the  tables  anxiously  and  murmured  to  herself  or  a 
friend.  "  I  suppose  it's  here.  But  I  haven't  yet  seen 
my  silver  and  tortoise-shell  pin  tray." 

Then  all  at  once  Emmie  heard  or  thought  she  heard 
voices  saying  Anthony's  name.  It  was  like  that  semi- 
illusion  of  the  flat  —  the  imagined  voices  of  strangers 
talking  about  him.  "  Dyke  —  yes,  Dyke."  These 
people  just  ahead  of  her  were  saying  the  words.  She 
moved  towards  them,  listening. 

"  Yes,  found  by  the  relief  party.  .  .  .  Yes,  Dyke. 
Anthony  Dyke,  the  explorer.  ,  .  •  Extraordinary. 
Given  up  by  everybody.  Risen  from  the  dead,  as  it 
were.  If  he  has  a  wife  and  children,  what  must  be 
their  feelings?  " 

She  asked  one  of  them  what  all  this  meant. 

"  That  man  Dyke  has  been  found — alive,  you  know." 


SPINSTER   OF    THIS    PARISH  389 

**  But  is  it  a  fact?  "  she  asked  quietly.  **  Who  says 
so?" 

They  said  the  news  had  been  cabled;  it  was  in  the 
evening  papers,  at  the  clubs,  everywhere. 

She  turned  and  took  Mildred's  arm. 

"  Mildred,  dear,  I  want  to  go  home.  Help  me  to  get 
away  quietly.    A  taxi-cab." 

"  Yes,  at  once."  Mildred,  distressed  and  solicitous, 
took  her  down  by  a  back  staircase.  "  But  dear  Emme- 
line,  what  is  it?  You're  ill.  You're  trembling  —  oh, 
you're  crying." 

"  No,  I'm  not  ill.  Everything  is  quite  all  right. 
Only  I'm  a  little  hysterical  —  for  the  moment." 

At  the  flat  a  cablegram  was  waiting  for  her. 

**  Done  the  trick.    Coming  home.    Love.    Tony." 


CHAPTER    XVin 

HE  had  got  it  now  —  the  fame,  the  glory,  the 
unsubstantial  but  glittering  payment  for  a  life 
spent  in  solid  and  incredibly  arduous  toil. 

Never  again  would  his  name  be  left  out  of  lists ;  never 
again  would  his  publicity  agent  feel  compelled  to  write 
reminders  or  corrections  to  the  morning  papers.  As  to 
the  great  achievement  itself,  very  little  need  be  said 
here.  Indeed,  as  Emmie  is  already  engaged  in  pre- 
paring for  publication  the  two  large  volumes  which  will 
be  entitled  The  Sixth  Cruise^  any  attempt  to  give  a 
detailed  account  of  Dyke's  final  triumph  would  be  at 
least  premature,  if  not  superfluous. 

Suffice  it  then  to  say  that  with  this  last  expedition 
there  were  no  accidents.  Not  only  the  leader  but  his 
two  companions  won  through  to  safety;  and  in  regard 
to  the  minor  journeys,  the  scientific  researches,  the 
geographical  investigations,  all  went  well.  Everything 
scraped  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  the  collection  of 
minerals  chipped  off  the  land,  the  measurements, 
records,  and  diaries,  were  duly  brought  home  to  Eng- 
land. Honours  from  all  countries,  including  his  own, 
were  showered  upon  the  illustrious  explorer.  As  has 
become  customary  on  these  occasions,  it  was  immedi- 
ately announced  that  the  King  had  been  graciously 
pleased  to  confer  a  knighthood  upon  Mr.  Dyke. 

To  Miss  Verinder  that  knighthood  was  a  uniquely 
tremendous  affair.    She  refused  to  remember  that  quite 

390 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  391 

a  large  number  of  knights  had  been  created  during  the 
last  half  century.  Those  did  not  count.  She  thought 
only  of  one  or  two  who  were  like  her  man,  real  knights ; 
and  she  added  five  or  six  more  from  Elizabethan  times 
to  make  up  the  splendid  company.  Sir  Francis  Drake, 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  Sir  Richard  Grenville,  Sir  John 
Hawkins,  and  Sir  Anthony  Dyke  —  the  linked  names 
rang  grandly  in  her  ears. 

His  title  seemed  to  echo  itself  like  music  or  the 
sound  of  bells,  as  she  walked  briskly  away  from  the  flat 
early  one  morning  in  October.  She  felt  joyous  and 
strong,  not  minding  the  fog,  not  fearing  the  motor 
traffic.  It  was  not  really  a  fog,  rather  a  ground  mist ; 
an  exhilarating  morning  of  late  autumn,  with  the  sun 
and  the  mist  contending  for  victory. 

In  fact,  when  she  had  left  the  Brompton  Road,  the 
sun  showed  itself  behind  her,  high  over  the  hidden 
houses,  shining  from  a  faint  yet  open  blue  sky.  She 
stood  for  a  moment  at  the  bottom  of  Exhibition  Road 
and  admired.  On  this  left-hand  pavement  a  stream  of 
students,  girls  and  men,  were  hurrying  onward  to  their 
classes  and  lectures.  The  right-hand  pavement  was 
quite  empty ;  and,  looking  beyond  it,  one  had  a  sense  of 
vague  grandeurs,  a  perception  of  domes  high  and  still 
fog-shrouded.  Ahead,  the  broad  smooth  road  glistened 
like  dark  water  beneath  the  shredding  veils  of  whiteness ; 
the  long  perspective  line  made  by  the  unbroken  cornice 
of  the  houses  showed  above  the  mist,  and  the  side  wall  of 
a  roof  of  one  house,  at  the  turning  into  Prince's 
Gardens,  was  all  sunlit;  nearer,  the  block  of  building 
that  is  known  as  the  Royal  College  of  Science  was 
already  emerging,  freeing  itself,  getting  definite  and 
illumined,  with  its  walls  of  delicate  rose  and  upper 


392  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

story  of  yellow  ochre,  and  a  sketchy  suggestion  of 
cclumns ;  while  the  farthest  end  of  the  vista  remained 
almost  lost  in  the  denser  mist  clouds  that  were  rolling 
out  from  the  grass  of  Hyde  Park.  The  whole  prospect 
seemed  that  of  a  larger,  grander  Venice,  with  the  road 
converted  into  its  splendid  silent  canal. 

She  walked  on.  Gradually  and  yet  very  swiftly,  as 
she  had  seen  happen  once  before,  among  the  mountains 
of  a  distant  land,  the  conquering  sun  tore  the  veils 
away  and  reached  all  things  with  its  magic  touch. 
Colour  and  brightness  sprang  towards  the  searching 
rays.  Geraniums  glowed  in  dilapidated  flower  beds 
of  the  sunk  garden  of  the  Natural  History  Museum; 
orange,  crimson,  and  gold  flashed  from  the  dead  leaves 
on  its  sodden  paths.  When  she  came  to  the  first  turn 
to  the  left,  that  road  was  quite  lovely  —  an  avenue  of 
green  trees,  marble  pavements,  and  tremulous  light ;  the 
Imperial  Institute  seeming  like  a  palace  built  of  dreams ; 
high  towers  without  base  or  foundation,  masonry 
swimming  in  air,  domes  and  more  domes ;  and  over  all, 
the  dome  of  domes,  the  high  vaulted  sky. 

She  went  through  the  avenue  of  wonder,  into  Queen's 
Gate.  The  sun  had  conquered.  Light,  not  darkness  ruled 
the  world.  And  she  thought  that  the  w^orld  is  beauti- 
ful, most  beautiful,  every  part  of  it  —  even  this  Ken- 
sington, of  straight  lines,  right  angles,  and  stucco  faces. 

Miss  Verinder  walked  on,  with  sunshine  and  joy  in 
her  heart,  thinking  that  great  things  cannot  perish  in 
this  beautiful  world ;  thinking  that  fate  gives  freely  and 
robs  with  regret ;  thinking  that  love  is  like  the  sunshine, 
the  source  and  fountain  of  life ;  thinking  that  her  hero 
had  lived  and  not  died,  that  her  knight  was  coming 
back  to  her  and  soon  would  touch  her  hand. 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  393 

Presently  the  newspapers  were  adding  to  profuse 
accounts  of  the  home-coming  what  they  called  "  an 
interesting  announcement."  They  said  that  a  delight- 
ful touch  of  romance  had  been  given  to  the  return  of 
Sir  Anthony  by  the  fact  (now  for  the  first  time  dis- 
closed) that  he  had  come  back  "  to  claim  a  bride." 

When  claimed,  Miss  Verinder  displayed  coyness  or 
diffidence ;  resuming  that  slightly  mid- Victorian  manner, 
while  she  asked  him,  in  effect,  if  he  really  meant  it,  if  he 
really  wanted  it,  and  so  forth.  It  was  only  the  second 
proposal  of  marriage  that  she  had  ever  received;  and 
perhaps  the  embarrassment  caused  by  the  first  one 
automatically  revived  itself,  making  her  a  little  un- 
comfortable now.  As  in  the  first  case,  the  drawing- 
room  of  the  flat  served  as  scenic  decoration  or  back- 
ground to  the  romantic  affair. 

"  What's  that  you're  saying?  "  asked  Dyke  loudly, 
not  catching  the  purport  of  her  murmured  doubts.  He 
had  come  back  in  glorious  health ;  but  the  deafness,  of 
which  he  had  once  seemed  to  be  cured,  had  again  grown 
very  apparent.    He  was  distinctly  hard  of  hearing. 

"  Emmie,  my  angel,  I  don't  understand.  What's 
that  you're  jabbering  about  serious  wishes?  " 

Then  Emmie  became  entirely  her  natural  self;  her 
gentle  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  asked  him  if  it  was 
worth  while. 

''  Emmic;  what  on  earth  do  you  mean?  " 

"  If  we  marry,  won't  it  set  people  talking?  Won't  it 
seem  undignified  —  even  a  little  silly?  " 

"  Oh,  Emmie !  "  He  looked  at  her  reproachfully,  and 
jsaid  what  he  used  to  say  in  the  very  beginning  of  things. 
"  Oh,  Emmie,  don't  spoil  it  for  me." 

And  eagerly  and  ardently  he  told  her  that  his  real 


394  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

true  joy  in  all  the  success  and  praise  was  derived  from 
the  knowledge  that  she  could  now  openly  share  every- 
thing with  him,  that  he  would  be  able  proudly  to  show 
her  and  boast  of  her  to  the  world  not  only  as  his  patron 
and  financial  supporter,  but  also  as  his  fiancee. 

"  I've  hundreds  of  people  that  I  want  to  introduce  to 
you  —  my  fiancee,'*  He  said  the  word  with  a  poor 
French  accent  but  an  immense  relish.  "  So,  no  more 
nonsense,  you  angel.  Tell  me  you  didn't  mean  what 
you  said." 

Perhaps  she  had  not  really  meant  it.  Or,  at  any 
rate,  she  had  meant  finally  to  do  whatever  he  wished. 
Yielding  then  to  his  importunity  —  as  the  dear  old 
conventional  books  used  to  narrate  —  she  consented  to 
name  the  day.    It  was  not  a  far-off  day. 

He  said  he  would  not  have  a  quiet  wedding.  No,  cer- 
tainly not.  It  must  be  a  slap-up  affair,  with  a  huge 
reception  at  the  Hyde  Park  Hotel.  She  shrank  from 
this  fuss,  but  he  wanted  it.     That  was  enough  for  her. 

Also  he  insisted  that  it  should  be  a  marriage  by 
banns. 

Immediately  after  the  interesting  announcement  con- 
gratulations and  presents  began  to  pour  in  upon  them. 
At  tea-time  on  these  jolly  autumn  afternoons  spent  by 
Sir  Anthony  and  his  fiancee  in  shops  and  streets  and 
other  public  places,  Louisa  brought  in  with  her  tray 
prodigious  piles  of  letters,  which  her  future  master 
tore  open,  read  aloud,  and  tossed  about  the  floor 
delightedly. 

"  One  from  old  Barry !  Bless  his  heart.  Hear  what 
he  says,  Emmie." 

It  was  at  the  pleasant  tea  hour,  while  he  opened  more 
and  more  letters,  that  she  asked  about  the  date  entered 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  395 

in  her  memorandum  book  before  the  death  of  his  father. 
She  wished  to  know  if  he  had  been  thinking  specially  of 
home  on  that  night  of  April  18-19. 

"  Well,  you  know,  I  was  thinking  about  you  all  the 
time,  off  and  on;  but  I  can't  say  I  remember  thinking 
about  you  more  on  one  day  than  another.  .  .  .  Post- 
mark, Clapham,  S.  W. !  "  He  was  opening  a  letter. 
*'  No,  You  see,  we  had  our  work  cut  out  for  us.  Our 
thoughts  were  pretty  well  occupied.  By  Jove.  This  is 
from  dear  old  Cairns.  I  must  write  to  Cairns  —  a 
special  invitation  for  Cairns.    What !  " 

He  was  like  a  child  when  it  came  to  opening  the 
presents.  He  could  not  wait  a  moment.  He  burst  the 
stout  string  with  his  hands,  he  made  the  brown  paper 
explode  in  tatters,  he  flung  the  tissue  all  over  the  room. 
His  litter  drove  Louisa  to  distraction. 

"What  the  devil  are  these?  Menu-card  holders! 
What  the  devil  shall  we  do  with  them?  All  the  same, 
deuced  kind  of  her.     Mrs.  Slane-King!     Yes." 

He  was  also  like  a  child  —  and  a  spoilt  child  too  — • 
with  his  press-cuttings.  He  had  mock-modest  smiles 
as  he  read  the  eulogies. 

"  '  A  glory  to  the  Empire ! '  That's  very  handsome 
of  them  to  say  that.  Emmie,  that  tickles  my  vanity." 
Then  he  roared  with  laughter.  "  How  small  we  are, 
Emmie;  how  vain,  how  jealous.  But  you  must  check 
me.  Hold  me  on  a  leash.  Don't  let  me  gas  about 
things  down  in  Devonshire  when  I  begin  to  get  old. 
Watch  me  then  —  and  don't  let  me  develop  into  a 
twaddling  old  bore." 

He  went  on  with  the  letters  and  parcels. 

"  Look  here !  Hamilton !  '  I  send  this  tribute  from 
an  old  ship-mate.  Hamilton ! '  Now  that's  very  kind 
of  Hamilton  to  remember  me." 


396  SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH 

They  all  remembered  him.  No  one  forgot  him  —  in 
his  success. 

On  that  first  Sunday  of  their  banns  they  sat  in  the 
church  side  by  side;  not  minding  now  who  saw  them 
together,  emancipated,  acknowledging  a  companionship 
that  had  lasted  during  so  many  years.  More  than  a 
quarter  of  a  century's  habit  had  not  destroyed  its  fresli- 
ness  or  robbed  it  of  its  charm ;  essentially  their  feelings 
at  this  hour  were  those  of  boy  and  girl  lovers.  Out- 
wardly old,  they  were  inwardly  young. 

Mildred  Beckett,  with  her  husband,  was  seated  quite 
near  in  a  side  pew  a  little  ahead,  and  looking  round  and 
watching  them  now  and  then  she  saw  Emmie  find  his 
place  for  him  in  the  prayer-book  and  hand  him  the 
book.  Others  too,  many  others,  noticed  them;  not 
knowing  who  they  were,  failing  to  recognize  Dyke  — 
for,  however  famous  a  man  is,  however  frequently 
photographed,  and  even  filmed,  there  will  still  be  people 
who  do  not  know  him  by  sight.  But  they  were  struck 
by  the  strong  note  of  individuality  —  a  couple  that 
somehow  made  you  think  about  them  —  this  fine  big 
old  chap,  with  his  shock  of  grey  hair,  intrepid  blue 
eyes,  and  queer-coloured  beard;  and  the  tall,  thin, 
faded  maiden  lady. 

"  I  publish  the  banns  of  marriage  between  — "  The 
clergyman  had  begun  it,  and  Mildred  looked  round. 
The  clergyman  paused,  as  if  startled. 

Anthony  Dyke  was  standing  up.  Emmie  gently 
pulled  his  coat,  and  whispered  "  Sit  down,  dear." 

"  The  banns,"  he  said,  in  a  gruff  whisper,  and  be- 
cause of  his  deafness  louder  than  was  necessary.  "  Get 
up,  yourself." 


SPINSTER    OF    THIS    PARISH  397 

"  No,  dear,"  she  whispered,  in  a  flutter.  "  It's  not 
done." 

But  he  was  offering  her  his  hand,  as  if  to  assist  her, 
again  inviting  her  to  rise.  It  was  the  old  country 
custom,  still  prevalent  in  the  west  of  England  when  he 
was  a  boy,  or  at  least  practised  in  his  father's  church. 
Gentle  and  simple,  the  young  squire  and  the  colonel's 
daughter,  the  farm-hand  and  the  dairy-maid,  they  all 
used  to  stand  up  to  hear  their  banns  read  out  —  to  let 
neighbours  see  who  they  were,  to  show  that  they  them- 
selves had  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,  and  that  they 
were  proud  of  each  other.  Dyke,  in  the  Antarctic  and 
other  remote  places,  had  not  learnt  that  the  practice 
was  no  longer  usual  and  proper. 

Then  Miss  Verinder,  comprehending  the  cause  of  his 
solecism,  rose  at  once ;  doing  what  she  had  always  done 
for  his  sake,  smashing  through  the  barriers  of  conven- 
tion, trampling  etiquette  under  foot,  caring  not  two- 
pence halfpenny  what  anybody  else  thought  about  it. 
She  stood  by  his  side,  proudly,  yet  demurely,  as  ready 
now  to  brave  the  world,  to  defy  the  universe,  as  she 
had  been  twenty-seven  years  ago. 

Mildred,  looking  round,  watched  them;  and  because 
of  her  own  happiness  and  something  that  seemed  to  her 
very  wonderful  in  the  expression  of  those  two  faces,  she 
unexpectedly  began  to  cry.  As  she  said  afterwards, 
the  thing  seemed  to  'her,  somehow,  so  sweet  and 
touching. 

The  clergyman,  after  clearing  his  throat,  had  gone 
straight  ahead  with  the  little  list : 

..."  Also  between  Anthony  Penfold  Dyke,  widower, 
of  the  parish  of  Endells,  in  Devonshire,  .  .  .  and  Emme- 
line  Constance  Verinder,  spinster,  of  this  parish." 


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more,  probably,  by  the  author  of  this 
one;  more  than  500  titles  all  told  by 
writers  of  world-wide  reputation,  in 
the  Authors'  Alphabetical  List  which 
you  will  find  on  the  reverse  side  of  the 
wrapper  of  this  book.  Look  it  over 
before  you  lay  it  aside.  There  are 
books  here  you  are  sure  to  want — some, 
possibly,  that  you  have  always  wanted. 

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FLORENCE  L.  BARCLAY'S 
NOVELS 

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THE  WHITE  LADIES  OF  WORCESTER 

A  novel  of  the  12th  Century.  The  heroine,  believing  she 
had  lost  her  lover,  enters  a  convent.  He  returns,  and  in- 
teresting developments  follow. 

THE  UPAS  TREE 

A  love  story  of  rare  charm.  It  deals  with  a  successful 
author  and  his  wife. 

THROUGH  THE  POSTERN  GATE 

The  story  of  a  seven  day  courtship,  in  which  the  dis- 
crepancy in  ages  vanished  into  insignificance  before  the 
convincing  demonstration  of  abiding  love. 

THE  ROSARY 

The  stor>'  of  a  young  artist  who  is  reputed  to  love  beauty 
above  all  else  in  the  world,  but  who,  when  blinded  through 
an  accident,  gains  life's  greatest  happiness.  A  rare  story 
of  the  great  passion  of  two  real  people  superbly  capable  of 
love,  its  sacrifices  and  its  exceeding  reward. 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

The  lovely  young  Lady  Ingleby,  recently  widowed  by  the 
death  of  a  husband  who  never  understood  her,  meets  a  fine, 
clean  yoimg  chap  who  is  ignorant  of  her  title  and  they  fall 
deeply  in  love  with  each  other.  When  he  learns  her  real 
identity  a  situation  of  singular  power  is  developed. 

THE  BROKEN  HALO 

The  story  of  a  young  man  whose  religious  belief  was 
shattered  in  childhood  and  restored  to  him  by  the  little 
white  lady,  many  years  older  than  himself,  to  whom  he  is 
passionately  devoted. 

THE  FOLLOWING  OF  THE  STAR 

The  story  of  a  young  missionary,  who,  about  to  start  for 
Africa,  marries  wealthy  Diana  Rivers,  in  order  to  help  her 
fulfill  the  conditions  of  her  uncle's  will,  and  how  they  finally 
come  to  love  each  other  and  are  reunited  after  experiences 
that  soften  and  purify. 

Grosset  &  Dunlap,         Publishers,         New  York 


ETHEL    M.    DELL'S    NOVELS 

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CHARLES  REX 

The  struggle  against  a  hidden  secret  and  the  love  of  a 
strong  man  and  a  courageous  woman. 
THE  TOP  OF  THE  WORLD 

Tells  of  the  path  which  leads  at  last  to  the  **  top  of  the 
world/'  which  it  is  given  to  few  seekers  to  find. 
THE  LAMP  IN  THE  DESERT 

Tells  of  the  lamp  of  love  that  continues  to  shine  through 
all  sorts  of  tribulations  to  final  happiness. 
GREATHEART 

The  story  of  a  cripple  whose  deformed  body  conceals 
a  noble  soul. 
THE  HUNDREDTH  CHANCE 

A  hero  who  worked  to  win  even  when  there  was  only 
**  a  hundredth  chance/' 
THE  SWINDLER 

The    story   of    a    **bad    man's"    soul    revealed    by  a 
woman' s    faith. 
THE  TIDAL  WAVE 

Tales  of  love  and  of  women  who  learned  to  know  the 
true  from  the  false. 
THE  SAFETY  CURTAIN 

A  very  vivid   love  story  of   India.     The  volume  also 
contains  four  other  long  stories  of  equal  interest. 

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ELEANOR  H.  PORTER'S  NOVELS 

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JUST  DAVID 

The  tale  of  a  loveable  boy  and  the  place  he  comes  to 
fill  in  the  hearts  of  the  gruff  farmer  folk  to  whose  care  he 
is  left 

THE  ROAD  TO  UNDERSTANDING 

A  compelling  romance  of  love  and  marriage. 

OH,  MONEY!  MONEY! 

Stanley  Fulton,  a  wealthy  bachelor,  to  test  the  disposi- 
tions of  his  relatives,  sends  them  each  a  check  for  ^100,- 
000,  and  then  as  plain  John  Smith  comes  among  them  to 
watch  the  result  of  his  experiment. 

SIX  STAR  RANCH 

A  wholesome  story  of  a  club  of  six  girls  and  their  sum* 
mer  on  Six  Star  Ranch. 

DAWN 

The  story  of  a  blind  boy  whose  courage  leads  him 
through  the  gulf  of  despair  into  a  final  victory  gained  bj" 
dedicating  his  life  to  the  service  of  blind  soldiers. 

ACROSS  THE  YEARS 

Short  stories  of  our  own  kind  and  of  our  own  people. 
Contains  some  of  the  best  writing  Mrs.  Porter  has  done. 

THE  TANGLED  THREADS 

In  these  stories  we  find  the  concentrated  charm  and 
tenderness  of  all  her  other  books. 

THE  TIE  THAT  BINDS 

Intensely  human  stories  told  with  Mrs.  Porter's  won- 
derful talent  for  warm  and  vivid  character  drawing. 

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PETER  B.  KYNE'S  NOVELS 

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THE  PRIDE  OF  PALQMAR 

When  two  strong  men  clash  and  the  under-dog  has  Irish 
blood  in  his  veins — there's  a  tale  that  Kyne  can  tell  1  And 
"  the  girl "  is  also  very  much  in  evidence. 

KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Donald  McKay,  son  of  Hector  McKay,  millionaire  lum- 
ber king,  falls  in  love  with  "  Nan  of  the  Sawdust  Pile,"  a 
charming  girl  who  has  been  ostracized  by  her  townsfolk. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  GIANTS 

The  fight  of  the  Cardigans,  father  and  son,  to  hold  the 
Valley  of  the  Giants  against  treachery.  The  reader  finishes 
with  a  sense  of  having  Uved  with  big  men  and  women  in  a 
big  country. 

CAPPY  RICKS 

The  story  of  old  Cappy  Ricks  and  of  Matt  Peasley,  the 
boy  he  tried  to  break  because  he  knew  the  acid  test  was 
good  for  his  soul. 

WEBSTER:  MAN'S  MAN 

In  a  little  Jim  Crow  Republic  in  Central  America,  a  man 
and  a  woman,  hailing  from  the  **  States,"  met  up  with  a 
revolution  and  for  a  while  adventures  and  excitement  came 
so  thick  and  fast  that  their  love  afiair  had  to  wait  for  a  lull 
in  the  game. 

CAPTAIN  SCRAGGS 

This  sea  yam  recounts  the  adventures  of  three  rapscal- 
lion sea-faring  men — a  Captain  Scraggs,  owner  of  the  g^een 
vegetable  freighter  Maggie,  Gibney  the  mate  and  M<3juff- 
ney  the  engineer. 

THE  LONG  CHANCE 

A  story  fresh  from  the  heart  of  the  West,  of  San  Pasqual, 
a  sun-baked  desert  town,  of  Harley  P.  Hennage,  the  best 
gambler,  the  best  and  worst  man  of  San  Pasqual  and  of 
lovely  Donna. 

Grosset  &  Dunlap,        Publishers,        New  York 


JACKSON  GREGORY'S  NOVELS 

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THE  EVERLASTING  WHISPER  " 

The  story  of  a  strong  man's  struggle  against  savage  nature  and  human- 
ity, and  of  a  beautiful  giil's  regeneration  from  a  spoiled  child  of  wealth  iato 
a  courageous  strong-willed  woman. 

DESERT  VALLEY 

A  college  professor  sets  out  with  his  daughter  to  find  gold.  They  me«l 
a  rancher  who  loses  his  heart*  and  become  involved  in  a  feud.  An  intensely 
exciting  story. 

MAN  TO  MAN 

Encircled  with  enemies,  distrusted,  Steve  defends  his  rights.  How  he 
won  his  game  and  the  girl  he  loved  is  the  story  filled  wtth  breathless 
situations. 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  JUAN 

Dr.  Virginia  Page  is  forced  to  go  witli  the  sheriff  on  a  night  journey 
into  the  strongholds  of  a  lawless  band.  Thrills  and  excitement  sweep  the 
reader  along  to  the  end. 

JUDITH  OF  BLUE  LAKE  RANCH 

Judith  Sanford  part  owner  of  a  cattle  ranch  realizes  she  is  being  robbed 
by  her  foreman.  How,  with  the  help  of  Bud  Lee,  she  checkmates  Trevor's 
scheme  makes  fascinating  reading. 

THE  SHORT  CUT 

Wayne  is  suspected  of  killing  his  brother  after  a  violent  quarreL  Finan 
dal  complications,  villains,  a  horse-race  and  beautiful  Wanda,  all  go  to  mak* 
up  a  thrilling  romance. 

THE  JOYOUS  TROUBLE  MAKER 

A  reporter  sets  up  housekeeping  close  to  Beatrice's  Ranch  much  to  her 
chagrin.  There  is  ''•another  man "  who  complicates  matters,  but  all  turns 
oat  as  it  should  m  this  tale  of  romance  aiKl  adventure. 

SIX  FEET  FOUR 

Beatrice  Waverly  is  robbed  of  $5,000  and  suipicion  fastens  upon  Buck 
Thornton,  but  she  soon  realizes  he  is  not  guilty.  Intensely  exciting,  here  is  a 
real  story  of  the  Great  Fax  West. 

WOLF  BREED 

No  Luck  Orerman  had  grown  hard  through  loss  of  faith  in  men  he  had 
trusted.  A  woman  hater  and  sharp  of  tongue,  he  finds  a  match  in  Ygeme 
whose  clever  fencing  wins  the  admiration  and  love  of  the  *'  Lone  Wolf." 

Grosset  &  Dunlap,        Publishers,        New  York 


EMERSON    HOUGH'S    NOVELS 

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THE  COVERED  WAGON 

An  epic  ftory  of  the  Great  West  from  which  the  fam- 
ous picture  was  made. 

THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN 

A  colorful  romance  of   the  pioneer  West  before   the 
CivU  War. 

THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

An  Eastern  girl  answers  a  matrimonial  ad.  and  goes  out 
West  in  the  hills  of  Montana  to  find  her  mate. 

THE  WAY  OUT 

A  romance  of  the  feud  districtof  the  Cumberland  country. 

THE  BROKEN  GATE 

A  ftory  of  broken  social  conventions  and  of  a  woman' s 
determination  to  put  the  past  behind  her. 

THE  WAY  TO  THE  WEST 

Daniel  Boone,  Davy  Crockett  and  Kit  Carson  fig:ure  in 
this  story  of  the  opening  of  the  West. 

HEARTS  DESIRE 

The  story  of  what  happens  when  the  railroad  came  to  a 
little  settlement  in  the  far  West 

THE  PURCHASE  PRICE 

A  story  of  Kentucky  during  the  days  after  the  American 
Revolution. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,    Publishers,  NEW  YORK 


JAMES  OLIVER  CURWOOD'S 

STORIES  OF  ADVENTURE 


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THE  COUNTRY  BEYOND 

THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

THE  VALLEY  OF  SILENT  MEN 

THE  RIVER'S  END 

THE  GOLDEN  SNARE 

NOMADS  OF  THE  NORTH 

KAZAN 

BAREE  SON  OF  KAZAN 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

ISOBEL 

THE  WOLF   HUNTERS 

THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

THE  COURAGE  OF   MARGE  O'DOONE 

BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 


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THE  NOVELS  OF 

GRACE     LIVINGSTON     HILL 

(MRS.  LUTZ) 


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BEST  MAN,  THE 
CLOUDY  JEWEL 
DAWN  OF  THE  MORNING 
ENCHANTED  BARN,  THE 
EXIT  BETTY 

FINDING  OF  JASPER  HOLT.  THE 

- 

GIRL  FROM  MONTANA.  THE 

LO,  MICHAEL  ! 

MAN  OF  THE  DESERT.  THE 

MARCIA  SCHUYLER 

MIRANDA 

MYSTERY  OF  MARY.  THE 

OBSESSION  OF  VICTORIA  GRACEN,  THE 

PHOEBE  DEANE 

RED  SIGNAL,  THE 

SEARCH,  THE 

TRYST,  THE 

VOICE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS,  A 

WITNESS,  THE 

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BOOTH     TARKINGTON'S 
NOVELS 

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SEVENTEEN.    Illustrated  by  Arthur  William  Brown. 

No  one  but  the  creator  of  Penrod  could  have  portrayed 
the  immortal  young  people  of  this  story.  Its  humor  is  irre- 
sistible and  reminiscent  of  the  time  when  the  reader  was 
Seventeen. 

PENROD.    Illustrated  by  Gordon  Grant. 

This  is  a  picture  of  a  boy's  heart,  full  of  the  lovable,  hu- 
morous, tragic  things  which  are  locked  secrets  to  most  older 
folks.    It  is  a  finished,  exquisite  work. 

PENROD  AND  SAM.  Illustrated  by  Worth  Brehm. 

Like  "  Penrod "  and  "  Seventeen,"  this  book  contains 
Bome  remarkable  phases  of  real  boyhood  and  some  of  the  best 
stories  of  juvenile  prankishness  that  have  ever  been  written. 

THE  TURMOIL.    Illustrated  by  C.  E.  Chambers. 

Bibbs  Sheridan  is  a  dreamy,  imaginative  youth,  who  re-' 
volts  against  his  father's  plans  for  him  to  be  a  servitor  of 
big  business.  The  love  of  a  fine  girl  turns  Bibb's  life  from 
failure  to  success. 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA.    Frontispiece. 

A  story  of  love  and  politics, — more  especially  a  picture  of 
a  country  editor's  Hfe  in  Indiana,  but  the  charm  of  the  book 
lies  in  the  love  interest. 

THE  FLIRT.    Illustrated  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood. 

The  "  Flirt,"  the  younger  of  two  sisters,  breaks  one  girl's 
engagement,  drives  one  man  to  suicide,  causes  the  murder 
of  another,  leads  another  to  lose  his  fortime,  and  in  the  end 
marries  a  stupid  and  unpromising  suitor,  leaving  the  really 
worthy  one  to  marry  her  sister. 

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c-^