The accolade

THE ACCOLADE

BY THE SAME AUTHOR
PROMISE (Third Impression

LE GENTLEMAN (Third Impression
HERSELF (Sixth Impression

SUCCESSION (Fifth Impression

A LADY OF LEISURE

(Second Impression

DUKE JONES (Second Impression

FOUR PLAYS FOR CHILDREN

"The Rose and the Ring''— "The Goody
Witch" — "The Goose-Girl" — "Boots and the
North Wind." Crovm Svo. 2*. net.

(Second Impression

LONDON: SIDGWICK AND JACKSON. LTD.

THE ACCOLADE

BY

ETHEL SIDGWICK

LONDON AND TORONTO
SIDGWICK AND JACKSON LTD.

First issued 1915
All rights rese>-ved

TO

F. S.

CONTENTS

PAGE

PRELUDE. THE KNIGHT'S MOVE . . 3

PART I. THE ASPIRANT . . . 53

PART II. THE ARTIST . . . . 109

PART III. THE GOLDEN FLEECE . . 173

PART IV. THE SELF-DECEIVER . . 235

PART V. STRETTO . . . . 309

FINALE. 'AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING' . 407

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II—

PRELUDE

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE

JOHN INGESTRE junior, coming in from the stables by a
complicated backway of his own invention — there were
plenty to choose from at the Hall — paused at the door of
the butler's pantry.

' Anyone in the drawing-room, Markham ? ' he asked in
confidence.

' Mrs. Thynne and Miss Ursula, Mr. John,' said the
permanent official he addressed, who was polishing glass.

' Dash Mrs. Thynne,' said Johnny. ' I mean, I knew she
was there already. Is there anyone that matters ? ' He
slashed his legs lightly with his whip, to convey an idea to
Markham, connected with the mud they liberally displayed.
Markham understood correctly that Johnny's betrothed
and her mother could (or must) stand him in any garb,
but some of the ladies of the district were more fastidious.
Being a permanent official, however, it was hard to move
Markham from his chosen line.

' Lady Lydia is also with Mrs. Ingestre, sir '

' Dash Lady Lydia ! ' said Johnny cheerfully. ' Bert,
we shall get some tea, at this rate.' Bert, in Johnny's rear,
in even more splashed and unseemly attire, was Lord
Dering's heir, an immensely important person everywhere
but in Johnny's society.

' Mrs. Clewer called, sir,' said Markham, ' but may have
left again unknown to me, since she looked in to see the
conservatory.'

' Who's Mrs. Clewer ? ' said Bert, as John's face
lengthened,

4 THE ACCOLADE

' An American,' he said briefly, ' with the native
standards. Oh, Lord, Markham, I've got to change, and
I'm so tired.' He sat down upon a pantry chair and laid
his head on the back of it. The movement was a sudden
one, and made Markham's stores of cut glass ring again :
the attitude, like all Johnny's attitudes, was emotionally
effective. Markham glanced at him, not moved, — that
was impossible, — nor protesting, — he was too used to it :
tolerant, benignly.

' You go and wash, sir,' he said. ' I'll send some tea up
there. Then you can dress and see the ladies afterwards.
If Mrs. Clewer goes, she goes ; but if she stays, she
stays.'

' You paint Mrs. Clewer to the life,' said Johnny. ' She
does everything thoroughly, doesn't she ? Oh, Lord,
she's so pretty, Bert, — and Ursula can't bear her. She and
Ursula are cat and dog. Was she scrapping with Miss
Thynne when you last went in, Markham ? Because if
they're really at it, I'll risk all, and take Bering in to see
the fun.'

' When I last went in, sir,' said Markham, ' all the ladies
were listening to Dr. Ashwin '

' To who ? '

' Dr. and Miss Ashwin arrived by the four-ten, sir. I
understood they were expected.'

' The deuce,' said Johnny, frankly surprised. ' They
weren't, here : but I own it doesn't go for much. I suppose
Mother knew about it.'

' What's Miss Ashwin ? ' said the simple Bert. As for
doctors anything, Mr. Dering took no stock in them : but
a Miss might always be a thing of interest.

Markham waited politely for Johnny to answer ; but as
Johnny only hid his head in his arms on the chair, in
apparent complete collapse, he replied after an interval.

' Miss Ashwin is a young lady, sir, — what one might call
extremely young.'

' She's nobody at all at present/ said Johnny. ' But

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 5

her father is rather — otherwise. Her father — er — exists.
We have heard about him, — and he married Father's
female cousin, which brings him into the family.' He had
another crisis of tragedy. ' And he's sure to need setting
down, and Father's not at home to do it. I shall have to
buck up, and I don't want to. Oh, Lord ! — Markham,
what was he telling the ladies ? ' He turned his languid
head on his dirty hand, opening his dark eyes full upon the
retainer. Johnny came of a stock that could hardly be
ugly if they tried, and he was a handsome specimen. The
butler, who had been looking at him, desisted sedately.

' So far as I happened to hear, sir/ he said, ' the doctor
was talking about a murder case, — a kind of cause celebre
somewhere back in history. Charles Second, I heard him
say, sir. Something to do with this house, if I am not
mistaken.'

' Hullo,' said Johnny, rousing. ' What's he know about
it ? I say, Markham, was there another man ? '

' No, sir, only the ladies.'

Johnny sniffed. ' Come on, Bert,' he said, suddenly
galvanised, ' we'll make a mixed audience, you and me.
We'll just wash our hands first, for safety. No outsider
is going to preach to my relations — I mean, people who
will be my relations presently — about my own house. It
simply isn't safe for Ursula to listen to it, without me to
help. We'll go and — er — create a diversion, shall we ? '

' Rather,' said Mr. Dering. So they went.

They created a diversion in the drawing-room. Johnny,
it must be admitted, generally did. He had secured
attention in the district, not only as a stirring personality,
an only son, and the heir to an extensive property in two
counties ; though these facts lent him interest, naturally.
Johnny, so-called since the first generation was John, had
had the misfortune to differ with his father, at an early
age. That is, he had always differed with his father, more
or less ; but he had, since his schooldays, three years back —

6 THE ACCOLADE

he was only twenty-two at present — been at violent odds
with him, and he had been but lately recaptured by
authority, and penned, as it were, into his own. The
romance of the prodigal clung to him still ; and since his
father — also a stirring personality — was regarded with
considerable awe in this, his native county, Johnny had
earned in outfacing him not only curiosity, but some
respect.

He had begun, at the age of eighteen, by flatly refusing
to follow the path of tradition to Oxford, and declaring
that he was going on the stage. There should have been
nothing particularly surprising in this, since his paternal
grandmother had been an actress, and he had the acting
bent strongly in the blood ; but the family were surprised.
Johnny's father and his grandmother were furious, and all
his aunts were shocked. He avoided unpleasantness by
not going home, merely pursuing his own way of life in
London, with a doggedness and indifference to his own
ultimate advantage that disconcerted everybody, his father
in secret most of all.

Every means was tried to detach him in vain. He was
bullied and bribed, tricked and tempted, his allowance
curtailed, his prospects threatened, all to no avail. Johnny
liked his new friends, and he did not happen to like his
father. The parental methods, for some time past, had
bored him. Having always figured as a rebel, he had tried
all his father's moods, and admired none of them. He
always gave a good account of himself in their engagements,
and flamed out himself at times ; but unreasoning and
unvarying irascibility annoyed and distracted him, though
he did not say so. To betray sensitiveness in such sur-
roundings was useless. He wanted to be quit of them
simply, and to try his own life. At a distance of thirty
miles or so, he could stand his relations very well, and
rather enjoyed, in the intervals of artistic study, the
assault levied so tirelessly upon him. After all, if things
came to the worst, with the new arts he was learning, he

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 7

could always knock his father down : lay him out tidily,
that is, — since Mr. Ingestre was rather old and infirm,
there was no need to proceed to extremities : though at
times he had thoughts of that, when he suspected that his
mother at home was suffering among the combatants. As
for his grandmother, she was for obvious reasons older
still ; but then there was good hope of her coming to a
natural end, before she insulted him or his mother past
bearing. Johnny, piously minded, commended her to
nature's attention, and went on.

The year succeeding that of his majority, his mother
fell ill. Three months later, to the surprise of the people
whom he had surprised already, Johnny collapsed. He
gave in, — went to heel, to use his father's term, — and that
in such a pleasant and unexpected manner, that his irate
relations, cut off in full tide, were left feeling rather foolish,
as though wondering what there had been to excite them-
selves about, in such a nice young man. He even managed
to convey to some of them that the whole three-years'
escapade had been a device to ' have them on,' — only, not
his own parents. They knew him, in their several ways,
too well. The exact nature of the drama on the hearth
was never made public ; the world merely saw the results.
Johnny's mother looked the wreck of what she had been ;
Mr. Ingestre, in conquering his turbulent heir, seemed to
have crossed a stage of life, and was quieter, if no less
superb, in his tyranny. Johnny remained himself out-
wardly, cheerful and undismayed, and turned his atten-
tion to sporting abroad, and flirting at home, in the ap-
proved fashion, with marked success in both departments.
He also engaged himself, with the paternal blessing, to an
eligible young woman with the proper antecedents, with
whom he was in love, and who was generally understood to
be devoted to him. Not that this went for much, for
plenty of young ladies were devoted to Johnny. But it
completed the picture of domestic felicity on the Ingestre
hearth appropriately ; and made the prodigal's future

8 THE ACCOLADE

prospects — to quote his own expression when congratulated
— ' very jolly indeed.'

There was a little crowd of people in the drawing-room,
friends, family, and the indifferent. Johnny, thanks to
Markham, had been enabled to class them in advance.
Family, in addition to his mother and the usual fringe of
aunts, were Miss Thynne, so soon to bear the name that
she counted as kin, and Mrs. Thynne, into the terms of
whose proximate relationship John did not pry too
closely. Friends represented were Lady Lydia aged fifty,
attached to his mother, and Mrs. Clewer aged twenty-five,
attached to himself. Among these interesting and neces-
sary people, Dr. Ashwin held a post on the outskirts, on
trial as it were, to be accepted as family if he so behaved.
Dr. Ashwin's little girl with her hair tied back in a large
bow was the indifferent, — Bert, who had young sisters,
could see to her.

Johnny, having arranged all this in his mind as he
crossed the hall, greeted the company as befitted their
style and standing, not to say his own as temporary host.
He was fortunately supreme, in the present conditions.
His mother's strictures upon his appearance he accepted
with philosophy, — a mere form, since she could not really
be sorry to see him. He and Bert had obviously come to
help her, in defiance of all their natural instincts to go
upstairs and wash.

He helped with Mrs. Clewer first.

' Dr. Ashwin's been curdling us in the lov-liest way,' she
told him. ' And he requires us to believe nothing at all,
which is the lov-liest part. I never forget things I'm not
required to believe, — do you ? '

' Never,' said Johnny fervently. ' And vice versa. It
was always getting into my school reports.'

' Where were you educated ? ' said Mrs. Clewer agreeably.
' Eton ? Oh, perhaps I ought to know.'

' Not at all/ said Johnny, his face a blank. ' It could

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 9

hardly be expected of you. A native would know on
sight.'

' Even in that cos-toom,' said Mrs. Clewer. ' Well, now,
yes, I might have guessed it. The way you wear your
mud is so becoming, — and the way you are at present trans-
ferring it to Miss Ashwin's shoes.'

Johnny, who was lying full length in his low chair,
moved his feet about a hundredth of an inch. ' Dering,'
he announced, ' is the only other object-lesson present,
but it's too dark for you to study him. He had a governess
— I mean a tutor — but he went on afterwards to Oxford.
Now, I did not.'

' Is that so ? ' said Mrs. Clewer, who knew all about him.
' Then let's see. You are Eton, but not Oxford ; and Mr.
Dering is Oxford, but not Eton ; and Dr. Ashwin is
presoomably the purr-feet product of both.1

' Oh, Lord, no, — ' Johnny, lowering his tone a trifle, was
proceeding to explain, when the indifferent child, a yard
from his right elbow, said distinctly and softly, — ' Yes.'

Johnny turned his handsome head. He looked at her a
moment as a very large dog regards a very small cat. Then
he turned back to Mrs. Clewer, and resumed his conversa-
tion.

' I don't see,' said Mrs. Clewer, when he took her out
to the hall at her departure, some minutes later, ' why you
want to treat that little girl like that. That is not my idea
of the perfect Etonian, anyhow. She'll be pretty one
day.'

' Will she ? ' said Johnny. He culled a few more opinions,
— Mrs. Clewer 's were always worth having, — delivered in
a gay inexpressive tone. Dr. Ashwin, as he expected, was
a very intelligent man. He came up to what Mrs. Clewer
had heard of him, — of course she had heard. Mr. Dering,
she presumed, represented a class

' Oh, give him a chance,' said Johnny.

Then he heard about the merits of Ursula, his fiancee,
her soo-periority of tone, her accomplishments, and her

io THE ACCOLADE

style. As Miss Thynne and Mrs. Clewer had been cat and
dog at a recent lunch-party, this amused Johnny : but
he answered sedately enough. One of the many things
he liked about Mrs. Clewer were her American manners.
They were a little more ornamental than the English ones,
and he had a taste for such ornament. Besides, it was
a fact that Ursula had style, though it was a very different
style from Mrs. Clewer's.

He showed her out via the conservatory, which took
time, so great was her enthusiasm over the flowers. Johnny
explained at length how he would have liked to present
his guest with certain chrysanthemums to match her
dress : but how his head would be taken off, first by his
father, and then by the gardener, if he did.

'But this is your mother's hot-house, surely,' said
Mrs. Clewer.

' So-called,' said Johnny. ' The general effect is hers.
If she picked a flower, her head would come off with just
the same ease as mine.'

' Or King Charles'/ mused Mrs. Clewer. ' Wonderful,
the etiquette persisting in your first families. Don't you
just lov to get back to it all, say now ! ' She faced him
mischievously.

Johnny did not answer for a moment, since he did not
wish to tell the truth. His eyes roved. Then he said —
' It's very nice to listen to Ursula's music in the evenings.'

' Don't you sing to her ? ' said Mrs. Clewer.

' Oh dear no. I sing to Mother sometimes.'

' Her mother ? '

' Oh, Lord, no, Mrs. Clewer. Mine/ He waited, and
then asked, ' I say, how do you think my mother's looking ? '

' Better than she did last year/ said Mrs. Clewer after
consideration. ' I incurred your father's displeasure last
year, by inviting her to go back with me for a short stay
of six months or so. My, your father was vexed with me
in June. I said I found a good yearly holiday from family
care paid to purr-fection in my own case, and Mrs. Ingestre

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE n

might find the same. I thought to myself that your father
and you could investigate your differences while she was
gone, and generally speaking settle up.'

' It was beastly kind of you,' said Johnny fervently.

' But I'd have lov-d to have had her,' explained Mrs.
Clewer. ' So would Sydney and the girls. We'd have had
a beautiful time, all together in the Adirondacks. But
there, — your notions are so different ! And now your
mother has got you, anyway. And so's Miss Thynne.'

The last sentence was in a slightly different tone, since
Mrs. Clewer clearly thought she had been serious long
enough. She and Johnny ' ragged,' in a regrettable
manner, in the hall to which the conservatory gave exit,
and Markham, aware that Mr. John was an engaged young
man, pretended not to see them.

His help was no longer needed, on returning to the draw-
ing-room. Dr. Ashwin was talking historical scandal
again, to Lady Lydia this time, so Johnny sat down next
to Ursula, within range, so as to check him if necessary.
He had not yet tried to check Dr. Ashwin, but he was
certain it could be done. Ursula looked handsome as
usual, fair and pleasant in the firelight, but rather serious.
She was in need of attention, probably.

Johnny attended to her, discreetly. She did not like
him to over-do it in public, but then publicity is tempered
when the twilight is falling. He established communica-
tions with Ursula in Dr. Ashwin 's despite. Then he edged
his chair a little nearer to her, glancing at the child the
while. Almost in the same instant, the child turned away,
inclining her head to her father's shoulder, and curling her
little hand inside his arm. This was really quite well-
chosen behaviour, for what is generally the inquisitive age,
and Johnny's educational instinct approved of it. Also
the attitude and its suggestion were singularly pretty, and
while he talked nonsense to Ursula, he cast her occasional
glances. He wondered if she were badly bored, since she

12 THE ACCOLADE

must know all her father's smart anecdotes already.
Nobody had spoken to her at present, so far as he had
seen, and she was not being encouraged at head-quarters,
— the man ignored her. Johnny caught his mother's eyes
upon him at one point, and probably shot his thought to
her. Anyhow, Mrs. Ingestre proposed shortly afterwards
that Violet should be taken to her room. As she suggested
it, her eyes rested upon her prospective daughter-in-law.
She was ah1 but an invalid herself.

' Get on, Ursula,' Johnny whispered. ' Your move.'

' It's yours,' murmured Ursula, half smiling.

' Rot ! How can I take a young lady to her room ?
When I'm engaged too, — awful.'

' She's only a kid,' said Ursula. ' Go on, — your mother's
looking.'

' I'm jolly shy,' said Johnny. ' It's jolly caddish of you,
throwing it on me. You'll have to do it, one of these
days.'

' Sufficient for the day,' said Ursula. ' I don't look for-
ward.'

' Oh, I say, — don't you ? ' murmured Johnny.

' You ought to have changed,' said Ursula reproachfully,
laying a hand on his mud-splashed knee. ' I saw Mrs.
Clewer thinking so.'

' You'll have to reform me,' said Johnny, laying his
hand on hers. ' I like reforming. I do it suddenly every
now and then, and startle people '

' Don't ring, Agatha/ — the doctor's keen tone cut
through his. ' Tell her just how many turns, and she can
find it for herself.'

' Can she ? I like that ! ' Stirred by the tone of authority
as by a war-cry, Johnny arose. ' Which room did you
say, Mother ? Right-o. Come along.'

Mrs. Ingestre, her tired face clearing slightly, turned
back to her other duties. Ursula was rather vexed, partly
because John had abandoned her, partly because she knew
in her heart it was her office, and not his.

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 13

Johnny did not tell Miss Ashwin the hour of dinner,
because he could not remember what time children of that
age went to bed. Nor was it really a question of remember-
ing, since he had hardly hitherto come in contact with little
girls. He was quite at sea about her, and could not even
guess her age. It was far too much trouble to reckon it,
naturally ; so he asked her father, when he showed him to
his room in turn.

' Just fourteen,' said Dr. Ashwin. ' I hope she will not
be in your mother's way. I have warned her. It is ex-
tremely good of Agatha, in the circumstances, to take us.'

Johnny wondered which circumstances, — his father's
absence, his own courtship, or the more intimate anxiety
concerning his mother's state. After a minute, since it
was a doctor — and an Etonian — he asked. Then he found
it was as he suspected, and this very acute person had
swept up every detail connected with his mother's ill-
health, which had verged on, and just missed, becoming a
serious illness. Dr. Ashwin had been watching her in the
drawing-room, it appeared, inclined to think she did too
much, and asked if she had anyone to help her.

' Not since the nurse left,' said Johnny. ' She's got a
frightfully all-round maid, who puts us all in our places,
Father included.'

' That's something,' the doctor admitted. ' You've not
got a sister, — no.'

' No,' said Johnny. ' My wife, when she's my wife, will
help her probably.'

Dr. Ashwin laughed, very pleasantly. ' Better not count
on that,' he said. ' When are you to be married, John ? '

Johnny found himself answering questions after that,
as one answers a superior, not an equal even. He even
caught himself up once, on the verge of saying ' sir.' Now,
Johnny had always tried not to call his schoolmasters ' sir,'
and owing to his agreeable manner, had generally succeeded.
He resented it of course, in Dr. Ashwin's case, nor could he
account for the impulse afterwards : for the doctor was

14 THE ACCOLADE

neither large, like his own father, nor old, nor powerful,
nor even particularly brilliant, at least in familiar talk.
At dinner he became what Johnny called ' otherwise,' and
held the company.

Johnny, sitting in his father's chair, ' bucked up ' to
match him, in vain. He was outmatched, at his own
dining-table, — for about the first time in his life he wanted
his father. His father might, just conceivably, have kept
this stranger in his place. Yet he was amused, and that,
in life, is something ; and he saw his mother laugh, which
was still more. She laughed — really laughed — so seldom
nowadays : Johnny could forgive much when he saw it,
down the table's length.

However, later on, in the drawing-room, he complained
to Ursula. He found a nice quiet corner, complained at
length, and asked to be consoled. He had been sat upon,
he said, and in Bert's presence : not once only, but several
times.

' How good for you,' said Ursula. ' I wish I had heard.'

' I'm glad you didn't,' said Johnny. ' Our subjects were
totally unsuitable. Anyhow they would have been above
your head. . . . Ursula.1

' Well ? ' said Ursula, who was sewing something.

' Ashwin was talking about the stage.'

' Well,' said Ursula, ' you ought to have been able to
hold your own there.'

' That's just it. I know about the stage. He doesn't,
— he can't possibly, — but he talked me down. Sickening
—cheek ! '

' I'm glad if you weren't rude to him,' said Ursula.
' You are so often when you think you know.'

' I was rude,' said Johnny indignantly. ' But it made
no difference. He's been everywhere, seen all the stages.
He knows back history, before I was born, and remembers
dates. Dates I He was beastly amusing by the way, —
oh, he was damned amusing '

' John ! ' A pleasant interval,

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 15

' I say, do you think he bullies that kid behind-scenes ? '
said Johnny presently.

' Why should he ? ' said Ursula. ' No one does nowa-
days.'

' Dunno. She's so watchful, — watching him all the time.
Hadn't you noticed it ? '

' She's shy, probably.' Ursula cast a glance in Violet's
direction. Johnny was already looking that way, his head
close to her shoulder, his dark eyes steadily fixed. He was
interested, she could not think why. The child was shy
and silent, and gave them, as though forewarned, a very
wide berth. ' It's a big house,' Ursula pursued, ' and her
first visit. I should think that's enough.'

' She thinks she's not wanted,' remarked Johnny.

Ursula did not reply to that. Presently, as he lay silent,
she said — ' She's sitting all alone. I suppose I ought to go
and talk to her.'

' Er — don't,' said Johnny.

' But I ought. She's your mother's guest, — and yours.'

' Yes. That make you feel responsible ? '

He gave her a very nice glance, and she blushed. Occa-
sionally, he shook her composure like that, not often.
Ursula had been very well brought up. He was ' nice,'
John, — good-looking and well-behaved. She understood
from his aunts that he had not always been well-
behaved, but he was just now. He had gratified the
family. He was a tremendous parti, — really tremendous,
for Ursula's pretensions ; but she had never, even in her
letters to her dearest friends, betrayed the slightest exulta-
tion. She spoke of ' John ' to people very quietly, much
as she did of her brothers ; and when she could, she held
her mother in.

' All right,' he said, after a little more nonsense. ' Call
the kid here.'

' I don't know what to call her,' said Ursula. ' You
can't call an object of that age Miss.'

' Course you can't,' said Johnny. ' She'll be your

16 THE ACCOLADE

cousin soon. Psst ! ' He whistled softly. ' What's-
your-name, — Violet, — come along here. Miss Thynne
has got something to say to you.' Violet glanced once at
her father, then came. ' Sit down there,' said Johnny,
pointing to a stool. She did so, clasping her knees. ' Now
then, answer nicely. Miss Thynne is going to show us all
the way to do it.'

' What time/ said Ursula quietly, ' do you go to bed ? '

' Oh, I say,' protested Johnny. ' I should never have
started like that. I should have led up to it, easy.'

' Almost at once/ said Violet. ' Now, really, if that
clock is right. That was what I was considering, whether
to say good-night.'

" It's generally done in good circles/ said Johnny.
' Why were you considering it ? '

' Because of something Father said. He might — want
me.'

' For a date ? ' asked Johnny. ' I say, were any of his
dates wrong, at dinner ? '

' How should she know ? ' said Ursula.

' I hoped she just might, — not had time to forget them.
You learn lots of dates, don't you ? When you were
her age, Ursula, you probably knew heaps of things.'

' Do you mean I'm ignorant now ? '

' Yes, thank Heaven/

' Do you like ignorance ? ' said Violet.

' Rather/ said Johnny. ' Except, of course, in the
people I pay to know. People like secretaries, and solici-
tors, and doctors '

' Don't attend to him/ said Ursula kindly.

' I pay Miss Thynne/ said Johnny, ' or rather, I shall
pay her, shortly, to know nothing

' John, how horrid you are ! ' said Ursula, really indig-
nant. ' Pay me indeed ! A nice time you'd have if I
didn't know a great deal more than you do ! '

She had flushed, and seemed really offended. Johnny
was amused.

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 17

' Go it,' he said. ' Back her up,' he directed Violet.
Violet smiled absently. Her eyes were, as usual, on her
father, who had glanced at the clock.

' There ! ' said Johnny. ' Bed-time. Go along, kiddy.'

' Are we to have no music ? ' said his mother's voice.
' Ursula ! '

' John has just been informing me he pays me to know
nothing,' said Ursula. ' So I certainly shan't amuse him
by playing. He must do it.'

' My dear ! ' said her own mother, distressed. She never
understood humour, even Ursula's. ' John was joking,'
she added in the pause.

' Rather,' said Johnny. ' I didn't mean that.'

But Ursula persisted, though pleasantly, in refusing.
She was easy as she was determined, quite. She replied
to the pressure put upon her lightly, since it struck her,
not for the first time, that the pressure was light as well.
The Ingestres were courteous, but she barely reached their
standard. They were a musicianly family. Ursula was
quick in such situations, and her mother was instructed
not to boast of her attainments — in any direction — for
security. John's mother's next remark decided her she
had been wise.

' Claude, doesn't Violet play ? Make her play just one
thing to us before she goes.'

The wordless exchange between father and daughter
made it clear that it was that command she had been
awaiting, while she sat at Johnny's feet. She looked
anxious distinctly, but not startled, — she had been
warned well in advance. At least her so-called authority
was not the kind who startled and exasperated of fixed
intent, as Johnny's did. He had been making comparisons,
of course, from the moment when he had begun watching
her. The results were much the same, — but the method
was different.

' Do you mind not standing just behind ? ' the child
said to him quick and low, after her first item. ' It makes

i8 THE ACCOLADE

me so nervous.' He had opened the instrument for her,
and remained without a thought to watch, because he was
curious. He nodded at the request, and strolled back to
Ursula.

' Good,' he informed her in confidence. Ursula did not
reply, sewing steadily. During the next item, which was
more taxing, needing some intellectual grasp as well as
mechanism, he lay beside her listening, — really listening,
as Ursula could see by his eyes. She had often doubted,
for all his airs and graces, if he really listened to her.

' That's beastly good,' he said softly at the end. ' Beastly
good, that is. Mother ! Mother I Make it play some
more.'

' Oh yes, you will,' he said quickly, two minutes later,
thinking her father was inclined to worry her unduly.
' You jolly well will, all on your own, because nobody's
going to hurt you if you don't. Besides, Father will be
there to listen to-morrow, and we're none of us absolutely
in it for awfulness, compared to him.'

These singular arguments succeeded, or else the tone
did in which they were spoken, when the arguments of
mere authority would have failed. Or so Johnny flattered
himself, — he may have been wrong. At least Violet played
to him, and played what she wanted, ' on her own.'

' He loves it so,' his mother explained to her guest, who
was smiling, ' and he has had to forgo it a good deal.'

' Chasing another art,' suggested Claude Ash win, also
aside. ' What about his acting, Agatha ? Has Ingestre
cut it off ? Finally ? '

' Finally,' she assented, but gave no explanation, and
he did not press her. After a few minutes she added, as
though she had considered the addition, consulted with
herself, — ' We offered him a compromise, but he scouted it.'

' Pish, — yes, so he would.'

' You sympathise ? ' asked Agatha.

' If you will excuse me. I have no facts.' He glanced
at her, in his medical manner, and changed the issue, with

THE KNIGHTS MOVE 19

diplomatic ease. ' He's got a voice in him, anyhow,' he
suggested, looking towards the subject of their discussion,
as he leant carelessly on the piano. ' Surely you sing still,
John, — or has that got submerged as well ? '

' He never does,' said Ursula from her corner : the only
result of which was, to turn the doctor's active attention
upon herself.

' Not if you accompany ? Oh, but let me assure you,
you will find no man satirise wifely knowledge which takes
that form.'

' Accompaniment ? ' asked Agatha.

' Supporting, embellishing, — er — titivating "

' Concealing deficiencies,' called Johnny, ' Come on,
Ursula, if I've got to. May as well get it done.'

' Miss Ash win will play for you,' said Ursula. ' I will
attend, since that's to be my province henceforward.' She
matched her colour, and took a new needleful of silk with
care.

' Oh, Lord,' said Johnny, — murmured rather. Only
Violet heard. She rose, shrinking back from the instru-
ment.

' I expect I must go to bed,' she said. She was a little
flushed with her nervous effort past, and her eyes were
seeking safety anywhere, probably in flight.

' No,' said Johnny. She found suddenly that he loomed
right above her, and that she had retreated into his arms.
' You don't go to bed/ he said, gently shoving her back
upon the seat again. ' No time, — sit there. You're
wanted. You've got to read something jolly difficult at
sight, — d'you mind ? ' She looked up at him anxious,
slightly pleading : then, meeting his eyes, hers changed.
Something more than the grace of humour united them, a
subtle strand of the kinship, possibly : or something more
broadly human still.

' Not really dreadful,' she said contentedly, ceasing to
resist. ' And, please, don't watch.'

' I'm going right out there,' said Johnny, pointing.

20 THE ACCOLADE

' Ever so far away. This here's my show piece, or used to
be. If you make a muddle of it '

' I won't, — I won't spoil t, I promise ! If I stop or
anything, just go on.'

' Right,' said Johnny : and he went his way.

He thought no more at all about her, as was evident.
He could not, for the time being, afford it, since he had to
make his mark Johnny, like all good artists, was a fighter,
and for the first time since he came back to private life, he
had an audience worth the effort of assault. There was an
element of sheer fun, too, in knocking over a man like
that on his father's hearth, and his spirits, low of late, were
improved by his father's absence. He rather thought he
could do it, if he tried. Not that his ' show piece ' was
funny, — far from it, — it was calculated to disturb the
fringe of aunts. But he chose it in caution, since he was
well outside it, owing to ancient practice : and further, he
had reason to hope the aunts had gone to bed.

So he spoke to them once, in all his glory, — gave them a
taste of it, such as they were. He had the look, in his
arrogant young splendour, of lifting the robe. He may
have meant to don it cynically, disdainfully, — the critic
thought, — but he lost himself on the way. His inherited
presence was splendid, simply, — so dowered he held the
eye. Music it was not, strictly regarded, he merely saluted,
from his own temple, the other art. His voice, not a large
one, was attractive extremely, a pretty gift in itself had he
cared to use it in music's cause. But he cared for nothing
to-night but to get his effects home on all and sundry, and
that he did, sufficiently. Even his mother, who knew his
powers best, was surprised. Ursula's mother, who did not
know them, was horror-struck. Ursula herself was slightly
uncomfortable, and more than a little vexed.

Why had she not known ? — it was all she asked ! She
hated to be taken by surprise. If John could do things
like that, it was certainly her right to be warned, to be
given the inner place. He had no business to take her

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 21

aback with them in front of strangers, as though she were
audience herself, not intimate. The feeling of grievance
was very strong, and perfectly defensible. Not but what it
was good, probably, granted the family, — John was clever,
that she had always known. But even of its worth, she
was not quite certain, till Dr. Ashwin spoke.

When Dr. Ashwin spoke, it was to praise, with a vigorous
simplicity, that overturned all Johnny's ideas about him
again. He also took hold of the little girl, by her arms
below the elbows, and made her admire him, as to which
matter there was not the least necessity. Johnny could
get himself looked up to by little females without his
assistance, and get himself liked as well, if he happened so
to desire. However, he was civil to them, quietly civil,
since he had ' done the trick.'

' Were you frightened ? ' he demanded, as the child
leant back against her father, seemingly most content
with the constraint of his hands.

' Horribly,' she laughed, ' of playing wrongly. Not of
you.'

' You would have been, if you'd looked at me. Oh yes,
you would. If that scene's done properly, women faint
in all directions, — so I'm told.'

' Then I'm afraid ' She slipped a mischievous glance

about the room. John's eyes followed hers. The women
present seemed comfortable, certainly. Aunts had
evaporated. Ursula's head, and her mother's, were
imperturbably bent above their needlework. His own
mother, her hand through his arm, was pale and tranquil,
looking really happy for the first time that day.

' I'm afraid not,' he agreed. ' Never mind. Some time,
you and me'll have a go at them again.'

After that, he took the doctor away to the billiard-room.
Ursula was cool when he offered good night, but he did
not lay too much stress on it. She would come round
of her own accord : or he could fetch her, the next
morning.

22 THE ACCOLADE

ii

Dr. Ashwin left the next day, but he had been interested
in the Ingestre household during the short period he spent
beneath their roof, — one night. Johnny interested him, —
Ursula still more so. The boy, to his eye, hardly looked
happy : the girl had a quite remarkable air of settled
sufficiency to all circumstances, good or ill. Yet he thought,
of the two, Ursula was the more deluded.

Not at all intentionally on John's part. He was being
straight with her, perfectly, so far as his nature permitted.
But he was suffering himself from shock. So the doctor
calmly diagnosed it, having been allowed, once or twice
across the billiard-table, that night, to see his eyes. He
had been cut off, brought up in full tide, really baffled ;
the doctor did not care to see such a look on a young face.
Beyond that, he had been tricked through his affections,
an evil thing, and dangerous. His devotion to his mother
was undoubted, and he had let her sacrifice him to his
father's iron will.

That was the plain fact, — a quicker sense than Ursula's
would have grasped it, reckoned with it too. But she did
not, the least. In the genial calm of this great household
which greeted her betrothal, she did not recognise a mere
ceremonious shelving of a habitual difficulty, the lull after
long storm. Herself on the little pedestal of her triumph,
she only saw the Ingestres, for long an abstraction, un-
locking all their doors to her, and the heir of all their
honours at her feet. John's own apathy, thinly disguised
by the lover's futilities, she misread likewise ; it suited her,
— she had evidently not guessed how far from apathetic
his nature was. He idled well, fooled with her agreeably,
occasionally he went further, and was ' nice.' He was not
' sentimental,' to use her term, and she was glad of it.
She did not miss anything in his manner, because she did
not really desire the missing thing. His sort, — she classed

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 23

him with his father, — were not sentimental, and it was
better so. Their dignity and hers would have suffered by
the exchange.

Of his real state of mind she saw nothing, — the recurrent
rage of mortification for his broken career. Nor did his
mother see all of it. The Ingestre men did not betray
themselves before their women, habitually, and Johnny
did not exhibit his defeat, any more than his father ex-
ploited his triumph, in their society. Least of all did
Ursula guess that she herself was one of the spoils of victory,
though the steady sun of favour that blessed her from
headquarters might have hinted it to her intelligence.
Mr. Ingestre had, in making a clean sweep of his son's
ambitions, scored the daughter-in-law of his desire by the
way. It was a neat stroke of policy, showing great pene-
tration of his puppets, and knowledge of the game. Johnny
made no objection : he got on with girls easily, and this
was the girl for him. Marriage was the readiest release
from his father's chafing rule, it would give him a free
hand, and a kingdom of his own, — there was no harm in it.
Only he was flinching now, on the verge of the last surrender,
shying at moments from a prospect his clear mind would
not let him shirk. He was not going under easy, to take
a term from the operating-theatre. He was not the kind
of boy to do so, when it came to the point. It was a case
of clear mismanagement.

All this Dr. Ashwin was enabled to divine during a short
and extremely erratic conversation across the billiard-
table after midnight : a conversation devoted to art, and
consisting largely, on Johnny's side, of objurgation. He was
too bold and too young, of course, to confess to flinching.
He swore at the billiard-balls, — and he had full reason to
do so, — but Dr. Ashwin imagined some of his restless wrath
originated from another cause.

However, the penetrating doctor left the next day, —
not at all to Johnny's regret, — he did not care for him.
He was the kind of man who knew too much, and thought

24 THE ACCOLADE

he knew everything. The seemingly simple questions he
asked, combined with the fearful problems he set at
billiards, needed a real intellectual effort to deal with
adequately. They had spoiled his sleep. The child was
preferable, and she, — as it appeared when he reached the
breakfast-table, very late, — was to be left behind.

It also appeared that she did not want to be, — she was shy
at being left in Johnny's house, under his rule, and had been
crying about it, — bullied beyond a doubt. All kinds of
things had been happening during his enforced absence on
the upper floor. Johnny sat down opposite Violet, relieved
Bert of his responsibilities concerning her, and proceeded
to look into it, at his leisure.

Further up the table, the ladies of the house were dis-
cussing the dance.

The dance was Ursula's dance, given in her honour,
so by rights, of course, she should not have been con-
cerned in its arrangement. Only when it came to the
point, she had to be. Ursula was the eldest of a large
family, and her consequent passion for management
triumphed, not only over John's easy opportunism, but
over her own sense of the fitting, which was keen. She
did not want to presume before her time. She only did
want to prove her power, now and again, and test her
influence, — measure it with that of John's mother, as
it grew.

Ursula, prepared in advance to find John's father
formidable, found his mother much more so, privately.
She was used to men, and dominant men, in her own home
surroundings : it had been part of her training to humour
them, and she knew their ways. Also, Mr. Ingestre unbent
to her beautifully, she was certain she would have no
trouble with him. Mrs. Ingestre was different ; she
addressed Ursula with consideration, while she looked at
her with equable discerning eyes, sunken a little since her
illness, as though she sought in the girl's handsome fair
exterior more than the eye could see. A persistent slight

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 25

suspicion of such behaviour led Ursula to behave towards
' Mother,' as she called her, with peculiar care.

The difficulty with Ursula's dance was the usual one in
country places, a lack of men. Both Agatha and her son
were engaged in luring his friends from their haunts in
town to come down for the night in question,' — next but
two. The post that morning had brought in the usual
number of refusals, or rather adroit excuses, from bachelors
in the metropolis, while several large families of girls
accepted eagerly.

' Twenty-eight to thirty-seven/ said Ursula seriously,
scoring her neat list. ' I'm afraid there's no doubt of it,
Mother. No ' — to her own parent — ' you needn't go
through that again. It's right as I've marked it, — nine
short.'

' Nine short,' mourned Mrs. Thynne for her hostess.
' That's bad, isn't it ? '

' We're lop-sided, no hope for us/ said Mrs. Ingestre,
with her air, that annoyed Mrs. Thynne, of being superior
to all such minor disturbances. For it was clear no hostess
could really be superior to the fact of being nine men
short, for a dance. The pretence was absurd.

Striving to be serviceable, Mrs. Thynne scoured her
capacious mind for young men, and mentioned such as
occurred to her, but to little avail. Ursula seemed suddenly
to have grown fastidious.

' If John really gave his mind to it for five minutes '

she observed.

Johnny, who was now leaning on his elbows amid the
wreckage of his breakfast, conversing privately with Bert
and the Ashwin child, barely looked round. ' I have,' he
contended, ' weeks ago. My mind — er — blossomed into
Bert, and Billy, and Buckley, and James, and a man
James knows at Magdalen. I wrote their names down for
Mother, and Mother corrected the spelling from the
Peerage and invited them all. They're all coming. So
am I.' He relapsed into his confidences.

26 THE ACCOLADE

' Five ! ' said Ursula.

' I'm a host in myself/ said Johnny. ' As for Bert,
he's a Colossus. Do I mean that ? Who was the fellow
who had a hundred arms ? '

He appealed to Violet, who knew. Bert and Johnny
instantly fell on her for knowing, so she regretted it.

1 You must know more men than that,' said Ursula to
John's back.

But on the contrary : Johnny knew very few men, —
respectable men. That was Ursula's look-out. He had
helped Mother lots about the girls, — weeding them.
Hadn't he, Mother ?

' Well, you'd better weed a few more, if you must use
such horrid expressions.' Speaking with the same com-
petent calm, Miss Thynne's eyes passed over Violet.
They simply swept her once : but Ursula's glances were
to the point, like her remarks. Her useful mother, attentive
to all her expressions, caught the hint.

As soon as Violet, silenced if not defeated, had left
the table in her father's wake, Mrs. Thynne took up the
theme.

' I suppose the little girl expects to dance,' she said.

' Well,' said Mrs. Ingestre, surprised. ' It would be a
little hard to leave her out.'

' Of course she expects,' said Ursula over the list.
' Didn't you notice how carefully she dodged the subject
with her father ? '

' Meaning he'd object ? ' said Johnny. He had leant
back at last, and turned to them.

' Well, he seemed pretty anxious for her not to be
tired, didn't he, when he talked of driving her to the
town.'

' Oh, I dare say we could get him to put his foot down,
if that's all. He's the kind does it easy, in a stamp. 'Course
kids are in the way,' proceeded Johnny, drawling agree-
ably. ' Like me to try ? '

His eyes passed Ursula, and lighted on his mother. He

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE r 27

and she were in complete agreement, and he let her know
the pleasant fact. The issue was simple, fortunately.
Violet was their relation, — Ursula was not, at present.
There was no question, to Johnny's unbiassed mind, as
to the ill-manners of the intervention.

' Oh, look here, — rot ! ' Mr. Bering's little bleat was

heard. ' I say, Mrs, Ingestre, you know I'll choke off

a few of my sisters, sooner than that.'

' Bert's engaged to the kid,' said Johnny to everybody.
' So am I.'

' We shall not trouble you, Bert,' said Mrs. Ingestre,
smiling as she rose. ' We want all your sisters, and Billy.

Thank you, dear ' she accepted the paper from Ursula.

' I will go and consider Johnny's list of last resources, and
he can try some telegrams on the waverers. Will you,
Johnny ? '

' Rather ! ' said that gentleman, pleased. Telegrams to
the waverers was just his line, — how well his mother knew
him ! He ran his hand through her arm as she passed him,
and drew her out with him on to the terrace.

' Is there anything in it ? ' was his first enquiry when he
got her alone.

' Nothing,' she said. ' Claude leaves all decision for
Violet in my hands, naturally. I shall send her to bed
at twelve, if necessary.' She added — ' Will that do ? '

' Rippingly/ said her son. ' That'll settle Ursula's — er
— maternal scruples. And it'll knock out Bert.'

' I hope you will all be sensible with the child,' said
Mrs. Ingestre, who was wise enough to know the
dangers.

' Oh, Mother, ducky ! — if you can't go steady at that
age ! Naturally, we leave it to her.'

' Bert has little sisters,' was his mother's reply to this
impertinence.

' If you think that gives him the pull of me,' said Johnny,
' you're wrong : she likes me best.'

' She thinks you are very nice. She told her father so.'

28 THE ACCOLADE

Johnny observed the landscape with lifted brows.
.' You see/ he resumed after a pause, in the tone of propitia-
tion, ' chances are, she can dance. She's not had time to
forget, and nowadays kids are taught, and that kid would
be taught decently, owing to circumstances. Confound
him.'

' Don't you like Claude ? ' said Agatha.

' I dislike parents, on principle,' said Johnny, sliding his
right arm completely round her.

' Wait till you are one,' said Agatha.

He was silent again, till they reached the end of the
terrace, where one of the most lovely views of a beautiful
district jumped at them, and he brought her to a stand
perforce. He watched the view a minute. Then his eyes
slipped to hers in his sly, shy fashion with the people he
liked.

' What are you after, Mother ? Wanting to manage
me, — or both of us ? Ursula too ? '

' Nothing further from my thoughts,' she said, with
perfect sincerity. Indeed, her last thought was to interfere
with him, where Ursula was concerned.

Johnny steered with great art among women, a gift
inherited : he was quick in apprehension of the probable
' moves,' on the feminine side of the social game, and
equally clever at flattering or foiling them. He knew
Ursula so well already : it amused his mother, the ease
with which he disposed of her, — knowledgeably, — for she
had never struck Agatha as an easy character. It would
need all his wit to deal with her, in the time to come.

' Perhaps she really wants to look after the kiddy,' he
murmured after an interval. ' She doesn't look strong.'

' I shouldn't wonder/ said his mother, rather gently.
The prospect from the terrace, shimmering in the dreamy
sunlight of an October morning, was miraculous even to
Agatha's accustomed eyes. She had been ill, lately, a fact
which lends miracle to the most familiar things. She
tried to see the future in the mist-laden, blue-drenched

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 29

beauty of the distant autumn woodland, John's future,
not her own. She dared not look at her own beyond a
certain point, owing to the discretion of the doctors.

' Anyhow I'll see to it, you needn't bother,' his thoughts
ultimately resolved themselves, as his slack arm drew
tight about her. Mrs. Thynne from her post in the break
fast-room observed their promenade together with surprise.
Her grown sons never treated her like that, — indeed she
would have been puzzled to know what to say to them if
they had.

' I'm not bothering,' said Mrs. Ingestre. ' That is, I'm
only bothering, as usual, why Higham Wood up there
remains yellow to my intelligence, while my eyes tell me
it is blue.'

' 'Cause you know it is,' suggested Johnny. He studied
the far horizon a minute, motionless, debating the point.
' Oh, dash,1 he ejaculated after an interval. ' It does look
blue, but it can't be really, or being yellow, it would be
green. And it's not green, anyhow. Is it, Mother ? '
He shook her.

' Blue,' said Mrs. Ingestre calmly. ' Azure, — look at it.'

' Oh, I've looked, ten years back, — I wish you wouldn't
mix my mind ! It's always been yellow, — it's a beech-
wood. Dash ! ' said Johnny again. ' Look here, we'll cut
across there riding this afternoon, and I'll fetch you a leaf
to look at. Bet you anything it won't be a blue leaf.
Take me, Mother ? '

' Very well,' she said. ' I'll take you in reason. But
don't go too far out of your way.'

' Oh, Ursula likes playing about,' said Johnny easily.
' By that time, she will.' Agatha had small doubt of it,
but she did not encourage him. ' And the floor of the
wood's good going for the horses, — clean,' he proceeded
with his plans. ' And Rachel will let me stand up on her
back to pick you a leaf, at least she will if Ursula talks to
her, and distracts her young mind. 'Course if Rachel
starts at a rabbit,' said Johnny with pathos, ' I'm done.

30 THE ACCOLADE

I'm not a circus-rider, — lots of rabbits in Higham Wood.
I hope she won't for your sake, Mother, — sake of your leaf,
I mean.'

Mrs. Ingestre declined to be affected : she alleged that
she trusted Ursula. Whereupon Johnny, recovering, said
he was sick of talking rubbish, and was going in. She
withheld him a few minutes longer from his duties to learn
about the house-party, the threads of which were in his
hands, since the majority were his contemporaries. She
alluded to his father as arriving at lunch-time. Instantly —

' If Father wants to cut into the ride,' said Johnny with
a beautiful scowl, ' he can't, that's all. I've arranged it.
Ursula prefers riding, remember, Mother : I'm going to
see she prefers it, now.'

' See,' said his mother, ' and don't get excited. And
remember yourself that what Ursula prefers, this side her
wedding, is done. One minute, dear, — when's Jem coming ?
Two nights then ? — oh, most gracious ! '

She referred to her son's best man, and closest friend,
and at the reference Johnny's unpleasant expression
cleared at once. James Hertford was a friend, not a
follower like Bertram. Johnny knew his own mind pre-
cisely in that matter which youth in general regards with
such astonishing indifference, the choosing of friends. He
chose at ease, entered, and shut the door behind him. It
was another little problem her radiant future held for
Ursula.

Things with Ursula were not quite so simple as
Johnny thought, which doubtless repaid him for his self-
sufficiency.

Ursula was sitting sewing things for her own wearing
in the glass bow of the breakfast-room, within a short
tether of her mother, as was her habit. Ursula was any-
thing but a new kind of girl, which was one of the reasons
why the Ingestre men liked her. A woman's hands always
look beautiful when they are sewing, and there is a per-

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 31

manent — a prehistoric appeal in the contented sewing
face. What can be done with that patient little dart
of a needle ! — it is a symbol of the plodding, piece-
meal way in which women attack the web of their
lives.

Johnny brought a sop to Ursula in the news of Mrs.
Clewer's defection. She had refused the dance because
his mother had not asked her last Ambassador. This had
distinctly a softening effect, — Ursula smiled and said she
did not believe it. A little later she said it was a pity
because Mrs. Clewer looked so lovely in the evening.
Johnny opined that it was a pity, because Janie could
dance.

' I believe that's all you think about,' said Ursula.

' He's no heart, really,' said Ursula's mother, in a tone
like hers, but a little more so.

Johnny debated these charges. ' I haven't, on me,' he
said to Ursula's mother, a reply calculated to content her,
which it did. A little wit went a long way with Ursula's
mother, but he had to consider its quality with care before
he applied it. After that he came close to Ursula, blocking
her view of her mother completely, and proposed a ride
in the afternoon, ending up with circus-tricks on the
horses in Higham Woods.

' Very well,' said Ursula, with a glance at the blue woods
on the horizon, which she could see from where she sat.
It was a calculating glance, not at all like Mrs. Ingestre's,
when she had looked that way.

' It's not going to rain,' said John, in natural response
to it.

' Rain ! ' said Ursula.

' Well, you shouldn't go looking carefully at my nice
blue sky. Nobody ever does, and it's not used to it.'

' It's not your blue sky,' said Ursula. She put out a
hand to remove him. He was in her light.

' It is. I got it for you on purpose. It's even been
infecting the beech-leaves, Mother says.'

32 THE ACCOLADE

' Infecting,' said Ursula ; but she let him have her hand.
' I was only wondering/ she said, with another glance at
the woods, ' if that child would care to come with us. It
might do her good.'

Johnny opened his mouth. ' What's this ? ' he thought,
in the depths of his being, racking his brains. Ursula
certainly took some following.

' Her father didn't want her to be tired, dear,' said
Mrs. Thynne, in a tone of gentle reminder. ' I think she's
a bit of a cold.'

' Who says so ? ' said Johnny instantly.

' Mother does,' smiled Ursula. ' Her father only meant
late hours, and so on. The sun will do her good.'

' I can perfectly well amuse her at home,' said Mrs.
Thynne, maternally, to both of them.

' Well, it's just as John likes,' said Ursula.

' Not at all,' said Johnny. He scanned the Higham
horizon with humorous dark eyes. He was amused. What
the deuce could she be at, in such a proposal? It was
their last chance of a tete-d-tete ride, for days. Punishing
him ? Simply righting herself, in his eyes, — or her mother's,
— or her own ? A queer instinct, feminine, no doubt. Or
could she really want the child ? — not possible. Johnny
knew, by a beautiful instinct we will not defend, that
Ursula wanted him, and him alone, for the space of that
autumn day.

Well then, he might have fallen in with the desire, which
matched his own. He might, sweeping the sewing and
the subterfuges aside, say — ' Oh, rot ! ' — and seize Ursula's
hands. So he would have done, if her mother had not
been there, or if his own mother had been. His mother
knew nothing of such crab-like proceedings. But Ursula's
mother, or something of her in Ursula, inspired Johnny to
be crab-like also, — crabbier indeed, — even more crabbed.
He could be, at need.

A second course open to him was to give the message to
Violet, and get her to refuse, which would be quite simple

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 33

as it was highly improbable she would want to come. He
could manage that with the smallest possible exertion, and
leave Violet to be — amused by Mrs. Thynne. Oh, Lord ! —
he reconsidered.

His third course was what he did, as soon as he thought
of it. He turned about. ' Markham,' he said, with passion.
' You know everything.'

' Yes, sir,' said Markham repressively.

' Can you tell me, at this instant, where, in earth, or sky,
or water, Miss Ashwin is ? '

' Miss Violet is helping the doctor to pack, sir,' said
Markham, folding the cloth.

' The deuce she is. Well, tell her to drop it, would you,
and come to me.'

Miss Violet was fetched, — not, of course, by Markham.
She coloured pink at the proposal, and looked her protest,
in Johnny's direction, just as he expected.

' Miss Thynne 's idea,' said Johnny pleasantly, looking
back. He thought her like Alice in Wonderland. So,
oddly enough, did Bert. Her eyes were like that, — her
hair was otherwise. ' She thinks it would be good for you,
—jolly for you, I mean.'

' I think,' hesitated Violet, ' that Cousin Agatha '

' Mother lies down in the afternoon,' said Ursula at once.
' I should think you'd be better for some exercise, —
wouldn't you ? '

' Wouldn't you ? ' echoed Johnny attentively. ' Just as
you like.'

Well, that finished her. She did not believe they really
wanted her, of course, not for a moment. But after a
puzzled pause, balancing all the precedents of her pro-
longed existence, like a proper little girl, she accepted
Miss Thynne, thanked her, and so came.

John, thinking with her, had come to the same conclusion,
that it was the only thing she could do. And she did it in
the form, nicely. He rather wondered if he owed her an
apology.

34 THE ACCOLADE

' You are a pawn, darling,' he said later. ' Do you know
what a pawn is ? '

' Chess ? ' said Violet.

They were waiting for Ursula in the sun-bath on the
drive at two o'clock. He and she were alone, in the
company of the horses, Rachel, the beloved of Johnny's
heart, and Sabra and Sylvie, introduced merely as ' nice
girls.' A tactful young groom, who had offered himself,
had been refused with an arrogant brusquerie, on Mr.
John's part, approaching to rudeness. He was not going
to let his cousin Violet ride with a groom on this occasion,
— likely ! They would be d trois, since Ursula desired it.
Very much so.

Johnny was moody a trifle, because his father had
returned. His father, in the course of lunch, had already
disturbed several of his best arrangements, on purpose ;
his mother looked worried again, and things in general
were going to pot. It was his father who was delaying
Ursula now, keeping her flirting with him in the hall.
Flirting was the word. Ursula was a punctual girl, by
nature.

' Isn't it heavenly ? ' said Violet, as he mounted her.

' It is,' said Johnny, and held her little foot for a
moment.

He waited a little ; then flung himself into the saddle,
somewhat to his Rachel's surprise. Not much, — she was
as used to him as Markham and the rest of the household.
He sat for a time looking about him from the upper level.
Heavenly it was, — no weather in the year's length like it.
Shot blue and gold, touched with melting, maddening
odours from the drenched dead woodland of oak and
beech for miles around. His father could mount Ursula, —
he had more than a mind to start, more than half a mind.
He was sure the kid wanted to be in the woods as much as
he did. He looked at her sitting Sylvie demurely, with her
lashes dropped. She was a good kid, awfully well-brought-
up, but there were possibilities — oh yes. He would not

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 35

answer for her behaviour, after a gallop across the common
at his side. She was young. . . .

' Can I get to be a Queen ? ' she asked, in reply to his
sudden remark about the pawn.

' If you're good,' said Johnny impressively. ' I,' he
proceeded presently, ' am a Knight.'

' Don't fall off,' said Violet. Her knowledge of the game,
needless to say, hailed from an impeccable authority.

' You don't catch me,' said her cousin. ' No one can
catch me anyhow, being a Knight. Do you know the
Knight's move, Violet? It's an exceedingly dodge-ful
one.'

' You can be taken,' said Violet gravely.

' Married, you mean ? '

' No, — taken. By anyone, in the game.'

' No, I can't,' said Johnny. ' Not by anyone, anywhere.
I'm too dodge-ful, by a lot.' His tone was such that she
could not argue it.

' I suppose your father is a Castle,' she said, after an
interval.

' All you know,' said Johnny, grinning. ' Father's as
dodge-ful as I am, — all but. I get it from him.'

' Is he a Knight, then ? — he can't be, he's too old. He
must be a King.'

' No, he isn't, because you can't check him,' explained
Johnny. ' If anybody had ever been able to check Father,
— I should not be here.'

' I suppose Miss Thynne is a Queen/ said Violet, after
a pause of regarding him. She had not asked where he
would be, in that case.

' She may be,' answered Johnny, ' one of these days.
She's a bit further on than you.' He patted Rachel, looking
wicked.

' But ' — she turned on him scandalised — ' she can't be
only a '

' 'Course she can't,' said Johnny soothingly. ' Look at
her, — there she is,'

36 THE ACCOLADE

Johnny's other goddess arose in the magic of the autumn
beech-woods, — he might have known she would : altering
all values, thrusting love-making and Ursula temporarily
into the background, and bringing the friendly little girl,
just as surely as music brought her, to his side.

It was entirely Ursula's fault that it was so, that Violet
was there, to begin with, so disturbing a presence, incon-
clusive like all youthful things, sweet to see and to hold, —
or to attempt to hold. Because, being so much the lightest,
it was naturally she who did the circus-trick, and mounted
Johnny's Rachel, while Rachel, perfectly contented with
the temporary exchange, snuffed at all his pockets, and
nuzzled in his hands. Neither hands nor pockets held
anything, but she nuzzled his thin brown hands for love
of him, while she performed his will by standing quiet,
amid strange scents and exciting shadows, under the
shimmering arch of leaves. Rachel was young, like Violet :
but she had faced calmly, owing to her faith in him, even
stranger circumstances.

' Good girl,' said Johnny, putting an arm suddenly
across her neck.

' Do be careful, John ! ' said Ursula irritably : and at
once the creature started, as she had not for John.
Could it be ? Rachel felt Ursula without the magic circle
too.

' Don't break the trees about,' said Johnny mechanically,
looking upward. But he knew the child would not. She
cut the twigs of golden leaves he wanted for his mother
neatly and swiftly, just as he would have done himself, the
finger-tips of her right hand extended to the beech-trunk
for support. But she hardly needed it. Of course, he
reflected once, she would dance delightfully, made like
that. Only once, reaching to an outer branch, she laid her
left hand for balance on his head. It thrilled John, very
oddly : and he held her a minute in his arms before he
lifted her down. Exactly so he had seen her father clasp
her at parting, — not otherwise,

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 37

It seemed simply profanity to him, at that moment, that
Ursula, his wife to be, could even for an instant mistake his
proceeding in doing so. It outraged the real Johnny,
jarred a true instinct of his fathers, that had sprung during
that brief interlude to life. He was amazed at the tumult of
revolt it caused him, — granted it was the case. He glanced
at Ursula, a moment too late to be certain. She was seated,
fair and serious, on Sabra, holding Sylvie's bridle, waiting
merely, apparently content. She was just as she should be,
exactly, except that the magic circle stopped at her. Yet,
of the group of three, she should have been the most
surely within it. Surely !

— No, he was not amused, no longer amused, that was
what it came to. He would have to urge Rachel outside
the magic ring of art, the youth which matches it, the
aged, irrefutable truths of the woodland, before he could
be amused at women's pettiness again. He did not,
for the instant, believe such limitation desirable : — even
though it was purely flattering to him.

Ursula said that she supposed they had better be going.

' Why ? ' said Johnny.

Ursula replied, very sensibly, that they had all the leaves
they could carry, and that they must have good light for
getting across the fields. She added that it would be
getting damp before they reached the Hall, and that it
would be wiser not to linger, owing to Violet's cold. She
was determined that Violet should have a cold, no doubt
for her mother's credit. Violet, when pressed, admitted
to having a little one.

' Dancing'll cure it, darling,' said Johnny absently.

Ursula was not pleased. They did not talk much on the
homeward way. The scenery was very beautiful.

Things went from bad to worse after that. It was again
amusing at intervals, but not exceedingly. Of course the
houseful of ' lads,' regardless of Johnny's severity with
them, spoiled the infant. Ursula ought to have had the

38 THE ACCOLADE

sense to know they would. Johnny's mother had had the
sense, before they came. They gave Miss Thynne her dues
at intervals, as they thought, but she was Johnny's
property. That was the bother of it. He, and he alone,
was bound to pull things straight.

James Hertford was the worst offender. James said
Violet was clever, which had not struck either Johnny or
Bert before. It was rather a trial for them, but they
admitted Jemmy ought to know. He was a very, very
smart young man from Oxford, engaged in appropriately
opening a brilliant public career. Mr. Ingestre liked
talking to him, which was all to the good, since it gave John
a breathing-space to attend to Ursula. His father's way of
snatching Ursula and exalting her, ostentatiously, annoyed
Johnnyr He was sufficient in himself to that sort of thing,
and did not require, at his age, to be shown how to do
the trick.

James happened upon Violet at luncheon, sitting at his
side. Having discovered, he need not have noticed her,
but he did, satirically. ' Comin' to the dance ? ' he
drawled. ' Got any left ? Might spare me one if you
have.'

This struck his neighbours as amusing, and a certain
number attended.

' I don't think I'm dancing,' said Violet, shrinking a
little at so many eyes. She had Miss Thynne's eyes as well,
as soon as she said it.

' Oh, I say,' protested Mr. Hertford. ' Why's that ?
Getting past it ? '

' Youthful follies,' said another wit. ' Women are so
serious nowadays.'

' It's only they're so numerous,' said Violet.

' Hey ? — what's that ? ' Young Hertford, catching a
spark from his host on the way, leant down. ' Too many
of them ? Can't be too many, can there, Johnny ? Think
we're afraid of numbers, Miss — er — Ashwin ? '

' No. But you can't dance with two at once.'

THE KNIGHTS MOVE 39

' Wish I could,' ventured Mr. Dering, in the pause that
followed this unanswerable statement.

' So does my mother,' said Johnny. ' It's a fact there
aren't enough of you fellows to go round. May as well be
warned in time, so as to keep the price up.'

' But you'll give me one, all the same/ said Jem to
Violet, when this point had been dealt with. ' Oh yes,
you will. Sit down if you like, — we old ones will quiz the
company. Come now, say which.' He laid his dance-
programme on the table in front of him, and she glanced
down the half -filled list.

' It's no good,' she said gravely. ' I am engaged those
three, and I go to bed there.' She spaced the three clearly,
and touched the sixth number with one fine little finger.
' I am sorry,' she added, looking up at him.

' Ripping, ain't she ? ' said Mr. Hertford, far too loud,
in another direction. ' Ripping form. I'm going to get
one, dashed if I don't.'

' Don't be an ass,' advised Johnny.

' What d'you stick me in such company for, then ? '
argued James ; and proceeded to devote the whole of his
elaborate mind to Violet's single entertainment.

It was unfortunate, because when young Hertford really
talked, everybody was bound to attend to him. There
was an Oxford glow about James, mellow, as it were, from
the Magdalen cellars, that even Johnny could not equal.
He did not want to equal it. James in common life,
behind scenes, was excellent company : but James when
he played to the public ear was an ass. It was not his
fault really, since he was in training to go into Parliament.
But even that was an asinine object, when you came to
think about it. James ' represented a class,' as Mrs.
Clewer said, like Bertram ; but nobody wanted either of
them, really. Except Johnny, who wanted both.

Things reached the breaking-point, and Johnny decided.

The occasion would be spoiled for somebody, and it
could not be Ursula, because it was her dance, and she

40 THE ACCOLADE

was in the forefront. It could not be himself for — plenty
of reasons. He was in the forefront too. Something had
got to go ; and pawns, though far from negligible to the
good player, may generally be sacrificed at a pinch.

Besides, the kid had a cold. Even his own mother,
urged by Ursula, said so, though she made light of it.
Johnny weighed all the chances, with considerable enjoy-
ment, during the night preceding the dance, and adopted
a Knight's move ; a Knight's move lengthwise, so that he
might get in front of Ursula, whose feminine pawn-steps
were necessarily cautious. The simile was most apt.

' I'm beastly sorry, darling/ said Johnny, with deep
commiseration, in his mother's little private room. ' Ursula
says you've got a beastly cold.'

' Not a bad one/ said Violet. She looked questioning.

' I shouldn't be the least surprised/ said Johnny, falling
into a chair exactly facing her, ' if it got worse. Much
worse, before the evening. My cold. Do you mind ? '

Violet explored his face. He was a truly amazing person,
unusual, but charming too. She quite saw why the horses
and so on liked him so. He knew what he wanted so
exactly, and made his desires so particularly clear. It
might, of course, be his training as his mother's only son.
His forehead was slightly knitted now, but his eyes, as
usual, were confident. It was a relief to people in spiritual
or social difficulties even to be faced with such as Johnny.

He offered her a clear solution for a problem that had
become too much for her. Violet was a nice little girl.
She was chiefly anxious, as children of her age are, to do
the right thing. She was aware of not having done this,
from Miss Thynne's point of view, over the music the first
evening : but then her father had been backing her. Now
the guide she trusted utterly in life had deserted her,
with a very simple warning to be useful to her hostess,
and not to get in the way. This was obviously Miss
Thynne's desire also, as it was Violet's, — only she did like
dancing. That was her simple position.

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 41

Urged by Miss Thynne, she had been considering her
cold : but her life's education was against the exaggeration
of colds, brought up as she had been in a medical house-
hold. To have her own cold, to prevent her getting in
Miss Thynne 's way at the dance, would have worried her
exceedingly. Her father might hear of it. To have her
cousin John's cold was so simple. His cold could be posed
about to any extent. She saw it at once.

' Oh, of course I will if you like/ she said shyly.

' My colds,' said Johnny, leaning back, ' have complica-
tions towards evening of a really frightful description.
You ask Mother, — she won't have forgotten. I often
wonder I never died of them in my extreme youth. The
first signs '

' Yes ? ' said Violet.

' Were sinister. I think that's the word. Not fever, of
course, precisely '

' No/ said Violet, ' because of the thermometer/

' Things can be done with it/ said Johnny. ' However,
we won't stop over that. Feeling awful by degrees is the
kind of thing anybody can do. By slow degrees, mind.
Not at a moment's notice, or they'll think it's a fit and
stand round expecting symptoms. I have done that '

' Have you ? ' said Violet.

' For stage purposes. Only for the stage. Once, I had

a seizure ' he paused. ' I deserved it, though. My

past life had been such as you can't think. I never bothered
Mother with that, though, — might have scared her. The
kind of thing I did for home consumption was easier, much.
Mother found me out nine times out of ten in my diseases :
but even she thought well of my — er — culminating colds.
They culminated splendidly. I pretty nearly always
brought them off/

' Did you have them at school ? ' asked Violet.

' Not so often. Mother warned the women there, and
they — er — took me in time.'

' Didn't she ? ' asked Violet.

42 THE ACCOLADE

' Not if I was careful. I got in first. It takes practice.'

' Do they hurt ? ' asked Violet, after an interval.

' Oh no/ said Johnny, surprised. ' Rather soothing
than otherwise, or I should never expect you to have one.'

He held out a hand to her. It struck him that she was
not extremely well. At least she was relieved to be clear
of debating and to be taken in hand. By rights, perhaps, —
by the code, — he should have done it sooner. The code
of common friendship applied to her, he believed.

' Won't your mother find out ? ' she asked simply.

' Probably,' said Johnny, with emphasis, and paused.
' But then she won't write home and tell about you,' he
mentioned. ' So it's all to the good.'

' Oh no, — I hope she won't.' She looked alarmed :
Johnny smiled.

' I'll see she doesn't,' he said. ' You sit tight, — I'll
look after it.' He talked a little more, for his amusement,
not for long, because there was no need. Clever or no, her
intelligence suited his, and they were in sympathy. He
would explain to the lads, he said, when she asked him.
Unless she preferred to have a few of them upstairs to sit
out with her : that could be managed easily.

' Mightn't they catch it ? ' Violet objected.

' Don't you want 'em ? ' said Johnny. ' Bert'll be beastly
disappointed.' He was her host for the minute, — then he
changed his nature. ' Jemmy'll get over it, he's other fish
to fry. He came here for the purpose. Personally — ' he
paused, deeply cogitating, — ' I've lots to do.'

' Of course you have,' said Violet, colouring.

' I've eight dances,' said Johnny, ' with Miss Thynne
alone : and the nine over, — the nine extra ones, — the nine
odd women, — will lead me a life, for certain.' His brow
corrugated. He was plunged in teasing thought.

' I wish I was a man,' said Violet.

' Then you could help,' suggested Johnny. He looked
at her a minute. ' No,' he determined at leisure, ' you're
best as you are. That's the fact. You sit tight, and

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 43

you'll see I'll solve it, without any such strong measures.'
He regarded her again. ' I'm sorry about this, my little
girl,' he said. ' I'd like to dance with you. See that ? '
She saw with a nod : that was the host. ' And I don't
break engagements, on this earth, unless I must.' She
nodded again. That was just the family. ' But I don't,'
said Johnny, becoming himself, and burying his head in
the cushions, ' want to catch a culminating cold, because
Ursula would be anxious about me. She wouldn't think
of letting me, probably. Oh, Lord ! ' He hid his face
motionless for a moment. Then he started up.

' But I can't,' he ejaculated, smashing his fist into the
other palm, ' because it's my own cold ! Catch your own
cold, — it's a medical impossibility. Gosh ! — done it ! — I
shall tell her.'

He went away to do so.

Johnny's last interview before Ursula's dance, — which
was an immense success, — was a stiff one, because com-
plicated. He had to put it off a bit, what with the houseful
of ' lads/ and his father bothering. He might have known
the day would get crowded, as it went on. However, he
tackled it in the end.

' Oh, poor little thing ! ' said Ursula.

Johnny could not think why that exclamation annoyed
him so. It came too late. . . . Owing to being crowded
and so on, he was not in a very nice mood internally,
inclined to trampling, — to trample at large. His servant
Blandy had discovered it already, before Ursula came.
Ursula herself was in some danger. Then his mother,
looking rather delicate in black lace, turned up in Ursula's
wake. Johnny had both his women, and so the balance of
life was preserved.

' I didn't quite like the look of her this morning,' said
Ursula.

' I'd an idea you didn't, darling,' said Johnny with
sympathy. ' One to you.'

44 THE ACCOLADE

' I even mentioned it to Mother,' said Ursula. ' But '

' Just so,' said Johnny.

Ursula was looking her best, better than her best, since
she was unusually excited ; and she was dressed up to the
nines, quite rippingly, in pale blue silk. This conference,
it had better be hastily confessed, lest with an inadvertent
reference we might offend our readers, took place in
Johnny's dressing-room. If there should arise an instant
outcry to demand how Miss Thynne got there, we can
only repeat that the dressing-room was Johnny's. It was
no fault of his. Since the women insisted on crowding him
up, even in his private apartment, he resigned himself,
and dismissed his attendant. Not that he did not want
Blandy, — he was half-dressed. It was singular how he was
fated to see to everything to-night, even the most essential
things, single-handed.

' John, — do you mind ? ' said Ursula, tapping the door.

' You can go, Blandy,' said Johnny to his slave. ' Sit
down, Ursula. This is very jolly.'

' Don't be absurd,' said Ursula, smiling. ' And don't
tell Mother, for goodness' sake.'

' Don't tell her mother, for goodness' sake,' pleaded
Johnny with his own mother, who turned up two minutes
afterwards.

Ursula had come, with the best excuse, about some
flowers. John and his father had each given her beautiful
flowers, and she particularly wished to do the proper
thing. Johnny helped her with advice on the subject, and
reduced her to laughter very soon. She was really excited,
a little beyond herself, or she would never have thought
of her present proceeding. But he would not give her the
plain answer she wanted. He was tiresome.

Johnny's mother came with a message, or rather a
remark, from his father about the wine. Mrs. Ingestre
translated it. Johnny replied with another remark, — a
real quencher, — had there been any hope his mother would
convey it correctly. He settled that matter in no time, —

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 45

it was shorter than Ursula's. It was really stimulating to
be so universally in demand as he was this evening : but it
did not excite him, the contrary. It soothed his restless-
ness, and rendered him supremely calm.

' My dear Ursula ! ' said Mrs. Ingestre, stopping amazed.
She was a strong-minded lady, but there are limits.

' I know, Mother/ said the girl, still laughing. ' But
he is so '

' I can't think what's come over her,' said Johnny,
modestly engaged with his toilet. There was a short
interval.

' Blandy won't talk,' observed Johnny, conscious of
disapproval somewhere in the atmosphere. Through his
elbows possibly, — his back was turned at the time.

' You'll be late, dear/ said Mrs. Ingestre, and the dis-
approval materialised.

' It's only/ said Ursula, capturing her sedateness, ' that
John won't give me the facts. That child's not really ill,
is she, Mother ? '

' /// ? ' said the mistress of the house. ' What do you
mean ? '

So Johnny told her, in order. Poor kid had a beastly
cold, and was stopping up for the evening. Beastly hard
luck on her, All the lot of them sick about it, — and
Markham in tears.

' How odd of Violet not to tell me/ said Mrs. Ingestre,
coming inside the door. She was on the trail. Johnny
would really have to steer adroitly, between -the pair of
them. He begged his mother to take a seat.

' You'll be late/ said Mrs. Ingestre, ' and your father '

However, she sat down. Johnny, in his shirt-sleeves,
prepared to play to an audience : not by any means for
the first time in hfs life.

' She wants to stop upstairs/ he explained, ' and have
cocoa and biscuits, which are things I love. So does Bert
love them, — so does Jemmy. It's a frightful temptation
for all of us. Only Jem said it must be the right sort of

46 THE ACCOLADE

biscuits, — that's just the Oxford way. He's been boring
Violet on the biscuit question, — as if it matters ! '

' Men are extraordinary,' murmured Ursula. She just
believed it though, having brothers. She looked towards
Mrs. Ingestre, for a lead.

' Johnny,' said Mrs. Ingestre, ' what do you mean about
Jem ? Is Violet in bed ? '

' Rather,' said Johnny. ' Thought she'd better go early,
you know. Saves fag on these occasions. I took the lads
up to say good night to her lately. That's how I got late.
She wanted to say she couldn't dance with 'em, and so on.
She's a civil little girl.'

After a blank pause — ' I never heard of such a thing,'
said Ursula indignantly.

' You see,' said Johnny, settling to his subject, ' I told
Violet, James was a stiff character, apt to turn nasty about
nothing, when women cut him and didn't explain. He's
not used to that, up at Magdalen. It bothered Violet a
bit, and I didn't want that either. I thought — er — Ursula
would disapprove. The kid's not exactly feverish, Mother
— you remember ? Not over normal, anyhow, — nor under
it, — kind of betwixt and between. I — er — hardly liked
the look of her.'

' Well ? ' said Mrs. Ingestre. Johnny shifted at once to
get a view of her in the glass.

' Nothing more,' he said hastily. ' I took Jem up, —
then Bert tacked on to us. Billy would have come at a
call. It was the cocoa in Bill's case, probably, — he's not
a lady's man.' Another expressive pause, — over-expressive.
' We only sat about a bit conversing,' said Johnny artlessly.
' Violet didn't mind us much.'

Mrs. Ingestre looked upon the admirable Ursula, and
thought upon the impeccable Jem. She said nothing,
because there was nothing to be gained by saying. Johnny
was well ahead of her in his disposition of her otherwise
quite respectable household. There was no curbing him
in his present mood, she was aware, He had slipped a look

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 47

to her lately, at once gleaming and lowering, that she knew.
She had best not interfere with his private arrangements.
Instead, she looked towards the door.

' Don't go, Mother,' said Johnny appealingly. ' It's all
right, give you my word. She's all rolled up like a little
dormouse, like a little guinea-pig, — jolly nice. She does as
she's told, brought up to it. And she was laughing when
we left. I made her laugh, not Jemmy, — and I saw to her
too. Fact is — ' Johnny regarded himself and his tie,
separately and in combination, — ' fact is, I feel a bit
responsible.'

' What ? ' said Agatha.

' Yes. She caught it from me.'

' What ? ' said Ursula. She stared, and even paled a
little, in the effort of comprehending him, or in the effort
not to comprehend.

' I gave it her, darling, I'm afraid. These things hang
about so. W7hy, — ' Johnny regarded his tie again, — ' it's
years since I had my bad colds. Isn't it, Mother ? It must
be years.'

Ursula still stared a moment. ' Oh,' she said, ' he's
talking nonsense, Mother. We had better leave him alone.'

' I think so/ said Mrs. Ingestre.

' Don't,' said Johnny pathetically, ' I'm not half -dressed
yet. It's such a bore ragging Blandy all alone. Can't make
a trade of that, like Father.' He bit his lip as he glanced
in the mirror. ' Mother, ducky, don't fag ! I tell you I've
seen to it. Can't you take my word ? '

It was useless, Mrs. Ingestre had risen. ' Be quick,
Johnny,' she said with composure — not at all Ursula's
composure — and left the room.

Silence reigned in Johnny's quarters. Ursula was a nice
quiet girl, — peaceful. Peace was to be Johnny's portion
henceforward, a capital thing. Peace, and obedience, — •
that above all. His mother omitted to obey, occasionally :
she had really left the scene before she need. But then

48 THE ACCOLADE

she might be concerned as to his father's judgment of this
high-handed treatment of his little kinswoman under his
roof, — that was conceivable. Violet's mother, if not Violet,
counted for lots in the family. As for Ursula, — it was
really quite doubtful if she followed his ingenious reproof
at all.

' I can't stop,' remarked Ursula, feeling the outlines of
her hair.

' It looks ripping, don't disturb it,' said Johnny, whose
back was still towards her. He was frowning a little in his
glass, though, — very upright, — very like his father for the
instant, but that the frown was faintly anxious too.

Ursula folded her hands. ' Anyhow, I expect it's all for
the best,' she said presently. ' The child, I mean, — she'll
be off your Mother's mind.'

' Yes,' said Johnny simply. ' It's what you wanted,
isn't it ? I say, — you don't awfully mind my taking it out
of your hands ? '

' It might save trouble, in the future,' said Ursula,
smoothing her skirts down all round her, ' if you let me
know in good time what you wanted, instead '

' You knew what I wanted perfectly well.'

' Don't,' said Ursula, — at the tone.

' You knew what I wanted perfectly well,' said Johnny,
changing the tone, and his appearance. ' Didn't you ?
Didn't you, darling ? Just say.'

She smiled uncertainly, looking aside. ' Oh, well, what
you want's not the only thing in the world.'

' Oh, I say ! Isn't it right yet ? ' He approached her
chaffing. ' Tell me what else I've got to do ? '

' Not that, anyhow,' said Ursula, half-laughing, holding
him off. ' No, John, — really. The idea ! Do be sensible
a little instead of — ragging. It's only — I'm always ready
to do anything, in reason. I only want to — to look ahead.'

' Well, look ahead,' he said, calmly and sweepingly.
' Let's do it, while we can, for the Lord's sake. That's
what I want as well.'

THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 49

' Not now, — nonsense ! ' She was scandalised, really
nervous. ' John, really, do think,' she said.

' What am I to think of ? ' asked Johnny.

' Blandy, — anyone, — you're not even dressed.'

' Get along, I'm as much as you are,' he said carelessly.

Pause.

' Shocked ? ' enquired Johnny, looking sidelong at her
under his drooping eyelids. He had her within his arm,
quite comfortably, for all her prudish effort to get away.
Her attempted horror was prudish also, the relics of an
intolerable training, from which he had somehow to get
her free.

Sometimes Ursula believed John liked making her
uncomfortable, that he aimed at that. Every now and
then he would say things like that, which ' men ' in the
abstract thought, no doubt, but no gentleman spoke aloud.
No gentleman of Ursula's category. John's father, for
instance, was more distinguished in his phraseology in front
of women, though he might be accustomed to think things
twice as bad.

She tried now to despise him as a schoolboy, and a
horrid one, but she could not bring it off. Yet he had not
the pull in age over her : she herself had, by a month or
two, the superiority. His father had married a woman of
nearly his own age too. The Ingestres had no age to speak
of : they developed young and wore splendidly. They got
the pull in other ways, a cool expectation, a royal egoism,
together with a driving, startling force on others that was
electrical, — the hackneyed ' magnetic ' was not the word.
Too much so for Ursula, really. She hated to be startled,
it numbed her. She was really, tacitly, begging him not to
drive her, work her too hard, in that plea to be forewarned.

Johnny accepted it, sensitively. He left her soon, and
went back to his business. She had trusted herself near him,
so, though she looked ' beastly pretty ' in her nervousness,
he took no advantage. His distinguished father would
probably have taken advantage, had Ursula guessed.

50 THE ACCOLADE

His conclusion was that It was all right, — that it had
got to be. He believed she was fond of him, even very fond,
once he got through her guard. It took a pretty good
effort to get through it, though, — but then she was but
half out of her shell. She was a handsome girl and a nice
girl, — and a good one, of course. He was perfectly
convinced of her virtues, — he only wondered a little at his
weariness when she had gone.

As for the evening that followed, there was nothing
wrong with it. The dance went brilliantly off, as entertain-
ments did, when the two Ingestres were in competition to
make them go. Johnny would have been good alone, —
with his father to harass him he was brilliant. It was a
curious but invariable fact, some deep truth of their
natures. He was the best dancer on the floor, with ease, he
flirted disgracefully, and the nine ' odd women,' manipu-
lated with transcendent art, thought him with one accord
delightful.

' I say, Miss Thynne looks pretty ripping, don't she ? '
said the simple Bert to Jem Hertford, at one juncture.
' Johnny's in luck.'

Jem Hertford did not reply, and Bert did not miss it.
Followers may take views like that, but friends are consti-
tuted otherwise. Hertford did not want Ingestre to be
married. It was the wrong thing for him. Johnny was
finer, as it were, at large, defying authority, taking what
he wanted of those that passed, a gentleman of the road.
That was how Jem always saw him, he had the type, and
he looked the part, when he roamed the world in Rachel's
company. And then he went and linked himself to a girl
like that, whom any fool might have married ! Sickening !
It was almost enough to make Jem chuck his ambitions,
and sink into matrimony himself.

PART I

THE ASPIRANT

WE pass ten years :' and the chronicle resettles upon a
certain season when Captain Falkland's family, ably
commanded by Captain Falkland's wife, came to London
from Dorsetshire, and took up their abode in their fine
new mansion in Coburg Place, south of the Park.

The Falklands were excellent country people by taste
and origin, small squires for several generations back,
dividing their attention between serving their country in
the field abroad, and tilling its neglected soil at home ;
but the Captain's wife touched commerce through her
relations, and wealth accrued to her during her married
life with such persistent partiality, that it became
incumbent on her — so she said — to marry her younger
girl really well. Everything, said Mrs. Falkland, pointed
to a move. Her son Harold had just left Oxford, where he
had lived in a style exceeding anything they could provide
for him in the old country home : her elder daughter was
already settled in moderate married ease in town : Helena,
having left her last school, was in need of fashionable
finishing by lectures, classes, hair-specialists, and other
mysteries, before she faced the world the following season :
and there was no reason Helena should not do as well or
better than Constance, if only Helena's father would let
his wife manage. So the Captain, — who had no wish
whatever to rid himself of his schoolgirl daughter, of whom
he was fond, — sadly concurred : made a farewell tour of
his favourite walks and prospects : and taking Lesbia —
known to the Captain's environment as ' the finest dog in

53

54 THE ACCOLADE

the world ' — with him as consolation, followed his women-
kind to London.

Arrived there, he still advanced no objection, though
the house his wife chose to live in struck him as far too
large. He found, however, that his son, who had been at
a smart college, and being a smart specimen, had emerged
therefrom with a very high Class, and no particular wish
to do anything further in life, disagreed with him. Harold
looked round the living-rooms in Coburg Place, and pro-
nounced them ' decent,' though he begged his sister to
keep a hand on his mother's antediluvian decorative im-
pulses. His own room he took into his own accomplished
hands, and would have taken Helena's also, only she had
a scruple about hurting her mother's feelings. So Harold
deferred agreeably to the scruple, since girls go in for such
things, and merely presented his sister with a framed
study of something very homely, by one of our very newest
masters, to hang on her walls ; and warned her which
way up she ought to hang it — just in time.

Two or three months after settling in, when they were
all beginning to get accustomed to city circumstances and
superfluous space, Captain Falkland had an idea. This
occurred to him now and then, but he did not often get
beyond the announcement of it, for he was easily dis-
couraged by a feminine frown. His inspirations broke
in glory over the household at luncheon-time, and faded
into the melancholy might-have-been before the dinner-
gong ceased clanging in the hall. On this occasion how-
ever the Captain stuck to his colours with unwonted
determination, and something actually came of it.

The occasion of the idea was as follows. It came to
the ears of Captain Falkland that the son of his old com-
rade-in-arms, then Captain, since Major, and now Colonel
Auberon, and his own son's school and college friend, was
deliberately living on his wits in town, in comparative
indigence and obscurity. This was the eldest, by a good
seven years, of Colonel Auberon 's young family, which

THE ASPIRANT 55

was quartered in India, and of whom only the elder boy
and girl were in England. Of the girl the Falklands knew
little, since she lived with a clever aunt at Hampstead.
Of the boy Quentin they had seen a good deal in the past,
though not recently, — he had been Harold's most ad-
mired friend at school. That Harold should admire any-
one was enough in itself to impress the Falklands ; that
he should persist in his high valuation of young Auberon
throughout his cynical Oxford day, was yet more striking.
The boys' colleges were different, their sets barely crossed,
since Auberon belonged by choice rather than necessity
to the group of young men who had their way to make ;
yet Harold continued, with quiet pertinacity, to seek his
society, repeat his opinions, and ' back ' him as destined
to the biggest sort of public career.

To those who had seen young Auberon in society only,
this was almost incomprehensible, for he neither swelled
largely, nor did he boast, and with women he was abso-
lutely shy. But the effects of him on his kind were known
to Harold, who had watched them often, at school and in
the Oxford clubs. He ruled looser minds as do those who
have an object in life from its opening, or better still, a
progressive interest. This interest was no more nor less
than the British Constitution. Quentin came of a race of
slightly dogmatic Empire-builders, men framed for govern-
ment, who fitted the machine elaborated by their fathers
as a sword its sheath. Dogmatic in speech, they were
romantic in spirit, and most of them had been military.
Quentin himself was not, — he left the military ' panache '
to others, though he had hankerings after it occasionally,
and dropped into his destined place in the constitutional
machine upon the civil side. He was a born controller,
and developer by the way : only it was systems he must
improve, rather than persons. He was ready to leave the
little matter of personal development to others, — he even
granted women a share in that game. Quentin 's game
was a bigger one, he was acutely ambitious ; but he

56 THE ACCOLADE

betrayed little or nothing of it in his daily life, and only
constant companions like Harold discovered or guessed
the fact.

His other passion in life was for experiment, for he had
an enterprising mind ; but in that he was not socially
inclined, — he was careful to involve no other than himself,
or occasionally Harold. He was not hampered in his
experiments by the fear of failure, since his curiosity
easily outweighed his conceit. He was fortunate, too, in
having no immediate family to involve, his young sister
being already taken in hand by his clever aunt. Quentin
was singularly free of feminine claims, and, we fear,
revelled in the immunity. One really has not time in life
for everything. Women, and what they represented, were
not worthless, but they must wait. That was Mr. Auberon's
general attitude at twenty-three, when this chronicle makes
his acquaintance.

Having thus prejudiced our readers firmly against him,
it becomes necessary to introduce him in person, for such
introduction, even to the least well-disposed critic, could
not do him harm. His appearance and address were those
of any well-bred young citizen, and his tastes and habits
of the simplest, even in a generation in which simplicity
became the mode. Quentin could dine off dry bread and
sleep under a haystack with the best of his contemporaries,
nor did he do it merely to discover what it was like. He
and Harold did a number of queer things in their Oxford
vacations, which, when alluded to easily afterwards, pro-
duced palpitations in Mrs. Falkland's maternal breast.
Yet Mrs. Falkland possessed, by reflection from her son,
a certain confidence in the omnipotent and invisible Mr.
Auberon, and she did not attempt the thankless task of
dividing the pair. She was passive, and only occasionally
piteous, on the subject, at the time of which we speak :
when Quentin, owing to the new house in Coburg Place,
and Captain Falkland's sudden idea, was driven once
more to come to close quarters with Harold's family.

THE ASPIRANT 57

Quentin's condition at the time was self-dependent, by
his own choice. The kind of effort was not, in his father's
circumstances, strictly necessary, but it was to Quentin's
ideas, since the next Auberon in order was now reaching
an age to be educated, and was shortly to be sent home in
his turn. With his eye upon the India Office, as soon as it
could be respectably attained, Quentin gave up, in spite of
his aunt's protest, the room he had hitherto occupied in
her small house at Hampstead, and lived, when he was not
at Oxford or with pupils in the country, an extremely
modest and retired life of his own in town, ' cramming,'
with concentrated ardour, to fit himself for the reduction
of the next barrier that stretched across his path.

Fate reached him in this way. Harold, always in his
confidence, made the mistake of alluding in a jocular
spirit to his hermit's cell in public, at the Falkland lunch-
table. Whereupon Captain Falkland aroused, astonishing
his world ; and proclaiming it aloud to be ' flat non-
sense ' and ' not to be thought of,' took steps at once for
Quentin's relief. With the utmost tact and kindliness,
and the least elegant phraseology conceivable, he signified
in a few lines to Quentin that, during that part of the year
when his own town house was open, a couple of rooms in
it were at Quentin's entire disposal, for as long as he
pleased ; and that the Captain would be seriously offended
if he did not abandon his lodgings in their favour im-
mediately, sine die, and thenceforward.

Quentin, having considered the offer, decided to refuse
it, even at the risk of offence to the kind Captain : and
called upon the Falklands one morning to explain. He
had provided himself with a cogent list of reasons, and was
confident that he could present them both clearly and
courteously to the ear of his father's old friend, granted
he could get a private interview. The aspect of the new
house, new servants, and smart furniture on his arrival
made him more certain still. The only thing he dreaded
was that Mrs. Falkland, whom he remembered sufficiently,

58 THE ACCOLADE

and who would, he guessed, understand nothing of his
need for privacy and concentration, should intervene
before he could make his position really clear.

As fate or fortune would have it, both the Captain and
his wife were out ; and Mr. Auberon was just withdrawing
and deciding to explain by post, when he found himself
face to face with their daughter, Miss Helena, who had
been exercising the dogs in the Park. She met him a few
steps from the door, and called instantly to the servant
not to shut it, in an easy and decisive tone. Since she had
been racing the dogs in the Park, she was flushed, but
apart from that, and some slight breathlessness, her com-
posure and straightforwardness were what he remem-
bered. So he let her delay him, and conduct him to her
father's study on the ground floor of tb.e mansion, to listen
to his case.

It was long since Quentin had seen her, though in his
schooldays he had been fairly frequently in her company,
when he joined Harold's family for rock-climbing expedi-
tions in Switzerland. She had been a child then, and boy-
fashion, Quentin had not greatly regarded her : especially
since his thoughts in mountain districts were always
bound by the single purpose of scoring peaks. That left
no room for sisters : but Harold had alluded to her, from
time to time, so Quentin was not quite lacking in informa-
tion on the subject. Harold and Quentin each had a young
sister of whom they were frankly fond : so an occasional
comparison of notes led to the establishment of some
useful statistical facts as to sisters in general, not to be
despised.

Thus Quentin had learnt that Miss Falkland was in
training to be a society beauty, and that Harold, privately,
thought it rot, but did not tell the poor old Mater so.
That Helena had a long-guarded ambition to become an
actress, which ' scarified ' the Mater so much, that she
had taken to having a headache whenever the subject
was mentioned. That Harold ' backed ' his sister in her

THE ASPIRANT 59

independent ideas, partly in earnest for her own sake,
partly in mischief to annoy his mother. That Helena, all
told, was quite a sensible girl, who mended your coat for
you, walked in all weathers, and gave nearly as good as
she got on the tennis-court and in the lists of domestic
controversy : unless — a serious exception — she found
herself in the neighbourhood of a formless thing called a
baby ; whereupon she dropped dignity and decorum, and
lost all regard for logic, grammar, and good sense, in a
flow of words as formless as the thing to which they were
addressed. Wherefore Harold preferred not to accompany
Helena on her Sunday walks with her father in Kensington
Gardens, where babies abound, because the governor
stood that sort of exhibition better than he did. Not to
mention people looked at Helena quite enough as it was,
owing to her peculiar hair.

Quentin remembered Helena's peculiar hair : it was, so
to speak, on his notes, since it had swung down her back
in a ruddy-tinted rope in the school-days when he had first
known her. Now the first point he noted was that the rope
was no more : the hair specialists had dispersed it, accord-
ing to their ideas, in waves and coils about her head.
It changed the look of her considerably, one had to get
over it : more especially when in the study she cast her
hat aside, and the full intricacy of the hair's arrangement
became visible. But he soon discovered the girl of fifteen
unchanged beneath this crust, or crest, of fashion ; and
found himself talking to her as naturally as though she
had been Harold.

Miss Helena listened with her eyes cast down to his
cogent reasons, and seemed to turn them over for a little
while before she spoke.

' I will explain to Father,' she then said, looking at
Quentin, ' or try to explain. I think I've got it straight.
I can't prevent his being disappointed, of course. I shall
have to let Harold know he was right.'

' What did Harold say ? ' asked Quentin.

60 THE ACCOLADE

' Oh, that you would never agree to inhabit a place
with such a frivolous atmosphere ; because you would
never trust us — Mother and me — to let you alone.'

Quentin was slightly disturbed by this counter-attack,
and sat forward in his chair. ' Indeed I didn't mean that,'
he said hastily. ' I hope you don't imagine '

' Oh yes, I do,' said Helena, patting her hair to be sure
that the dog-race had not deranged it, 'and it's quite
natural. I can guess pretty much how you feel, particu-
larly as Harold took a lot of trouble to explain to me.
He was kind enough to say that Father did not understand
a worker's point of view, but that I might. Because I
want dreadfully to do something myself one of these days,
only nobody allows me.'

' Yes, I remember,' said Quentin, smiling. ' I hope you
have advanced a little since I met you last.' He had been
bound, of course, even in the old days, to come across
Helena's acting-mania. It was a vexed subject, and never
remained in abeyance very long.

' Very little,' said Helena, and shook her gleaming head.
' There are times when I all but despair. But I still
continue to work like a mole beneath the surface, and just
lately Father has shown signs of crumbling. Clear signs.
Wouldn't it be thrilling if he did ? ' She threw this at
Quentin suddenly.

' After all these years/ he answered gravely. ' It would
indeed.'

He looked at Helena's pensive face a moment. She had
got her breath by now, and the temporary flush had faded.
She had not much colour by nature, but she looked healthy
and vigorous, and knew how to sit still. Quentin wished
suddenly that his own sister could learn to sit like that,
without twisting herself into all kinds of shapes and angles.
It made a much pleasanter presence in the room.

' Miss Falkland, did you have an argument with Harold ? '
he asked, ' about my coming ? I mean, did you take a
side ? '

THE ASPIRANT 61

' Of course/ said Helena. ' I backed Father. I have to
back him against Harold, they're so unfairly matched.
You see, Father produced the plan at lunch, one of his
topping ideas. He is always having them. And I can't
bear Harold to snub him, at any rate quite at once. I
know he has been wanting to do something for Colonel
Auberon for years, and he thought he had at last found a
way. So when Harold said he would never get you to
come here, I said he would, — according to my recollection.
I couldn't go on anything stronger than that.'

' Did you — er — risk anything but your credit for
remembrance ? ' asked Quentin, with proper caution.

' How well you know Harold ! ' said Helena, looking at
him again. ' Of course when he proposed a shilling, I
accepted it. Once started, you can't go back, and Father
was depending on me. I think Mother thought it rather
shocking of me to bet.' She sighed. ' Mother always
thinks, when Harold and I discuss the least thing across
the table, we are quarrelling. Because we sit just opposite,
you know. Perhaps we did talk a little fast.'

' Rather hard lines if you mayn't argue with Harold,'
said Quentin.

' I'm getting too old for it,' said Helena, patting her
hair again. Her care for its construction suggested that
it had only attained that eminence recently. ' I am too
old for most things now. However, I pacified Mother.
I told her I was simply in honour bound to back Father :
and I promised her it was the last bet I should ever make.'

' I am sorry to be the cause of your losing it,' said
Quentin. ' I had no idea it would be such a historic
occasion.'

' I'm sorry too,' said Helena, and there was silence.
' You see, quite apart from the shilling, I hoped you would
come. I have terribly hard work with Harold at dinner
sometimes, — especially when he lifts one eyebrow, and
overlooks my inaccuracies. You never did that.' She
threw this at him suddenly again.

62 THE ACCOLADE

' Didn't I ? ' said Quentin, disturbed. He tried to
remember what kind of a prig he had been at seventeen.

' Hardly ever/ said Helena, looking out of the window.
' In private, of course, I can deal with Harold : but in
public, with Mother hushing me at every turn, I can't.'

There was another pause.

' It's frightfully good of Captain Falkland/ said Quentin
doubtfully.

' I had a difference with Mother too about the rooms,'
said Helena. ' You have let me in for a lot of quarrelling/

' What rooms ? '

' Yours, if you came. This house is so ridiculously
larger than we want. Would you mind coming to look at
them ? '

' What's the point ? ' said Quentin.

' Only I might still be right about the ones you would
have liked best, if you had accepted Father. Mightn't I ?
It would be some consolation.'

' For the loss of the shilling ? '

' Yes.'

Needless to say, having been thus cunningly induced to
see the careful preparations made in his honour, — or
rather his father's honour, — in the Falkland house, Quentin
gave in. Helena had a delightful time at dinner that night,
informing Harold. She let him off nothing of her triumph.
She would not let him forget the shilling either, though
he was preparing to overlook such a detail. Mrs. Falkland
was rather fussed at Helena having shown Mr. Auberon
his private rooms in her absence, and having talked to him
so freely, discussing the length of his bed, the merits of
hot and cold baths, and so forth : it was the kind of thing
Helena did without reflection. She seemed incapable of
certain lines of reflection at all, and was terribly impulsive.
At this transition period Helena might be said to take all
her mother's time ; but Mrs. Falkland was chivying her
into the narrow road of propriety, by degrees ; and had
every reason to hope she would do her credit, when she

THE ASPIRANT 63

emerged, complete and radiant, from the shadow of the
schoolroom.

II

Miss Helena Falkland had not been long before the
world's eye, the following winter, when the world learnt
that her mother was in difficulties about her. Considering
her attractions, this was not surprising, but the difficulty,
when arrived at, did not prove to be of the kind they
thought.

Helena, it seemed, had the Falkland fault of tenacity,
only her mother called it obstinacy. She had had the idea
first at twelve years old, and never turned ; she had slowly,
very slowly, carried all before her. First, her elocution
teacher succumbed, a haughty lady, who yet admitted
Helena ' had a gift.' All her band of school friends were
in her pocket, naturally : indeed most of them had had
dreams of becoming great actresses too. Her brother
Harold, who really ought to have known better, encouraged
her absurd ideas. Harold's friend Mr. Auberon (who had
such an influence with dear Helena) kept a tiresomely
open mind, and steered a middle course, taking refuge
behind Harold when necessary. Now her father, lured by
these various young men, and by the coaxing of his
favourite daughter, was wavering. Captain Falkland
' didn't see why the girl shouldn't have a shot, if her heart
was set on it,' — and thus was Mrs. Falkland herself let in.
. . . ' And look at her,' said Mrs. Falkland.

Her confidantes looked, not unwillingly. Helena had
entered upon her first London season to become, almost
instantly, a success, — what our grandfathers would have
called a toast. She was admitted handsome, beautiful at
her best : young girls, of course, are changeable. She was
popular, by a means known to herself, without being the
least original, audacious, or noisy. Everybody liked her
on sight, smiled, made room for her, listened to what she

64 THE ACCOLADE

said, introduced her to their eldest sons, and regretted it
afterwards. Not that she was ill-dowered, — she would
have a nice little fortune through the mother, and her
origin on the father's side was respectable. She might do
quite good things in time, — so said the wiseacres who
watch the seasons change.

Mrs. Falkland did not repeat all this, but a few hints
and allusions were enough to recall it to the minds of her
rivals, the other mammas. These ladies, who all had
daughters more or less ' obstinate,' shook their heads over
what Miss Falkland looked, was, and might have been.

After that, accepting her strange prepossession, they
discussed ways and means to its realisation, and all, in
varying degrees, betrayed their ignorance. The great
thing, they agreed with Mrs. Falkland, was to let the girl
have a trial in a manner that was public, without being
too public, if you understood : something fairly expert,
and thoroughly refined, — the ideal, in short, for our
talented daughters. To arrive at the ideal, one had to get
hold of the ' people who knew.' To catch the people who
knew by their coat-tails, or their skirt-tails, if it should so
happen, was the problem.

It was on the occasion of one of these drawing-room
councils, called in Helena's absence, for her good, that
Captain Falkland had an idea. This, as we have mentioned,
happened to him now and then, generally after rather a
heavy silence. He and Lesbia had assisted at the council,
in silence, from the hearthrug, for a good half-hour, before
he astonished the room.

' There's Ursula Thynne,' said the Captain. ' The
eldest of Joe Thynne's brood, — the General. She married
someone in that class, if I remember right. There was a
mighty fuss, I know, before she settled.'

' What is the use of vague statements like that, Howard ? '
complained his wife.

' That's all right, Falkland,' said another superfluous
man, coming to life in a modest corner. ' That's quite a

THE ASPIRANT 65

good spot, if I may say so. Miss Thynne married young
Ingestre, the younger John. And he's right in the know,
if anyone is, — he knows the Mitchells, certainly. I've seen
Monty Mitchell with him, at the club.'

The council of matrons stared amazed. To think that
this Daniel had been sitting among them, neglected, all
this time ! Montagu Mitchell was an actor-manager, a
name known to all : it was the first time any of the lines
of operation suggested had ended in a professional name
Mrs. Falkland, however, still looked sceptical over the
tea-tray.

' It might do, if we could get at 'em/ said the Captain,
less certainly than before, and glancing at his wife. ' Do
you feel inclined to present us, Sykes ? '

The superfluous man considered. ' Doubt if I can,' he
admitted. ' It would have to be round-about, anyhow. If
you want a straight tip, get at young Ingestre through the
women. Plenty to choose from,' he added pensively.
' That's his kind.'

' I must have links with the Thynnes,' said the good
Captain later, pondering this ' straight tip ' to assist his
wife. ' The Auberons, now, — they and the Thynnes were
hand in glove, — their estates in Devonshire touched, 1
remember. Why not work the Auberon boy, Kathie?
He'd link you on to Ursula, just try him. Quite likely his
people have already made him call.'

Mrs. Falkland still looked sceptical, and failed to en-
courage him at any point. All very well his talking like
that, she said, but the Ingestres were the hardest people
in London to know, anyone would tell him. That Thynne
girl would have grown above herself and them, long
before this, if she had accomplished such a connection.
Finally, the Captain and Lesbia retired in depression,
leaving the Captain's wife determined to follow his advice
to the letter, and with the least delay. His last idea was
the happiest of all. That Mr. Auberon's family had been
neighbours and intimates of Mrs. Ingestre's, was the kind

66 THE ACCOLADE

of invaluable fact that might have languished for ever in
obscurity, but for this lucky chance. That, with the other
excuse in hand of Helena's acting ambition, might at length
hoist Mrs. Falkland onto a long coveted social platform.

She was not purely selfish in her scheming, it must be
explained : she wanted interest for her son Harold.
Harold, his mother was convinced, was a person of great
though quiet talents in the diplomatic line. He was a
born diplomatist, — she had even marked it in the nursery.
Since those early days, he had never failed to get what
he wanted with as few words as possible ; and could effect
more in controversy by the lift of an eyebrow, and a thumb
thrust carelessly into his button-hole, than others by weeks
of the wittiest argument. Now, money was not lacking
towards Harold's future, — Mrs. Falkland had heaps :
talent was not lacking, obviously — even Mr. Auberon
respected his attainments : style was not lacking — Harold's
style was unique. Only interest was lacking, and that
must be made for him, by his mother's tireless effort.
The Ingestres, — who really were unspeakably high up,
and far back, and well within, and right at the back of,
and so forth, — were the very people to help her. They
were the kind of family whose word has weight in high
places, — they were also the kind of family on whom minds
like Mrs. Falkland's love to dwell, even if they dwell for
ever at a distance. Now, though she would still have
preferred to know the parents, it was obviously better
than nothing to know the son. So Mrs. Falkland went to
work con amore, and spread the usual nets abroad to
ensnare Ursula Thynne, who had married the Ingestres'
heir, and consequently must sooner or later become a
central figure among them. Military society is sure to
hang together by innumerable threads if one takes the
trouble to find them : and before Helena's first London
season had been long under way, Mrs. Falkland had
triumphantly ' cornered ' young Mrs. Ingestre, planted
an adroit hint, and been politely asked to tea.

THE ASPIRANT 67

But luck was against Mrs. Falkland in these cautious
schemes for her children's good. The young in these days
never know how to be managed, however great may be
their elders' talent for managing them. Helena herself,
reckless of either peril or advantage that might accrue to
her from the proceeding, danced with Mr. Johnny Ingestre
in person, at a ball where her mother was supposed to be
protecting her, without her mother's knowledge. This
fashion of flying straight at the mark, while her mother was
going nicely round about to it, was disturbing to her
mother's ideas : and since it was just the kind of thing
Helena was always doing, it made her fretful.

' You have no business to get introductions without
telling me,' she said. ' The man might be quite unsuitable,
you can't know.'

' But I couldn't refuse to dance with him, could I ? '
said Helena.

' It all depends,' said her mother. ' What is he like ? '

' Tall,' said Helena, ' and dark, with drooping eyes that
open at you rather suddenly when you speak. And he
dances quite divinely.'

' Were you introduced to his wife ? ' said Mrs. Falkland,
having digested this personal description.

' His wife ? ' said Helena. ' No. I shouldn't have
thought he had one.'

Mrs. Falkland considered this again, looking rather hard
at Helena. She did not think she flirted, but with one's
own daughter, it is so hard to know.

' Who introduced you ? ' she demanded.

' Mrs. Shovell,' said Helena. ' I asked her to.'

' You asked ? '

1 1 get so tired of dancing with people smaller than
myself,' explained Helena, ' and having to do all the work.
With a man like Mr. Ingestre, you can really let yourself
go. It's glorious.'

' Who ? ' said Mrs. Falkland, having digested this in
turn, ' is Mrs. Shovell ? '

68 THE ACCOLADE

' Oh, Mother dear, how you forget people,' said Helena.
' She's the girl the Weyburns call Violet, who was with
them at that concert at Regent's Hall. Dark, with white
fur.' She waited. ' Oh, you can't have forgotten. She
read the programme to the awful old lady, the deaf one
who sits in the front row.' She waited again. ' Oh,
Mother dear ! The girl you called conceited, and said she
contradicted you. She really only agreed with Harold
when he did,' added Helena, ' but she does things rather
decidedly, so you minded.'

' Oh,' said Mrs. Falkland, recollecting her own strictures at
once, and the object of them by the way. ' Yes, indeed ! '

' Harold hasn't forgotten,' said Helena.

' She's about the only female of sense I ever talked to,'
said Harold unexpectedly, from where he appeared to be
deep in a yellow-backed novel. Mrs. Falkland gasped, but
since it was Harold, submitted. The new generation, in
the person of Harold, was too much for Mrs. Falkland.
Helena she still could manage more or less.

' I wish you would not pick up all sorts of people,
Helena,' she said, ' without consulting me. I didn't care
for that girl's manners at all, and if the Weyburns do bring
her to one concert, there's no necessity to know her again.'

' But I'm always meeting her,' said Helena. ' I can't
think how you have missed her, Mother, really, for she
goes to all the dances. And you can't keep on smiling and
saying nothing, especially when you tidy your hair at
the same glass.'

' Oh, that's what happened, is it ? '

' Yes. So I just mentioned she had the loveliest chain
I had ever seen : and she said she was thinking the same
about my hair : so next time I saw her, I sat down by her
on purpose, naturally.'

' Naturally, since she flattered you. Well ? '

' Well, we talked about people, as you do ; and I noticed
she called Mr. Ingestre by his Christian name.'

' Oh, does she ? ' said Mrs. Falkland.

THE ASPIRANT 69

' Most people seem to,' said Helena. ' He's that kind of
man. So I said I wished she'd introduce me, — joking, you
know. But presently when we were talking about other
quite serious things, he came up behind her. So she asked
him if he had a dance left, — and then she asked me if I
had one, — carelessly. She did it beautifully, he couldn't
have guessed. So there we were, that's all.'

' She had no business to do it,' said Mrs. Falkland. ' And
you ought to come to me when you are not dancing, you
know that.'

' I know they do in books — like Persuasion and Evelina/
said Helena, biting her lip. ' I didn't happen to see you,
Mother dear. And Mrs. Shovell is married, though she
doesn't look it.'

Mrs. Falkland pondered, and glanced at Harold. Harold
was deep in his book

' I gather, dear,' she said, ' that Mr. Ingestre is a man
you have to be rather careful with.

' I'm sure he is,' said Helena. Being entreated to
explain — ' Well, he's a perfectly terrible flirt, anyone can
see. That's why I was rather surprised when you said just
now he was married.'

This betrayed such innocence, in combination with its
surprising ease, that Mrs. Falkland felt inclined to drop the
subject altogether. She would have been better advised
to do so.

' Did he try to flirt with you ? ' she said.

' Well, just at the end, he began to,' said Helena. ' He
was bored to begin with, and rather cross.'

' Cross, was he ? Why ? '

' Mother dear, how can I tell ? I had an idea he really
wanted Mrs. Shovell for that dance ; and she dodged,
and substituted me.'

' What made you think that ? '

' Something in his tone when he asked if he might have
the pleasure ; and the way he looked at her across me,
when we were sitting out.'

70 THE ACCOLADE

' So you played second fiddle to that girl, did you ? '
said Mrs. Falkland, who was, as need not be said, im-
mensely proud of Helena.

' He was quite polite,' said Helena, ' but tired. Older
than I thought, — I began to be sorry I had ventured.
Rather grand, — he drooped his eyes and said the proper
things. When I'm nervous, you know, I'm silly. I expect he
thought me a fair idiot. Anyhow I am, compared with her.'

' You are,' said Harold.

' Don't startle one so, Harold,' said Mrs. Falkland
sharply. ' Your sister is not an idiot, she has sense enough
to know better.' She resumed mildness. ' I am glad, my
dear, Mr. Ingestre said -proper things, at least to start with,
May I hear how he concluded ? '

' Mother dear, I really can't ! ' Helena laughed again.
' Two in the morning, you know. You must make allow-
ances.'

* I do not,' said Mrs. Falkland. ' A married man ! Did
you encourage him ? '

The girl blushed for the first time : with pure indigna-
tion, but her mother thought, with shame.

' Do let her alone, Mother,' said Harold. There was a
pause.

' I didn't know he was married then,' said Helena, her
young chin rather high. ' Mrs. Shovell had not mentioned
it, and men don't wear wedding-rings. I turned extremely
stiff, when he began to do it, and as unpleasant as I dared.
He is a slightly — what shall I say ? — imposing person,
even when he talks nonsense. I don't know how he
manages the two things, I'm sure.'

' Is he good-looking ? ' said the unwise parent.

' I hardly know,' said Helena, suddenly calm. ' I hardly
looked at him. You don't while you are dancing : and
after, it was dark.'

Mrs. Falkland had sent Helena only to the ' very nicest '
schools, which is as much as to say that the girl had been

THE ASPIRANT 7*

hedged, in so far as was possible, into the ideals of the last
generation, not her own. Helena was really, had her mother
been able to divine it, a triumph over these highly unnatural
conditions, owing to a fortunate natural balance within her
of high spirit and good sense. It might have relieved Mrs.
Falkland to know that Helena had snubbed the conquering
Mr. Ingestre, towards the close of that dance interval, with
a quiet competence some older women would have envied
her : not at all aggressively, — simply by making her
genuine innocence and dignity apparent in every gentle
answer she gave him ; with the result first, that she
caught John's whole attention, which he had not even
granted her before : and subsequently that he liked,
respected, and remembered her.

Helena was making this same impression, that of
innocent dignity, broadcast during her first London
season. By the effect it produced, one might guess it to
be rather an unusual combination. The dignity was
physical partly, for Helena was tall, but it went deeper
than externals. She had an air, not only outwardly, of
looking over people's heads : the least trifle abstracted,
though so cordial and kind. Helena was, to her own mind,
' very selfish,' nursing her secret ambition constantly, and
looking beyond the occupations and amusements her kind
friends provided for her. Dreams of fame visited Helena,
during nights when her young limbs, tired with dancing,
lay at ease. She saw herself moving multitudes, among
flowers, on a lofty and brilliantly lighted stage. She felt
strong in herself the power for such emotion, the need to
express it greatly before the world. She read and studied
with secret ardour, and turned every little incident that
occurred in her outer life daily, to account in the service
of her fixed idea. It was her joy and her torment, as all
such obsessions are ; it meant more to her, she trembled
to confess, then her religion. She believed it was the great
secret to which life was bearing her — or half believed it.
At rare moments only, she had doubts. She tried not to

72 THE ACCOLADE

talk of it, to advertise all kinds of other interests before an
indifferent and frivolous world ; but the least show of real
sympathy with her dear dream was apt to unlock the
torrent of her confidence suddenly.

This was what had occurred, on the night of that dance
she described to her mother. Helena had got well ahead,
further than Mrs. Falkland guessed, in schemes for her
own advancement, that most interesting evening, owing
to the pleasant impulsiveness of youth in following up an
acquaintance that strikes them as useful and agreeable.
That was how young Mrs. Shovell struck Helena, promptly.
Compared with the elaborate methods of Mrs. Falkland
and her friends, Miss Falkland's were of an attractive
simplicity. She looked at Violet, two or three times, and
determined she was ' nice.' She resolved to love her after
about ten minutes' acquaintance. After about ten minutes
more of testing her general utility, she determined to grasp
and use her as a stepping-stone to her heart's desire. The
way was plain, since Mrs. Shovell knew crowds of clever
and thrilling people, and could — obviously to Helena —
get what she liked out of any of them, being so pretty and
so profoundly experienced. (Violet had been married four
years.) Miss Falkland was gentle and had charming
manners : but her general attitude was — ' Kindly do this
for me at once, since you can,' — so of course Mrs. Shovell
laughed, and submitted to the necessity.

It seemed, she saw several possible ways open to
Helena's heart's desire, ' if Helena's mother cared.' Helena
thereupon conveyed that her father ' cared ' more than
her mother, unfortunately, — her mother was merely
recoiling backward before the inevitable. Things at home
were very difficult, and Helena was, of course, oppressed.
She did not, however, it suddenly came to light, despair
of getting round Mother.

Violet suggested she should accomplish this process
before they went any further in concert. In the meantime,
she would ' sound ' John Ingestre, and other knowledge-

THE ASPIRANT 73

able persons of her acquaintance. Helena gazed at her,
overawed by the coincidence, but not surprised. It was
only another flash of the Providence that guided her.
All things in her world worked together for good. Of
course, she had already had the idea that young Mr.
Ingestre was a person of power as well as of charm. The
way he ' drooped his eyes ' alone suggested it, not to
mention his ' imposing ' manner of talking nonsense. To
be reassured, in her first instinct towards him, by a common
friend, who called him familiarly by his first name, was
delightful.

Helena went home to blissful dreams that night ; and
before she slept to an innocent train of reverie, known to
girlhood, half glowing memory, half moonlight conjecture :
unhampered by a backward thought, since men ' do not
wear wedding-rings/ and she had not then guessed he was
married.

in

Mrs. Falkland was one of the excellent people who,
while being extremely sure of their own opinion, seem born
to be deluded.

' Oh, dear no, boy and girl merely,' was Mrs. Falkland's
classical answer, when approached with leading questions
on the subject of her daughter and Mr. Auberon, of the
India Office. But she said it with a certain manner, and a
certain smile, that would have outraged both young people,
had they known : and her usual addition, that Quentin
was ' such a dear boy,' would not have improved matters.

The fact was, that Mrs. Falkland began to see in Quentin,
not only a rising man with a notable father, — Colonel
Auberon was gazetted Major-General that year, — but a
real resource, a very present help in the troublous tussle
with her daughter. His remarks in response to her
periodic fusses over Helena were always sensible, though
brief. He certainly listened to her, which Harold, as a

74 THE ACCOLADE

rule, did not. He did not, like Harold, and her husband
very frequently, say Helena was all right, and read the
paper. He took in Helena's case, or seemed to, with a far-
reaching look in his eyes that was flattering, and often
made an agreeable remark. Beyond that, he had a way
of remembering what she told him, and sometimes, —
rather disconcertingly, — quoted her own words to herself.
Altogether, Mrs. Falkland thought him a dear boy, refused
entirely to let him leave her roof, and insisted on weaving
all about him her maternal hopes, as she thought in secret.
Mrs. Falkland could, as a fact, keep nothing secret long.

Quentin, who was genuinely grateful to her, bore her
little follies patiently, as a rule j but she was rather harder
to bear than usual, the day she inveigled him into paying
the call upon young Mrs. Ingestre. Owing to Harold and
Helena, persistently on his side, he did not often have to
suffer her interference ; but Harold and Helena were out
riding that afternoon, and so Quentin fell into her hands.
Quentin's parents had been friends of Ursula's, so the
Captain had informed her : and besides, she liked showing
him off.

' They are fashionable people,' said Mrs. Falkland of the
Ingestres, ' and artistic. I hear they go in for art and the
drama, particularly that. I have an idea Mrs. Ingestre
may be helpful about dear Helena, and give us some sound
advice. They are at least sure to have first-hand know-
ledge of Stage-land, as to which I admit my ignorance.'
She smiled benevolently.

' I see,' said Quentin. ' It's a pity Miss Falkland can't
go instead of me, isn't it ? I really know nothing of the
lady. Of course I've heard of General Thynne,' he
proceeded, fearing he had been uncivil. ' My father and
uncles had a feud with the Thynnes, once, and besieged
their barn. But this Miss Thynne wasn't in existence then,
any more than I was. The feuds of our parents are nothing
to us, not blood-feuds, are they ? '

' It makes something to talk about,' said Mrs. Falkland

THE ASPIRANT 75

cheerfully. ' I consider it kind of you to come with me,
Quentin, since it may, you see, help dear Helena."

Quentin was silent, overborne. He had no means of
dealing with remarks of that sort that was both polite and
politic, so he let them alone. He would sooner have had
things straight with her, as to the plain and pleasant terms
of comradeship he enjoyed, and hoped to enjoy, with
Miss Falkland : but if Falkland did not see fit to straighten
his mother's mind on the subject, he could not do so.

Mrs. Falkland's laborious generalship, however, in a
losing cause, amused him as spectator : for, like Harold,
he ' backed ' Miss Falkland to get what she wanted with
no generalship at all ; and he found more entertainment,
during the diplomatic visit to young Mrs. Ingestre, than
he had expected. Quentin had often heard of the strategy
spent in storming a social citadel, but he had never studied
its methods in operation. Marvellous and mysterious, it
seemed to him. Half the time he wondered what the ladies
were at, and what could be the good of it. Mrs. Falkland
was plainly eager to dig out facts about Mrs. Ingestre ;
but then as Mrs. Ingestre was far from eager to dig out
facts about Mrs. Falkland, and reticent about her own,
nobody got very far. He himself was of little or no use
in the main issue, though he played the siege of Mrs.
Ingestre's family barn for what it was worth during the
preliminaries ; but he looked on at every stage of the con-
test with intelligent interest, so we may be safe in giving
his view.

It was clear to him from the first that, whatever it was
that Mrs. Falkland really wanted, she was outmatched by
her younger opponent. There was that in Mrs. Ingestre's
appearance, for all its elegant restraint, that implied she
would put up a good fight in defence of any citadel of
which she had been elected chatelaine. She was a tall,
fair, tired-looking girl of something over thirty, most
correctly gowned and mannered, — a type that is called
pretty by three-fourths of mankind, and smart by the

76 THE ACCOLADE

remaining quarter. Her house, or at least such part of it
as she exhibited, was correct as well. Her husband's
quarters were not so, but Ursula did not exhibit them.
Mrs. Falkland's leading questions on the domestic tack led
to no fruition, and if young family existed, it was certainly
well in hand. So were the servants, for the quiet of the
dark London house was profound. In the quiet Mrs.
Ingestre's sharp-edged, rather toneless voice worried
Quentin, and he found himself treading with circum-
spection in the least thing he said. This is a healthy boy's
tribute to nerves, invariably.

His first, or romantic, theory of her was that the ' fashion-
able ' Ingestre family despised and trampled the heir's
young wife : but that would not do. He had to revise it
when it came to light that the flowers, the silver, the
tapestry, the paintings, almost every beautiful object in
the room, had come by way of ' John's people,' — John's
father, or his mother still more commonly. This looked as
though she were well treated by them, or even spoiled.
Yet Ursula did not boast of their favour : she seemed if
anything impatient of it, — restive. She held Mrs. Falk-
land's too evident curiosity on the subject at bay with
great determination and real dignity, her manner re-
maining a model of politeness the whole time.

' Old Mrs. Ingestre is a great invalid, I believe,' said Mrs.
Falkland, who seemed to have armed herself with informa-
tion.

' John's mother is,' said Ursula. ' There is an older
Mrs. Ingestre still, you know. His grandmother lives with
them now.'

' You don't say so, — quite patriarchal,' said Mrs. Falk-
land.

' Yes/ said Ursula, with a faint smile. ' John, and his
father, and his grandmother, are always fighting. Two of
them fight, that is : the other takes a side.'

Quentin laughed, and Mrs. Falkland said — ' Then you
have to be peace-maker, I suppose.'

THE ASPIRANT 77

' Oh dear no,' said Ursula. ' I leave that to my mother-
in-law, she's used to it. Besides, it amuses them,' she added
languidly.

' Your husband is very busy, I suppose,' said Mrs.
Falkland presently, taking the field.

' John busy ? Oh, I don't know. In town, he hasn't
much to do. He goes about a good deal, of course,' she
added, setting her lips nervously as she made the tea, ' and
rides as much as he can, and goes to concerts, and his club.'

' My daughter had the pleasure of meeting him,' said
Mrs. Falkland.

' Really ? ' said Ursula.

' Only a dance, and some time since. Mr. Ingestre has
probably forgotten.'

' There are such dozens of dances, aren't there ? ' said
Ursula. There ensued a pause, — for cream and cake, and
so forth, such as occurs in these campaigns.

' We are in difficulties about dear Helena,' Mrs. Falkland
resumed, ' and people keep assuring us that Mr. Ingestre is
just the person we need to help us.'

' John is ? ' Up went Ursula's eyebrows. ' I'm sure

he would be very glad ' She stopped short with a

slight laugh. ' Excuse me, I was trying to think of any
way in which John could be useful. I'm unable to guess.'

' Isn't he deep in with all sorts of wonderful people in
Stage-land ? ' said Mrs. Falkland, playful too.

' Stage ? Oh, I hardly know. I dare say.' This was
damping.

' Helena thinks she can act, you know. We thought that
possibly '

' Lots of girls think they can act, don't they ? ' said
Ursula.

This was more damping still. Mrs. Falkland boasted
of her daughter's proficiency a little, and repeated compli-
ments that had been paid her, but with slight effect.
Mrs. Ingestre was politely interested, that was all. Mrs.
Falkland began privately to accuse that stupid Mr. Sykes

78 THE ACCOLADE

of exaggerating Johnny's influence, — his wife thought
nothing of it, evidently. Quentin, feeling he must make
one effort, in decency, picked up the standard as she
dropped it. He made a general observation, and alluded
aptly to the actor-manager Mitchell.

' Oh, he's a horrid man,' said Ursula at once. ' I
shouldn't have anything to do with him.'

' Horrid ? In what sense ? '

' Oh, rude and vulgar and pretentious : the worst sort.'

' Wasn't he mentioned for a knighthood ? ' said Mrs.
Falkland.

' Money/ said Ursula simply. Nor, beyond this, would
she gossip, though she had the air of knowing more than
she said.

' His wife ? ' ventured Quentin. For Mitchell's wife had
borne a name of note, — a really mighty name.

' His wife is rather worse, — a clever actress, of course,'
she admitted mechanically. ' Did you ever see her Her-
mione ? — wonderful. ... I hope your father kept clear
of the plague area, Mr. Auberon. I can't remember if it
touched his district. I've two or three uncles out there,
so I ought to know ; but I'm afraid I neglect my corre-
spondence nowadays, and I've lost my Indian geography.'

If she wished to indicate that she kept clear of the
plague area of her husband's acquaintance, she certainly
succeeded. Quentin could not admire her as much as
Mrs. Falkland ; he had an idea a wife should back her
husband up. Ursula was giving him away at every word,
more by tone and manner than by anything definitely said.

' I expect you're busy,' he said, in the usual formula,
dropping Helena's quest in turn. It seemed hopeless,
really, with the front she offered of perfectly courteous
unconcern. *

' Oh, I haven't really much to do,' she answered instantly.
' At any rate, I have heaps of time.' Quentin's business
instinct approved the answer. It was rare, he knew, for
the really useless people so to plead. They plead as a

THE ASPIRANT 79

rule the contrary, that they are ' so busy, no time at all.'
He wondered at once what her real interests were, and
discovered later, through his aunt, that she was an active
charitable organiser.

' Do you play ? ' he suggested, his eyes roving towards
the piano.

' I play a little,' she said, glancing that way too. ' Used
to, that is, at home. My husband's got a better piano in
his room. All his family go in for music, — I don't pretend
to, much. I hear as much as I can, of course, one loses
ground so, if one doesn't. Especially nowadays, — these
new men do such surprising things. . . . Do you care for
music ? ' she added, after just the right interval.

She had the manner of bringing the talk back to the
conventional impersonal line, with relief. Any observer
of experience would have guessed by that alone she could
not be a happy woman, — the impression reached Quentin
vaguely. Mrs. Falkland seemed wholly impervious to
such hints of sensitiveness in her hostess, and pursued her
with relentless enquiry to the close. Towards the end of
their allotted time, it struck Quentin with something of a
shock that she was probing, or prying, deliberately, and he
scented her danger in Mrs. Ingestre's aspect, though her
tone remained unchangingly tired and cool.

They were on the subject of common acquaintance,
which was no harm in itself, only Mrs. Falkland talked of
young women exclusively. Quentin knew most of those
she mentioned merely as names, having heard Helena and
Harold use them. Since he was thus entirely out of it,
and Mrs. Ingestre increasingly bored, as was evident, by
the subject, he rather wondered Mrs. Falkland should
press it as she did. There was the elder Miss Weyburn, for
instance, one of the prettiest of the season's debutantes,
said to be ' so amusing.'

' Yes, I suppose she's amusing,' said Ursula. ' John
seems to think so, — he says there's nothing she won't say
if she's put to it. But there you are. These new girls

8o THE ACCOLADE

score by saying just what most people stop short of, don't
they ? And, of course, if they are as handsome as Barbara,
it's called original.'

' That's meant for you, Quentin,' said Mrs. Falkland
playfully.

' Oh,' said Ursula, with a slight smile, and throwing
a glance in the same direction, ' but Miss Falkland is not
that kind, I'm sure.'

Quentin waited, naturally, for Mrs. Falkland to correct
the insinuation conveyed in this ; but Mrs. Falkland
merely smiled maternally, — just like her, — and proceeded.
She proceeded to Mrs. Shovell, another name he knew,
simply from its repetition at the Falkland dining-table.

' Oh yes, I know Violet,' said Ursula. ' She's a kind of
connection of John's, didn't you know ? They're a most
confusing family, — second cousin I suppose she is, since
her mother's name was the same as his.'

' Not been long married, has she ? ' said Mrs. Falkland.
' Has she children ? '

' One,' said Ursula, looking at her rings.

' A boy ? ' said Mrs. Falkland.

' Not a boy,' said Ursula.

' She's very artistic, I understand,' said Mrs. Falkland.

' She plays well,' said Ursula, glancing once at Quentin.
' She's managed to keep it up. Dresses rather well too.
Do you think her pretty ? '

' No,' said Mrs. Falkland. ' Effective perhaps in her
way, but nothing pretty about her.'

' You won't find everybody agree with you,' said Ursula.
' John, for instance, — good thing he's not here. He'd
make you take that back, fight over every feature in turn.
He loves that sort of discussion, — dissection — ' her lips
met in her nervous, rather haughty fashion, — ' but I never
see the use. Tastes differ, don't they ? It's no use arguing
about appearances, piecemeal or otherwise. Either you like
the whole result, or you don't. And I tell John — you don't
need to be an artist to be quite sure.'

THE ASPIRANT 81

' Certainly not,' said Mrs. Falkland warmly.

' I'd sooner know why I like things/ said Quentin, ' and
class the general result. Not necessarily define it, you
know, you can't always, but class. You remember better
if you want to refer to it later on.'

Ursula looked at him. ' Then you'd back John,' she
said. ' John goes in for classing too. Men always back
one another anyhow, don't they, Mrs. Falkland ? And
they never look at women the least as we do. I am hardly
ever able to agree about a woman with John, — do you find
the same with your husband ?

Mrs. Falkland was impressed. That was the way to do
it, she was certain. She gave Ursula high marks, being
so steadily rebuffed by her in the slight impertinence of
her latter questions. The girl might be born a Thynne,
but she had caught the great manner perfectly. She was
well-bred, and ill-used, — neglected, at least, — but she did
not complain, nor try to conceal the obvious. She stood
on her own deserts, which were evidently considerable,
and shamed him, — it was to be hoped. She did not look
unhappy, — she looked handsome and quiet, and capable
to a degree, — though she did not disturb herself much
over the tea-distribution, being far from a fussy kind of
girl. Nor did she ring for servants, as Mrs. Falkland in
her place would have done, having no doubt servants to
spare. But then Quentin was there, and of course she used
him, since Quentin's manners were so nice.

Mrs. Falkland was really thankful, in the event, that
she had brought him, for as Ursula trumped her social
cards, one by one, with languid efficiency, she began to
feel, in the matter of resources, rather denuded. But
Quentin talked in all the pauses, with that interesting
manner of his of knowing far more things than were
necessary, and that nice carelessness — secure in any
society — of Oxford young men. Mrs. Ingestre could not
trump him, nor did she seem to want to. She even asked
for information, more than once : and she looked at him

82 THE ACCOLADE

a good deal, especially when they were on the subject of
family likenesses : for it seemed she remembered Quentin's
father, — Captain Hugh, as she called him, — very well.

Confidence, Mrs. Falkland had no doubt, would come in
time, — since she was now determined to make a friend of
Ursula. She was old enough to advise the girl, and had
fully enough wifely vexations of her own to sympathise.
Men with tempers were very trying, — Mrs. Falkland
conceived young Mr. Ingestre as having a temper, since
he differed so grievously with his father, as his wife con-
fessed. Captain Falkland had a temper too, which he
showed at least once a year, when his lumbago was very
bad. There was already a point of sympathy. And even
in the matter of Helena, though disappointed for dear
Helena's sake, of course, Mrs. Falkland could exult in the
support Mrs. Ingestre tacitly offered her in her own
original attitude : that of condescension to all forms of
art, and frank contumely for the actor's.

' She strikes me as a singularly perfect character,' said
Mrs. Falkland to her husband, later that evening. ' Perfect,
and pathetic too. I can't describe the impression she
made upon me. She is flippant and amusing on the surface,
like so many of these smart girls, but I have a feeling of
depths beneath. She could be beautifully serious. As for
style, she is what I call queenly. I should think she is a
rock of strength, quiet strength, and one day her husband
will need to turn to her. . . . Quentin agrees with me/
she added.

Quentin started rather, but did not deny it : though,
if pressed, he would have drawn a distinction. Strength
is a big word, too big to be misused. It was not so much
strength he had felt in Ursula as passive resistance, the
resistance of a rock stiffly wedged against the teasing of
the waves. She lacked life for any forcible proceeding,
he thought, and she lacked readiness to be prompt or
adroit in the change of a line of action. The true cam-
paigning spirit of her fathers, in short, was not in her,

THE ASPIRANT 83

Stupid she was not, but he privately called her ' dense,'
nor did he trouble to define the term. Helena came up
in his mind as a contrast, — that was all.

IV

' John,' said Violet, ' will you do me a favour ? '

' For a consideration,' said Johnny.

' Oh, do be nice ! Will you come and see me on Sunday
afternoon ? '

Johnny considered. ' Ursula goes to church on Sunday
afternoon,' he observed. ' And I go to sleep. We're
engaged.'

' I don't want Ursula,' said Violet.

' Oh, I say ! ' protested Johnny. ' Then I really

couldn't ' A pause, while he strolled up the room.

' Will Shovell be there ? '

' Of course. All of us. Wrhat do you expect ? '

Johnny considered the ' all.' He looked at Violet, who
had coloured slightly. ' I can do without most of you,'
he carefully explained, and departed down the room again.

He was being as ' tiresome ' as he knew how, this even-
ing : and Mrs. Shovell had almost abandoned Helena's
cause, perforce, to defend herself. This was Johnny's aim :
or rather, his aim was that Violet should completely
abandon any ulterior cause she might have in mind, in
order to attend to him. He happened to be greatly in
need of consolation, Violet's by choice, and she kept trying
to head him off onto other subjects. It was unwise of her.

' There's Miss Falkland ' said Violet.

' Who's that ? ' asked Johnny.

' Oh, John ! — you danced with her. I introduced you.
Ever so nice.'

John appeared to turn over the complete list of his
acquaintance, for years past, before he arrived at a solution.

' The little, rough-haired Miss Falkland ? ' he then asked.

84 THE ACCOLADE

' Well, nobody but you would call her little,' said Violet.
' And her hair is beautiful, simply.' She waited. ' And
I thought she danced nicely,' she proceeded, with less
decision, — it was rash to make assertions on this point.
However, John did not instantly contradict her.

' She's going on the stage/ he said. ' Thinks she is.
Ursula told me.'

' Is she ? Oh, but you could help her, then.'

' Suppose I could if I wanted. She'll never do much.'

' Why not ? ' asked Violet mildly.

' Oh, she's nothing but a rough-haired little — common
girl.'

' John ! '

' Same as all the rest/ concluded Johnny. ' I'm sick
of girls, — too many of them.' He walked right away to
the extreme corner of the room.

Violet was silent, conscious that she was getting nowhere.
It was possible she should not have attempted it, except
that she saw him so seldom now. She leant back, and set
her hair straight after the hurricane it had recently suffered
in the ballroom, waiting his good pleasure to be ' nice '
again. He and she were engaged in ' sitting out/ — or
rather, she was sitting : nothing so far would induce John.
He was in the kind of mood when merely to sit down
made him feel as though he were being entrapped or
tricked into some abandonment of his rights to roam at
large.

Violet had married four years previously, without
consulting Johnny, — however, he approved. He liked
girls of her class to be married, it gave them a chance, and
kept them in order: there is a certain danger in clever
girls loose about the world. She had grown up pretty too,
as Mrs. Clewer prophesied, and what was more important
to Johnny's family, she was a success. The Ingestres had
all had a good idea, in youth, that she might become one, —
the way Markham took to her in itself was promising ;
and the good idea and sporting prophecy came to light in

THE ASPIRANT 85

their remarks to one another after the event. The Ingestres
linked themselves to success on instinct, it was part of
their genius to do so ; so they took note of Violet, and
looked after her, whenever her husband and her father
gave them a chance.

This chance did not occur so often as Johnny could have
wished, especially as drawbacks existed on his own side
as well ; however, he got out of that little difficulty by
writing to her. He loved writing, as she did. From the
age of fourteen, her correspondence with him had never
been long intermitted, though it changed its style
markedly as time went on. Johnny could not long treat
her as a child, troubles on both sides had come too thick
and fast. He was one of the few people who had divined
her most intimate troubles, and she had repaid him soon
after her marriage by divining his. Thus the equal under-
standing of their allied natures progressed, in spite of all
Ursula could do to prevent it, — she grew to hate the sight
of Violet's handwriting on an envelope. Better, far, that
he should take his chance of meeting the girl in the life
than that, she thought, since chances of meeting in London,
anyhow, were limited. For that reason among others,
Ursula drew her husband to town as frequently as might
be from the country he preferred. Johnny did not love it,
but for one reason or another, he came.

He had been looking after Violet this evening, duty-
bound, and she was rather tired in consequence. Johnny
had spotted her turn for his own arts in youth : she was
one of the few girls he knew, outside the profession, who
could really dance. Consequently he was apt to work her
hard, whenever he ran across her on a ballroom floor : it
was all to the good, her good, since he instructed her.
Violet was rather nice to instruct, light and adroit and
quite moderately manageable. It was only her idea of a
ballroom as a place to talk sense in, that he rejected,
firmly. He liked talking sense himself at certain seasons,
but a sitting-out interval was not one of them. Besides,

86 THE ACCOLADE

he did not happen to be in the humour to-night for any
earthly person's affairs, — except his own.

She ought to have known this, of course, without his
telling her ; she should have recognised the fact that she
served him simply, for the moment, by existing, not talking
at all. It was all he asked of her absolutely, until he
happened to want to talk himself.

Violet existed, for the moment, in the deep chair where
Johnny had deposited her, when the dancing-lesson was
concluded. She had no need to request privacy for her
interview, because that was his own taste as well. He
required solitude, with something nice to look at, and an
atmosphere in which he could spread himself at ease ;
and what Johnny required, for himself and the girl of the
moment, he was enabled to get, even in the most crowded
houses. Things and people gave way before him, with all
their ancient docility. He found his partner a nice quiet
place, and established her in all comfort, reassuring her
as to his general approval by the way. Only, having done
so, his taste seemed to be to walk round her, and take
excursions to the end of the room, and think, instead of
sitting affably at her side. This, though really exclusively
flattering to Violet, and displaying the friendliest feeling,
did not seem to come up to her expectations of a man in
her society. She ruled in her young fashion, nowadays,
with more than a spark of the Ingestre electric force.
Johnny could not put her to bed, figuratively speaking,
with the ease he had done at fourteen years old. The little
pawn she was had risen to royalty some time since, and
when he was in his best moods, in public, Johnny recognised
it, and paid tribute with the rest. But not always. In
privacy and distraction of mind she was still ' the kid '
to him, and he tried to manage her. The result was, an
occasional conflict of wills, in which Violet was forced to
go under. Johnny regretted it, but it was simply bound
to be the case.

' Sit down, John,' she suggested presently.

THE ASPIRANT 87

Johnny did not answer the invitation, nor appear to
hear it, remaining motionless, back turned, in a distant
corner of the room. The chances of a business consultation
with him, on the subject of Miss Falkland's future, did
not seem brilliant, certainly. He looked cross, or absent,
self-occupied anyhow : something was wrong. What,
Violet had very little doubt, but she was not going to talk
about it : nor, did she for a moment suppose, would he.
He never complained of Ursula to her, or to anybody. He
rarely mentioned his wife, except formally, or jesting, as
lately : which was why Violet was pretty sure it was
growing serious. But his own mother hardly knew more
than she did, — John was extraordinarily quiet about his
closest concerns. That he was being driven slowly to the
limit, by Ursula, she could only guess, knowing them
both : the breaking-point, for him, could only be a question
of time. For that Ursula would ever budge an inch from
her chosen pedestal, was inconceivable.

So she waited for him to come round, as he always
might, for though rough and over-riding, his was not a
sulky temper. And she watched him the while, with
unavoidable appreciation, increased by her own fatigue.
Nothing tired Johnny. He was constantly on his feet,
when others sat or lounged, he seemed to like the attitude.
Indeed, to look at him, one was inclined to admit it is
the only posture for which man is suited, he moved with
such satisfying ease, and stood — in the best sense of the
word — so self-sufficiently. The clever and rather brutal
society painter, to whom John had been with the utmost
difficulty induced to sit, the year of his marriage, and who
had been with the utmost difficulty induced, in return,
to look at him, refused on sight to allow him to sit at all :
and sent him down to posterity swaggering on his two
feet, with a dash and brilliance which ' played the deuce '
— so John and his artist explained to everybody — with
the Lely and Gainsborough masterpieces already in his
father's collection. It was a perpetual satisfaction, that

88 THE ACCOLADE

portrait, to Johnny and his artist, though nobody else
admired it the least, and Ursula considered it vulgar.
The brutal painter even invited himself to the Hall once,
for the sole and avowed purpose of looking at it : needing
inspiration from his best work, as it seemed, for the next
outrage on society he contemplated. Having his own
painting to enjoy, he never looked again at Johnny :
but he seemed to have absorbed his nature or essence
somehow, not only pictorially: and he remained his
friend.

' How's your great-grandfather's great-uncle ? ' said
Violet. After all she was sitting out with him, and some-
body must talk.

' He's just run away from his wife,' said Johnny.

She laughed : whereupon he felt a little better, and
turned round. The effort had been a lucky one. John
had always taken an interest in the archives of his house,
and had published, some time since, a highly irreverent
memoir of a Jacobean ancestor, which had incensed his
father and pleased the critics equally, for it was extremely
witty and well done. He was now intermittently engaged
on another, and only Violet knew about it. It consoled
him to think she knew. He approached, by degrees, and
finally came to a stand before her.

' Do you carry a looking-glass ? ' she asked him, not
without mischief. She was still putting finishing touches
to her hair.

' Yes,' said Johnny promptly. He put a hand under
her chin, and turned her face round to him. ' You've
overdone it, if anything,' he informed her. ' I liked it
better as it was before.'

' Thanks. Now sit in that other chair, and talk
to me.'

Johnny stood where he was, taking notes. ' Beastly
cad, aren't I ? ' he enquired. ' Pulling you about like that
in public.'

' You did not,' she said at once, ' half so much as most

THE ASPIRANT 89

men do. I like the way you hold. You only — made use
of me, rather cleverly.'

' Made use of you ? ' He swore. ' You dance divinely.'

' No, John, — just well enough. Don't use bad words,
it's true. You were showing off, just now, and if you'd
shown me up, in so doing, you wouldn't have cared thai ! '
She snapped her fingers. ' When I play for you, it's just
the same. It always was in the very beginning, wasn't it ?
If I get through without disgracing you, I ought to be
thankful to mercy, — and I am.' She laughed, and invited
him again, by a gesture, to the chair at her side.

Johnny did not touch the hand, nor look at it ; nor
did he smile, he was looking at her eyes. ' Lord, how you
understand me,' he muttered. ' What's the sense of it,
that's what I want to know.'

He seemed on the verge of going off again, and moved
a few steps. Then he returned, and flung himself of a
sudden into the other chair, — one of those free collapses of
his that betrayed a stage training in the background ; and ex-
hausted by his warring emotions, buried his head in his arm.

This was a little better, but not much. He was feeling
the tyranny of his fate to-night, most terribly. Obviously,
Ursula had been worse than usual. His present attitude
was of the nature of a broad hint, and any really nice girl,
whom he had tacitly admitted to his confidence, should
have dropped all idea but that of consoling him, instantly.
But Violet persisted in wrong-doing, — she really risked
her fate.

' John,' she ventured. ' I'm thirsty. Will you get me
something to drink ? '

' No,' said Johnny. Not rudely, only abnormally sad.

' Will you be at the next orchestral ? '

' No,' said Johnny. ' I'm going to the devil, I mean
Devonshire, next Tuesday.'

' Ursula's people ? '

' Don't rub it in,' said Johnny. Silence, Violet reviewing
her resources.

90 THE ACCOLADE

' Have you a dance with Helena to-night ? '

' Helena ? '

' The rough-haired Miss Falkland/ said Violet.

' Lord knows, — she may. Come to think of it/ said
Johnny, with a sudden happy idea, ' it might be this/

' John ! Liar ! ' After another interval, comparatively
brief, Mrs. Shovell arose. She had had enough of it.

' Where are you going ? ' snapped Johnny, moving at once.

' Back to the hall, — you reminded me. They must be
half-way through. I'd lost the time, owing to our interest-
ing conversation.'

' Well, who wants to talk ? ' he growled. ' I only want
to be near you. No, you don't.'

He caught, with a clever snatch, a floating appendage,
sash, or wisp of drapery : the kind that tears easily, and
no lady wishes to be torn. It was a simple device, but
like all Johnny's devices, effective. Violet wore nice
things, as a rule. She stopped short and petitioned.

' John ! ' she said.

' Who's the man ? — out with it/

' My husband.'

' Thought as much. He can't dance. Sit down/

' Why ? ' said Violet. ' You won't do what I want,
and you're not amusing me, the least/

' I'm beastly unhappy/ said Johnny simply, ' so I like
you alongside, that's all. I don't want just any kind of
girl, when I'm as wretched as I am to-night. You might,
I think, have saved me explaining. This thing will tear
in a minute/ he added, his eyes running up the streamer
he held to her waist, where it was fastened. ' Do look out.'

' You want to lacerate me and my dress as well '

' I don't want to lacerate you, wouldn't think of it.
I want you in that chair. I shan't say anything, probably,
for hours '

' But that's so dull for me. Charles '

' Charles is amusing and affectionate, isn't he ? — Look
out, darling, really, you're tearing it/

THE ASPIRANT 91

' You know my name/ observed Mrs. Shovell, crisp
and keen.

He laughed, at his wickedest and laziest. It was getting
very much past a joke. He had always teased her, and
she was used to it at his hands ; but this was teasing very
near the line. John had never yet approached the line
with her, though she was aware he had done so with
others. But now, full-length in his chair, looking at her
under his insolently-drooping eyelids, she could not feel so
sure. She mastered her own temper as she could.

' Let me go,' she said, as quietly as possible.

' Do as you're told, then/ he returned, touching the chair.

' I must ask you to excuse me/ said Violet. Her tone
was cold, — misleading, for in the next flash she rent the
cobweb of thin gauze by which he detained her, left it torn
in his hand, and started for the door.

' The deuce ! ' said John, with surprised amusement.
He had not expected so bold a step. However, she could
not possibly escape him, after so audacious a proceeding, —
likely ! Before she reached the door his strong arm was
about her, pinioning both hers to her side.

' That's the other way/ he informed her. ' How do you
like it ? '

' Not at all.' The indignant colour flooded her, quite
beyond her control.

' I thought not. ... I do, awfully. You're alive/ He
gripped her close, to test it. ' Really alive. Something
worth having '

' John 1 '

' Well, what do you bother me for ? ' he said, beneath his
breath ; and, suddenly as he had grasped her, he abandoned
his hold again, flung her from him, and retired to the
extreme end of the stage — that is, the room, — as he had
done at the beginning of the scene.

After that, he reviewed his feelings, with an actor's
instinct, curious as to what they were. They were oddly
mixed,— he had certainly forgotten himself, taken himself

92 THE ACCOLADE

by surprise. On the other hand, he had resumed control
with an effort for which nobody would give him credit, —
unless Violet did. It was her fault, of that he was"per-
suaded : not that she had flirted exactly, she did not do
that : but she had bothered him, got in his way. She had
persisted in her mistaken courses, teasing him, — Johnny
had been teased. And then she had looked particularly
pretty as she stood in front of him, prettier as her conscious-
ness grew. She had never even doubted him before, not a
glimmer of doubt, it was miraculous. And then, seeking
an appeal to his better feelings, she had offered her
husband's name. Offered it in that manner, the indubit-
able, the manner of those who name their nearest haven
to pirates on the stormy sea. And then, as though that were
not enough to drive him from his bearings, she had lost her
temper, with a charming unexpectedness, really warming
to the heart : since it was so exactly as Ursula never could
have done in any circumstances. Why, Ursula would not
have sacrificed her sash, — she would never have thought
of tearing up her clothes. Ursula would have — it was
hardly worth considering what she would have done at
such a juncture, since never, never, in this world or the
next, would she have let a man decoy her into such an
indecorous position. Nor would she ever, ever, have
forgiven it the said man, if she had.

Johnny's wicked eyes were widening to amusement, his
habitual confidence, mislaid for a minute, was coming back.
He felt much the better for the interlude, distinctly better,
and grateful to his partner by the way. She had played
up to him neatly, answered him well, and the best bit of
action, by far, had been hers. There was always that point
of view to be considered, even if the moral did not quite
come off. Johnny looked from Violet, pale and silent, to
the torn wisp of drapery, lying on the floor. Shocking, — he
wondered she could have done it, — tearing her nice clothes
about ! Especially as it was probable she had not an
enormous number to tear : not even so many as Ursula,

THE ASPIRANT 93

who thought herself so precious moderate, such a model to
the frivolous world. He moved forward, picked up the
wisp furtively, and rolled it about his hand. Such a good
scene does not occur often in a lifetime, he felt inclined to
remember it, keep a memento. It would be a lesson to
Johnny, — a solemn lesson, — not to count too rashly on
a girl's affection for her clothing. Or it might merely serve
as a good story of her, to amuse Jemmy and Bert.

Finally, — he apologised : why we will not pretend to
say : except that he came close up to Violet, and she lifted
her eyes. Granted she took it like that, that he had
betrayed the bargain of their friendship, there was nothing
else for a man to do. He might have intended to ' shut
her up,' temporarily, but to hurt her was another thing.
For a passing instant, when her eyes reached his, he was
really remorseful, and very nearly ashamed.

' I'm sorry,' he began impressively, and stopped dead.
It was so extremely rare, in life, for John to apologise, that
he thought it might as well make its full effect upon the
company. It did : after a somewhat alarming interval,
she smiled. Relieved extraordinarily, his spirits rose.

' Feelin' better ? ' he proceeded, in his artless manner,
taking her hand, which she had not offered him, and
stowing it carefully inside his arm. Johnny was an adept
at what is called carrying the war into the enemy's country.
The effect that Violet, not he, had lost control of herself
lately, was instantly conveyed. She nodded and nearly
laughed. She was a nice kid. After that the conversation
was the old one, but inverted, — the parts changed. As
follows.

' It's like this,' said Johnny, frowning. ' I'm pretty busy
in these days. I suppose it's miles to your place.'

' Miles,' said Violet. ' We're half out of London.' She
was recovering from the shock, or whatever it was.

' I've been wanting for some time to see all of you,' said
Johnny. ' Some of you, Violet, — one or two. What about
to-morrow, for instance ? Or would the lot of you be out ? '

94 THE ACCOLADE

' To-morrow is Sunday/ said Violet. ' I don't want to
disturb you after luncheon, if you're really busy.'

' I'll get Blandy to call me early,' said Johnny, ' like the
fellow in Wordsworth.' He waited, — she did not even
correct him,— it had been worse than he thought. He
had been a fair worm, he decided, — he had a certain
pleasure in deciding it. ' Quite sure that's all right ? ' he
enquired, looking down, and gathering her little hand more
closely beneath his arm.

' Quite sure.' She nodded.

' You won't go back on it ? ' He still hesitated. ' I don't
want to go all that way out for nothing, you know.'

' You shall be let in, I promise you.' She looked up and
laughed. ' John, did you think I really would ? '

' I've known women who would, soon as winking,'
explained Johnny, relieved anew. ' Score over a man in
front of the servants, — on her own premises, — sickening
form ! However, I admit you're not that class, — spiteful.
I say,' — he felt with his odd hand in a pocket, — ' I suppose
I've got the address ? '

' Ursula has,' said Violet. Johnny laughed himself by an
oversight. ' Are you sure you have got my name ? '

' Sure, darling,' said Johnny, with sudden earnestness.
' Couldn't ever forget it, for ah1 the time it is since I began.'

' Well, you'll be careful in front of my rough-haired
visitors,' said Violet, coming back to the original object of
the conversation, in beautiful style.

' I'll be jolly careful,' swore Johnny. ' Granted the
rough-haired have the sense to keep away.'

Thus it was settled, and Johnny, fairly content with the
world again, returned her to her husband in the dancing-
hall, excessively late. This, of course, should have been
the final score for Johnny, since the idea of making Violet
thoroughly late for the ' other fellow ' had been in the
back of his mind, first and last, during the entire duration
of that dialogue. But that part of his well-merited score

THE ASPIRANT 95

shrivelled utterly, owing to the fact that Mr. Shovell, a
careless young gentleman, who never kept the close watch
on his wife that her attractions warranted, — was even
later than they.

The results were simply admirable.

Johnny turned up next day at his cousin's ' place,'
amiable in temper, excellent in appearance, everything he
should be, and perfectly prepared to do all she wanted.
Violet did not even have to explain what she wanted, —
he knew already. The chances were that from the first
moment she had mentioned wanting to talk to him
particularly, he had known. He was really at his best ;
nor was he conscious of being a model, which would have
spoiled the effect, because he was absent-minded. He
was so very absent, that Violet wondered if it were the
results of the sleeping-engagement from which Blandy had
too brusquely torn him : but it was not so. Johnny really
had lots of things to think about, an increasing number,
and in Violet's friendly atmosphere, amid a society which
neither bored nor bothered him unduly, he could get some
of his thinking done.

He talked to her a little at first, of course, answering
questions on the subject of his mother, and ' drooping his
eyes ' on his surroundings. Then his cousin was snatched
out of his hands by fresh arrivals, less deserving, perhaps,
but competent, — •' on the spot and respectable,' to use
Johnny's own terms. He had no more to do than to be
civil to such as spoke to him, and pick up a jest occasionally,
that Shovell missed. As luck would have it, none of them,
— except little rough-haired Miss Falkland, who did not
count, — were women. Had women been there, they would
have attacked him.

John was sure of that. After all, in twelve years' experi-
ence, one has stuff enough to generalise : and it had begun
before he was twenty, if you came to that. He knew about
women, of course, because one had to ; but he had had a

96 THE ACCOLADE

little too many of them, all the same, in his life. Not only
his aunts, but others. His aunts, being pious and proper,
and passive and put-upon, and everything except pictur-
esque or poor, — fearing and adoring him, in about equal
measure, ever since he was fifteen years old, — he could have
managed with, their type was constant. It was others, all
the other sorts. It seemed to surprise his world that he
' cut ' occasionally, with Bert or Jemmy, to the most
savage regions of Ireland or Scotland, in order to do without
them ; but even there they sprang up, materialised, as it
were, in his neighbourhood. Nor did they vanish again,
like the convenient temptations of the saints. Johnny was
not a saint, possibly : it must be that.

He could manage them, of course, practically all the
sorts, at need : but that did not necessarily mean he was
always wanting to do it. They seemed to think so, but at
quite a lot of times he would sooner have done anything
else. Only they attacked him, and of course he ' bucked
up ' and responded, in the necessary character, and so on.
A man may flirt in self-defence, he may have to. He may
have to do other things as well. Heartlessness is the
smallest charge, in such contingencies, that may be laid
against him. There is no saying where the incessant
trifling and carping and cajoling of women may lead you.
As for jealous women — good Lord !

Johnny shut his eyes, his head resting on his clenched
hand, in a byway of Violet's convenient little drawing-
room. When he opened his eyes again, — wide, in his
manner, — the rough-haired Miss Falkland was regarding
him. One little shy glance, wondering and pitying, that
was all. She thought he had a headache, probably.

He stirred, and looked about him again. He had lost
himself rather. He liked the atmosphere of Violet's little
' place,' and he remembered having liked it in just that
manner when he last came there, which was some time
since. The kid knew how to do things, like his mother.
He wished Ursula would learn the difference, but it was

THE ASPIRANT 97

past hoping now. Except in his own private retreat at
home, which he had furnished and arranged, — and then dis-
arranged,— all himself, he was nowhere really at his ease.
It was all very nice, of course, like Ursula ; but that was not
the point. Colour and comfort were what Johnny required
in life, each of the right sort, — his. His mother knew.

His thoughts turned upon his mother, since in this odd
little corner of London, there really seemed no call to talk.
She told him less and less of herself in these days, and he
could not be with her all he wanted. She was ill, of course,
that was what it meant : women of her kind did not talk
of suffering. And since, owing to that, she could talk of
little else, they were being cut off from one another steadily
and surely. As surely, worse would come. One of his
argosies of true affection, untricked and untainted, was
driving on the rocks. One great treasure of his life would
be spilt and wasted, — if it could be wasted. Perhaps it
never could.

All unaware, Johnny dropped his head down again,
since his hand was ready to receive it. He was sitting
absolutely motionless, attending, with the surface of his
brain, to the contentions of a group of clever young
rough-haired men from the public offices. ' Rough-
haired,' we had better mention, was not libellous, in
Johnny's use. Rough-haired merely referred to anything
under age. Under twenty-five, in this instance, but the
word would do. They were among his subjects, and he
could have corrected some of their statements : but still
he did not. It was not worth it, among such a respectable
and honest gang.

Violet brought him his second cup of tea, unasked,
while she still discoursed with the rough-haired behind
her : and startled him out of his dream by her approach.
He made a movement to rise, but she stopped it with two
fingers, guarding him, as it were, with equal kindness,
just as though he had not bullied and offended her the
night before. That was how they were, the best of them, —

98 THE ACCOLADE

he would willingly have kissed her little fingers on his
shoulder : only Shovell would have scalped him, and little,
rough-haired Miss Falkland, over by the window, would
have been shocked. One had to be careful, with girls of
that age about.

Johnny sighed, and drank his tea out of a silver spoon,
which he examined between whiles, the other hand still
propping his languid head. He had no idea what he was
doing, of course, only it happened Helena took note of
every detail. It mattered not the least, to Helena's eyes,
what he did : he remained simply royal, superb in every
look and tone and movement, — stages, yes, worlds re-
moved from every other man in the room.

Johnny was presently recalled to life, suddenly galvanised
in his manner, because one of Violet's visitors outstayed
all the others : and it entered John's languid head that this
person had his eye upon a tete-d-tete with Miss Falkland
too. He was waiting in short, and had for some time been
waiting, for Johnny to go.

Very good : Johnny aroused, emerged, got that man with
great address on a subject he knew nothing about, and
treated him very badly, in order to make little Miss
Falkland laugh at him : which she did. That is, she
smiled slightly once, turning her head aside to conceal it.
It was sufficient, and Johnny allowed the visitor to go.
He was anxious to go by that time. In the character of
the master of the house, which he assumed easily, Johnny
helped him out, and then turned round. The room, except
for his hostess in the sofa-corner, was empty.

' Where's she gone ? ' said Johnny, vexed.

* Probably to speak to my baby in the garden,' said
Violet. ' She likes them so.'

' Why isn't it on view ? ' said Johnny.

' Oh, Charles took her outside. She loves the sun.'

Johnny proceeded to the French window of the room,
and looked out of it. to see if she were speaking the truth.

THE ASPIRANT 99

Violet dodged him habitually, with that child. He had
never yet got a fair view of it, and hardly believed in its
existence. She might have been ' having him on,' on the
subject. However, it was there : or at least, something
was there, in dispute between Miss Falkland, and Violet's
young husband, who was holding it.

' You'd better have it in, hadn't you ? ' said Johnny,
having gazed at the group on the grass a moment, absorbing
all its ingredients, with solemnity.

' Why ? ' said Violet, colouring a little.

' Because I'm going out. Might be dangerous if we met,
mightn't it ? We never have.'

Having teased her to that extent, rather needfully, he
swung suddenly through the window, out upon the grass.
Her little plans not to parade her possession in his company
amused him. He might as well show her he saw through
them : just as well.

He went on up the garden, slightly smiling, and sniffing
the air with contentment, — real air. It was quite a fresh
part of London, and the close of a lovely spring day. It
was Sunday too, — not that Sunday as such makes any
difference, but little Miss Falkland in the distance had
looked it, — it might have been her Sunday frock. Ob-
viously, she came from a house where Sunday frocks are
common. Johnny crossed the shadow of the house, into
the further spaces of the little garden, where the sun still
lingered, and where the trio stood.

He met his host first, and mentioned that Violet was
fed-up with the lot of them, and wanted to read and not
be bothered. Violet had not told him these facts, but he
mentioned them as unquestionable. Whereupon, instead
of stopping to retort, and open a general discussion, such
as might have proved useful and introductory to Johnny's
purposes, Mr. Shovell promptly took the white thing in
his arms inside to her, — as though that was any good !
The effect of this impulsive move, in a man who should
have known better, was to ' brusquer les choses ' con-

ioo THE ACCOLADE

siderably more than Johnny intended. It put him out.
Why, for all Shovell knew, the girl might have been
frightened of him, left at his mercy like that ! However,
now he had to make the best of it. He was about to make
one of the well-known and usual openings with under-
twenty, when Helena started first.

' She is so good, Mr. Ingestre,' was Helena's opening, —
enthusiastic. ' An absolute lamb ! '

Johnny took her to allude to her hostess, and began
answering carefully, — then found Miss Falkland was
talking of the child. It was true he had not heard that kid
cry, which looked like good management on the women's
part, somewhere in the background. He implied this, in
prettier language, for Miss Falkland's benefit.

'It's a question of health, generally,1 said Helena.
' When they feel really comfortable, they never cry. Or
at least practically never. And she's so sweetly well/

' Ah, yes,' said Johnny. Certainly, health was something.
A healthy child was a great thing, more than this bit of a
girl imagined, in speaking so lightly.

However, he had no objection to Miss Falkland chatter-
ing, while he realised the effects of the level sunlight among
her twisted meshes of hair, — mazes of her hair, as some
Elizabethan called it. That fellow's idea was that Love
walked the mazes, Johnny remembered, — they certainly
entangled the eye of man. Helena's hair, miscalled red,
was the beautiful chestnut threaded, — powdered, one
might say, — with gold, which of all shades of red is least
often seen. Her skin in full daylight had a pearly lustre,
peculiar to that complexion, and her lashes were delicate
and dark. Though still quite a schoolgirl, she was ' tall
and stately,' like the Idyllic Maud. She was much more
Johnny's match, by the ballroom standards, than Violet
Shovell was, though he could not have ' pulled her about '
very easily, nor cared to attempt it. He barely looked
downward to the gold-dust wisps on her temples, as they
strolled together on the grass-plot, side by side.

THE ASPIRANT lol

Her beauty astonished him, as it astonished him he
had not observed it sooner : he had been uncommonly
careless. Real beauty, new-blown, is not so often seen,
that one can afford to waste notice on its imitations. But
that is the worst of ballrooms. It took him quite a time,
now, as he walked at her side on the turf, to make up his
lost opportunities, at the rate of a glance a minute. He
feared the stage of their acquaintance, — since, of course,
nothing spoken in a ballroom counts, — would hardly
allow him more. This was their first meeting, — he trusted
Miss Falkland agreed with him. He rather thought by her
manner that she did.

He tried to class her, but she fitted no class he had
going, so he put her into a class by herself, and then added
the attributes of the class afterwards, in proportion as
he discovered them in her. By this ingenious means,
highly to be recommended to those who class, everything
Helena said or did fitted her new class nicely. He tried
her with remarks on various appropriate subjects, and
attended critically to her answers, soothed unaware by
her gentle steady manner all the time. Miss Falkland
asked him of her own accord to smoke, and refused with
a blush to do likewise, — just right for her class, that was.
Then he found two chairs, close together, on Shovell's
lawn, which happened to suit his purposes, since the
evening was warm. So, settling in one, while Helena settled
in the other, he proceeded to a few investigations in the
business matter. Not that he cared much about Helena's
theatrical ideas or qualifications, but Violet seemed to
have set her heart on it, and that urged a little effort.

He found she had studied on the right lines, in quite
good hands, and only wanted, as usual, a little pushing
into publicity. John knew innumerable people of influence,
in the dramatic world, since his permanent taste lay that
way. He thought them over, while he looked at the girl
before him. She looked too composed and ladylike to
promise at all well, but she had presence and intelligence,

102 THE ACCOLADE

and — just possibly — imagination. It would look well,
and be amusing by the way, if he made Ursula put together
a little party, and did a scene or two of something easy
with Miss Falkland, to show her off. Rosalind was a part
that would suit her nicely ; and Johnny would wrestle
for her willingly as Orlando, — it would be exercise, if
nothing else. It was a bit of a pity there was not a duel
in the piece, — a duel with swords ; but one cannot adapt
Shakespeare to that extent : there is a popular prejudice
against it.

Then he thought of a few other parts for her, building
plans idly while he smoked, — to think profoundly on the
matter was not worth while. But Rosalind was the best,
the girl had the air and build for it. Graceful and breezy
comedy was her line, granted she possessed a line at all.
That would have to be seen in rehearsal, — at Johnny's
house for choice. Ursula — well, Ursula could never be
regarded as a serious obstacle, when his own mind was
made up.

Having settled all this to his satisfaction, in the back-
ground of his mind : and having surprised Helena a good
deal by the kind of questions he asked, and by his fashion
of looking at her, cool and penetrating and impersonal,
while she responded: Johnny produced one or two
generalities which sounded very well to himself, though
they certainly meant nothing, — how could they ? There
was nothing to tell her but that her appearance was in
her favour, which, granted her ladylike class, it was im-
possible to say. Had she been the ordinary thing, of
course he would have said it.

As it was, he lay silent for a period, smoking and looking
at the sky ; during which period Miss Falkland, not
venturing to guess his thoughts, was respectfully silent too.
He was different, it occurred to her, out-of-doors, from
what he had been within them, previously j nicer, nearer
to her, so to speak. Dreadfully clever as he undoubtedly
was, his royalty was in abeyance. He was bare-headed,

THE ASPIRANT 103

and his hair disordered by his lazy attitude, which may
have had something to do with it. He looked young, —
nearly as young as Harold, — distinctly younger than Mr.
Auberon, when he behaved like this. Not at all married,
either, that remained the oddest thing. She tried to find
a term for him, as Johnny had tried to find a class for her.
She had heard heaps of people call Mr. Ingestre handsome,
but she did not think it was the word. She had seen so
many so-called handsome men. He was ' nice/ she
resolved upon that. It served the turn.

' I hate London,' said Mr. Ingestre, deliberately.

' Oh, so do I,' cried Helena, forgetting her respect.

' I say ! ' murmured Johnny, looking at her. A girl in
her first season, — well in the front of it, too, — ought to
have liked London. It was not quite right of her.

However, he realised that if he began at this point to
talk to her about the country, he would certainly be late
for whatever the next thing was, — and there were several.
So, after another pause, he looked at his watch, got up,
held out his hand to her, and strolled indoors.

The double result of this proceeding was to impress Miss
Falkland in the rear, who decided that he must be even
cleverer than she had suspected, he was so funny and
vague ; and to take Mrs. Shovell in the front, by surprise ;
for Johnny caught her alone with her baby, tete-A-tete :
and so unexpected was his descent, that she could not
dispose of her incumbrance, nor even reach the bell.

This amused him. Her appearance with the creature
was amusing too, and novel : he had never seen her with
it before. He took them in, separately and in combination,
at his leisure, for a short time. The kid seemed pretty well
like all others, he decided, which rather surprised him,
being Violet's : but it looked fit, as the rough-haired Miss
Falkland said. Its form was tremendous.

' Well ? ' said Violet, getting tired of it.

' Well,' said Johnny, still at leisure, ' I didn't pro-
pose.'

104 THE ACCOLADE

' I hoped you would,' said Violet. ' Not marriage, you
know, but something more helpful for the poor girl.'

' I should have said marriage would be the most helpful,'
said Johnny. ' Much the best thing for her, anyhow.'

' John, — you don't mean it ? ' She looked round.

' What do you suppose she began talking about ? '
said Johnny. ' Guess.'

' I haven't an idea,' said Violet. ' I'm rather surprised
she did begin.'

' She began right off/ said Johnny, impressively,
pointing, ' on Kids/

' I'm sorry,' said Violet. ' I'm afraid that was Margery's
fault. I shouldn't have left her about. We apologise.'

' However/ pursued Johnny, ' there's no harm in her
speaking a part for us down there, if she likes : no harm
at all. She'll not do it much worse than others of her sort,
I dare say : and I'll have a few people in to hear.'

' How terribly kind — of Ursula/ said Violet.

' Of course/ said Johnny, reminded, ' Ursula may not
have a day, when we get back from Devonshire. The
cards are pretty thick on the ground, in our place, and she's
been sending out some thousands too. Quite likely she's
full up, when I come to think. If so, it's off.'

' No, John, — nothing of the sort. If so, you ask your
few people here, and proceed as originally intended.'

' Oh, do I ? ' scoffed Johnny. ' Not likely. You've no
idea, the sort of people they are. On the line, most of 'em,
— over it, the women. Not your form, my sweet child,
at all.' He seemed complacent.

Mrs. Shovell frowned over this for a time. Her baby,
which was certainly well-behaved, was engaged in eating
her gold chain the while.

' Well/ she said, submitting thoughtfully, ' I leave it
to you.'

' Quite sure ? ' asked Johnny.

' Quite. Because you know about those things, — I
don't.'

THE ASPIRANT 105

' As usual/ he concluded, in a moralising tone. ' Isn't
it ? Yes. Very good, now I'm going. If that was my kid,
I shouldn't give it gold to eat — er — at present. Later on,
it might take to it. But I suppose you know about those
things, don't you ? '

' I had thought I did, till now.' She laughed a little,
and rescued her chain from the baby's clutches. ' John,
it's dreadfully kind of you, really. Then I bequeath
Helena to you entirely, — may I ? '

' Entirely,' said Johnny. ' Body and soul. Can you
reconcile it with your conscience as an — er — matron ? '

' Yes,' said Mrs. Shovell definitely. ' I'm thankful.'

' Better not be thankful too soon/ said Johnny with a
glint. ' The results may be other than you think.'

' Don't be too hard on her/ entreated Violet. ' She's
so nice/

' Much too nice/ said Johnny. ' That's the bother.
It generally is. What's more, she thinks I'm nice, at
present. Bet you she does ! '

' And you don't want to make such a nice girl change
her mind . Poor John , no , it 's horrid for you / She laughed,
but glanced at him. ' What are you really thinking ? '
she asked, and waited.

' She's a bit more suitable to your place than mine/
he said, slowly. ' You'd have done better to stick to her.
That's what I said before, started with, isn't it ? Why
do you make me repeat myself ? She doesn't belong to
our lot much — not much — I can't see her somehow.
Course I may be wrong.' He held out his finger to the
baby.

' Don't lose heart before you try her/ laughed Violet,
eyebrows up He was distinctly funny this evening, not
tiresome at all, tired was nearer the mark. And so clever !
She was almost certain, as soon as he had spoken, that he
was right. He knew women so well, and he knew artists
too : he had real experience of both.

For the moment while he stood close to her, silent and

io6 THE ACCOLADE

passive apparently, condescending to her child's little
hand, the power he carried about the world unused seemed
to break through its barriers and reach her. That was the
royalty in him really, that Helena had sought after her
first interview to express. It was not, like his father's, the
common dignity of an ancient name and arrogant training :
John had more cause for pride than that. That power
in reserve of .his seemed now to throw Helena's little
ambitions to a great distance, though he said no word of
it, nor hinted a comparison. His own had been so far more
real, more firmly founded, — proven indeed ! With every
year that passed, he knew better what he had wasted,
facing the folly of it squarely, as he had done from the first.
It had not embittered, either, the eternal youth of art in
him was too real for that. It only seemed to bring him
up short like this, at times, as though protesting at his
unworthy destiny. Baffled on two sides, in life, he faced,
as home affairs now stood, a double failure. Yet, for all
a single failure meant to an Ingestre, his gallant attitude
towards life never varied. He was still the young outlaw,
highwayman, watching for fresh chances always, reining
his horse back, his eyes upon the road.

' Well, anyhow, I'll see to it,' he resumed, after a con-
siderable interval. Dragging his gaze from vacancy, he
looked down. ' What are you laughing at ? — yes, you
were, — saw you ! Teach you to laugh at me, bit of a kid !
Pretending to have kids of your own, I'll take it away
from you.' After this preliminary, very rapid, he cleared
his throat and started again.

' Anyhow,' he resumed, ' I won't have those people here.
That's a rotten idea of yours, really. Our place is better,
jollier atmosphere, smarter scenery, background to tone.
Domestic situation they recognise, — soon.' Pause. 'Write
you about it, or she will/ said Johnny, gravely. ' Good-
bye. Good-bye — er — Margery. I say ! — call that a hand ! '

PART II

THE ARTIST

URSULA disliked Johnny's idea heartily, particularly that
it concerned Helena Falkland, and came by way of Violet
Shovell ; but she did not resist it for long. She literally
could not resist her husband when he was set upon a thing,
though she was obstinate enough about details. She and
John had more than one acrid dialogue over the matter,
while they were in the country, but never over the fact
of the party, which was understood after the first encounter,
— simply over the management of it. Here she proved
denser than usual to Johnny's able and eloquent demon-
strations. She showed an entire inability to grasp the
fact that business and pleasure cannot be mixed ; and
wanted from the first to turn, by indiscriminate invitations,
her husband's test of the girl before experts into a fashion-
able party.

' I don't want a lot of hangers-on,' explained Johnny,
the first morning they got back to town. ' They can see
her on the boards later, if she ever gets there, which isn't
likely.'

' But you are going to act, aren't you ? ' argued Ursula.
' Everybody likes that.'

' It's not a costume exhibition/ said Johnny, ' which
is what everybody likes. They may stop her in the middle,
probably. They'll probably want to stop her before she
begins.'

' Who may ? '

' Oh, our lot. Monty Mitchell and the rest.'

' You mean that horrid Mitchell's coming ? '

109

no THE ACCOLADE

' That horrid Mitchell's my principal guest. I'd have
had Mrs. Monty alone if I'd dared, — she's a far better
actor, not to say judge ; but I didn't dare in the circum-
stances. And it's better Monty should see her anyhow, —
seeing's something in the case.'

' I suppose you mean to dress,' said Ursula.

' I don't,' said Johnny. ' I shall wear what I'm standing
in, which'll be golf-clothes, probably, at two on Sunday.
And she'll undress, if anything, for Rosalind, — hope she
will.' He pushed his cup to be refilled.

' You needn't be unpleasant,' said Ursula.

She considered the new material, quietly, while she
filled his cup for him. It was that superior manner of hers
Johnny found so intolerable, — as though she had been
his nursery-governess, or his Sunday-school teacher, not
his wife. He was certain at times she put it on to vex him,
— Ursula was not really like that. His sentiments about
her perplexed himself. Lately, down in Devonshire, she
had seemed to shine, by the side of her mother and sisters.
John had depended on her, inevitably, as his defence
against her far more deadly relations : and Ursula had
defended him, kindly and capably too. Out riding on the
hills, he had managed almost to like her in the old way,
once or twice : but the impression did not wear. As soon
as they reached the background of their own hearth, and
the greater variety and contrast of London, they slipped
back to the miserable deadlock of misunderstanding again.
She would not understand him : of late she would not
even try. She turned her back on all his interests, looked
away from his friends. Her appearance of self-sufficing
completeness outraged him just as before ; her manners,
movements, even her exhausted ill-managed voice was
a daily trial to his temper, as much as what she said. He
constantly exhorted her to speak up and to speak out,
even when he could make her speak at all. He knew it
was a matter of health largely, but his growing impatience
and distaste were not matters that could be reasoned with,

THE ARTIST in

even had he been one who lived by reason, — and he was
not.

The new material did not please Ursula, any more than
the old. She preferred John to dress, to shine as much as
possible, if he really intended to show himself in public.
It was something to exhibit him, if she could not approve.
Her hope was that he was ' ragging ' as usual, misleading
her in order to get his way. If she flattered him a little,
and asked some of his personal acquaintance in the good
sets, he would not seriously insist on reciting to them in
golf-clothes, she was sure.

' I suppose you've asked Violet,' she resumed, ' and all
her lot.'

' No, I haven't, I don't want her/ said Johnny patiently.
' And having some sense, she doesn't want to come. You
don't seem to have an idea of the thing, Ursula. It's not
a show, it's an examination.'

' What are you acting for then ? ' said Ursula
huffily.

' I ? Backing her up. She needs somebody, and I'm the
obvious, specially as I've been rehearsing her. She'll be —
er — used to me. I'll sit in a chair and read the part if
you'd rather, — the other girl will have to, anyhow. But
it's more fun for her if I act it, naturally.'

' What other girl ? ' said Ursula.

' There's another girl in the piece,' explained Johnny,
' called Celia, a deuced pretty name.'

There was a pause. ' That reminds me,' said Ursula.
' The Auberon boy would like to come, with his sister, from
Hampstead. I ought to ask them to something, and it's
just a chance.'

' Just,' agreed Johnny. ' Hampstead, — great snakes ! '

Ursula, disregarding his ejaculations, was making a note
on the list of names that lay at her side. Why Celia should
remind her of Hampstead, Johnny did not ask. The
connection between Arden and Hampstead seemed to him
far-fetched, but it was just like Ursula. Give her some-

112 THE ACCOLADE

thing like Arden, and she thought of something like Hamp-
stead, instantly, — no hope.

' Anyone else you'd like ? ' he enquired, watching her.
' A few classes from the High Schools, now, — classics, do 'em
good. Pleasant Sunday afternoon for the masses, — we
might take Hyde Park.'

' Why do you do it on Sunday ? ' said Ursula, looking up
from her notes. ' I'm sure the girl's people won't like that.
The Falklands are Church, I know.'

' I do it for my people, who are a bit more important,
and happen to have no other time. Did you ever consider
what the dramatic profession is, — worst-paid and hardest-
worked of any, except sick-nursing.'

' How can you compare them ? ' said Ursula indignantly.

' I don't, for a minute,' said Johnny. ' Anyone can
smooth a pillow. You'd do it by nature : so would little
Miss rough-haired Rosalind. Violet would do it — oh,
rippingly.' He stretched his arms and looked at her.
' Pity I've never been ill.'

Ursula coloured a little. She would have given much to
have John ill, really helpless on her hands : she could have
taught him a few things then. How much of woman's
boasted faculty for nursing is love of power, in origin ?
Ursula had a passion for power, a tyrant's passion, for she
dreamt of a power for which she need not pay. No other
would have satisfied her finally. It is a fact that two
cannot have that peculiar power, the enchanter's, in a
household. It is always either the man or the woman,
sometimes neither, never both. Nor does it come by
desiring, the contrary. Johnny had it by nature, so Ursula
had been driven to succumb. She had not realised he
would beat her on her own ground, in this fashion, in
marrying him. He could attract by a look or a word, make
the friends he wanted, and keep them, what was more.
That fine feminine influence she had hoped to wield had
been swallowed up in his far more influential personality.
Even his vanity was a bigger thing than hers, hers merely

THE ARTIST 113

rankled, strangling within her. He was a readier assailant
too, — he seemed to enjoy the assault. When he teased, as
at present, she had no choice but outspoken fury, or silence ;
and she preferred silence — unfortunately.

Johnny watched her a minute, and thought her a dead
thing. Then he got up. ' I won't have any of 'em/ he said
from the hearthrug, in a keen pleasant tone. ' I hope you
have grasped that. You can of course have a tea-party on
your own in the servants' hall, or anywhere fairly remote,
and I'll manage my gang in the music-room, with — er — •
Rosalind's assistance. But I rather want you, and you'd
better come.'

A pause, Ursula preserving rigid silence, though she felt
the blow. She knew what that tone meant, when John or
his father used it. She was raging internally, — rage that
would have served her well, had her principles allowed her
to use it. If she had broken out on him for five minutes,
and treated his insolence as it deserved, he would have
laughed and let her have her friends, with but short verbal
resistance. If she had laid her head on the cloth and cried,
he would have done the like, hastily, since emotion was the
thing of all things that took effect on Johnny. Had she
even changed countenance or colour, — but she was pale and
still as a statue to his eyes, and even cut her bread and ate
mechanically.

' Well ? ' said Johnny. ' Let's hear what you propose,
because I want to finish. It's no fun going back to the
beginning again every time. I'd sooner have things clear —
where possible.'

' I have invited the Weyburns already,' said Ursula.

Johnny sat down. ' Very good, then, it's done,' he said
quietly. ' My father would say, ww-invite them. Find
the best way out for yourself and go hang. But you've
taken care to choose people I care for, and you've probably
told 'em all about it. Haven't you ? All the pretty little
entertainment your nice husband was getting up ? '

' I understood that I could,' said Ursula.

ii4 THE ACCOLADE

' What d'you mean by understanding it ? ' flashed
Johnny. ' Where is your understanding ? Do I speak
English or do I not ? I said I wouldn't have a lot of
ignorant snobs filling up my rooms on this occasion, in so
many words. I want the people I care for, — whose opinion
I care for '

' You just said you cared for the Weyburns,' said Ursula.

' I don't care that for their opinion on art, and you know
it, and I should hope they do too. They ought to, by now.
I promised — er — I said I'd do this thing properly, no
rotting '

' Why not say whom you promised,' said Ursula scorn-
fully. ' You needn't be so careful of my feelings. I always
supposed you cared for her opinion, and I'm perfectly ready
to ask her too. I implied as much.'

Ursula felt intensely moderate and reasonable in making
this concession. Johnny was almost desperate at her
density. He gripped the breakfast-table with both his fine
brown hands.

' And I said I would not, and why, and I had some hope
you followed. Violet Shovell's a deuced clever girl in her
way, but she's not an expert, and she knows it. When the
Falkland gang attacked her, she did the best she could :
she " passed," — shunted the thing to my hands. I'm not an
expert myself, merely the common go-between, but I'm a
stage better than her. I propose to " pass " in turn to
Mitchell and Fanny Mitchell — who's first-rate. They'll
pass the girl in the other sense, examiner's, as I said ;
accept her, or damn her. If she's damned, she's damned, —
and be damned to her.' Johnny laughed suddenly, collaps-
ing into his seat.

After the next pause — ' I never heard anyone use bad
language so deliberately as you do,' said Ursula, with white
disgust. ' It may amuse you to say, — it does not me to hear.'
' I hoped I was speaking English,' said Johnny. ' I was
trying to, quite hard. And I added a joke, that's all.
Couldn't help it somehow, — never mind.'

THE ARTIST 115

' If you talked what you call good English a little oftener/
said Ursula, — and so on. The discussion need not be
pursued. The result, after a little more wrangling, was a
compromise : with all the advantages, of course, to him.
He deserved them, in his opinion, considering the way he
had controlled his temper, and the trouble he had taken to
explain. Ursula would play hostess, and ' behave decently '
to his respected friends, who would come in any clothes
they chose, and behave in the manner that suited them,
since it was obvious they were doing him a favour by
coming at all } and he would accept the minimum of hers,
granted they were warned of the bohemian nature of the
entertainment. But they were not, said Johnny, to make
a beastly noise, either of chatter or applause : the latter
above all, since there would be nothing to applaud, — and
Ursula could tell them so. She was to have drinks ready,
the proper drinks ; and people who minded smoking could
stay away.

II

Quentin's clever aunt sent him a letter.

This lady, Miss Celia Havant, requires a brief note,
though she was far too busy with useful works to intervene
much in the life of idle moneyed households like the Ingestres'
and Falklands'. She was slightly acquainted with Ursula
Ingestre, whom she met occasionally on committees.
Ursula had, during a casual meeting of the kind, stored
the fact that one of the young Auberons was in Miss
Havant's charge, and it was thus that the name Celia,
which John deigned to approve, had conveyed Ursula's
practical thoughts direct to Hampstead, rather than to
Arden, during the altercation with her husband.

Miss Havant was ' Hampstead ' simply to Ursula : not
the aboriginal type, in the days before London swallowed
the suburb, but its up-to-date equivalent. All kinds of
wise people respected her deeply, regardless of the facts that

n6 THE ACCOLADE

she was far from wealthy, what Ursula called ' sudden ' in
manner, oddly dressed, indifferent to the social grades to a
really reprehensible degree, and absurdly young-looking
to boot. When Mrs. Falkland first saw Quentin's aunt,
issuing from a Saturday matinee performance at his side,
she thought Quentin had been deceiving her, calling himself
unattached, and then seeming on such easy terms with this
young and attractive companion. When he introduced her
as his aunt, Mrs. Falkland had another shock and looked
again. Miss Havant had the appearance of a tall fair boy,
quite pretty in the face, though thin and rather worn at
close quarters. She said three things Mrs. Falkland did
not the least understand, by way of making friends, and
then nodded to her nephew and departed — Mrs. Falkland
told Helena — ' stalking.'

Miss Havant, in philanthropy as in other things, was
given to experiment and adventure : but since she was
clever and observant, by the time she was five-and-thirty,
her experiments, as a rule, came off. She rarely disturbed
her nephew with her half-completed enterprises or partially-
solved problems, though Quentin was ready enough to help
her. That is, when the problems referred to concerned
men : when they dealt with women, girls, or such snares of
the serious worker, he retired, firmly, in Miss Havant 's
favour, or looked across the distractions to something else
with his steel-coloured, far-reaching eyes. This peculiarity
in him his aunt recognised, as did Harold Falkland and
all Quentin's real intimates. Quentin struggled with a
fierce, cold contempt for such as let themselves be diverted
from the work of the world by sexual entanglements. It
was only conscience, an admitted duty to society, that ever
made him look that way at all. He strove with the instinct
in himself because, being an honest observer, he could not
but admit the weight of the temptation in other lives. It
was a known phenomenon, to be reckoned with, so much
he allowed, but he had no pleasure in dwelling on its
manifestations about him ; the contrary, he detested the

THE ARTIST 117

necessity. Consequently, when Miss Havant found herself,
that spring, on the point of going to Italy with the problem
of a young female unsolved on her hands, she tossed up
between disturbing Quentin, whom she knew so well, about
it : and plaguing Mrs. Ingestre, whom she hardly knew at
all. Finally she appealed to both.

The letter fell into Quentin 's evening leisure, the after-
dinner period he allowed himself in his own room for smoke
and society. Young Falkland as usual was sharing it :
but to Harold's disgust, Harold's brother-in-law had also
insinuated himself upon the scene, and lay lankily in
Quentin 's longest chair, studying a pamphlet he had
picked up, in a superior manner, through his eye-glasses.
Whenever this gentleman, Thomas by name, left the
company of the Captain, who bored him, for that of the
younger fry, a certain strain ensued. Mr. Thomas was a
junior partner in a shipping firm, and just sufficiently
older than the pair to patronise them. Harold's dislike
for him was of a very old date, and Quentin fell into his
way of thinking, easily. Indeed, no man could have called
Harold friend for long, who did not dislike Thomas in the
correct degree. Harold had never cared much for his
elder sister before her marriage, but since that event, he
spoke of her now and then as ' poor Con.' Nothing would
induce him to believe that Con liked Thomas, though he
admitted the poor girl put a good face on it, with a courage
in adversity to be expected of the Falkland blood. He
also pointed out to Helena that it would be better for
her even to marry nobody than a crass creature like
Thomas ; whereto Helena, laughing lightly, seemed to
agree.

' Here's another/ was Quentin 's comment on his corre-
spondence.

' Bridget again ? ' asked Harold, who knew Miss Havant's
vigorous hand. Quentin's young sister had been steadily
in hot water throughout her youth, so he presumed the
disturbing intelligence referred to her.

n8 THE ACCOLADE

' It's not Bridget, this time. It's Aunt Celia, — just
her style.'

Whereupon, trusting Thomas was engaged, he gave
Harold a specimen.

' MY DEAR,' [wrote Miss Havant],

' I am vexed in mind about the Jacobys, and I
thought it better to warn you, in case the rat Jacoby
came bothering Bridget in my absence, and she appealed
to you. You are to give him nothing, if you please, and
harden Bridget's heart. He is capable of producing a new
story at a moment's notice, but, however thrilling, it will
not be true. I have disproved most of his original state-
ments, on application in the proper quarters.

' i. He never possessed an estate in Poland, and I doubt
if he ever saw the country.

' 2. His wife is not dead, though pretty bad, I fear,
poor thing. I shall try to see her in Geneva as I pass
through, and write you the facts.

'3. He is not destitute, — owing to his last disgraceful
escapade he has means enough for his present needs.
Remember this.

' 4. He is not a revolutionary, or at least no sort I
respect '

' Does your aunt respect revolutionaries ? ' drawled
Thomas, at this point. He had been listening, of course.

' As a rule,' said Quentin. ' I mean, if they are pukka
revolutionaries, out to die for a healthy cause : not simply
sentimental.'

' What do you mean by sentimental ? '

' I suppose I mean, when they're set on dying for a
cause that's lost already. Some of them are.'

' Ireland ? ' enquired Harold.

' India ? ' sneered Thomas.

' That sort of thing,' said Quentin to Harold. ' They're
poets generally.'

THE ARTIST 119

' You mean Miss Havant doesn't like that sort the best ? '
said Harold, looking subtle.

' No,' said Quentin. ' Why should she, or any person of
sense ? '

' Go on with the Jacobys,' said Harold.

' Who are the Jacobys ? ' cut in Thomas, as Quentin
was about to proceed.

' Nobody knows who he is, and he comes from nowhere.
Like most natives of nowhere he calls himself a Polish
Count, and we guess him to be a Russian Jew, but he
might be any nation out of five, and any age up to fifty.'

' Eloquence,' observed Thomas to Harold, who did not
attend to him.

' He's always turning up with a new story/ pursued
Quentin, ' and bothering people. My sister calls him the
Old Pretender, — he's certainly pretended to most things
in his time. ... I'd have settled him long ago if I'd been
let alone,' said Quentin to Harold, ' but needless to say,
I wasn't.'

' How did you come across him ? ' said Thomas.

' My people came across him first, in the country.
He took in a whole country district when my aunt was
young, making out he was an exile in a righteous cause, —
I forget which, — and a popular hero at home. He actually
got a woman my aunt knew, teacher in the same school,
to marry him. She was quite a decent person, and why
she married Jacoby, goodness knows.'

' Oh, you needn't stop at that,' said Thomas. ' They
do. He seems able to get at women generally. What's
he like to look at ? '

' He's rat-like,' said Quentin, with a single icy glance.
' I call him the rat, because he lives on the community.'
Since Thomas was determined to attend, he put the letter
away, and took up the paper with the other hand.

' Oh come, young feller,' said Thomas, ' let's have the
rest. It was just getting interesting.'

Quentin did not like being a young feller, nor did he

120 THE ACCOLADE

want, on consideration, to tell Thomas the rest. Harold
looked ashamed of his brother-in-law, who was always
abounding like this in the wrong places. He seemed equally
blind to Auberon's high worth in the scheme of things,
and his own vulgar insignificance. Nor was it any use
Harold scoring over him, however brilliant the score ;
for in private, Thomas never granted that it was one,
and in public, Harold hurt the feelings of his sister Con.
There is no getting round such family complications, even
for a budding diplomat. Harold had to bear it, and help
Auberon to do the like.

' Then do the Jacobys mean man and wife ? ' said the
irrepressible Thomas. ' What's Mrs. Rat like ? '

' I have never seen Mrs. Jacoby,' said Quentin. ' She
is very ill in Geneva, where she has been keeping Mr.
Jacoby for years.'

' Keeping him, has she ? Does she earn ? '

' She has a little boarding-house, and they've made it pay.'

' Oh well, that says something for her. Who's the other
Jacoby, then, — a young one ? '

' A young one, yes. His daughter.'

' Oh come/ said Thomas, turning. ' Now we're getting
to the root of the matter, aren't we ? ' It is not to be
denied that Mr. Thomas liked teasing Quentin, and perhaps,
had some excuse. Thomas called him a young prig when
he was out of temper, and Quentin, in his company, often
so appeared. Worst when he was shyest, of necessity,
and Thomas had got him safely on a subject where he
was shy. But the last thing he intended was to refuse
battle, on that or any question Thomas might choose. He
settled to this one now.

' What's her name ? ' asked Thomas.

' Angela, I believe. They call her Jill.'

' Jill ? Jill Jacoby ? — Oh, I say,' said Thomas, having
laughed, ' I shouldn't have anything to do with her.'

' Why ? ' said Quentin.

' Not with a name like that. Sounds fast.'

THE ARTIST 121

' Even if it did/ said Harold, ' which I don't admit,
it would only prove the rapidity of her rat-like parents,
— not her own.'

' It's really not worth arguing,' said Quentin to Harold.
' I'm sorry/ he said to Thomas, ' I can't help you to much
about Miss Jacoby. My sister has seen her once or twice up
there, at Hampstead ; and they're sorry for her, naturally/

' Why naturally ? '

' Well, because everything's against her, in life/ The
boy paused, considering. ' It's no joke to belong to a
man like that, who lives by sponging on her mother's old
friends.'

' Oh, that's how he lives on the community, is it ? '

' That's how he's lived till now, when he wasn't living
on his wife and daughter. They both work for him, — but
begging's his trade. He's a born beggar, on paper. He
doesn't do it in the life so well/

' How do you know, my young friend ? ' said Thomas,
curiously. ' Did he ever beg from you ? '

' Look here/ broke out Harold, ' you mayn't know you're
going a little far, considering '

' Considering what ? ' smiled Thomas, ' Auberon always
has first-hand documents for what he asserts. You told
me so yourself/

' I've got the documents/ said Quentin. ' Jacoby didn't
beg from me personally, though, — he's too sharp, — nor
my aunt, whom he knows, and who knows him. He wrote
to my sister, at school. It was a good letter. He worked
his daughter, for all she was worth. His daughter is about
my sister's age, — that was a good card. She's clever, too, —
a genius — that was another. She's lame '

' Lame ? ' gasped Thomas.

' Yes, — he made the best of that. He also knew my
sister was on her own in England, and probably mistress
of some cash. Best of all, Jacoby had seen my sister once,
noticed the sort she was, and made an impression on her/

' What impression's that ? ' said Thomas. ' I should say,

122 THE ACCOLADE

what sort ? ' He felt, more than he liked, Quentin's manner,
but he was still trying to be funny.

' My sister is at present sixteen,' said Quentin, ' and
when Jacoby made the impression I referred to, she was
twelve. The sort she is is generous and hot-headed, with
large ideas and — er — ramshackle head-over-heels impulses.'
Quentin glanced sidelong. ' Falkland knows her. Jacoby
played his cards well, and fetched Bridget easily. Or
rather, he would have fetched her, only '

' She showed the letter to you,' said Thomas.

' She did, yes, providentially. That's my first-hand
document, and I could find it for you if you liked. On
that authority I pronounced Jacoby a rat, and a sneaking
rat, and a rat that had far better, for the community's
sake, be poisoned off-hand. I may be wrong,' said Quentin,
suddenly diverting his eyes to vacancy. They had been
fixing Thomas throughout the story about his sister.

' I don't say you are,' said Thomas, momentarily over-
come by a rhetorical trick Quentin had practised in debate
with great success. ' I say, — was Miss Jill concerned in
that ? I mean, does she back his begging schemes ? '

' I don't know/ said Quentin. ' I don't know her.'

' It looks fishy, to me. Did you answer the letter ? '

'I did. My second year at Oxford. I could improve
on it now,' said Quentin, ' but it wasn't bad of its kind.'

' Did you enclose a cheque ? ' said Harold.

Mr. Auberon, still looking at vacancy in a far-reaching
manner, did not reply. Harold was much too acute, and
had to be taught his place occasionally.

' Has he written since ? ' said Thomas, after the pause.

' No,' said Quentin, awakening. ' To neither of us. If
he's in London, though, we shall hear of him probably. My
aunt seems to think so. I'm afraid he's a bad lot. It's a
bore.'

He looked down, and did not seem deeply affected,
but that was his way. Haiold knew he was worried very
well : feeling responsible, for his little sister, probably.

THE ARTIST 123

Later on, when Thomas had lounged out, Harold heard
the rest of the facts. He discovered that when Auberon
said a bad lot, he meant it. This did not surprise him,
as he had noted the form of words, — Thomas, that amiable
trifler,had merely noted the tone of voice, and passed it over.

Jacoby had proved himself a bad lot in the strictest
sense, and no companion for his own child, whom he had
brought, with his sick wife's consent, to London. What
Mrs. Jacoby in consenting did not know, was that the
third of the party consisted of an Englishwoman with a
little money, whom she herself had befriended in a foreign
land, and received on her premises. She was the more
easily deceived, that Jacoby had promised repeatedly to
make his daughter's fortune, when opportunity should serve
him, in her mother's native country. Opportunity served
Jacoby in the manner we have mentioned. He had a
sentimental and rather maudlin fondness for the girl Jill,
and a very real pride in her attainments. She had been
assured by both parents all her life that she had great,
world-shaking gifts ; and the fact that she was lame,
unknown, and practically destitute, was to make no
difference to her shaking the world. Jacoby was, if
nothing else, a romantic, and he talked to his daughter
beautifully, on the way to London. Unfortunately, when
he got there, his taste for living in the toils of romance,
however sordid, attracted him so irresistibly to the lowest
walks of theatrical society, that Jill took her prospects
into her own hands, soon after arrival, and applied to Miss
Havant, whose address she had, for independent assistance.

Her account of her father's habits was such that Miss
Havant urged her strenuously to find some way of living
apart from him if she could. She offered to take her back
to Geneva, but that the girl refused. She had had enough
of the hopeless struggle in Geneva, and preferred to try her
luck in a fresh land. So Miss Havant, who never dis-
couraged enterprise, sent her to Mrs. Ingestre for advice,
with an introduction.

124 THE ACCOLADE

The remains of the note to her nephew described these
final steps of hers, and merely appealed to him, since he
knew Mrs. Ingestre, to keep an eye if he could on the lame
girl Jacoby and her fate, until Miss Havant herself returned
from Italy.

' So there we are,' said Quentin, laying down the letter.
' What do you make of it.'

' Looks as if your aunt trusted her,' observed Harold.
Quentin admitted it, only his eyes reserved a certain
distrust of his aunt. She was over-sanguine, he con-
sidered.

' What about the mother ? ' said Harold.

' Leave her out,' said Quentin. ' She's either too ill to
matter, or a fool. She couldn't have let the girl come away
in the fellow's company otherwise. My aunt means to see
if anything can be made of her, but I doubt it. She had
better be struck off.'

' You're jolly charitable, this evening,' said Harold,
looking at him. He discounted the severity of Auberon's
form of speech, habitually. Besides, it struck him he
looked tired to-night. He overworked, of course : nothing
the Falklands could do would prevent him from working
half the night. Auberon was one of the fellows who always
have too many irons in the fire, and do all things too
intently. Here he was taking this new affair, none of his
business, much too hard. Harold knew of course how he
secretly hated the type of thing : that was largely the
reason of his manner, probably, — he was schooling his own
distaste.

' Perhaps the girl will get a job,' said Harold cheerfully.
' There are plenty going.'

' A cripple,' said Quentin.

That again was characteristic. Quentin, in coming of a
hardy race of fighters and climbers, had a natural aversion
from physical deficiency, the halt and maimed. It cropped
out like that, involuntarily, when he was most bent on being
kind. Harold pondered for a time over the somewhat

THE ARTIST 125

baffling problem of young girls who were cripples. Having
an ingenious mind, he tried to get round it.

' It's only her knee,' he said. ' Not hip-disease or any-
thing really revolting. What I mean is, she can probably
get about and see to things.'

It did not seem to console Quentin, wrapped in the wider
speculation as to whether Miss Jacoby, being lame, had
better have been born at all. ' If I ever become really
diseased, Falkland,' his meditations finished of a sudden,
' or idiotic, or useless, I shall expect you to shoot me
through the head.'

' Right,' said Harold cordially. ' Same here. Now let's
hear what you think of doing, about the rat's daughter.'

' Oh, doing,' — Quentin's face changed, — ' that's straight
enough. I must see the woman whose address she had —
Mrs. Ingestre — and get at her through the society.'

' And what if she hasn't used the address ? '

' I shan't begin to think what, until I find she hasn't
used it. Nothing, probably. If she's taken the other
alternative, and rejoined her rat-like father, she's not
worth bothering about.'

Harold discounted this in turn. ' She might like her
rat-like father,' he said easily. ' People do.'

Quentin took it calmly, his hands behind his head.

' Her rat-like father might like her,' he substituted,
' since she has fed him for years. If he had fed her, like the
generality of fathers, I might think the other way possible.
As it is, I don't.'

' Good,' said Harold. ' We're getting on. The only
thing you're overlooking is '

' Well ? ' said Quentin.

' That women, as such, like the people they feed. They
like them for being fed, — no other reason necessary.'

' Jove ! ' said Quentin. ' That's rather smart, — so they
do.'

Harold did not the least suppose he was convinced, for
all this apparent courtesy. He was used to being the dust

126 THE ACCOLADE

under Auberon's boots, and never more than when he was
courteously treated.

' We are dealing,' he announced, ' with a girl with
brains.'

' By Jove ! ' said Harold.

' There's simply no doubt of it,' said Quentin. ' Look
here : who has been running that infernal boarding-house
at Geneva, — at a profit, mind,— for the last five years ?
Not the mother, obviously. Servants, in foreign parts,
can't be counted upon. The girl did all that, and she
trained herself for a profession too. She has certificates
from professors of elocution at Geneva, real certificates, —
and she has given readings and so on at the swagger English
hotels along the lake. So I am informed, by Bridget, whose
endless details are of use sometimes. . . . Very good, she
has done it, the parent-rats have not. Mrs. Rat — I beg
her pardon, I'm getting as bad as Thomas — Mrs. Jacoby
confined herself to telling everybody in reach the girl was
a natural genius, and had no call to work at all. Geniuses
needn't do anything, you know : they just exist.'

' Oh, don't get on to geniuses,' implored Harold. ' I'm
quite ready to have them put down, anyhow. Cripples I
can do with, just, but I never yet could do with any genius
I met, for long. Except you, of course,' he added.

Quentin turned his eyes for a moment, as though he had
a passing thought of dealing physically with Harold, but
the desire evaporated. He had, of late, grown through
such youthful follies. Besides, occasionally Falkland said
a thing of use, and he was always a relief from arduous
study. He was a very pleasant kind of emissary from the
more frivolous quarter of the house. Harold's slim, small
form was exquisitely dressed at this moment, for he was
going out with his sister shortly, and had only come in since
dinner to smoke with Auberon, shield him from Thomas,
and submit to instruction at his hands.

' Having brains,' the latter proceeded after a pause,
' Miss Jacoby might have the sense, just conceivably, to

THE ARTIST 127

keep clear of her father, however great her feminine
instinct for feeding him might be.'

' Drop it,' murmured Harold.

' Not to mention the rat is being fed, presumably, by
another female. ... Oh Lord,' broke out Quentin
unexpectedly, ' why are women such fools ? '

There was a light tap at the door.

' There's Helena,' said Harold. ' Let's ask her.'

' No, don't,' said Quentin, shifting his pose. ' I mean,
I'd rather you didn't, just now.'

' She's always ready to argue/ said Harold, rising : but
he added—' Right,' — as he passed his friend, for he saw
the point. Helena was going out to enjoy herself, and it
was undoubtedly rather a nasty story. Not but what
Helena could stand the worst things. She visited hospital
wards for incurable children, which had always seemed to
Harold one of the worst things in the world. Still, as he
opened Auberon's door to her now, in ah" her young
brilliancy, clad in shimmering white and gold, and radiant
with happiness in prospect, he felt that Auberon was right
as always, and it was not the moment for depressing
subjects.

' Come in, won't you ? ' said Quentin, on his feet. ' I say,
we are frightfully smoky here.' He flung up a window one-
handed, for Miss Falkland was not the type of young lady
who minded draughts.

She did come in for a moment. She never invaded
Quentin 's working-quarters for long. Helena had a strong
sense of the tacit compact that had brought him to inhabit
them originally ; and the heaviest responsibility for
guarding his privacy devolved, she considered, upon
herself. Quentin himself had no idea how much of the
quiet and comfort he enjoyed he owed to her.

' My word,' said Harold. ' Is that the latest ? ' He
alluded to his sister's toilette, as to which things he held
himself a judge.

' No, the last but three,' said Helena, crushing him.

128 THE ACCOLADE

' Well, it's been titivated, then/ said Harold. ' What
you call done up.'

' You're extremely clever,' said Helena. ' The flounce
has been mended, where you tore it in the carriage door ;
and I got a new sash with tails, to cover up the mend.'
She added for his consolation, as she drew her cloak about
her, — ' Dance-frocks are sure to get torn, anyhow : and in a
crush, no one sees.'

' There isn't anyone special to-night, then,' said Harold,
looking intelligent. ' I began to think, when you were so
long over dressing, that there might be. ... Look here,
Helena.' He took her arm in his wiliest manner. ' What's
little Mrs. Ingestre like ? Is she a decent sort of body,
in common life ? Auberon wants to know.'

Helena blushed, and drew back a little, surprised. She
did not answer for a second, and during that instant,
Harold's eyes shot to her face. Harold piqued himself on
being ' on the spot ' in daily life. He was sure that he
alone of the family took note of the fact that Helena
blushed when Ingestre's name was mentioned.

' She is very nice,' said Helena. ' Rather quiet. I
thought Mr. Auberon had seen her.'

' He didn't get very far at first acquaintance,' said
Harold. ' Especially as the Mater's tactful methods
brought out all Mrs. Ingestre's worst side.'

' I never said that,' exclaimed Quentin.

' No, but you can't deny it happened,' said Harold.
' Now, everybody has a good side as well as a bad one,
haven't they, Helena ? And you seem to come across the
family most.' He glanced at her again. ' Auberon there
is fighting shy of facing her, — and longing to ask you to
undertake his business.'

' Nothing of the sort,' said Quentin, in answer to Helena's
look. ' I shouldn't think of it.'

His tone was vexed, chiefly because Harold had hit the
mark again, and it would have been infinite relief to shift
Miss Jill Jacoby's business to Miss Falkland's far from

THE ARTIST 129

incapable hands. But also because it was evident Harold
was teasing, and he did not see why Helena should be teased,
nor what ground there could be for such a proceeding.

' Of course, if I could do anything ' she said shyly,

her direct and limpid eyes on his.

' You couldn't/ said Quentin, returning the look.

' Hark at him/ scoffed Harold. ' Once he's touched a
thing, no one can do anything but himself. If he under-
took in a rash moment to order you a petticoat, Helena,
he'd go through with it to the bitter end.'

' Well, I am sure it would be a very nice petticoat/ said
Helena. ' Well-made, — and well-paid, too : he'd think
of the poor work-girls. I'd rather trust him than you.
Yours would be cheap and rustly, — showy, — shot-silk, —
yes, it would ! Don't mind him, Mr. Auberon, I'm carrying
him off. Good night/

in

Mrs. Ingestre's letter, asking Quentin to her husband's
' little gathering of friends ' on the last Sunday of April,
crossed with one from him to her, mentioning private
business, and enquiring if he could call.

Ursula was surprised by the request, and rather gratified.
She had liked Quentin, though she showed little of the
liking at the time, and spoke of him lightly to her husband.
His manner during Mrs. Falkland's diplomatic visit, to
his hostess's experienced eye, had been exactly right.
He had not been in an easy position on that occasion, but
he had done nothing with dignity and competence. Beyond
that again, he had affected Ursula sentimentally. He
was the type, precisely, which had been the ideal of her
first girlhood. He belonged by all his traditions to the
Anglo-Indian community she liked and understood. With-
out being himself military, he had the military cast, well-
brushed and straight-backed, self-reliant and restful, —
the ideal of fifty out of a hundred English girls. He was

130 THE ACCOLADE

attentive and respectful to her — unlike John. Ursula,
in the court of her girlhood, had been used to being upheld
and consulted, since she was an eldest-born. As a girl
she had ' liked boys,' and been a ' good hand with them,'
and later she continued in the same way to invite their
confidence. With a sentimentalist of twenty, this is
pleasant enough : over thirty it grows suspect rather.
The Ingestres, who had violent passions, but were not
sentimentalists, disliked and suspected the tendency.
Johnny himself sneered faintly at Ursula's ' acolytes,'
as he caUed them, charitable or otherwise, but he was more
tolerant of them, on the whole, than his relations. He
even condescended to tease them, at times. Live and let
live, was Johnny's theory, and granted the ' rough-haired '
amused Ursula, they did not hurt him. He was a little
surprised at her taste, that was all.

On the morning when Quentin called, John happened
to be present passingly, and took his measure. Quentin
had no idea he would be regarded at once as one of a gang ;
he was not accustomed to regard himself like that, and
his bearing and behaviour did not match any such modest
supposition. John remarked the difference. He was neither
the sleek acolyte, to look upon, nor was he ' rough-haired,'
— he was rather a new type. Johnny wondered what he
was doing with Ursula, and tried to find out, at the expense
of considerable ingenuity. He made Ursula coldly furious,
by his untimely interest in her proceedings, but he pro-
duced no effect on Quentin at all. Finding a man present,
he put off his business with Mrs. Ingestre, and talked
politics. Quentin's political views were directly opposed
to John's, and he expressed them well. On two occasions
he refrained from putting his host and elder right, with
such a visible effort of courtesy, that Johnny acutely
inferred he must be wrong. As he had been talking rather
in the air, even to his own consciousness, this was not
surprising ; but the fact of being wrong annoyed him,
he went away to look up the authorities.

THE ARTIST 131

When he was gone, Ursula apologised for him indirectly.
Quentin wished earnestly she would not do this, — it was
just what had vexed his soul before, when she talked to
Mrs. Falkland. The pair were husband and wife, that
was enough for him. Added to which, there was no need
for apology on her part. Her husband had disturbed
nothing to matter, and he had said, even in that short
time, several good things. Two of these, both paradoxes
that would hardly bear investigation, and both personal
to those in high places, Quentin had stored up, determining
to use them again if he got a chance. He only regretted
he had left the Oxford clubs, where they could have been
launched in public to most advantage. Nowadays, caught
under the sober wing of the Civil Service, he had to go
more heedfully in what he said. John, whose father and
grandfather had moved in high, almost heavenly circles of
political society, ought to have gone more heedfully still :
only he did not.

' How is Miss Falkland ? ' said Ursula to her visitor,
giving him, by her gracious smile, an inward start. But,
casting his mind backward, he saw the case immediately.
It was Mrs. Falkland's fault, — she would go on, he supposed,
letting him in for these misunderstandings. It was trying,
but all in the day's work. It seems, in this world, that at
twenty-four years old, and with no marked disadvantages,
one cannot get entirely free of girls, gossip, and such-like.
Quentin was philosophical.

' She seems all right,' he said calmly. ' She has been
to seventeen parties this week, her brother told me. You
have to be fairly fit, I should think, to stand that.'

' Youth,' laughed Ursula. ' Don't you go with her ? '

' Not generally,' said Quentin. ' Unless they specially
ask me, or unless for any reason her brother can't.' He
considered a minute. ' I've no right to be still on their
premises, really, only Mrs. Falkland's so jolly kind. They
only offered originally to harbour me, while I coaled up
for an examination. Now that's all done.'

132 THE ACCOLADE

' Really ? ' said Ursula, in her cool way, as though she
accepted the statement of facts, but reserved her judg-
ment on them. She had, of course, ' placed ' Quentin,
with regard to Helena, just in the manner Mrs. Falkland
wished. Ladies, even as unwise as Mrs. Falkland, can
convey these fine impressions easily, — particularly when
the other party is willing to be persuaded of the fact. It
happened to be convenient to Ursula to believe Mrs.
Falkland's daughter, that popular young beauty, definitely
destined, if not already engaged. And since she welcomed
the idea, no apparent indifference on Quentin's side was
to shake it, at present.

She talked, chattered to Quentin almost : with per-
sistence, as though for relief, and he answered willingly.
Presently, being treated in so friendly a spirit, he took his
plunge.

' Mrs. Ingestre, I hope you don't mind my bothering
you. The fact is, I've been commissioned by my aunt to
enquire into a case she's interested in. Do you know a
Miss Jacoby ? '

' Jacoby ? ' Ursula considered, a wrinkle of business in
her brow. ' Yes, to be sure. She came to me last week
about a situation. In some distress, wasn't she ? Where's
my book ? '

She rose and went to her writing-table, composed and
competent of aspect. Inwardly she was vexed, as she
did not want to talk business with Quentin. Business
was a background to her rare pleasures, and she had hoped
he would prove a pleasure simply. One has to bear these
disappointments, though : and Ursula was disappointed
with dignity.

' It's rather a distressful case,' said Quentin : and pro-
ceeded to tell her, with the greatest confidence and simplicity,
all about it. He had not a moment's scruple in so doing,
backed by his aunt's advice. Ursula listened to Jill's
history in silence, her finger in her book of notes. She had
taken notes of Jill for the society, and now she supple-

THE ARTIST 133

mented them cautiously. The fact that Jill's mother had
taught in the same establishment as Quentin's aunt aroused
her first comment,

' Do you mean she is a lady ? ' she asked.

' A lady ? ' said Quentin, brought up short. ' Oh,
yes.'

' Excuse me, I used the word technically, we have to.
My work for girls falls into two classes, chiefly depending
upon that.'

' Well/ said Quentin, ' you can take it from me she is.'

' You mean, I ought to know,' said Ursula. ' But it's
not so easy. Wait till you've been deceived as often as I
have, by a good manner. I had an impression from what
the girl said, that she belonged to theatrical people, or at
least had lived among them abroad. They always speak
so well, it's hard to be sure, not to mention she's a foreign
accent. I gathered she was respectable,' she added,
nervously patting her hair. ' I did not mean that for a
moment. I was rather sorry for her.'

' Yes ? ' said Quentin expectantly.

' But as for her being a lady born, I admit it did not
occur to me. I may have done wrong in consequence, and
I shall have to explain to your aunt. She is too young to
be a teacher, as she proposed : she looks a child. The
stage, of course, is out of the question, I stopped all idea
of that at once. There are few posts for companions
going : and for secretary in these days you must be
qualified, though breeding's of no importance.'

' Of course/ said Quentin.

'It's a Miss Darcy I sent her to/ said Ursula. ' The
Honourable, — very good family, though eccentric, with
a little flat. The girl seems to suit her, at least she has not
complained ; and as she has complained within the first
week of everyone I have recommended her till now, I
was rather pleased about it/

' It's awfully kind of you/ said Quentin. He felt there
was something coming still.

134 THE ACCOLADE

' The girl said she could work with her hands, and would
be glad even of a modest salary : so, as we had this parti-
cularly nice post going in a good house, I offered to recom-
mend her, on the strength of your aunt's name.' A short
pause. ' But it is domestic service, no more,' said Ursula.
' A general servant.'

Quentin moved and blushed. ' A servant ? ' he said.
Mrs. Ingestre dropped her book of notes, and sat down
again near him.

' There is nothing shameful in domestic service,' she
said, smiling, ' especially nowadays. I often tell John we
shall all come to it in time, if servants go on being the
trouble they are. I might say I am in domestic service
myself.' Ursula leant back in her velvet chair, and folded
her white hands in her lap.

' No, really,' said Quentin, protesting.

' I assure you I am, and I only wish I had Miss Jacoby's
freedom. She has a very easy time of it really. An old
spinster lady, with methodical ways and regular habits,
is far easier to look after, I can tell you, than a man.'

Since she would adopt this personal line, Mr. Auberon
determined to argue it.

' But you have servants of your own to help/ he said.

' That makes more work, not less,' said Ursula. ' Ask
my mother-in-law, who has three houses, and a permanent
staff of five-and-twenty people.'

' Five-and-twenty ! I say ! ' murmured Quentin. He
pondered the ordainment of so large a mass of humanity
for a moment, — it had never struck him that women had
chances such as this. He even wondered if Mrs. Ingestre
was exaggerating, or jesting : her expression gave him no
clue. ' Wouldn't it be fun rather ? ' he cautiously said.

' It will not,' said Ursula. She examined her fine hand,
and the rings upon it. 'I shall have them, of course, in
my turn. We are wandering from the subject, Mr. Auberon.
I can give you Miss Jacoby's address, of course, but if
you are proposing to see her '

THE ARTIST 135

' Well ? ' he queried, as she stopped.

' I shouldn't, that's all : considering the peculiarities of
Miss Darcy, and the terms on which the girl was engaged.'

' What are the peculiarities of Miss Darcy ? '

' Extremely fussy, poor old thing, — a bundle of nerves.
She's half an invalid into the bargain. You could write,
of course, if there's anything you wish to say : only I
give you my word the girl's in good hands, no need to
trouble further. I'll answer to your aunt.'

Ursula saw herself on her customary platform, directing
and counselling youth. She adopted this tone alternately
with the other more playful one, being still at the stage
of experiment with this new ' acolyte ' of hers. He was so
attentive and docile in appearance, that she had no idea
but that he would fall in with all she proposed. She was
the more surprised when, after looking before him for a
moment, he remarked — ' I'm afraid I must go.'

' Must ? ' said Ursula, lifting her brows. •

1 Yes. You see, my aunt wrote to me yesterday from
Geneva, — she stopped there going through. She meant
to go straight on south, but she didn't, — she waited four
days. She found the poor woman — this girl's mother —
was dying, that was all. She couldn't leave her at that
point, so she stayed till the end.'

' It was extremely kind of her ' began Ursula.

' No, it wasn't, — excuse me, — she had known her pretty
well, in youth, you see, and Mrs. Jacoby had no other
English friends. She had learnt about her husband's
behaviour too, — plenty of people to tell her that, of course.
To turn your back on a person in that state — a country-
woman— who was being squeezed out of existence by
sheer bad luck '

' It was her own fault,' said Ursula calmly.

' Granted,' he returned, with almost startling dryness,
and paused anew. ' Anyhow one thing's clear, that I must
take the letter round to the kid, give her the news. That's
the first thing.'

136 THE ACCOLADE

' I will do so, if you like/ said Ursula. ' Or you could
send the letter.'

' Thanks,' he returned, with perfect obstinacy. ' I can't
let things slide any longer.' |

' I didn't propose that you should,' observed Ursula
demurely.

' No.' He glanced at her. ' I believe I'm being beastly
rude,' he said, awaking slightly. ' But it's a pretty rotten
affair, taken altogether, and I've been worrying at it a
good deal. Nothing to be made of it, you'd say, — and yet —
there may be, don't you see. I'd like to reckon the chances.
I've got to, as a fact, since I was left in charge. I've had
about enough at second-hand.'

Ursula, who could hardly make him out, did not reply.

' Eternal reports,' pursued Quentin reflectively, ' getting
round corners, through meanings, discounting people's
statements, discarding rot. I get sick of that in the end.'

' Thank you*! ' laughed Ursula.

' I'm beastly sorry, Mrs. Ingestre.' His own smile
answered hers. ' I'm sorry if I express myself badly, but
it's a fact. So long as you're not in touch with people, you
can't do much good. You must know that, since I gather
you're always doing it.'

' Doing good ? I'm not, indeed, Mr. Auberon.'

' Well, wanting to. If you want to deal with a case, I
mean to make anything of it, you go and interview the
subject, don't you ? Of course you consult your committee
first/ he appended hastily.

' I don't, invariably/ said Ursula. ' It wastes time.'

' You're laughing at me/ said Quentin. ' Never mind.
I'm sure you'd rather not live on reports and — er —
conjectures, when you can see with your own eyes.'

' Seeing will not help you much in this case/ observed
Ursula. ' That is partly what I meant. The girl's appear-
ance is misleading. Personally, I wouldn't trust her, at
least in certain ways.'

Quentin paused momentarily. ' There you are/ he said.

THE ARTIST 137

' She misled you, — and consequently I must take your
view, and perhaps be doubly misled.'

' Really, Mr. Auberon '

' But you see what I mean/ he said, obviously arguing
with himself, not her. ' Simply because this subject's a
little female, I'm supposed to grab you, or my aunt, or
Miss Falkland, say, and stick you in front of me. What's
more, I've a deadly inclination to do it, — do the con-
ventional,— just as you're inclined to give me the excuse.
You've given me three at least while we've been talking. . . .
Well, strikes me there are certain contingencies, — such as
one's mother being struck off the list of the living, for
instance, — that can't be dodged quite in that way. I could
send the letter, of course, — only I shan't. I'm going to see
her to-morrow.'

' Do you want my permission ? ' said Ursula. ' I'm not
your aunt.'

' No,' said Quentin. He had subsided again after his
outburst, and looked a trifle ashamed of himself, but not
much. His eyes moved on to Mrs. Ingestre, considering
her. She was laughing, and looked nice. ' Perhaps I
oughtn't to have said it,' he admitted, ' but you never get
an opinion straight until you have stated it : and anyhow,
you have been so kind.'

Ursula told herself she did not like him, but she did.
She liked him dangerously, almost. She had been trying
half-consciously to attract him, but he was not to be
beguiled. She felt in him, in some inexplicable way, the
upper air. He was considering principles more than
persons, facts more than feelings, obviously ; really aloof,
above small scheming and sensuality, not pretending to be
so, like Ursula. It piqued her vanity, of course, — he
walked regardless ; but that youthful disregard and
genuine ignorance of a skilled woman's resources merely
stimulated her, where Johnny's overwhelming demand
upon her intelligence repelled and stunned. She wished to
see more of Quentin, and, secure in her ancient experience

138 THE ACCOLADE

of his type, — quite apart from any individuality he might
chance to own, — she laid her plans peacefully and promptly
according.

Later Johnny, on the subject of Mr. Auberon, showed
unwarrantable curiosity.

' What did he come for ? ' he said at lunch.

' He came to enquire about a girl,' said Ursula, prepared
in advance for John's usual jokes. He was interested
promptly.

' Never ! ' he ejaculated. ' Who ? '

' It's rather a private matter,' said Ursula. ' However,
I suppose '

During the next pause, as usual, she tried not to speak,
and he obliged her.

' She's that girl who studied voice-training in Geneva/
she said unwillingly, ' the one I interviewed the other day.
I think I mentioned her at the time, but you have probably
forgotten.'

' I haven't,' he assured her. ' I said at the time she'd
have done better to come to me. What did you do with
her? '

' I sent her to old Miss Darcy,' said Ursula.

' Lord ! ' said Johnny, who knew the lady. ' The
bearded Darcy ? What did you do that for ? '

' She had a dying mother and a disreputable father,'
said Ursula wearily, ' and wanted to make money, as usual.
I put her in the way of doing so honestly, that's all.'

' Kind of you,' said Johnny, ' but that's not my
point. Why turn the voice-trainer on to Miss Darcy ?
To train her not to bark at strangers ? She always barks
at me.'

' She looked fairly mild and manageable,' said Ursula,
' and I thought they might get on.'

' Oh, she trains tempers as well, does she ? What are
her qualifications ? '

Ursula told him, and he listened in his fashion, without

THE ARTIST 139

at all appearing to attend. ' And what was young Auberon
sent for? — let's hear,' he pursued cheerfully.

' I did not send him,' said Ursula, flushing. ' I advised
him not to go, but he was rather obstinate. He said he
wanted to see her.'

' See ? — what's she like ? ' said Johnny. Before his wife
could answer — ' Why don't you have the voice-trainer
here, and get her to train you ? ' he said. ' You need it.'

' Thanks,' said Ursula. ' I have voice enough for my
purposes.'

' No, you haven't,' said Johnny. ' You can't speak off a
platform, and you're always trying to. You're done up
after a big dinner, — cross as a cat '

' Thank you,' said Ursula.

' Sheer exhaustion,' he insisted, ' and all from that. You
can't conduct family prayers — not that I've ever heard
you, but I'm sure of it. You can't say a word down a
telephone, as I've often told you, — that is, I say a word
when you do. Grandmamma says, as soon as you really
try to speak to her, she stops hearing you. That's a clear
proof, and she's a good judge. You can't breathe, for
nuts '

' Perhaps I can't eat,' said Ursula.

' I was just going to say so,' he retorted. ' You can't
eat a dry biscuit without choking, — beastly dangerous
that. Look here ! ' He got up, seemingly in earnest. ' If
you have that girl here to teach you to speak, and she plays
up to it, I'll give her a guinea a lesson. Twelve lessons, — I'll
see that you practise, — tell her so.'

With which directions, he departed. Ursula, after short
and rather uneasy pondering, found it convenient to
believe that he did not mean it. She did not doubt Miss
Jacoby's qualifications, — especially as John accepted
them, — but she did not want to take lessons from a girl to
whom she had been playing patroness. It would look
absurd. Besides, John might be a judge of artists, but he
had no knowledge of the price women's work commanded

140 THE ACCOLADE

in the market, — he was reckless of such things, utterly.
He flung his guineas away on good work wherever found,
and refused to look twice at the well-meaning muddler who
is the worst perplexity of the benevolent in all communities.
That was partly why, even in her public work, Ursula
found in him such scant sympathy.

IV

Quentin Auberon saw Jill Jacoby with no difficulty at
the house of the bearded Miss Darcy, who barked.

The lady thus described by Johnny was an impecunious
and quite harmless old spinster, with an irascible manner
and voice that alarmed the unwary, and a tiny well-ordered
flat in a West London square, full of unique and beautiful
things. Her father had been a collector of note, and she
had, in the wreck of his fortunes, preserved some of his
treasures in the way of porcelain, bibelots and furniture,
being herself a connoisseur.

The Ingestres had links with her in the past, and she was
devoted to Johnny's mother, who, since Miss Darcy was
practically bedridden, sent her son from time to time to
display his own discoveries in the shops and dust-holes of
the various capitals, for Johnny was not without a taste
that way himself. Miss Darcy, who had wits with all her
oddities, amused Johnny : so he seldom acquired any
object of the sort without bringing it to her to peer at
through her strong spectacles, covet, or more frequently
condemn. For her leading theory in the matter was that
the people who had the money never had the knowledge
necessary to perfect or even to preserve a good collection :
and vice versa, naturally

One of these little treasures, an invaluable miniature of
a French ancestress, belonging to the Ingestre Hall
collection, Miss Darcy had kept so long, on one excuse or
another, that it was Johnny's pleasure to say she had stolen

THE ARTIST 141

it. He knew it was perfectly safe in her skilled keeping,
safer really than at the Hall, and so did his mother ; so the
retention of the miniature of the Mar6chale caused them no
anxiety, and merely remained a permanent joke.

Eccentric Miss Darcy certainly was, and far from
prepossessing : but those who got past her ugly exterior
soon found that her snapping was largely ill-health,
shattered nerves from a life of misfortune, and the intense
shyness of a grotesque-looking and sensitive person, often
misunderstood, and exiled from her peers. She ' barked '
at Quentin on entering, and listened to his explanations
grimly : but she was not the least ill-disposed towards him,
and as soon as he had mentioned the Ingestre name, grew
friendly. Miss Darcy liked young men, — Johnny had
carefully taught her to do so, — and understood their ways
and interests more readily than most spinsters. She was
also a sure judge of breeding, as her own family was
extremely good, and she took Mr. Auberon at his surface
value after five minutes' chat, though she drew the dialogue
out for her own pleasure a little longer.

Miss Jacoby herself, — unmistakable by her gait, — had
let him in, and carried his card to Miss Darcy, while he
waited. Then she returned and admitted him straight to
the spinster's little drawing-room. Miss Darcy did not
dismiss her, and she remained during the space of the first
dialogue standing near the door, one hand resting lightly
against the wall, not at all as though for support. Quentin
was conscious of her eyes upon him the whole time, vividly
conscious. Whatever the rat's daughter was, he decided
at once, she was not a nonentity.

Indeed, he had gathered that already from his sister
and Ursula, though they had only supplied him with two
facts about her, and those facts directly opposed. To
Ursula she was ' misleading,' and, on sight, untrustworthy.
Bridget said ' pukka ' and pitied her. How was a man
to reconcile these opposite impressions ?

Both informants were right, in a measure. Jill was

142 THE ACCOLADE

misleading, since it was her proud young pleasure to
mislead. She was a mass of contradictions, as what girl
of sixteen — especially of mixed race — is not ? Even in
her outer aspect, impressions clashed. Her contour was
childish, yet clearly she was not a child, — she could not
be. Jill, the ' rat's daughter,' was of medium size, plump
and neatly made. Her lameness was an offence against
nature's graceful intention, consequently she disguised it.
Moving softly with that slight pretty lurch, she appeared
simply to change from one easy pose to another, the while
her disdainful little contained expression challenged the
world to find anything wrong. Her smooth dark hair, in
the quaint style of Swiss children, was parted from brow
to nape, and coiled into braided medallions above her
ears. Her forehead was low and broad, her face short
like a boy's. Her eyes were clear brown or hazel, several
shades lighter than her hair : wide-set and brilliant, but
with an expression of extreme remoteness all the same.
Jill seemed always to be watching the proceedings of a
private and superior world, with the most derogatory
indifference to the society directly beneath her ken. Yet
she was, as Miss Darcy betrayed, a practical young person
in all that touched the household, and seemed to pride
herself on a knowledge of unlovely detail. Her mouth
was beautiful alike in shape and colour, rather wide, and
in smiling she crinkled her light-brown eyes, and showed
a little of her lower teeth through scarcely-parted lips.
It was a strange smile, not really mirthful, yet seductive.
It seemed reticent, waiting on events to amuse her more.
Yet — one more contradiction in Jill — she was an admirable
comedian, and made others laugh without difficulty. It
may be noted that real comedians can do this without
wasting smiles themselves. All Jill's magic was in her
throat, she kept it there quite safely. Her lips, during
long watchful silences, lay on guard, as though she knew
that by stirring them she could stir the world as well.
She pitched her tone low in common life, like the higher

THE ARTIST 143

notes of a man's register almost. In rapid speech, or to a
large company, it lifted and lightened at once, gathering
variety and shade, yet always of the same rare quality.
Quentin's little sister, seeking to describe it, called it ' ice-
smashing,' — her tone had certainly something of the echo,
chill and delicate, of shivered ice. Looking at her queer
eyes, and listening to that unearthly tone, it would not be
the first instinct to trust Jill, certainly. And yet Bridget
had called her ' pukka,' and that was not a judgment
Bridget's brother could utterly disregard.

As a fact, a life of continual shock and disappointment
had driven the child to assume a mask. Reserve was not
in her nature at the start. But from five years old onward,
so fast as she grasped any advantage, even the commonest
prize of childhood, it broke in her hand. A clever girl,
she had learnt just enough to be ashamed of her ignorance.
She was fond of her mother, but had had to spend her
time in repairing her mother's mistakes. Every illusion
about her father had vanished perforce before she reached
ten years old. Her own fierce ambition, constantly fed by
flattery from both parents, had dropped between the two.
Every step she had tried to make on her own account,
her father had forestalled and frustrated. Her mother's
more clinging indulgence dragged her constantly back to
the hearth, where she could at least feel she was wanted,
when the world rebuffed. She could have made her own
life, had she been left alone ; but the too visible failure of
others dogged her. No one believed in her claims with
those appendages. So Jill with the obstinacy of childhood
gave it up, and found pleasure in the other extreme of
abnegation and self-devoted servitude. Until — inevitable
result in a passionate nature — at fifteen she had become
self-centred utterly, a little miser, revelling in secret over
the treasure she never intended to show : keeping the
world of her dreaming and desire apart, locked in herself,
and within the pages of one precious book, her ' Journal,'
— a wonderful and terrible record — to which she confided

144 THE ACCOLADE

her sensuous, stormy thoughts when they would no longer
be restricted ; living on herself alone : and meeting all the
world with that low contained utterance and inscrutable
smile, to such purpose that only the straightest and kindest
and simplest souls of her own sex — like Bridget — under-
stood her.

fy Jill looked now at the young man, her employer's
visitor, with her strange eyes. He had really come to see
her, not Miss Darcy, — he said so. She knew something
about him, — she had heard his name before. Both his
names, what was more, since both had been at the foot
of that letter — most severe and strange to JiU's under-
standing— that he had once written from Oxford to her
father. It happened that she had given her father a few
hints for the other letter that provoked it, — she was
badly in need of money for the house, and saw no harm.
The extreme cleverness of the begging-letter to Bridget
had been largely owing to Jill. Why not ? Miss Auberon
was a rich and comfortable girl, and might as well serve
her. The reply from Quentin was, consequently, in part
her property, and she took it away and studied it in con-
cealment. She learnt it by heart, — instantly, for her
memory was remarkable. She tried once or twice to
imitate the little English hand. Beyond its being a young
man's letter, its being English was the chief charm. An
exile almost from her birth, Jill called herself English,
and had learnt her mother's language with care. Also,
since her mother owned a few classical works, all her most
exciting reading had been in that tongue. England was
the land of high romance. She knew Shakespeare, she
knew Dickens, and she knew Scott, — few English girls
of fifteen can say as much. There was a Quentin on Scott's
pages, young and English and rather cool, unlike the
Frenchmen, — much like this. She gazed at him. He was
probably a hero, or at least he might easily be made so,
as soon as Jill and the journal had really taken him in
hand. She prepared an enthralling commentary for the.

THE ARTIST 145

journal, while she waited, graceful but secretly weary, at
Miss Darcy's door.

Then he turned to her, brusquely rather, and handed
her some flowers he had been holding in his left hand all
the time : country flowers from his sister's cottage in
Gloucestershire, where he had been spending the week-
end. His kind little sister, knowing the bad news he
carried, had picked them for Jill, on an impulse, to console
her ; but he did not say so, for he did not think it necessary.
To his surprise the haughty Miss Jacoby winced at his
movement, and blushed, looking towards her employer
doubtfully.

' Certainly,' snapped that personage. ' Go and put them
in water. I'll send Mr. Auberon to see you in the kitchen,
presently.'

' Perhaps,' said Quentin, addressing Jill for the first
time directly, ' I had better give you this before you go.'

He extended a letter in a soft foreign envelope, with the
Geneva stamp, directed in his aunt's clear hand. Jill
guessed the news at once, as was evident : the colour
sank from her face, her lips pressed together, and he saw
the movement of swallowing in her delicate throat. Then
all her mask of indifference returned, and with a little
shrug, she slipped it from his hand. Her retreat with it
and the flowers was so swift and soft, that even such a
keen witness as Quentin found it hard to believe she was
lame at all.

' She's too pretty,' Miss Darcy was saying, when he
recovered from the contrary shock of all these preliminary
impressions. ' It won't do. I can't have a pretty girl
about me. Tell Ursula Ingestre, if you come from her,
it won't do any better than the last.'

' Pretty ? ' said Quentin. It certainly had not struck
him that she was.

' Too much for the place. This isn't her place at all.
How can I see to her, tied like this ? I can't, — Ursula's
absurd. Cripple ? Nonsense, I have crutches, — that's

146 THE ACCOLADE

her art. She's as pretty as she wants to be, the child.
Look there, I tried her at that wheel last night.' She
pointed to a black oak spinning-wheel, that figured among
her curiosities. ' I used to spin myself, — thought I could
teach her, — well, I could not. I looked at her instead.
She charmed me. . . . Well, she'll charm the butcher and
the baker, — I have to send her out. It'll all be over in no
time. I can't have her here.'

She was really intensely nervous and concerned about it,
Quentin could see ; her rheumatic hands were working
on the arm of her chair.

' Can't you keep her a little ? ' he asked rather shyly.
' She's got no friends. My aunt is in Italy for the present.
She'll see to her when she comes home.'

' No friends ? She's too many ! They'll all be her
friends, and more, before I can stop 'em. She's too young
to manage herself, — I'm too old,' said Miss Darcy, ' to
have a child. What's her origin, tell me.' She snapped at
him. Quentin told her.

' Gentry ? That ? Nonsense, — what's the butcher-boy
like her for ? She's a wild thing, I tell you, wild as grass.
I may talk to her, she looks round me all the time. Oh,
I ought to know that kind, — she'll never settle. She's in
love already, for all I know.'

Quentin coloured and was silent. He began to think
her a little mad, — perhaps a form of monomania. Yet
he could not but feel how her view supported Ursula rather
than Bridget, in the matter of Miss Jill's peculiarities.

' Well ? ' she snapped anxiously.

' She can't be that, — I mean, she's not old enough.
Really,' said Quentin, ' you mustn't bother so much about
her.'

' You think I'm a silly old woman, don't you ? — silly
and weak. But you're a nice young man, proper-
brought-up. You know nothing of it. Johnny would
know, you ask him,— -it's another kind. She'll be in
and out of love for the next ten years. I can't under-

THE ARTIST 147

take it, I've got her on the nerves. You must tell Ursula,
promise me.'

Quentin promised.

' Saddle me with a limping mystery like that ! ' exclaimed
Miss Darcy : but his promise and his tranquil manner
seemed to soothe her, and by degrees, she settled down.

' She's lost her mother,' said Quentin, then. ' That
letter I gave her had the news.'

' Her mother ? ' Miss Darcy sat rigid a minute. ' Oh
poor child, — poor child.' She put a shaking hand on his
knee. ' Yes, — well, I must keep her a bit. Don't tell
Ursula at present, she'd make a fuss. . . . Her mother,—
ah, dear ! Poor little thing.'

After a minute, still shaking with the new emotion, she
signed him to go.

He went, secretly setting his teeth.

It would be unfair to say he was prejudiced from the
outset, though certainly his informants had not done
their best to reassure him. But without any predisposi-
tion of any kind, his nature must have dreaded hers. Jill
might call herself English, but she had the soul of the east
of Europe, ardent, even rapacious a little. Her age,
granted that parentage, was an ungovernable age, and
reckless of consequences. Such feeble moral teaching as
her mother had been able to offer had trickled off her
almost as soon as spoken. Those ideas were pretty enough,
but beside the point. It was not likely, on the face of it,
that a girl so disposed would submit to constitutional
development at Mr. Auberon's hands, or even to direction,
when one came to think. Perhaps Quentin guessed it,
being a clever boy, and that was why he was afraid of
her.

He did not exhibit apprehension, naturally. He was
kind, simply kind and careful, as man must be to an
afflicted little girl. He thought of her steadily as a little
girl, determined so to envisage her. He offered her what

148 THE ACCOLADE

consolation he could think of, his ready countenance in
her efforts for independence, his company (more important
to Jill) for quite a time in her kitchen solitude, — and, of
course, his advice. Her passion of grief for her mother
touched him, though it puzzled him too. It was illogical :
since she had been most willing to leave her mother, he
gathered : and had by no means welcomed the chance,
offered her by Miss Havant, of going back.

So they started at cross purposes. For Jill was sure,
even while feeling quite considerably, that her sorrow was
moving him in her interest ; and Quentin, though reproach-
ing himself, was questioning all the time whether her
sorrow were real at all. It was real, most of it : Jill was
a good daughter, and had worked for her mother all her
life ; though, when the chance of escape from that caged
life came, her ambition proved stronger than her love.
Once flown, she could not wish to go back, her wings had
long been beating for freedom. Had Quentin had an
inkling of her wretched home conditions, the drudge's life
she had led in her feckless parents' service, he would have
understood better the wild romance that liberty and London
was. Even at this moment of grief for her mother, life
opened a little more before her, — she was less tied. She
now had money of her own, — Miss Darcy paid her, which
she had not the least expected at first. She had only to
save for herself, and the world was hers, — only of course
she disclosed none of these leaping ambitions : she simply
plotted and watched, and made use of all that came to
further them, hasten the great day. Miss Darcy herself
Jill regarded as a tool ; she had been trying little experi-
ments, and thought she saw how an influence might be
gained. The house was nothing, — Jill agreed with Ursula ;
a menage of one old lady — she who had had in the best
days ten pensionnaires to cater for ! — could be looked
after with one hand. Best of all, here was the man, —
the man she had always dreamed of, — come to help. She
was certain, convinced he must help her, if she could but

THE ARTIST 149

be pathetic enough. So she began by being pathetic as
a new-made orphan, with the best excuse : and it must
be owned she did it convincingly, and in excellent taste.

She sat in a delightful attitude against the wooden
kitchen table, with the nicely-cleaned ranks of her pots
and pans as a background, against the wall. It was a
pose for Cinderella in a fairy-tale scene, both little rounded
arms leaning on the board, one propping her head, her
elbow in the other palm. She had the little supple long-
fingered hands of the artist, brownish-white, no finger of
them ever out of place. With her round childish brow so
inclined, the charming continuous line of head and neck
the quaint South German coiffure permitted was seen to
the best advantage. It was a good head, Quentin noted,
and he had no doubt of the brains within. Had there
only been brains to reckon with ! And yet she looked
very young, her mouth's line very melancholy, and seeing
it he was sorry for her.

She used her lowest, most seductive nightingale tone to
answer his questions, and she answered neatly and to the
point. She rarely looked towards him, and when she did
seemed to look beyond. The little witch knew the value
of all her resources, had played with and practised them
all : practised alone chiefly, it is true, she had had small
chance of practising on others, in her scheming life of
poverty.

' My father, — I must let him know,' she murmured.

' I will let him know,' said Quentin.

' You ? ' A wondering glance.

' Of course. You need not think about anything of that
sort just now. Has he let you alone so far ? '

' Yes,' said Jill pensively. ' I said he was not to come
near me.'

' Good,' thought Quentin, noting the change of her
expressive mouth. ' She's got him in hand, I shouldn't
wonder.' Aloud he said — ' Will he go back to Switzerland,
do you think, when he hears this news ? '

150 THE ACCOLADE

She drew a breath. ' He might,' she said. ' There will
be something for him.'

' Pickings,' said Quentin : and nothing in the world
could have kept the edge of scorn from his tone. As Jill
sent him a sidelong glance, slightly curious, he said, ' Would
you be glad if he went ? ' She shrugged simply, lifting
her fine little brows. ' Do you care for him ? ' he pressed
her keenly.

' No,' said Jill, having considered. ' I cannot : I have
tried. I was sorry for him once, but even that now is
finished. He has killed my mother, — yes, certainly it is
he that has killed her out there.' She reflected another
minute. ' So,' she concluded with satisfaction, clasping
her elbow again, ' he is not my father any more.'

Quentin was only too glad to believe it. He had little
doubt, of course, that young as she was she knew the whole
disgraceful history. She must have seen too much to be
ignorant.

' If he wishes to be my father,' Jill resumed unexpectedly,
' I shall tell him I have enough.' She shrugged. ' Qu'il se
tire d'affaire — sans moi.' She drew pictures on the table
with her finger for a moment, and he saw the tears on her
long lashes, not yet dried. ' I told Miss Darcy he was dead,'
she added.

' That was a lie,' remarked Quentin.

' Yes. But I had to tell her something, — Mrs. — that
lady told her nothing at all. After all, one has a father.'
Her tone became dreamy again.

' Well,' said Quentin, ' Mrs. Ingestre knows best.'
Privately, he wondered that Ursula should have kept
Miss Darcy in the dark, — consideration for Miss Darcy's
nerves, probably, or the idea that she might have rejected
the girl had she known : or perhaps merely Mrs. Ingestre's
own beautiful propriety, which had been slightly too
apparent in their interview. Personally, Quentin would
have told the employer, if only to get the thing off his
chest. However, Mrs. Ingestre had the experience, and he

THE ARTIST 151

had to leave it between the two ladies, old friends as they
were. Quentin supposed they were friends because Miss
Darcy spoke of Mrs. Ingestre's husband so familiarly : that
it might not follow, he forgot.

There was yet another point he had to make sure of
before he left her.

' Are you communicating with your father ? ' he asked,
eyes cast down, as he noted Jacoby's London address.

' Communicating ? ' She coloured.

' Sending him money.'

' Once, I did.'

' You must not,' he said crisply. ' The money you earn
is yours. We will see to your father's needs, if he has
them. . . . Have you a place to keep it, — your money,
I mean ? '

' She would keep it for me,' said Jill, looking aside and
shrinking rather. On this subject he alarmed her ; she
feared the interference of Man, with his large standards of
the outer world, in her small and careful contriving.

' Miss Darcy ? Yes, that would be best. She's kind
to you ? '

' Yes. ... I wish she was not so ugly,' said Jill.

Quentin laughed. ' I suppose you can't offer to shave
her exactly, can you ? ' he said, rising, and pocketing the
note he had made.

Jill shadowed a smile too, warily, in her fashion. She
had risen when he did, but, hand on table, did not stir
from where she stood. It reminded him, and his gravity
returned as he asked —

' You don't find the work too tiring, — the stairs and so
on ? I suppose you are pretty constantly on your feet ? '

' All the time,' said Jill disdainfully. ' But it does not
tire me, — I am strong.'

' I meant •'

1 My infirmity.' She smiled her strange little smile again.
' It is not beautiful, but it is a small thing. Other people
regard it, but I do not.'

152 THE ACCOLADE

Being so held off, Quentin submitted. ' Miss Darcy is
worse off than you are, certainly,' he said. ' Well, I say,
I've got to go.'

' You are going ? '

' Yes. I don't want to lose sight of you, though.' He
reflected rapidly. ' Look here, is Miss Darcy going to the
Ingestres' on Sunday, by any chance ? '

' Yes, — I saw the card. Oh, will you be there ? ' said Jill.

' I'm asked, yes. Make her bring you, can't you ? She
would, I expect, at a hint. Then I might get a chance to
introduce you to Miss Falkland. I should like to do that.'

' Miss Falkland ? '

' Yes. Didn't my sister mention I lived with them ? '

He explained, lightly and curtly, since he was late.
Having explained, he went, also briskly and lightly, thank-
ful for duty accomplished. To his own critical mind, he
had left nothing undone, and said nothing superfluous, in
that well-studied interview. But the princess Cinderella,
left in the kitchen, with her beautiful mouth set sulkily,
and her strange light-brown eyes glittering above, could
not agree with him. She could very well have dispensed
with Miss Falkland's name.

Ursula had decided, for all the bitterness the discussion
of John's party for Helena entailed in private, to treat it
gracefully, in front oi her own friends, as a joke. So she
laughingly disclaimed all responsibility for the arrange-
ments, in advance.

' This play's going to be as I like it/ explained Johnny,
also in advance, adapting his wit to his company.

' I hope you don't mean to rag it,' said Ursula, in front
of the friends. ' It is Shakespeare, after all, and a very
pretty one. And it will be extremely hard on the poor girl,
if you do.'

Johnny merely lifted his brows. That it is simply

THE ARTIST 153

impossible to rag Shakespeare, however one may talk
about him up to the very minute of performance, she did
not seem to know. But then she knew nothing. Nor did
her friends. Johnny left it.

' I suppose it will be in your room, Mr. Ingestre,' said the
friends, with the amusement that subject always seemed
to evoke.

Johnny could never think why. His music-room at the
back of the house was a particularly jolly place, a billiard-
room in origin, furnished entirely in his own taste, and to
suit his private purposes. It boasted a large piano, and a
small stage. The chairs were better than any chairs Ursula
could ever have invented, still less unearthed in London.
There were a great many things of interest, of a mixed kind,
valuable and otherwise, with dark histories attached to
them which only Johnny could tell. Most of the music-
room's contents were mellow with time, and they would
all have been hoary with dust likewise, only Ursula and
her housemaids made periodic incursions and cleaned in the
corners while Johnny was out. They seldom succeeded
completely before he sent them packing, that was his
consolation ; nor could air and water ever remove the
strong, supporting savour of tobacco that clung to every-
thing, and helped his Sunday visitors to feel at home. Why
women laughed at this sanctuary of art and friendship,
remained a mystery : but even the most well-trained
women, such as Violet, did.

Since Johnny always worked in his room, at which-
ever of his arts happened to be uppermost, Helena learnt
to know it too. She thought it funny, but like him,
privately. She was infinitely more at ease there than in
Ursula's department, where she was simply guest, not
pupil. In Johnny's haunts she became pupil instantly, for
some reason, — how it happened she could not say. Nor
did he show himself an easy master ; she had never worked
so hard in her life, as he made her work, those weeks before
performance ; she learned what artistic working meant.

154 THE ACCOLADE

She went and came, graceful and serene, crossing from one
department of that strange house to the other, as they
wished her : independent, since her mother trusted her
readily to Ursula's charge, her manners perfect to both host
and hostess, however they chose to treat her. Since she
was gentle, Ursula patronised her easily ; since she was
adroit under her modest guise, she very nearly succeeded
in constituting the link Ursula needed so sorely with her
husband. She was able at least to keep their tempers for
them ; and both were secretly relieved if they could detain
her, after rehearsal, for a meal.

In his professional capacity, John had been most con-
siderate of Helena's feelings, and contained his opinions to
her face with unusual success. But he told Ursula cheer-
fully, after the first trial, that she recited prettily, but acted
like a mincing missy ; and after the second, that she was
rather worse, because she was trying to be hearty. A
hearty Rosalind, said Johnny, was obviously beastly, and
she had far better go back to the mincing one, which only
made the hearer smile, not swear.

So uncompromising had been his private views, clearly
expressed to Ursula, and kindly concealed by her from
Helena's family, that she was rather surprised when, on
the day of performance, Miss Falkland appeared beauti-
fully dressed in character, composed as usual, with no
uncomfortable nerves apparent to distract her patrons
beforehand ; and acted the ' pretty play ' ' quite charm-
ingly ' : at least, that was the opinion of Ursula's contingent
at the end of the pretty play, with one accord.

' What did you tell me she wasn't going to dress for ? '
said Ursula to her husband, rather annoyed, when the
earliest guests were arriving, and Miss Falkland, a cloak
over her court-robes, and its hood over her glorious hair,
had just appeared.

' I told her she could, last night,' said Johnny carelessly,
' since it seemed she had the clothes. I thought it might be
the best chance.'

THE ARTIST 155

' Of course it is,' said Ursula. ' I said so, from the first.'
She looked markedly at her husband's suit of unseemly
tweed : for he had spent the morning on the links as usual,
and had not troubled to change.

' The only hope now is to knock 'em in the eye,' he
pursued calmly. ' They may see her way to a dolly part in
a dolly piece if she looks nice enough, — Lord knows.
Luckily she does know how to dress, — I'd begun to doubt
even that.'

' She's quite lovely,' said Ursula, who grew warmer
towards Helena in proportion as Johnny waxed critical.
' Isn't she, Mr. Auberon ? That satin is just the perfect shade.'

Johnny reviewed Rosalind's clothes a moment in his
' dissecting ' manner. Critical was the mildest word for that
manner of his.

' I told her to keep her hair, and send the text to blazes,'
he remarked, to Miss Darcy who sat near him. ' I told her
the author would agree if he were here. " Your chestnut's
ever the only colour" — which reminds me — ' he swung
suddenly about. ' Where's Celia ? '

' Who was to do Celia ? ' said Miss Darcy, who seemed
most contented at his side. She became extremely natural
and composed in Johnny's restless company. But then she
had a passionate prejudice in favour of all Ingestres, and
had known Johnny himself literally from the cradle, since
she had been his mother's confidante and companion at
that time. She knew the atmosphere of the music-room
on Sunday extremely well, having a permanent invitation
to anything that happened there : and was aware that if
one exerted patience through the somewhat heterogeneous
preliminaries, one was generally rewarded by something
good in the end.

' Mitchell said he'd bring one of his kids along to do it
for me,' confided Johnny, searching the rapidly filling room.
' But I see no kid, do you ? Of course Mitchell may call
her a kid, and she be twenty-five. He's been married
several times. Monty ! '

156 THE ACCOLADE

He vociferated suddenly, across the heads of several of
Ursula's nice acquaintance, who tried not to look surprised.
Quite at the other extremity of the room, a keen-looking
tall man, rather high-coloured, and conspicuously well-
dressed, turned about.

' Where's that kid you promised, you thief ? ' called
Johnny.

' Apologise, Ingestre,' said the man, in the unmistakable
clear-consonanted actor's tone. ' The child's had a bit of
a cold, and Fanny won't allow her to speak through it.'

' What rot,' said Johnny, on the same pleasant carrying
note. ' Fanny, are you getting fussy in your old age ? '

' She's at the ticklish point,' Mr. Mitchell continued, as
the lady addressed, who was talking low and rapidly to her
neighbour, did not seem to hear. ' We'd sooner not take
risks.'

' You don't seem to think of me,' complained Johnny.
' Celia's not so easy done without. Serve Fanny right if
you made her take it — tell her so.'

' Johnny's inviting you to take Celia,' said Mr. Mitchell
to his inattentive lady. ' You might acknowledge the
compliment.'

' I will, if you like, Johnny,' said Mrs. Mitchell, turning
a beautiful worn face and a tired smile. ' Anything to
oblige a friend.'

' Rot, I was joking/ said John in some haste. Crossing
to the door, he laid a hand on the actress's shoulder, as he
passed her. ' If you'd go through one of the third-act
dialogues with me, at the end, to show her — ' he men-
tioned quietly.

' That I will,' said Fanny, also quietly, only unfortunately
everybody heard. ' It's some time since I made love to
you, my dear, when I come to think.' She put her gloved
hand over his fingers with frank affection, before he moved
away.

This, and more, was the kind of thing Ursula was
expected to bear, that day. They all seemed to be on the

THE ARTIST 157

most confidential terms with her husband, and with one
another ; and their confidences, low or loud, were invari-
ably audible. Yet Ursula bore it marvellously, with the
right smiles and movements for Johnny's friends, and the
face of martyrdom turned to her own. It was a beautiful
exhibition, so all the latter agreed, of wifely tolerance.

' Good, there's my father,' said Johnny, after another
easy interval, during which everybody enjoyed themselves
immensely, and nothing occurred. ' He said he'd read
the Dukes.'

' Both the Dukes ? ' asked somebody.
' Any quantity of Dukes, my father says he's up to.
Now we're pretty straight, I think.' The stage-manager,
sitting on a table amid his friends, glanced about him.
' Who's Celia, finally ? ' asked the last speaker.
' I am, Edward/ said Johnny. ' I'm three males and a
female, now, with Jaques. I'm rather out of practice in
ventriloquism, — hope I keep them clear.'

' Jaques ? ' queried Edward. ' But you're Orlando,
aren't you ? '

' Rather ! ' said Johnny.

' I say, Ingestre,' said Edward, ' do you propose to
conduct a dialogue with yourself ? '

' Rather,' said Johnny, unperturbed. ' It's a thing I'm
specially good at doing — in the evenings — ask my wife.'

' John,' said Ursula's cool tone across his shoulder, at this
point. ' Here's Miss Jacoby will take Celia, if you like.'

' Who the deuce is Miss Jacoby ? ' said Johnny under his
breath. ' And what's she got to do with it ? '

' She is close to you/ said Ursula quietly : and scored
for once, for he recoiled. Then he rose.

' It is as you wish/ said Jill, with great indifference. She
treated Mr. Ingestre the aristocrat to rather more haughti-
ness than she had treated Quentin at first meeting — hardly
worth while to look at him, one would have said. She was
leaning, inconspicuously as usual, against the table ; for,
as Miss Darcy's maid, she could not venture to sit down.

158 THE ACCOLADE

' Awfully good of you, Miss Jacoby,' said Johnny, taking
her in with curious eyes. ' It would relieve me of just a
quarter of my responsibilities if you would read the
part.'

' I think I know it,' said Jill. ' Unless I have forgotten.'

' Studied it ? ' said Johnny, with another sweeping
glance. He had recognised Ursula's ' voice-trainer ' now,
for Miss Darcy had referred to her also.

' No, but I acted in this piece once, and — ' she made
a little gesture.

' Picked it up.' The part she must have taken was clear
to his consciousness as he spoke, for it is only Rosalind, in
the ' piece,' who is invariably present when Celia speaks.
But he hardly thought it out then, being simply relieved to
see his company complete. Putting a hand on the stage,
he vaulted suddenly upon it, and began to kick the
furniture into position, in the same competent and casual
manner as that in which he had disposed his cast.

' We might start at the beginning then,' he remarked to
the audience in general, — just as if it would have struck a
stage-manager to begin anywhere else. ' We can have
the girl's scene, Miss Falkland, after all, — and I shall have
the pleasure, Edward, of knocking you down. I thought I
should be engaged as a lady just then, but now I'm quite
at your service, only just look out for the candles.'

' Start with the first scene, Ingestre,' called Mr. Mitchell,
— as though this, again, were quite a fresh idea : a kind
of original inspiration, on the part of a commentator of
genius.

' Do, Johnny,' said Mitchell's wife in the same tone.
' It's all such pretty talking.'

' Won't you ? ' Helena asked shyly, looking up at him
as he stood on the stage.

' Not me,' he answered with decision. ' Can't be
bothered to tell you fairy-stories, Fanny. You can get up
and tell those ladies the first chapter, if you like : sort of
way the feuilletons do/

THE ARTIST 159

Fanny laughed. ' Do it yourself,' she returned, ' since
you're up. We'd all like to hear you. I'm sure I've
forgotten the way the plot goes, — so's Mitchell, probably.'

John was silent for a space, looking round him. The
sight of so many mixed guests seemed to move him
pleasantly. He was bound, his expression said, to have
some of them on, if he tried. His father, for instance, —

' Well, you can just represent to yourselves,' he began of
a sudden in a new tone, low and clear, which produced
silence immediately, ' that this, having been an orchard
where my brother brought me up, and where I grew a
little bigger than he expected — as you see — and where I
cheeked him at intervals, with the best of provocation — as
I haven't time to show you — has now got to be turned into
a Duke's garden.'

' Bless him, it does me good to hear his pretty voice
again,' murmured Fanny, settling back in her chair with
the air of a tired queen.

' Reason why/ pursued Johnny, ' I've challenged the
Duke's wrestler, who always does it among the flower-beds
• — that's a flower-bed — and whose habit it is to kill the men
he throws. Nowadays that would be bad form, but in the
Ducal period it was different.'

' Too absurd, isn't he ? ' said Ursula to her father-in-
law, keeping a careful watch upon the door.

' I'd much sooner have had swords,' said Johnny with
sudden excitement, ' only owing to my brother's beastly
education — er — obscuring and hiding from me all gentle-
manlike qualities — I never learnt to hold one.'

Such of his friends as knew his righting qualities
appreciated this, and he gave them time. He thrust his
hands in his jacket pockets, and turned slightly in his
father's direction.

' I come of a decent family, and bear an honourable
name '

' Hear, hear/ said a shabby actor gravely : Mr. Ingestre
the elder stirred in his seat,

160 THE ACCOLADE

' My gentility has been mined, however '

' Has been what ? ' said Mr. Ingestre.

' Mined, father : undermined, you know. My gentility
has been undermined — er — in youth, by associating with
my inferiors.' Johnny's expressive eye fell on Fanny,
who was smiling. ' The result is, I can only wrestle,
and write verses, and — er — kill lions, and so on : things
like that. I'm a credit, in short, to my shocking educa-
tion, and quite a nice young feller — oh, yes, I am,
Fanny, you wait and see. Now, when you're all ready — '
Johnny reviewed his company slowly, one by one —
' I shouldn't wonder if we started. It's getting time.'

' He speaks well,' said Jill to Helena. ' Who is he ? '

' The master of this house,' said Helena gently, ' and
a quite wonderful actor.'

' I can see he acts,' said Jill. ' He has good hands.'

Helena looked at her : it was odd of the queer-looking
girl to pick that out. Helena thought Johnny's brown
hands beautiful too ; she had been watching them while
he fingered the furniture carelessly in throwing it about.
She thrilled when, in the course of rehearsal, he laid one
of them upon her, in pushing her to her place. Her eyes
followed him, clung to him, through all his careless changes.
He was that young hero he described to her, ' of all sorts
enchantingly beloved.' She felt the truth of it, looking
round her at her strange society. ' Enchantingly,' — oh,
insidious phrase for a girl's secret imagination to toy with !
Shakespeare, who knew girls, would never have used it in
the connection had he known.

Obviously, Helena was in danger. She could barely
escape. He had all the attractions possible to a girl of her
age, including the unknown, the inexplicable. His two
personalities, his two manners towards her, puzzled and
absorbed her. Tete-a-tete in rehearsal he had dragooned
her lately, managed her, rated her even, shown himself
both'sharp and kind. Tete-ci-tete in society he played with
her as a pretty child. The two manners did not mix,

THE ARTIST 161

he kept them separate, and she barely knew by his appear-
ance which was likely to be uppermost at any moment.
In the one mood she was alert to please him, in the other
she feared to please too much. Suspecting his home
circumstances shyly, though both Ursula and Violet had
concealed them well, she pitied him in secret. Every time
he flashed into art, she admired him more keenly. The
state of things was, to say the least, alarming, and Mrs.
Falkland had every reason to be solicitous, had she known.

Helena would have given all she had, far more than he
dreamed, to please him on the present occasion. She had
been innocently hoping, if only by her sweet appearance,
and careful following of his instruction, to win a word of
praise. But fate was not kind. It was not only her genuine
shy feeling hampered her, — she was almost instantly
obscured by contrast too. Little had she guessed what
that queer little Miss Jacoby, whom Mr. Auberon had
introduced, was purposing for her discomfiture ; how,
while she sat demure at Miss Falkland's side, she was even
panting for the chance ! No one could have guessed it, with
Jill's wary demeanour, till the moment came. Throughout
the opening scene, from the moment when Helena, followed
by Jill summarily dressed and limping slightly, swam upon
the stage, the whole attention of the uncritical was fixed
on radiant Rosalind, but Celia had the expert's ear.

1 Lord, what's this ? ' said John's movement and
Mitchell's, simultaneously. Mitchell's wife, from first to
last, never moved her eyes from the girl, though her face
did not change its dreamy weary expression. She was
like a woman, tired out, who caught, in so listening and
watching, some faint memory.

' No,' cried the little Celia, ' when Nature hath made a
fair creature, may she not by fortune fall into the fire ? '

She could barely be said to have a foreign accent, yet
her accent was noticeable, and she trilled the letter ' r '
just perceptibly, as the Parisian actress does. ' A fair
cr-reature,' she said. It came again, several times over,

162 THE ACCOLADE

when she accosted Johnny, a speech losing nothing in
stately elegance of diction by those repeated little trills.

' Young gentleman,' said Jill, looking up at him — far up —
with perfect dignity, ' your spirits are too bold for your years.
You have seen cruel proof of this man's strength. . . . We
pray you to embrace your safety, and give over this attempt.'

Johnny almost smiled at the time, and almost laughed
later, more than once, in pure joy at the revelation of a
personality, not Jill's but Celia's. He had really forgotten
it was such a charming part. Yet, as the action proceeded,
his eyes, curious and dissecting, pierced Celia's interpreter
several times. Something was wrong. She was doing it,
in a way, too well, too fiercely well. Also she was com-
peting, it was no longer a second part as she rendered
it. That suggested not only unbalanced judgment, but
he feared, some measure of ill-will. She meant to over-
ride Miss Falkland, she had that in view. It might be
merely youth, but he thought it was other things, passions
moving, a character out of hand. It just reached, and
just disturbed him. He glanced at Fanny once, saw her
melancholy and intent, and wondered if she thought as
he did. She knew something of this kind of girl. Fanny,
in the course of her own tempestuous and exhausting life,
had saved many such a girl from wreckage, that he knew.

Meantime, and even in the act of so pondering, divining
and judging, Mr. John Ingestre junior enjoyed himself
immensely. It was long since he had acted, really acted,
and with this new girl alongside he had naturally to ' buck
up.' The process he would so have described was a little
paralysing to the world at large. He knew perfectly well
that the part of Orlando suited him, that he was impressing
his father, amusing the Mitchells, and slightly scandalising
his wife and her nice friends. Being so well above the
level of his company, he had some temptation to overdo
it farcically, but, perhaps with Jill's warning before him,
he did not. He was only, as he had promised them, a
' nice young feller,' one of the nicest Shakespeare, that

THE ARTIST 163

lover of boys, ever presented to a happy world. It put
the whole of his mixed audience into a good temper merely
to look at him. The grotesque Miss Darcy and the beautiful
Fanny agreed about him with an indulgent smile. Even
his own wife unbent, though Ursula still regretted that
he was not dressed. It must seem so odd, thought Ursula,
for those Mitchell people, and the reed actors, to see John
in tweed upon a stage. Far from ' embracing his safety,'
as Miss Jacoby urged him, Johnny sent Edward flying, in
the wrestling-bout, with such ultra-youthful vivacity, that
Edward rolled right off the small stage, and had to be
retrieved by another actor in the stalls. Immediately
after which, Johnny turned shy, and made the first parting
with his lady, by his right use of gesture and pause, no
droop of eyelash scamped, the thing of beauty it should
be, a love-scene from a younger world.

' Deuced pretty, that is,' remarked Mr. Ingestre as the
scene closed, scratching his jaw meditatively, as he glanced in
Ursula's direction . He was speculating whether Johnny was
in reality off his head about that red-haired lass on the stage:
because, with Johnny's wife sitting in the post of honour at
his side, it was really rather awkward not to be sure.

Lastly, in the short dialogue with himself, as Jaques,
Johnny scored such a triumph of neat elocution and natural
humour combined, that the room, regardless of warnings to
the contrary, broke into applause. At the point where he
observed abruptly to his other self — ' I am weary of you,' —
the actor-manager threw back his head and laughed, all
alone ; and Mrs. Mitchell informed her host point-blank at
the close of the scene that he was far too good for the
classic drama, and had better try his fortune at the ' halls.'

So much for Johnny. There followed on this, barely
separated, Helena's big scenes, which bored the pro-
fessionals mightily, as anyone could have seen by their
expressions. The fact that the rest of the room (who had
rather forgotten Shakespeare) were charmed, helped Miss
Falkland's cause but little. Johnny did what he could to

164 THE ACCOLADE

spur and prompt her : but with the dull faces beneath her,
she was growing nervous by rapid degrees, and did not
even do herself and his careful training justice. She was
frightened, and so heavy, and it struck John once or twice
that she was not really textually expert, barely knew the
fuller sense or finer wit of what she was saying. She was
ignorant, an ignorant child ; she was failing, and she knew
it ; more, and more wonderful, she was afraid of him.

' I can't/ she said once, beneath her breath : and he
caught her glance upon him, liquid and frightened, as
though she feared his blame.

His blame ! Schoolmaster, was he ? Johnny could
have laughed. He could never have said at what point
of that awakening afternoon his heart melted to her, —
while he yet criticised it happened, — just there, perhaps,
when he divined in her frightened glance the breaking up
of her ambitions, her dependence on his approval, her
childish fear of having forfeited that, with all the rest.
Exactly in proportion as her failure became clear, his
feeling to her grew clearer also. No success could possibly
have so endeared her to him, being what he was. Already
on the stage, before the play finished, he was shielding,
supporting her tacitly, with all the art he possessed ;
and they had not left the stage for five minutes, before he
was aware that even more accomplished help was needed.

The Mitchells, — the man at least, — were rude to Rosa-
lind as only your artist can be rude. He gave her the
formula that means nothing, or less than nothing, on her
acting, while his eyes took stock of her physical claims,
too visibly. Mrs. Mitchell was kinder, so far as a perfectly
implacable judge can seem kind. The pair talked nothings
across her for five minutes : and having thus done their
social duty, as they considered, and satisfied Johnny,
they both turned from her to the ' second girl.'

' Take those third-act scenes again, will you, Ingestre ? '
said the manager, with barely- veiled authority, after five

THE ARTIST 165

minutes' rapid talk with Jill. ' She studied them three
years since, but she's bound to remember if she remembers
the rest so well. From the scroll-business onward. Cut
anything, gag if you choose : give her the Rosalind cues,
that's all, and play up to her showily, if you know what I
mean. I want to see.'

Johnny did know, knowing Mitchell, and also knew
there was no escape. Under the circumstances, and his
own roof, he could hardly refuse. But even as he agreed,
his eye fled round the room, searching for Helena.

He saw her near the door, taking leave of the last group
of Ursula's contingent, who were departing with their
hostess to the tea-room. He had already heard her gently
refuse Ursula's offer of tea, — she must remain to face her
critics, naturally, — and to see her own part played by
another, to her face ! Johnny swore beneath his breath.
He would have driven her out, then and there, if he could,
but it was useless. He looked about the rapidly-emptying
room, begged Jill, — or rather Jill's tyrant, — for two
minutes' grace, and went up to his father, who was on the
verge of leaving too.

' I say,' jerked Johnny in his rear. ' Can you stop
half an hour ? '

Mr. Ingestre turned in surprise. ' At need,' he said.
' Why ? '

Johnny explained, looking rather sulky, with his eyes
lowered. ' I've got to follow orders, for the moment,' he
said. ' Every man in their turn, and that brute's a
martinet at home. I want you to catch Miss Falkland,
when she comes back from the door, keep her by you,
make love to her, flatter her all you're fit, — d'you mind ? '

' I can manage,' said Mr. Ingestre, with a sardonic eye.
' I thought that was your job, though.'

' I can't,' said Johnny resentfully. ' Mitchell's just
asked me to insult her deliberately.' He went into detail,
and his father's attitude grew more sympathetic.

' Rough on the little girl/ he agreed, ' when she tried

166 THE ACCOLADE

so hard, and looked so pretty about it. Very good : I'll
turn Miss Rosalind's attention upon herself, if words can
do it. Is that all ? '

' Shall you be seeing Violet ? ' said Johnny.

' Immediately. I'm due there at this minute. What am
I to say ? '

' Nothing,' said Johnny, after a pause. ' I'll see to it.'

' Is it as bad as that ? ' said Mr. Ingestre.

' It's pretty vile, for the poor girl. I pretty well knew
it would be, if it wasn't a clear success. I intended a
success,' explained Johnny. ' Mitchell's got the manners
of a swine, — a gilded swine, which is worse. That's my
fault, of course, I let her in for that. One had to risk it,
in getting a good man.' He paused, his eye flitting to
Helena by the door. He still looked sulky and spoke
curtly, which generally meant he was anxious. ' Fact is,
I've rotted it pretty well, so far, but you needn't tell
Violet that. I'll see Fanny afterwards, and pull things
straight if I can, — but Fan can't do much with Mitchell
across her, really. Luckily he's gone off for the moment
on the other girl. Hope he stays there, that's all. I'm
not wanting him to turn his commercial eye on Miss
Falkland now. He can drop it.'

' Humph ! ' said Mr. Ingestre. He gave his son another
sly glance, while his eyes were diverted. Johnny, when he
was disturbed, was given to betraying himself, for all his
marked ability, in general, to delude. ' Well, go along with
you. I'll see to the girl, if that's all. I can stop for that.'

' I don't want Montagu and her to get together, barring
I'm there/ insisted Johnny. ' See ? '

' Not likely any Montagu'd get the chance,' said Mr.
Ingestre, ' or Capulet either, before I leave myself.' He
pushed his son about his business, and turned with new
interest to meet the Falkland girl, who was approaching.

As a rule Johnny's father took his proceedings in the
social world for granted, not to mention, by this time,
his success. It amused Mr. Ingestre, as it had occasionally

THE ARTIST 167

amused his wife, to see him manoeuvre his way through
his crowd of women, playing the fool, shaking them off
restively at times, but always returning inevitably to
their ways again. The fact that Johnny had got himself
tangled in a nice little net composed of Violet and Fanny
and the Falkland girl, complicated by Ursula, would not
in itself have surprised his father at all. That was merely
Johnny's way, and, generally speaking, he enjoyed it, and
invariably, hitherto, he had escaped scot-free. It was
really, on the broad lines of justice, high time that Fate
took her revenge upon him, only Mr. Ingestre had grown
somehow into the belief that Fate never would.

It was chance, of course, in part, his happy chance, that
had protected him : largely the kind of woman he had
come across, who had, in the majority of cases, preferred
to pamper him for his charms, like a child. But beyond
that, Johnny himself was difficult, his was not really an
easy taste to please. His eye was caught easily, he enjoyed
experiment, and practised trifling as a pleasant game :
but as soon as he was in the noose, he twisted and looked
aside. He was an elusive person under compulsion, as
Mr. Ingestre had discovered long since, to his cost : and
the compulsion of his own nature would be enough to
alarm him. He would never agree to serve, in short,
except in the highest temple, the temple of his deliberate
choice. Was it conceivable this little girl of nineteen was
framed to occupy that pedestal ? That was Mr. Ingestre's
present problem, his newest interest, evoked by Johnny's
unusual behaviour. It seemed, to the man of the world,
an absurd idea ; but then his son, on the side he knew least,
had often seemed absurd, rash, at least, and unaccountable.

He admitted the danger anew, as he talked to Helena,
and all the more that he had been talking to Ursula just
previously. He could not pretend to suppose, at this time
of day, that the marriage he had prompted had been a
success, though how far it was a tragedy he had not
penetrated at present. He could not, for all his natural

168 THE ACCOLADE

guile, get at the facts. His son and Ursula both dodged
him, Ursula even more persistently than John. Mr.
Ingestre had been ' drawing ' Ursula that afternoon, with
all the arts that were known to him, in vain. He could
drag no definite complaint out of her, though her general
attitude was that of resentment, hostility to a?I enquiry
or interference with her concerns. That it w John's
family's concern as well she did not seem to iealise, or
deliberately ignored the issue. She talked coolly and
correctly on superficial subjects, smilingly granted John's
' flirtations ' with this woman and that, and shut her lips
upon her grievances, with that air of natural superiority
and mild martyrdom to which the family were used. The
family were getting a little tired of the attitude, though
of course, on principle, they supported Ursula and swore
at — that is, censured — John. Mr. Ingestre, in his heart,
was inclined to think Ursula a dreadful woman, both cold
and sly ; but nothing would have induced him to air the
opinion, since he had ' backed ' the girl originally. He
would hardly word it to himself.

For the moment, the programme presented him was
agreeable, with a nice girl to flatter and amuse, the excellent
excuse of doing so in his son's interest, and the prospect, on
the proximate horizon, of wreaking his inner uneasiness and
dissatisfaction upon Mrs. Shovell's head, since his own wife,
who should have borne it, was out of town. Violet was
useful for this purpose, as several of the Ingestres had
discovered. She was both clever and accommodating, and
none of her distinguished connections were that. They
were one thing, or the other. Johnny and his father and
his grandmother were clever, and his aunts were accommo-
dating, that was the way they divided it : each excellent
quality excluding the other completely, in every case.

Johnny's programme was less attractive, by far. As he
climbed the stage once more, he was in a state to loathe
Miss Jacoby for driving him to the necessity. She might
have had the decency to refuse, he thought. Once upon the

THE ARTIST 169

boards, and launched in dialogue with her, his instincts
were too much for him, naturally, and he acted her lover
as he had never acted Helena's. He cut nothing, for all
the manager's kind permission : and the reading of the
scrolls, the challenge to the game of love, all the charming
war of words ran through without a hitch. The girl was
brilliant, inspiring, certainly : yet still, something was
wrong. She did not move quite as John expected, and he
had more than once to tone his own action to correspond ;
while behind the light echo of her delicious voice, he was
feeling for the tragedy that underlay the comedy, all the
time. She smiled without her eyes, he noted, being close ;
her eyes were tired. Rosalind was emphatically not the
part for her, neatly though she played it. Perhaps Juliet,
perhaps Ophelia, — never Rosalind.

' Pretty good, eh ? ' said Mitchell, taking his wife's
opinion. He was the slave of her opinion secretly, but she
did not seem to want to give it, or all of it, on this occasion.
She would tell Ingestre later, probably. Mitchell would
get it round through him.

' Why doesn't she move better on her feet, though ?
That's all I want to know. All above her hips is easy, it's
only below. Look at that ! ' They watched again.

Indeed, it was clear enough, to critics placed beneath
her, as soon as she stood in Rosalind's shoes, the infirmity
she had hidden so cleverly as Celia. The part calls for
buoyant and brusque movement : and just where she
should have been easiest, ankles and knees, this Rosalind
was tied. No acting, ingenious as the acting was, could cover
it. The little ring of critics were watching a tour de force.

' She's saving steps, certainly,' said the actress. ' Though
she could act if she was planted. She's built to act.
Twisted her ankle possibly, getting up.'

' What's the name, did Johnny say ? ' asked Mitchell.

' Jill Jacoby,' said Fanny, still absent.

The manager laughed. ' Well, at the worst she could
sell it/ he said.

170 THE ACCOLADE

Quentin Auberon, sitting two places beyond them, and
stiffening visibly as he listened, at the laugh turned about.

' Would you mind not talking quite so loud ? ' he said
cuttingly to Mitchell. ' Miss Jacoby is lame.'

' Lame ? ' said the manager sharply. ' She's on her feet.'

' She'll suffer for it,' said Quentin. ' She's suffering now.
She can't walk across a room without limping. She's been
lame for years.'

' Oh, curse it all ! ' muttered the manager, collapsing :
and there was silence all round, for some time.

Then the manager's wife arose quietly, with no excuse to
Mitchell who might want her, moved along, and sat down
by Mr. Auberon. It seemed she wanted to know a few
more details : and Quentin, having looked her fairly in the
face, decided to let her know them.

' Isn't she a darling ? ' said Helena suddenly. ' I do feel
so sorry for her, I don't know why.'

Mr. Ingestre looked round at her astonished. The
instant after, her fair head was in her hands.

' I can't bear it,' she gasped. ' It's Shakespeare — and
everything. Oh, do you think I can get away ? '

' Go, my dear,' he responded. ' No one's attending to us.'

' Nor ever will,' said Helena. She laughed and looked
up with wet eyes. ' Mr. Ingestre, is that genius ? ' she
asked. ' I have so often wondered what it was, — if it existed
really. It must be, I think, to make one feel such a fool.'

' It is,' said Johnny's father. ' And this, I think, is
generosity. It's fully as uncommon, Miss Falkland, —
rather more so. Will you take an old man's word for it ? '
He put a hand on her wrist for a moment. Helena's head had
sunk again, and he saw she was struggling with her tears.

' Would you mind telling — your son ? ' she said, with
a last effort. ' Say it's the heat — a headache. You are all
— much too kind.'

And she slipped away.

PART III

THE GOLDEN FLEECE

JOHNNY wrote to Helena, and Helena debated long
whether to tell her mother about it. It was a business
note, — but then it was in his hand, and bore his full
signature at the end. Helena was not sure whether such a
document could concern her mother really, and she carried
it away to her room, and sat over it, guarding it, as it were,
for long.

It was quite a few lines, expressed curtly, but courteously,
— even to formality. First, he excused himself for writing
by mentioning that he had not been able to get a private
word with her on Sunday afternoon. Then he asked ' if he
might hope ' she would let him know, at once, any proposal
Mitchell might make her of the professional order. It
might be better, he said, since he had experience, that he
should act as intermediary, and judge of the nature of the
offer, or at least undertake the interviews. Unless, Johnny
concluded, her brother or her father preferred to do so.

After that he was ' hers to command ' — playful, of course,
— John Ingestre.

It was that ' unless ' which occupied Helena. There was
a serious suggestion in it which, having borne Mitchell's
manner and glances the day before, she understood. She
could not but understand it. Helena was not so raw in
experience as not to know that beauty alone has its
market value on the stage, as in the seething crowd below :
but she had not thought to have to dwell upon it, naturally.
She had been more than a little vain, in secret, of her
acting talent, — she had cried most of that Sunday night

173

174 THE ACCOLADE

with disappointment and hurt pride, — so that it had never
occurred to her simple soul that, in bidding for a place in
the public eye, she might have to depend upon her face
alone. It had been a really horrible awakening, — a real
shock ; but Mitchell's brutality had left her little doubt of
the truth, before this note of Johnny's came, kindly and
delicately, to finish the work.

She was sure, quite sure, that was what it meant : death
to her hopes of fame, — defeat. The other girl had obscured
her, of course, — she had suffered one wild rush of resent-
ment against Jill, — but it was not only that. She had
faith enough in the expert to believe that that would not
have diverted the Mitchells' attention so entirely, if she
herself had boasted one spark of Jill's genius for the career.
Had that other girl been radiantly beautiful to boot,
perhaps, — but she was little and lame and dependent, —
Helena had the whole panoply of worldly advantages on
her side : and still — still they had looked away.

Johnny himself had looked away : he had, she knew it.
He had not only made charming love, duty-bound, to Jill
upon the stage. He had been impressed and overborne by
her attainments, quite grave in his respect. Helena had
been at his elbow when he congratulated her the first time,
trusted earnestly she was not too tired, and thanked her for
her help. He had been more than the polite host, more
than the grateful manager, at that moment. Helena had
seen it, and had heard.

If anything — anything she could do, in life, with years of
patient study and self -repression, would turn that look of
his upon herself ! That was himself, — she knew him now, —
had been privileged to divine the central man, the essential
part. She felt she held it, nursed it with his letter in her
hands. His wife missed it utterly, his father ignored, his
friends travestied and made light of it, Mrs. Shovell had
been given a glimpse perhaps, — but she had never seen as
much as Helena ! She had not been taught by him,
talked to by him during long delightful working mornings,

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 175

scolded by him, and watched by critical cool eyes that
never changed, or relaxed the high standard he guarded,
in secret, for himself. Helena was the first in the world to
share that, so she believed. He was an artist, a power that
could make the Mitchells stare and laugh, while they
feigned to look aside. He was her master, Helena's, —
because she wanted him so much to be ! She longed to be
mastered, passionately, granted it should be by him. It
was not fair, it was not reasonable, that anyone should
think her wicked for desiring that.

So, having reached this discovery, that it was not the
applause of the world she wanted any longer, but only and
simply his, — she awoke with a start. A start almost of
horror, for indeed she had thought that her ambition was
real. It must be there still, that cherished dream of years,
if she looked for it. It was not possible she was so shallow,
such a humbug as that !

Helena arose, shook herself, walked about, and looked
for her ambition where she had been accustomed to find it,
in all the corners of her room. It was in none of the
familiar places, — quite other, surging thoughts were there.
She put the note on her dressing-table and looked at it.
Then she looked at herself in the glass. What was happening
to her ? What was to become of her ? What — would he say ?

Out, — that was Helena's next thought, her next
conscious thought, for it occurred after a long time, — out
of doors. When she was Grossest in the country, a long
walk was her remedy, and this was worse than being cross,
by far. . . . Unluckily, she was a young lady enjoying
her first season in London : there were no country vistas
anywhere to look at : nothing lay beneath her window
but odious, dusty streets. Also, it was just lunch-time, —
it always is at these crises of our fate, — bells and things
would be ringing immediately, — her father, Harold and
Mr. Auberon would appear from different quarters of the
house, and look at her, with their pleasant familiar faces,
across a table.

176 THE ACCOLADE

This last thought could simply not be borne. Some
excuse must be thought of to avoid it. Ill ? — she was
never ill, that would barely be credited. Helena put on
her hat, determined at least to get a breath of air, and
ran downstairs with extreme, rather unusual impetuosity.
Her movements were stately and quiet as a rule.

There was a shriek and yelp and scramble as she reached
the bottom of the stairs.

' Oh, darling ! ' ejaculated Miss Falkland in passionate
apology.

The darling in question, as usual in that house, was a
dog. It was the latest fat puppy, belonging primarily to
all the Falklands, who fought for it ; and in a secondary
manner to Lesbia, the Captain's faithful hound. Observing
Miss Falkland on the staircase, it had naturally rolled over
on the mat to bite her shoe as she came by : only she came
too fast, and overwhelmed it.

Helena, having only just saved herself by great address
and agility from a serious fall, picked up Lesbia's puppy to
comfort and caress. The sight of it suggested an idea of
escape, so simply brilliant, that she cheered at once. She
would invite herself out to lunch at a quiet house, and
play with a baby afterwards. A baby was the next best
thing to the open country, after all.

Helena had pursued her acquaintance with Mrs. Shovell
under difficulties, since her mother persistently disapproved
of her, until she had had the cunning idea one day of intro-
ducing her father, casually, during a walk in the Park.
The ruse succeeded, quite beyond her hopes. Mrs. Shovell,
it appeared, was looking for a dog, and the Captain rose to
the bait immediately. He talked for twenty minutes
about dogs in general, and for another twenty minutes
about his dog. Before the close of his conversation (if it
could be called so) with Helena's friend, he had paid her
the highest compliment man, in the person of the Captain,
could offer to woman, — a puppy of Lesbia's. Mrs. Shovell
accepted in a proper spirit, and the puppy was now under-

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 177

going daily instruction in the domestic arts, with a view
to taking charge of her household.

Helena put the protesting puppy in a basket, and told
the servants in the dining-room that she was invited out
to lunch, and would they tell Captain Falkland she was
taking the little dog, because the lady wanted to look at it.

This was true, in so far as that no lady in existence could
refuse to look at Lesbia's puppy, once her attention was
called to it ; but the rest of the excuse was entirely false,
because Helena had no invitation. It only occurred to
her, in the happy manner in which things did occur, that
Mrs. Shovell was always alone for the midday meal, since
her husband lunched in town : and that her company was
less intolerable by several degrees than that of anyone
Helena could think of in the ranks of her acquaintance,
new and old. Why this was, Helena had not the least
idea, since she never analysed people, she only let her
enthusiasms lead her blindly. She thought Violet rather
old, and bewilderingly brilliant, — Johnny had quoted her
once or twice — but as she had quite determined, before
this took place, to love her ardently, it hardly mattered ;
and she continued to seek her society, and that of her
composed baby, whenever life's problems became quite
too much for her, as to-day.

' Hal-lo ! ' said John, stopping short, much perturbed.

Gentlemen do not customarily call on their friends at
the end of the midday luncheon hour, so we may acquit
Helena of all design in the matter, and Helena's hostess of
all intrigue. Not to mention that Mr. Ingestre seemed as
much put out as either of them.

' May I introduce you ? ' said Violet, supposing him to
be struck with the beauty of Lesbia's puppy, which occu-
pied the third place at the table, facing her. Johnny, with
an effort, turned his attention in that direction.

' What sort of a dog is it ? ' he said, having taken it in
with the cold eye of a connoisseur.

178 THE ACCOLADE

' It's not exactly ' began Helena.

' It's a watch-puppy,' said Violet firmly. ' The son of a
great watch-dog. Helena's father is teaching it. It's
supposed to be at school.'

' What's it learning ? ' said Johnny.

' Protection, John : of me and my belongings. You
must be very careful what you say.'

' Pooh,' said Johnny, after a pause. ' It's not a real
dog, — it's a kind of rabbit.'

Advancing to the table, he reached across and picked up
three silver spoons from it, choosing with care. Then he
slid them into his pocket, clashed them ostentatiously, and
looked at the puppy. Lesbia's puppy looked back with
one ear up and its head inclined slightly to the side, as
though taking note of curious social customs in a strange
land. But there was sentiment in the gaze as well, —
ardour, submission, confidence, — everything that a burglar
ler expects.

' Isn't it sweet ? ' said Miss Falkland, in a tone of awe.

' Call that a dog ? ' said Johnny. He laughed. ' Violet,
I say,' — he dropped his hands on her shoulders from
behind, — ' I'm going home again.'

' Not with my spoons,' Violet murmured. She tried to
see his face, feeling his tone and behaviour unusual ; but
as he persisted in standing just behind her, was not
able.

' I only came to leave some things,' Johnny pursued,
' roses and so on, Mother sent up from the country. They're
tired with the journey, — pretty dead, — I left them out
there in the hall.'

' Not roses, John ! '

' Yes, because I looked inside. They're the dropping
white ones, out of her little greenhouse, — remember ? One
fell all to pieces when I took it out.'

' Dreadful/ said Violet, as grave as he. ' But aren't
they meant for Ursula ?

' No,' he asseverated, ' they're mine, all mine ; she sent

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 179

'em to me. It means she's too tired to write, probably,'
he added, ' I wish I knew.'

Violet, as usual where the matter touched Ursula, did
not argue the point of possession. Ursula did not care for
his mother, — she did, — that was enough for Johnny. His
instincts in such things had all the weight of another
person's good reasons.

' Am I to go to them now ? ' she enquired with lifted
brows.

Johnny pinched her neck for all answer. He did not
know what he wanted. He thought she could find out.

Violet supposed he might wish to lecture Helena on the
acting, or something of that sort. A pinch is not of much
assistance to a hostess, especially when she is not allowed
to see a man's face. She rose.

' You can have my chair,' she told him. ' Will you take
care of Miss Falkland, and bring her up to the drawing-
room when she has finished ? She's pretty dead, too, after
yesterday, — I think you overworked her. You look the
better for it, as usual.' She laughed at him.

' On the contrary,' said Johnny earnestly, ' I had a
rotten time. I say, you needn't go.' He now seemed dis-
satisfied with her movement, and detained her with a
finger and thumb.

However, on second thoughts, he loosed her and sub-
sided in her chair ; and she went, swiftly in her fashion,
snapping her fingers to the puppy by the way. Where-
upon the puppy, diverted from its fixed worship of the
great creature, man, by the airy movement, tumbled off
its chair in a hurry, and followed her whisking skirts.

Silence ensued on their departure. Johnny looked shy,
just like Orlando on the stage. He wondered if Miss
Falkland were offended with him, and what must have
been her opinion of that presumptuous letter. He had
been certain, the instant after despatching it, that the
letter was a thoroughly awkward stroke, ill- written, and
cheeky in the extreme. He was sure now, by Miss Falk-

i8o THE ACCOLADE

land's majestic and benign appearance, that she was
resenting it greatly, though she might be too kind to
say so.

Helena wondered a little at his silence, — she had never
known him silent before. Yet he could say nothing in the
circumstances, but that she had failed, which was not his
fault, — the contrary. She decided that, fearful as it was,
she would have to open the conversation.

' I wanted — to thank you ' she hesitated.

' You needn't,' he cut swiftly in. ' I've done nothing
for you, but let you in for a pretty rank time of it, all
round.' A pause, his eyes wandering. ' And it was fair
cheek to write,' he pressed on, ' but I couldn't well avoid
it, in the state of things. You see, I know them. You can
trust Fan — Mrs. Mitchell to the hilt, she's good stuff
through and through. But I wouldn't trust Mr. Monty
more than you can see him with the naked eye, — that's all.
And in any case you have to keep your eyes open in the
trade/ he concluded hastily.

' I know that,' she said gently. ' At least I mean, I
recognise it now. The only thing I wonder now, is why
you ever troubled about me at all.'

' Do you ? ' said Johnny.

She laughed, and then covered her face. She had not
meant to, — but really, things were a little too much.

' Don't cry,' said Johnny, suddenly reckless. ' If you
cry, I shah1 go. I shall have to. As it is, I oughtn't to be
here.'

He got up, really alarmed of his own feelings, seized a
handful of nuts from a dish in front of him, and went to
the window with them, while she recovered. Cracking
nuts with his strong fingers was some slight solace for the
itch he felt in them to get at the elegant Mitchell's throat.
He had all but quarrelled with Mitchell the day before, —
and then again, he had avoided it. For the beast was
very sharp, and had best not be given to understand that
Johnny was — as it were — over-interested in Miss Falkland.

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 181

So, on second thoughts, Johnny had let it alone, and talked
a bit to Fanny, who was steadily, and for years past, his
friend.

' I'd better not have meddled,' he said in a troubled
tone. ' You'd have found something, probably, sooner or
later, on your own lines.'

' I'd have found the imitation/ said Helena, ' and you
showed me the real. A little bit of it, but enough. I shall
never forget your acting, nor hers. Don't think I'm un-
grateful, please. It's only ' She paused, biting her

lip. ' Oh,' she cried, swerving to him, — ' wasn't I a donkey
ever to think of it ? — just tell me the truth.'

' You care for it,' said Johnny, half-turning too, ' and
you're serious. Half the girls who go in for it are not,
specially if they look like you. Excuse me, Miss Falkland,
it's the fact. It's more than probable Mitchell thought
you asked no better than to be looked at.' He paused in
turn. ' But she saw further, I ought to tell you that. She
told me she liked your earnestness, and that you had a
style.'

' She ? Mrs. Mitchell ? Did she really ? ' The girl's
face glowed through her tears. ' How frightfully good you
all are to me ! ' she said, her beautiful warmth breaking
like the sun through mists. ' And you say you have done
nothing for me, Mr. Ingestre, when you have got me that ! '

Johnny laughed, liking it though. ' Fan's an impulsive
soul,' he said, subsiding with his collection of nuts on the
sill of the open garden window, ' but she meant it. And
I'll go as far as to say one of her words is worth ten of his,
— or mine.'

' Could you find ten for me ? ' ventured Helena. ' I
don't mind what sort. You can't be angrier about it than
I am, anyhow. Would you tell me exactly what you
think, — truth between us ? Would you mind ? '

' I would,' said Johnny privately. He cracked a nut,
considering. ' What do you want to know ? ' he tem-
porised.

i82 THE ACCOLADE

' Hadn't I better let it drop altogether ? Aren't I
wasting my time ? '

' I don't suppose you waste time practising any art/
said Johnny with caution. ' Specially Shakespeare, —
pretty good stuff, — er — rather a special line to speak him.'
He glanced at her, but she did not seem satisfied. He
looked all round the room, and about the garden, for
inspiration. ' It's an — er — question of comparison, I
should say.' Inspiration arrived. ' You ask Violet what
she thinks.'

' I'm asking you,' said Miss Falkland.

Johnny's eyebrows went up, and down again. She put
him in a hard position. In the interval Hamlet's observa-
tion— ' Get thee to a nunnery,' came unbidden to his mind,
and he wanted to laugh. He constantly wanted to laugh
to-day, for no particular reason. He looked furtively in
Miss Falkland's direction, with the unborn laughter in his
eyes, — and behold, she smiled as well. So it was hopeless,
and they smiled at one another.

' Mr. Ingestre, — are you one of the people who think
women ought not to work at all ? ' said Helena gravely.

' Some of 'em have to,' said Johnny. ' I think often
they're — er — better occupied when they don't.'

Helena considered this paradox. ' Like your cousin,'
she suggested. ' But she could have done heaps of things.'

' Violet could have been a third-rate pianiste,' said
Johnny, turning the matter over. ' Second-rate, if she
put her back into it. Bad second-rate, let's say.' A pause.
' She's better occupied bucking up the dead flowers, and
seeing to Shovell's food, '

' And dancing with you,' said Helena.

' She was pretty thoroughly occupied then,' agreed
Johnny. ' Do you like nuts, Miss Falkland ? ' He held
her out some, ready picked, in his palm.

Helena felt she ought to have refused politely ; but his
manner was deceptively easy, and she happened to share
the taste. Besides, let a London season do its worst, the

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 183

schoolgirl is still in existence at nineteen, hardly veiled by
the polite lady. So for a time they ate nuts in concert,
like a pair of street boys. Both were silent, but neither
was at all uncomfortable. Helena liked to see him sitting
at the window, and Johnny was enjoying the sun. That
is, he supposed it was the sun he was enjoying — it was a
very decent kind of day.

' And what about Mrs. Mitchell ? ' said Helena, resuming
suddenly. ' She has done something, hasn't she ? '

' She has,' said Johnny with emphasis. ' And worn
herself to rags by forty-five.'

' Are you sure it's her work has worn her ? ' said Helena,
greatly venturing. ' It might be other things.'

' Mitchell, for instance,' said Johnny.

' Marriage,' said Helena. ' Even I have seen some
people worn out by that.'

Suddenly, quite unforeseen, for she had spoken in all
innocence, Ursula came to her mind, and she blushed
furiously. In the same instant, rather hurriedly, she rose.
' I expect Mrs. ShovelTs waiting for us upstairs,' she said,
in a tone consciously sedate : delicious to Johnny, who
had coaxed her into her late audacity with care. ' I
don't know what I'm thinking about, keeping you down
here, when of course you want to talk to her.'

' Why should I want to talk to her ? ' said Johnny, his
eyes detaining her.

' Well, I suppose that's what you came for, wasn't it ?
I'm sure it wasn't only the flowers.'

He had nothing to answer for the moment. ' I may
have wanted to curse to her a little,' he confessed with a
laugh, stretching his arms. ' That's what my father
comes here for, often, when my mother's too ill to attend
to him. It's one of the uses of women, — one of the nice
occupations for 'em I mentioned.'

' I happen to know better,' said Helena.

' What do you know ? ' he said quickly, looking round.

' You are not a person to complain, ever, Mrs. Shovell

184 THE ACCOLADE

says : you are much too proud. I don't know about -your
father, but I'm sure about you.'

' I don't say complain/ said Johnny. ' You don't
complain of things for which you're chiefly responsible :
at least, I don't. But we make women suffer for 'em,
all the same. I'm a brute, you know, Miss Falkland.
Perhaps you've guessed it.'

She only shook her head. She was standing now, clear
of the lunch-table, eyes levelled past him, liquid and
thoughtful, her fingers clasped, — waiting his good pleasure
to rise, of course. It was sickening manners not to, —
simply sickening, — but Johnny still sat in the sun.

' What's Violet told you about me ? ' he said suddenly.

' Nothing,' said Helena, blushing. ' Except that your
father was rather — rough with you, and your mother kind.'

' If my father's rough with me, I'm rough with him,'
said Johnny. ' We pull things pretty equal between us.
My mother's an angel upon earth.' He waited a minute.
' So's my wife, another variety. So's the kid up there,
when she holds her tongue, which isn't often.' He tossed
the last nutshell out of the window. ' I've not much to
complain of,' he concluded. ' Let's go upstairs.'

He rose with an effort, breaking the spell upon him,
and came across to her. Helena meant to move, and
found, in that instant, that his fingers grasped her arm.

' If I could ever hope,' he said in a quiet voice, absent
almost, ' that you would listen to me once — no more —

He paused, attentive. He had caught a movement
above. As they stood in silence, side by side, a door above
opened, and Mrs. Shovell, who had put all the roses in
water, long since, and grown impatient, ran downstairs.

As she entered, Helena recoiled slightly, but John did
not move or change countenance. It was not his habit
to avoid criticism, — he walked over it or rode it down.
He went on holding Miss Falkland's arm for three seconds,
and dropped it easily. It was Violet's countenance that
changed.

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 185

' If you want to see baby before ' she began thought-
fully, her eyes on John.

' Of course,' cried Helena, and disappeared, in no time,
from the room. After that, it grew more difficult. Mr.
Ingestre put on all the arrogance he could muster, but it
barely sufficed. The mistress of the house was very much
on her dignity too.

' Well ? ' he enquired at last, as she did not speak,
arranging some of her white roses on the table.

' Were you rehearsing just now ? ' she demanded
crisply.

' I was,' said Johnny. ' For a scene that'll never come
off.'

' I'm serious, John.'

' So am I, Violet, — uncommonly serious. Will you
coach her in her part ? '

' Certainly not, if it's flirting.' She flushed and flashed
on him suddenly. ' And let me tell you, John, if it's
that, you've cast her wrong. She's not a person to flirt
with, never would be. You'd do better to leave her
alone.'

' You're quite right.' John laughed and approached
her. ' Keep your temper, little girl/ he said lower. ' All's
well, on my word, — never was better. I'm going now.'

He had his grandest manner, and with it a serenity
that baffled her. He seemed inwardly radiant, as at the
solution of some long-guarded problem : that look in the
discoverer that seems to exclaim, ' Of course ! '

Violet let herself be drawn as far as the outer door,
and stood with him a minute on the threshold, biting her
lip. To be mastered by brute force, and a superior manner,
when you are morally in the right, is rather hard to bear :
but Johnny's best friends had to suffer it frequently.

' Hadn't she been crying ? ' she said.

' Yes. She's no actress, and we had to tell her so. We've
been trampling on her hopes, these last two days. You
go and be nice to her, see ? '

186 THE ACCOLADE

' John — is that really all ? Honour ? '

' All that concerns her.'

' And you ? '

' Never you mind.' An interval. ' Anything more ? '
he asked.

' I should like to ask another,' said Violet, ' but I think
I won't.'

' I think you'd better n't,' said Johnny carefully. ' You
go and look after your kid.'

' After that, I just shall ! ' she said. Johnny winced,
and stood at bay. She had him at her mercy for an instant.
' Will you give me my spoons ? ' she said mildly. ' They're
still in your pocket, — the other side. That's all.'

Turning away from the door, Mrs. Shovell went back
to the dining-room, and restored the spoons, with unneces-
sary precision, to their places on the dismantled table.

' That's what his father meant, then,' she reflected.
' Him at least, — if it should be both ! And I introduced
them, — and her mother, — mercy ! '

II

It need hardly be stated, to those intelligent persons
who have followed our drama so far, that, as the situation
defined itself, the Ingestres were the first, and the Falk-
lands the last, to take account of it : nor that Helena's
mother was the last of all.

The fact was, Mrs. Falkland was quite puzzled, almost
dazed, among Helena's innumerable and ardent admirers,
who seemed to spring up, that season, wherever the girl
went. One really could not pick out one, among so many,
still less one whose wife Mrs. Falkland had determined to
cherish among her dearest friends. Young Mrs. Ingestre
was so completely ' nice ' that no one could have doubts
of her household, and Mrs. Falkland grew used to the
chaffing tone in which everybody — even his wife — alluded

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 187

to Mr. John. Further, there could be no doubt he was an
important and attractive person : and her respect for
John's abstract importance was increased by the fact
that, when she called upon Ursula, he was never there.

As for the rest of the small Falkland circle, the Captain
went out with his women-folk very little, Quentin still
less, Helena's married sister was completely wrapped up
in her own affairs, — and Harold, who saw everything,
said nothing at all.

Meanwhile the Ingestres kept their eyes open, being
astonishingly open-eyed by nature in such cases, and
having had plenty of such cases to study.

' Who's that pretty girl ? ' said Johnny's grandmother
to him, in the Park. They were driving, on a Saturday
afternoon, and had chanced to pass Miss Falkland and
Mr. Auberon, walking on the path.

' Miss Helena Falkland,' said Johnny distinctly : for
his grandmother, at something over eighty-five, was grow-
ing a little deaf.

' Introduce me to her,' said the dowager, her eye
lightening : and stopped the carriage.

Until they met Helena, Johnny had been cross. He
hated driving, and did not care for his grandmother ; but
he had been commandeered. Mrs. Ingestre, who regarded
the new generation as young children, naturally, thought
it would be nice for John and Ursula to come in the
carriage with her, and called for them at four o'clock.
Ursula was not at home, — Johnny was, — and could not
think, on the spur of the minute, of a good enough excuse.
Mrs. Ingestre would have seen through any but an excuse
of genius, and Johnny's genius, for the minute, failed him.

He told her the truth, in consequence, — that he was
working : and she laughed in his face. Johnny, besides
the historical researches he conducted for his private
amusement, managed the larger of his father's two estates,
with its miles of productive farm-land in Yorkshire, with
great ability, and saved his father yearly at least half his

i88 THE ACCOLADE

own income. But since he had neglected his duties, and
outraged his relations' best feelings, during the years
preceding his majority, half of them had never discovered
that he had any practical qualities at all, and his grand-
mother— to whom he remained simply a naughty boy —
scoffed at them openly. So he had to leave his accounts
in the middle, contain his objurgations, sit in his grand-
mother's carriage facing her bonnet and waving feathers,
and submit to her piercing and disapproving scrutiny at
intervals.

It was Johnny's generation Mrs. Ingestre disapproved
of, more than of himself. Personally, he had a few
advantages. To begin with, he was the only member of
the family who invariably made her hear. He also not
infrequently amused her, though she never showed it.
It was beneath Mrs. Ingestre's dignity to look amused.
He also cut a figure before the world, and compelled
attention, — both good things. But he had been spoiled, —
his mother had spoiled him. His generation was to blame
for some of his deficiencies, but his mother was the most in
fault.

Mrs. Ingestre had brought up her own children with
the extreme of old-fashioned severity, the daughters yet
more than the sons. The daughters she bullied most had
been the plain ones, whereas her orphan niece, educated
with her own family, had been considered, if not indulged.
This niece, Violet Shovell's mother, had become one of
the reigning beauties of her generation : which note leads
us directly to the solitary weakness of Mrs. Ingestre, the
same that had led her to distinguish Helena Falkland in
the Park. She adored feminine beauty, especially of a
certain conquering type, and was easily vanquished by it.

' That's one of the golden-fleece order of women,' she
said, when she had been presented, conversed with Helena
sufficiently, and dismissed her, — or allowed her to depart
from her presence. ' Do you know what I mean by that ? '
She fixed her grandson with her needle-like eyes.

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 189

' I suppose,' said Johnny, ' you mean many Jasons come
in quest of her. It's a fact.'

' You know your Shakespeare,' said Mrs. Ingestre,
softening slightly. She had sunk long since, sixty years
before, the actress in the great lady ; but occasionally
Johnny's reproduction of her youthful talent touched her.

' That was not all I meant,' she said, ' but it enters into
it. When Shakespeare talked in another place of golden
lads and girls, he meant that kind.'

' Did he ? ' said Johnny. His eyes strayed after Helena.
' Perhaps he did.'

' Do you admire her ? ' said Mrs. Ingestre.

' Rather ! ' said Johnny, with false warmth — very well
done.

Unluckily, his grandmother was not easy to deceive.
Also, she was an incorrigible gossip, and had probably
been hearing things. During the pause, she took up her
glass to examine him. This was not necessary, since he was
close to her, and her vision quite unimpaired : but she
happened to know he disliked it. Consequently, it was
good for him. It was on educational principles of this
sort that Mrs. Ingestre and her daughter-in-law disagreed.

Having made John change colour and glare at her, as
she expected, and having thought, privately, what a good-
looking boy he was, the dowager proceeded.

' Who's the cavalier ? '

' He's a young Auberon, — one of the same set. Ursula
knows the family.'

' Respectable, then. Well-off ? '

' Eldest son of a general in our Eastern service,' said
Johnny. ' Lakhs of rupees behind him, and shinning up
the War Office, or one of those places, fast.'

' He looked presentable,' said Mrs. Ingestre. ' Is he
engaged to her ? '

' Not that I have heard,' said Johnny.

' If he is not,' said Mrs. Ingestre, ' her mother should not
let him walk with her, in public, in the Park,'

igo THE ACCOLADE

' We passed her mother a minute afterwards/ said
Johnny. 'She probably had Miss Falkland on a leash,
if we had seen.'

' Don't be pert ! ' snapped Mrs. Ingestre. ' I did not
observe you bow to the mother, John.'

' You did not, Grandmamma, — because I don't know
her. Ursula does.'

' Isn't it the same thing ? ' said Mrs. Ingestre. ' In my
day, a man was on bowing terms with his wife's acquaint-
ance. And she with his.'

Johnny thought of several possible answers to this,
among others the simple one of telling her that she lied.
But, Miss Falkland being by this time out of sight, he
felt too dispirited to attempt it ; so he only lounged on the
seat with his head on his hand, profoundly disliking his
circumstances.

' Sit up ! ' said Mrs. Ingestre, — so sharply that he did so.
' How long have you known that girl ? '

' What's that to you ? ' Johnny nearly said : luckily he
did not. One cannot say such things to one's grandmother.
The mistake is, to have one at all. ' About three months/
he answered.

' She has an uncommon pretty colour/ said the dowager
grimly.

' Mean that was my fault ? ' drawled Johnny, opening
his eyes right at her, — he could since he was sitting up.

It was a good move, and shook her a little : but nothing
would shake her off the scent. ' You're your father's son/
she said, more grimly than ever, ' but you needn't imagine
you can get round me. You've been dangling after that
girl/

' Dangling/ Johnny repeated, debating the word. His
grandmother was always taking exception to his words,
so occasionally he picked out one of hers. At least it
produced a pause in the dialogue, and it was safe to annoy.
Indeed, Mrs. Ingestre's main desire was to box his ears
when he did it : but in the face of her best acquaintance

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 191

in the Park, the desire could not be gratified. So she
swallowed her wrath and went on.

' Where have you met her, eh ? '

' Most places,' said Johnny, bored. ' I've danced with
her in about six houses, — is that dangling ? Miss Falkland
dances rather decently, so we haven't talked much. They
really don't leave you time nowadays, — do they ? '

This was really a happy diversion. The picture of Mrs.
Ingestre attending dances, — modern dances, — was so pert,
not to say profane, in its conception, that she had to
abandon her role of inquisitor forthwith, and put John in
his place. She also made a note of telling his father
that his home education had not been sufficiently attended
to between the ages of eleven and sixteen. It was during
those years of growth, according to Mrs. Ingestre, that,
granted a parent of energy and spirit, a lasting impression
could be made.

Johnny listened to her lecture languidly, storing bits
to use against her at a future time. He wondered at
intervals what people meant by talking of the beauty of
age : he had never seen a sign of it in his own family.
It is true, he was thoroughly out of temper, because the
old beast had snapped at Helena. Also, she had reduced
his own spirits to a minimum, as she always did : an hour
of her company was enough to make him wish he had not
been born. There was something unnatural about her,
he decided, no doubt because, in the strict ways of nature,
she should have been dead long since. Long dead —
Johnny's eyes widened as he watched the dusty trees of
the Park and pondered it. She was like a vampire nowa-
days, living on the life of others. . . . This last thought
encouraged him so much that he survived to the end of
the afternoon without insulting her openly. He did not
want to do that.

As for Mrs. Ingestre, she had been a little confused by
the rapidity and versatility of his accomplished changes ;
but she was used to the type through fifty years' hard

192 THE ACCOLADE

experience, and though confused, she was not contented.
She declined obstinately to be contented with John, in
the matter of the pretty Falkland girl ; and she went home
to tell the family about it.

The fact that Mrs. Falkland, on the same occasion, was
contented thoroughly, may indicate the differences in
parental perception that exist.

' Who was that stopped to speak to you, dear ? ' said
Mrs. Falkland, when her young pair returned to her side
after their stroll. Helena's growing friendship for Quentin
was one of the anchors to which Mrs. Falkland clung in
the fretting tide of youth's uncertainties. She always
liked to see them enter on a discussion, — that had been
the reason of the stroll, — even when they talked about
things she did not understand. So she asked the question
with a benign smile, and Helena informed her.

' Really ? ' said Mrs. Falkland, her maternal thoughts
flitting instantly to Harold. ' We had just been remarking
on the beautiful horses, — hadn't we, dear ? ' — to Harold.

' No,' said Harold, accurate but unheeded.

' Had you met her before ? ' said Mrs. Falkland.

' No,' said Helena. ' That is, she had not met me before,
as was obvious. I knew her perfectly well, — she is the
dreadful old lady, the deaf one that sits in front of all the
concerts : and the same Mrs. Shovell was reading the
programme to, the first time we saw her at Regent's Hall.'

' Jove, so she is,' said Harold.

' Did you mention that ? ' said Mrs. Falkland, looking
Helena anxiously up and down, to be sure not a stitch
was out of place, on this momentous occasion. She looked
particularly brilliant, and happy too.

' Good gracious no, Mother dear. She is pulverising.
Even Mr. Auberon was frightened, — yes, you were.'

' What did you say ? ' pressed her mother.

' I said yes, and no, and thank you, and good-bye. I
only hope I said them in the proper places. Mr. Ingestre

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 193

did the talking, luckily, — I was shaking in my shoes

Oh yes,' said Helena, recollecting. ' I said I knew Mrs.
Shovell, hoping to calm her, because really she was sweet
to her, that concert day. But Mrs. Ingestre only looked
me up and down, and sniffed.'

' Perhaps that was a compliment,' suggested Quentin.
' She was comparing you.'

' Well, I only hope she settled to like me finally,' said
Helena. ' She had not that appearance.'

' I should not wonder, now, if we get a card,' said Mrs.
Falkland thoughtfully. Helena was now on bowing terms
with the father and grandmother, and terms perhaps a
little beyond bowing with the son. She herself saw the
son's wife pretty constantly. There really only remained
the father's wife, Mr. John's own mother ; and Mrs.
Falkland heard on all hands that she hardly counted,
since she was always ill.

She little knew how much the remaining Mrs. Ingestre
of the three counted in the case. Agatha had, sooner or
later, the confidence of everybody, including her son.

Everyone but Ursula, that is. No art, or at least no
art of hers, could extract confidence from Ursula. Agatha
had alienated Ursula, not long after her marriage, by a bit
of very sage maternal advice, well considered in advance,
cleverly and clearly administered. A little too clearly,
as it proved. Ursula had been desperately offended at
the time, and as usual, instead of speaking her sentiments
either to his mother or John, had let the grudge rankle,
and shut her lips. Since the difference concerned him-
self, Johnny had never been able to track its origin. His
mother was plain-spoken, as he knew, but he could not
suppose she intended insult to Ursula : and since it was
his mother, of the two, who steadily assured him she had
been in the wrong, he was the more convinced of it. Being
mightily bored with the quarrel, when it had lasted a
couple of years, he conveyed to Ursula that, whatever it

194 THE ACCOLADE

was, it would be graceful in her, as the younger and
stronger woman, to make peace. Ursula replied that
there were some things that women never forgive, and
refrained, with a righteous and visible effort, from further
explanation.

Now, on her arrival from the country, where she had
been passing the spring in peace, Agatha noted once, more
the signs of disruption in her turbulent household, and
began, from her couch in the corner of the drawing-room,
which she seldom left in these days, to gather in the
evidence, quietly.

She suffered her mother-in-law's unvarnished opinions,
and accepted the assurance that, had she not pampered
that boy persistently through his childhood, they would
not have these anxieties about him now. Agatha, who
laid the whole trouble of Johnny, with obvious justice,
to his father's over-rigorous discipline in early manhood,
silently accepted the reproaches. She did not argue with
the old lady often, unless Johnny were there as her spokes-
man : she had neither the vivacity requisite, nor the voice.
She let her talk, and listened with attention, for she had
immense and varied experience, and was very acute. It
was Agatha's duty, she learnt, for Ursula's sake, to let
Helena's parents know the state of things. The girl was
obviously beautiful enough to turn a stronger head than
John's, and there was no time to be lost in consequence.
That the parents were rank idiots not to see, on their own
account, was passingly implied, but Mrs. Ingestre made
allowances for them. Everybody knew how stupid Army
people were, and it was likely that, flattered by the con-
nection, their eyes were blinded. As a lesson to them,
Mrs. Ingestre would have been tempted to let things take
their natural course : but little Ursula was a good girl,
and her age barely three-and-thirty, — quite a child, — and
John, also a child, but by no means a good one, might be
brought to see his duty still, if his mother only kept her
place, and let his father deal with him, as was suitable.

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 195

Johnny's mother smiled at the ancient phrase, but was
careful to make no commentary.

She had her husband also, not once, but many times,
snapping at all suggestions, and vacillating between two
views. Now contemptuous because, with 'the lad,' such
things were smoke without fire, invariably : now resentful
because, should the idea take hold of him, he could not
be trusted to keep within decent bounds. The latter,
since he returned to it, caused him the more genuine
anxiety. He admitted, shadowing his mother's attitude,
that Johnny's relations with his wife were at a ' ticklish '
stage; and the mere fact of this little red-haired girl's
existence, within the four-mile radius, might precipitate
matters, alienate the couple beyond redemption, and
deprive the family of all hope of the longed-for heir.

Agatha suffered less willingly certain dear friends of
Ursula's, who made their moan to her, very delicately,
about her patience, her forbearance, and her increasingly
lonely life : how she gave her time and devotion more and
more to useful works, and how women's clubs and societies,
in all directions, blessed her name.

' Did she see no men ? ' was Agatha's rather testy
query, having heard a good deal of the sort : and so learnt
that Ursula had made a new friend, or rather remade
an old one, in Mr. Auberon, — quite a young man, twenty-
four at most.

' Bother/ thought Agatha privately, ' that's no good.'
She would have thought better of Ursula if she had flirted
openly, to retaliate on John. That would have shown
not only spirit, but policy. But the ' acolyte ' system
annoyed her, as did all half-hearted courses. Agatha had
instinctively placed her daughter-in-law as a dabbler, even
in virtue, long before.

She had Mrs. Shovell too, once, for the hour before
dinner, her most peaceful period. She compared notes
with her young cousin at leisure, and found, not for the
first time, their opinions identical upon Ursula and John.

196 THE ACCOLADE

They agreed that it all depended on the girl, and the girl
being immature, though Violet spoke warmly for her
disposition, could not be counted upon. Violet herself
had no idea of Helena's own sentiments, — ' except that
she loves to be in his company,' she added. ' But then
so do you, and so do several other ladies, Cousin Agatha.'

They agreed further that warning the Falklands was
equally undignified and futile : and trying to sermonise
John, at the present stage, only one degree less rash than
trying to terrorise him.

' You don't think anyone has attempted that ? ' said
Agatha anxiously, well knowing who ' anyone ' would be.
' Very well, my dear : we can get no further. Go, for
goodness' sake, and play me something really ancient and
obvious, to rest my brain, until the bell.'

So Violet played, her frequent office in that house : and
peace reigned in Agatha's world till seven o'clock, when all
the disputant branches of the Ingestre family, including
the defaulting heir, his grandmother, his father, one of his
plain aunts, and his wife, drifted into the drawing-room,
one by one, and sat down under the spell of the ancient
and obvious music, ' their savage eyes turned to a modest
gaze,' and their behaviour, for the time being, irreproach-
able. They looked quite pleasant, even Ursula : and the
resemblance between Johnny, his father, and his grand-
mother, under this calming influence, struck Agatha
forcibly. The men's attitude was even identical, to a
finger, unconsciously.

' She must have worked at that a bit,' Ursula confided
suddenly to her husband, who was nearest.

' Just as if her little hands were centipedes,' agreed
Johnny dreamily : and his father, sitting next beyond
him, laughed.

Within ten minutes of the closing of the piano, of course,
the millennium ceased : and soon they were all snapping
again, quite comfortably : but the truce was worth a
remark in passing. Mrs. Shovell herself took no further

THE GOLDEN FLEECE

part in the controversy ; for having been informed by
the eldest Mrs. Ingestre that she could not have kept up
her execution to that point without neglecting her home
duties : and by the youngest Mrs. Ingestre that Scarlatti,
being delicate and distinguished and a few other things,
was not really suited to her style : she embraced the real
and only Mrs. Ingestre in her retired corner, and went
home to her husband.

Last, and not least, his mother had John. He came to
her that same evening before he left, in her own room
upstairs : having been, as he passingly mentioned, kicked
out below.

' From which department ? ' said Agatha.

' Father's. The drawing-room is placid temporarily,
since Granny is asleep. Ursula is learning a new crochet
stitch,' added Johnny, ' and can't be disturbed. There
really seems nobody left, to speak of, Mother.'

' Sit down, dear,' said Agatha. ' Smoke if you want to,
and tell me what your father said.'

' I haven't an idea,' said Johnny, sitting down. ' I
can't listen to genealogies for ever. And ours is a par-
ticularly tricky one, to judge by the way Father swore
in reproducing it. If I was a fishmonger or a — a mis-
sionary,' said Johnny, looking at the ceiling, ' I might be
allowed to drink my claret after dinner in peace. As it
is, I've had a hell of an evening. Sorry, Mother, — the
dinner was good.'

' I'm glad the dinner was good,' said Agatha.

' The one thing that interested me,' said Johnny, turning
sidelong in his chair, which proved a good one, — and
realising, as he did so, its extreme possibilities of comfort,
with no sacrifice of grace, — ' was, that if I choose to wreck
— I think that's the word — my improbable son's chances
on the estates, and my father's ideals of virtuous living
by the way, — sorry, Mother, — Shovell's probable son
comes into the running. Did you know that ? '

ig$ THE ACCOLADE

' No,' said Agatha. ' Nor do they, certainly.'

' Of course it's the elder branch, — but I'd no idea the
last two generations had played the fool to that extent,
all the same. I'd never thought it out. I shah1 certainly
outlive — always granted I don't blow my brains out —
the two excellent persons Father mentioned, — can't think
why excellence and ill-health always go together — beastly
sorry, Mother, I don't mean you. There are nothing but
bad lives in all directions, — and Felicia's son, the only
one strong enough to outlive me, is illegitimate. That's
a jolly state of things for Father to contemplate among
the wine-glasses, isn't it, Mother ? '

' He is very unhappy about you,' said Agatha.

' No — you are,' said Johnny. ' Father's unhappy about
the property. You're very unhappy about me, aren't
you, Mother ? '

' Very, my dear, — have been for long.'

' Aren't you more, lately, like the rest of them ? Aren't
you ? That's really very clever of you not to be.'

' Why ? ' said Agatha, watching him.

' Why d'you think ? Because I'm happy, for the first
time in my life. I'm beginning — just beginning — to see
what happiness means.'

She said nothing, but she saw the strange light in his
face, the same, doubtless, that Violet had seen ; then,
and later, as he paced smoking about the room. She
could see with the inner eye, the mother's, his life gathering
up, centring round a purpose again. He was charging
himself, as he had charged once before, to blast all
obstacles, from man or god, to his heart's desire. He had
always done that, from childhood : staked the whole of
himself in cases where the commoner mind stakes half :
— and suffered in proportion when deprived of his dream.

' It's some way off,' he observed to himself, ' but I see
the colour of it. Do you know the colour of happiness,
Mother ? Granny told me once, — Shakespeare mentions
it, — it's gold.'

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 199

' And how much of other people's gold is worth spending
to get yours ? ' said Agatha.

' That's the point,' he agreed. ' That's what I'm
wondering all the time. Not all the time,' he corrected,
' now and then. It'd be rotten waste to wonder all the
time.'

' Not just now, for instance.' She smiled as he glanced
round at her. ' Come here, John.'

' Are you going to scold me ? ' he enquired, smiling too ;
as confident in his power over her, as he had been at ten
years old. He came to be scolded, as he had then, sure
of his ultimate victory, however vexed she was.

' Listen,' she said, entering his mood, as he knelt down
by her. ' Will you show her to me ? '

' Yes, — I will,' said Johnny. ' She doesn't think about
me, you know,' he added quickly. ' I rather think she's
got another kind of man. She's a little girl, Mother, —
sort you'd like. Not clever, you know, like Violet, —
don't you go saying clever things.'

' I won't,' promised Agatha. He had told her just in
this manner, and this voice, about his first love, when he
was sixteen.

' Likely my dear friends tell her things about me,'
murmured Johnny. ' Friends are safe for that. Mind you
don't let on too much when you talk to her, — d'you hear ? '

' I'll be careful,' said Agatha. ' There would not be
much, anyhow, that I could find to say.'

' Wouldn't there ? Mean you wouldn't take away my
character — give me away when I wasn't looking ? Sure ? '

He was wielding her, of course, disgracefully ; with that
old confidence, and this new power to help, he could
almost lead her whither he would. Not quite, for the oldest
power of all was hers.

' I'm sure at least she's very lovely,' she said. ' And I
rather suspect she's good.'

' Hopelessly good,' said Johnny instantly. ' Church,
and all that. She'll go to heaven with Ursula, and so on.

200 THE ACCOLADE

Not a chance for me anywhere, — not even beyond the
grave.'

He did not think it, though : he had a strong inborn
faith in his chances, she could see by his eyes. And of
course he wanted her to agree with him, it was her business :
but Agatha, did not agree. She waited instead, guarding
his head close to her with her thin hand ; not caressing,
she was not a woman who caressed. She had defended
him, at her own risk, often : and would so defend him,
at the worst, to the end.

' Why don't you talk, Mother ? ' he said presently,
when he had talked a good deal, in the vein.

' I was thinking of what you said. Do you think in
your sober mind, John, that Ursula is good ? '

' Of course I do.' He looked at her suspiciously.
' Ursula's the virtuous woman, the very type. Where are
you getting to, Mother ? '

' Not so very far, I think. Is Ursula so remote from the
point ? '

Johnny flushed. ' She's not good enough to release me,'
he said restlessly. ' She'd never let me go. That's the
only way Ursula's goodness can come into it, that I can
see. She'd cling like a leech — bleeding me.'

He had a premonitory shudder : and again, Agatha
saw it through his eyes. She had also, in her long ponder-
ing for him, reached this speculation, if not the image he
used, — that was overdone. But that Ursula's excellently
feminine methods were actual torment to him, she had
never doubted. Ursula weighed upon him deliberately,
with her whole weight, — had done so from the first. Silent
and insatiable — not un-leech-like really — she laid claim
to every part of him, body and brain, while guarding her
aloof cool manner. Granted Johnny, that was very clever,
thought Agatha, — but she despised it. The posture claimed
all, and risked nothing, — Ursula at once threatened him
by it, and saved herself, — the franker fighting breed of
womanhood revolted instinctively.

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 201

' You're wild,' she said quietly. ' It's not all mothers
would hear such things. Suppose I kicked you out as well.'

' You wouldn't. You never would,' he said.

' Not if you offended me ? '

' Offended ? ' He was astonished.

' I'm a wife as well as a mother, Johnny. So I must feel
for her.'

' But — it's not the same,' argued Johnny. ' It's not, —
shut up.'

' Why not ? Do you think I was never anxious, when I
was Ursula's age ? '

' Oh, — dash it, Mother ! ' He protested, drawing off
from her. He was almost shocked.

' It's to the point. And I had you to console me,
remember that . There have been times when I ' ve wondered
what I should do without you, I could always turn to you.
When Ursula begins to look '

She was allowed to get no further, for he seized and
silenced her forcibly. He had flushed and changed counte-
nance while she was speaking. Now he had enough.

' I'm going,' he said roughly, rising. ' I didn't bargain

for this. As if I hadn't enough — without ' He stared,

not at, but round his mother, withering her with his
haughtiest look. Agatha was prepared for this stage as
well : he could never be drawn more than a certain distance.
She shot her last shaft serenely after him.

' You're just like your father at this minute, dear.'

Johnny, muttering something disrespectful to both,
turned his shoulder, and reached the door. ' You're giving
Father away,' he pointed out from this distance, ' when you
draw morals like that. I never cared for morals much, —
so it's hardly worth risking.'

' Risking ? Risking what ? ' No answer. ' Disloyalty ?
My splendid son ! ' She laughed wearily. ' Ursula would
never be so disloyal to you,' she said.

He bit his lip, — he was not so sure of it. It would have
been convenient to assert that his wife would never venture

202 THE ACCOLADE

so far within his domain, as his mother had ventured in
hers, but he was cut off that resource as well. His mother
was teasing him terribly, — meant to tease, what was worse.
She meant to take the breeze out of his swelling sails, —
put him out in the first fine exaltation of this new cam-
paign. It was her privilege to do so, since he could not
quarrel with her. She watched him, attentive, unsmiling,
as he stood by the door : unable of course to leave her,
though he wished to, trying almost visibly to shake off
those unpleasant darts she had planted. But he could not
recover his contentment : the moment of greatest glory
was gone.

He offered her good-night, finally, in the same brusque
overbearing fashion, — just like his father, with a difference :
the difference she loved. She was sure by his looks that
he was still at war internally, she had given him at least
to think. She had done wrong to stir such troublesome
preoccupations naturally. Her behaviour was disappoint-
ing, and he let her see it ; but he did not reproach her
further. He even condescended to pity her, as she lay
before him, fragile and worn.

' Poor Mother,' he said.

Agatha said — 'Dear boy,' when she kissed him: she
knew she must not call him poor, though her spirit was
indignant, yearning over him, all the time. ' I've been
taking advantage, haven't I ? ' she murmured.

' Yes,' said Johnny with decision. The drawback to
having your mother for a friend is that she does take
advantage : and you cannot say the expressive, full-blown
things to her that you can to other real friends when they
so behave ; above all to a mother such as this, with a fatal
hand grasping her that no vigorous young strength can
snatch away.

' Have I been beastly to you ? ' he asked. ' Made you
tired ? '

' No,' she said in her weak tone, as she held him fast,
' you never tire me as others do. One thing only,— never

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 203

talk of killing yourself, even in jest, John. That is the one
thing your mother cannot bear.'

' All right,' he said seriously. ' But you needn't bother,
— you can be pretty sure I never would. I'm jolly theatrical
— and flashy — and common — Father used all those words
to-night : but the last act won't finish like that. Shouldn't
wonder if I was found in slippers in the last act, wretched
as they make 'em, nursing the estate. . . . I'll try not to run
a dinner-knife into Father either,' said Johnny as an after-
thought, ' but that's harder to say. He ought to be more
careful with the words he chooses, when knives are lying
about. I'm not common, Mother, am I ? '

He concentrated the whole of his wiles upon her without
warning, — he had been flirting his finest through the greater
part of this interview.

' No indeed,' laughed Agatha. ' You'd be far less
anxiety to us all if you were. There now,' she added,
after a little nonsense. ' I hear your father, and Ursula
will be waiting. Better go.'

in

It was as well Agatha spoke while she could, for her
usual fate intervened, and she was finally debarred from
doing more. Agatha was not fated ever to behold the
beautiful ' golden girl ' of her son's passionate dream. The
day Helena and her mother passed her threshold for the
first time, she was incapable of talking to the girl, of looking
at her even. Ursula, as often before, was summoned to do
the honours in her place.

Ursula, on these frequent, increasingly frequent, occa-
sions, rose to her part in admirable style. Indeed, many
good critics compared her favourably, in manners and
social deportment, with her mother-in-law. Agatha was
accounted ' original ' and somewhat brusque. She showed
her preferences markedly, and could not tolerate certain

204 THE ACCOLADE

types at all. Ursula was equable and gracious to all alike,
and disturbed nobody by brilliant or biting observations.
She looked what she was, a handsome and agreeable young
woman, well trained on the right lines, sure of herself, and
thoroughly competent in her part. She had, as recognised
hostess, a little pedestal that suited her, from which she
could look down on all rivals. This added dignity soothed
away her habitual sense of grievance, temporarily : and
her father-in-law, as ever in front of the world, treated her
with marked attention and deference, emphasising her
position to all.

She crushed Helena easily. The girl, natural and gentle,
could not stand before her pose, the well-chosen elaboration
of her appearance, the well-weighed condescension of her
address. When it came to assumption, Helena was no-
where beside Ursula, as she proved. Nor could John, in
his father's presence, and his father's house, venture to
outstep the prescribed limitations. On these premises,
Johnny found himself caught in the toils of tradition
inevitably, and designated, do what he would, as a prince
beside the throne. His father carried that atmosphere
about with him, and under the eye of that inner ring,
that better-than-aristocratic society which was his father's
world, it was useless to ignore it, for all his internal chafing.
Thus unfairly was he entrapped to-day. He dared not
even look at his young divinity too markedly : and she
was lovelier than usual, in creamy white with a black hat,
like the richest of the summer lilies with which Agatha
had filled the corners of the staircase, — the kind that wear
gold-dust on their ivory leaves. Wherever she moved,
she stood in a gold mist for him, as though the same beam
clung to her which, creeping through the narrow windows
of his father's hall, had picked her out for its blessing when
she first came in. She drew all eyes, — and his alone must
not follow her. It was infuriating, almost as much so as
when he had had to neglect her for Jill before.

' Mr. Ingcstre is a very fine gentleman, isn't he ? ' said

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 205

Mrs. Falkland, when Helena, who had strayed to greet a
few friends on entering, returned to her side.

' Yes,' said Helena. ' Oh — which do you mean ? '

' Yours/ said Mrs. Falkland, innocently.

Mrs. Falkland had been impressed by Johnny, quite
unintentionally on his part. Happening to be at Ursula's
elbow when Mrs. Falkland reached her side, he could not
avoid the long-delayed introduction. The new arrival was
handed to him, in the natural course of things, and, duty-
bound, he took her on for ten minutes, being one of the
few strangers in the house. His thoughts were exclusively
occupied, during the period of his dialogue, by the strict
necessity of watching for his mother's doctor on the stair-
case, and the savage determination to outwit and forestall
his father in the ensuing interview. It was his one chance,
since otherwise his father would never let him know the
things he wanted. His father, twenty feet off, was con-
templating the same thing, — that is, outwitting and
defeating Johnny. Father and son were each entertaining
a woman ; and the occasional lowering glances cast at one
another across the heads of the indifferent who divided
them, would have suggested at once to anyone who knew
them, something of the state of things. Eventually Johnny
— having the older and less attractive woman in charge —
scored, dodged round the staircase head, and captured the
doctor ; the while Mrs. Falkland remained sublimely
impervious, alike to the situation and to the by-play.

Real manners, she explained to Helena, — proud, as one
would expect, but attentive — entertaining — quite above
the average — and matching his wife's style so remarkably.
Finding Helena had no response to her panegyric, Mrs.
Falkland added that certainly his eyebrows looked bad-
tempered, more so than his father's — who had such a
beautiful smile. Helena, at that, was moved to speak,
the colour dawning in her face.

' They are anxious, I think,' said Helena. ' His mother
is worse again, Lord Dering says.'

206 THE ACCOLADE

' Which is Lord Bering ? ' said Mrs. Falkland, happily
diverted.

' Don't you know him, Mother dear ? ' said Helena.

' Lord,— don't you know him ? ' said Harold.

'No/ said their mother, with firmness, ' and I wish to,
if you please.'

She addressed herself to Helena, since Harold, in such
a case, was useless. Mrs. Falkland, needless to say, had
arrived at this ' fashionable ' stronghold full-armed for the
conflict. If Helena, in her easy passage past its defences,
picked up an earl, it was Mrs. Falkland's simple duty to
know him, and at once. She could not have Helena
knowing earls — and young earls — at nineteen, all alone :
it was ridiculous. As it was, the girl was constantly getting
what Harold mischievously called ' off-side ' in the matter
of introductions, but in the case of a Lord Dering it was
not to be tolerated. So, having scaled Johnny to her
satisfaction, Mrs. Falkland, manoeuvring in capable style,
surrounded and captured Bertram, — who had succeeded
his grandfather and taken a wife in the same year, pro-
foundly deploring both necessities. After these feats, Mrs.
Falkland took breath, rested on her laurels, and told
Harold to get her a cup of tea.

Helena, having settled her mother in a comfortable
corner, wandered, free once more. It was a beautiful
house, smaller than the Falkland mansion but better-
designed, and arranged with a kind of graceful austerity,
like everything Agatha's hand had ever touched. A
woman's house conveys her character to a woman's eye.
Helena, the little outsider, looked about her, and shyly took
it in. She had so often wondered about his mother, as
anyone must, knowing him. She had looked forward to
the meeting, with an unconscious faith in such a mother's
piloting, — but it was not to be. Instead, she fell back on
her own resources, looked at the flowers and the furniture,
and speculated, dreamed. Without, one of the astonish-
ingly hot days of that season glared brassily across London :

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 207

within all was freshness, cordial composure, shadowed ease.
No wonder he loved her, thought Helena, and looked absent
and strained like that when she was suffering.

She speculated a little about her society too, though not
much : she was just conscious of a sense of adventure,
discovery, — those senses beloved of youth, — concerning
them. Most of the people present she had heard of, or
watched in the distance, but not met face to face. Helena
had little of her mother's social enterprise, and cared
nothing for securing attention, — having already more
than she could do with, — but her circumstances amused
her.

She fell into the hands, first, of her host, who took her
in charge in a flattering manner of ceremony, and intro-
duced her to all the right people, one by one ; and then
into the hands of young Mr. Shovell, Violet's husband,
who introduced her to all the amusing people, right or
wrong, — he seemed as indifferent as Helena. Smiling
faces, on all sides, were turned on the little beauty : men
and women alike spared her special notice and regard,
and she made several new conquests of whose worth she
was not the least aware, since her thoughts were turned
upon other things. The society figures formed and melted
about her : the game played itself decorously, for quite
a time : but she was increasingly conscious of disillusion,
hope deferred, glory staled, something wanting to an
occasion upon which she had unaware built much, round
which she had long been weaving dreams.

Then, just as she was resigning herself to departure and
disappointment, in a retired corner of the hall, she found
John at her elbow, and heard, with an inner start of rapture,
his pleasant voice.

' My mother sends her regrets to you specially, Miss
Falkland,' said Johnny. ' She is very anxious to know
you, she says.'

' She is very good,' said Helena, glowing in her pretty
way. She could never speak a commonplace as others did,

208 THE ACCOLADE

he had noticed, she felt the commonest things too much.
Only — a dozen watchful eyes saw her blush and gleam
in talking to him, which is what in society is called
' unfortunate.'

' Coming to the concert to-morrow night ? ' said John,
resting a careless hand against the staircase rail to screen
her.

' No,' said Helena. ' I can't afford any more concerts.'
' Afford ? ' said Johnny, astonished. ' Come with me.'
An interval. ' Perhaps you can't afford that either. I
assure you, Miss Falkland, at a symphony concert, butter
wouldn't melt in my mouth. Ask my cousin.' Pause
again. ' I simply say " how pretty " at intervals.' Pause
once more, Helena smiling, her head averted. ' I'd say
it oftener if you came,' said Johnny, looking at the dimple
in her cheek. ' You see, I'm going with Grandmamma, —
who's not.'

' I'm afraid it's impossible,' said Helena firmly, still
looking away from him. She supposed she ought to walk
away firmly as well. She was considering the question,
evidently, the smile still curving her lip, her white dress
brushing the lilies in the staircase corner, its purity
endangered by their gold.

' I want four, and five, and nine, at the Weyburns' on
Wednesday night,' said Johnny, having looked all round
him under his eyelids once. His father was in sight : but
his father might go — wherever he was going, when Helena
smiled like that.

' Mr. Ingestre ! Isn't that rather excessive ? Four
perhaps — and nine.' A glance dragged the second out of
her.

' I shall keep five,' Johnny mentioned, ' on the chance.'

' And suppose I happen to be engaged for it ? '

' It'll be a bore,' admitted Johnny. ' For the other man.'

The remainder of the dialogue was not in words. He

had penned her in by the lilies, so of course she could not

move. For years after, the scent of lilies touched Helena

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 209

with the magical languor of that hour, and possibly
him also. Summer-time, — immortal, immemorial summer,
first youth, first love : there is nothing like it anywhere,
or ever again. Of course there is not, it is a commonplace :
yet its unapproachable quality, its special sanctity, had
never touched John before. It was that, really, the
undefinable sense of that all about him, that baffled his
own acting, shamed him eventually out of speech. He
had trifled, of course, because he had to, and because he
could barely find other language in a woman's vicinity :
but it was not suitable to this woman for a moment, his
cousin was right. It was not so Helena was made to be
addressed, or approached. He would be better at her
feet, far better, and his hand clutched the staircase rail, as
though to save him from that more fitting attitude. His
eyes flitted round him the while, fierce almost, and lowering.
He would have liked, before all that chattering roomful, to
stoop, kiss her garments, and apologise for so using her. As
it was, she could only scorn him, little angel, equally with the
contemptible crowd. He was worth no more to her, really,
than they, never would be, — he must not be. And his
mother, who could alone have linked them naturally, helped
him to bear it, helpless herself, was in that room upstairs.
The security her love and support had always lent him,
seemed to have vanished, or to be slipping his grasp.

He turned on Helena, as though he would have spoken,
but again, he did not : her aspect seemed to cut him off.
But she felt his eyes on her, examining. He had that
glance of late, faintly anxious, strange to her senses, —
yet distrust could not stand before it. He might flirt,
talk nonsense to her, as he did to other girls, — but he was
not like that. She held him fast, all she had ever held,
no strand of confidence loosened, tease he never so. Helena
still had her benignant air, her dreamy eyes turned side-
long past him, even that exquisite dimple, fading and
reappearing under his gaze, — because he amused her,
even at his silliest, he really did, . . .

210 THE ACCOLADE

Johnny swept her in, sweet sight that she was, angelic
denizen of an infant world : he took one draught of the
heavens closed to him, and swung about. Two seconds
later he was talking agreeably to an aunt of Ursula's.

Mrs. Falkland accompanied her children, her two
youngest and dearest, to Lady Weyburn's ball. It was
a young dance, the elder Miss Weyburn's coming of age :
but sure to be brilliant, since it was a house where many
social high-roads crossed. Everybody, Mrs. Falkland
flattered herself, would be there. She was in her usual
complacent mood of the hen-mother of two strikingly
successful chicks. Helena, of course, was the more con-
spicuous : she might be said to be passed, ' hors concours,'
by the best judges : a little languid and silent to-night,
perhaps, but then it was a hot night, the season dragging
to a close, and girls have their ups and downs. Helena
would soon be in the country, and might quite well score
a few more triumphs first.

As for Harold, it was true none but Mrs. Falkland knew
his entire and exceptional inner worth, but anybody could
see the bland perfection of his appearance. Not a stud,
not a hair of Harold was ever out of place. His manners,
his movements, his rare but well-chosen smiles, his ties
and socks, were all the very thing, — there was no other
word for it. He was not a commanding presence, like Mr.
Auberon, nor theatrically good-looking, like Mr. Ingestre,
nor ingratiating, like some of Helena's smart admirers, nor
effervescent, like others. But then, how much to the point
was everything he said ! Even the best people attended to
Harold, when he chose to open his lips ; and he treated
the happy girls whom he selected for partners to all kinds
of odd sayings, elegant turns, and adroit attentions. Mrs.
Falkland was quite jealous of them, at times.

Yet, oddly enough, Harold was silent too, this evening.
What was more remarkable, though they arrived in good
time, he sat down for the first dance, regardless of the

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 211

innumerable young ladies who, Mrs. Falkland was certain,
were sighing for him on every side. However, since he
sat it out near her, close at her elbow, she did not blame
him for his behaviour, except playfully ; and even then,
Harold's face did not change. One single doubt she had,
having noted his serious expression, — she asked him if
anything at dinner had disagreed with him.

' No, mother,' said Harold — in a tone like Hamlet's :
however, it relieved her mind completely.

Presently he leant back and made an observation :
short, like ah1 Harold's clever remarks. It appeared to
concern his sister's dances, — pre-engagements, — what other
girls did.

' Yes, dear,' said Mrs. Falkland, who was silently pricing
the lace on Lady Weyburn's train.

' He hasn't even come ! ' said Harold.

' Who ? ' Mrs. Falkland left her calculation in the
middle. She was pretty sure the lace, though beautiful,
was less expensive than hers.

' Ingestre, of course, — who d'you suppose ? '

' Haven't they ? But I thought I saw her on the stairs.
Perhaps it was someone doing her hair the same way :
those coils are common.' She added, — ' They're often late.'

' Takes precious good care to be,' muttered Harold.

' They might have been kept,' pursued Mrs. Falkland,
in a tone of outrageous complacency, as though being kept,
for such people, was a virtue ! . . . ' There's Mrs. Shovell,'
she proceeded, ' and Lord What's-his-name, and I've met

that fair man too, only I can't lay hands on Really,

dear, we know nearly everybody to-night.'

' Well, strikes me as a bit infra dig., that's all,' said
Harold, as though she had not spoken. ' Put herself at
the mercy — cad like that.'

He spoke between his teeth, and his eyes were narrowed.
It had rather a cutting effect, or would have had, only
he spoke so low. He was too cautious, — his mother, still
unwarned, was only faintly flustered at the term he used.

212 THE ACCOLADE

' Oh, my dear, — even if you dislike him ' She glanced

quickly round her.

' Oh, he's jolly rich,' said Harold. ' I know.' He got up,
rather wearily. ' All right, mother, leave it to you. It's
only — some girls might, of course, — not her. It's — ' he
paused — ' a matter of taste.'

With which, shortly after, he was gone, with his easy
step, in the direction of the younger Miss Weyburn, a little
plump simple-natured girl, of whom he was fond.

Mrs. Falkland continued flustered for a time. Taste !
And in Harold's mouth, — that meant something. But
what did he mean was tasteless, — what was wrong ? Had
he quarrelled with his sister ? She could not conceive it,
somehow. The understanding of the pair might be called
elastic, — they snapped one another up rather sadly at
meal-times, — but it was firm. Whenever Helena was
attacked, or in difficulties, — neither thing happened very
often, — inconspicuously, Harold was always at her side.
He was quick and quiet to uphold her, at need, and very
tough to dispose of. Even the clever Mr. Auberon found
that.

Now, it seemed, he disapproved of something his sister
had been doing, as regarded Mr. Ingestre : something, let
us say, unwise. Mrs. Falkland had grown so used, by now,
to Helena making her way unaided, that she was almost
timid of meddling. Really, the girl had done so well
for herself, all told, and had made her own position.
Nothing was more marked than Helena's good sense,
her happy influence, the order she maintained single-
handed in her little court. What she called ' nonsense '
made her impatient, she could not tolerate it. One or
two really silly young men had been inclined to give
trouble : various little intrigues and bickerings had come
to Mrs. Falkland's ears. But always late : before she
could grow anxious, Helena had laughed or reasoned them
out of it, smoothed things over with a capable hand, and
all was orderly about her steps again.

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 213

However, in matters of taste, the crystal standard of
the moment, Mrs. Falkland put Harold in front of Helena,
just. Harold was absolute, — the oracle. So, having
cogitated the mystery for a short time, she called Helena
to her side, and requested with mild gravity to look at her
programme. She examined it a minute.

' Whom does the cross stand for ? ' she said, quite plea-
santly. The short-hand the oracle Harold employed at
dances amused her, and she was ready to take the young
people's habits as a joke. ' Oh, — well, then, my dear,
I think three's too many. One's enough, really, or — '
with a flitting vision of the fine gentleman Johnny,
' two, to-night, let's say, not to seem too pointed. But
three's too many — ' she handed the card back, her
kind complacent eyes exploring the room — ' except to
friends/

Helena turned rather pale, but said nothing, which
struck her mother as curious. When John, at the appointed
hour, made his way to her through the throng, she looked
in his face, still pale, and said — ' Would you mind sitting
it out, Mr. Ingestre ? '

' I was about to ask you if you minded,' he said. ' I'm
wanted at home, — I've only come for half an hour.'

He had come for her dance, then : timed it carefully :
there was no mistaking the intention, thus confessed ;
and he was going back, she guessed, to his mother's bed-
side afterwards. ... It was like him to do it, that slight
' sensational ' that clung to everything Johnny did. And
yet, he was falsifying nothing. Life does offer drama, the
clash of great sentiments, occasionally : and that it was
the drama of life, Helena was certain by his face, while his
tongue entertained her idly.

She went whither he steered her, secure in his command.
When they reached solitude, she longed for silence to
gather her thoughts again ; but he was not silent, since
he could not venture to be. He sat stringing sentences,
anything that came : he told her stories even, as she

214 THE ACCOLADE

recollected afterwards. He seemed at once tired and
excited, gathered to meet a crisis he had foreseen.

' I am afraid you are anxious,' she said, breaking
the silence when he stopped. ' And if so, you must
not stay. You must go back to her and not consider
me.'

He looked at her a moment. ' I am anxious,' he said,
' and I want to be there. I calculated it was worth it,
that was all. I couldn't miss my whole evening, Miss
Falkland, so I gambled for a third.'

His ' evening ' were her dances.

' You have the whole,' said Helena, her voice shaken.
' This is the whole evening. I should have asked you to
let me off the other two to-night.'

' You're ill,' said John quickly. He had just noticed her
pallor.

' No : only my mother thought it one too many. She
told me so. So I struck out two.'

' Why ? ' said Johnny, intent on her look and tone.

' I'm not going — just as far as they'll let me. They
needn't think it/ said Helena. She added in another
tone — ' And I don't want to make her unhappy, any of
them, before '

' Before you must,' said John. She had bitten her lip.
In the long pause, her eyes turned slowly, as if compelled
against their will, in his direction. Not till they reached
his did he stir at all.

' Oh, go,' she said, horrified and entranced. ' You
mustn't, really.' For he had swung forward on the
instant and snatched her hand.

' But this is my whole evening,' he said. ' And yours,
you admitted it. I can't let you off that admission,
Helena, — it's too glorious. You practically put your
pencil through all the other names on your card.' She did
so, with the same hand that he was grasping, a shaking
little hand, while he slipped to a kneeling posture at her
side. Together they made a very crooked line, scoring

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 215

through all the alien initials : and having completed the
work, looked in one another's eyes and laughed.

' Oh, this is heaven/ said Johnny, as pale as she was.
' Is it true, Helena ? '

' Of course it is true. The first true thing of my life,
I think.'

' And of mine,' he said instantly.

' I'm wicked by nature, I suppose,' she said, quite
simply. ' I never knew I was before.'

' Wicked ? You're divine ! The only woman I evei
knew who cannot lie. You can't, Helena, the whole gang
of them can't teach you. I think you live by the truth.'

' I know I love you,' she whispered, laughing low. ' I
can't think how it's happened, but I do.'

' But you oughtn't to have told me,' he laughed back.
' You ought to have let concealment — and so on.' He
touched her cheek with a curved finger, very gently.
' That's what the girls do in the nice stories, always.'

She shook her head, defending the nice stories. ' They
only do that when he loves another best.'

' And you knew I loved you best ? No, you're divine,'
he asseverated. ' But how, darling ? — since when ? I've
acted so rippingly, Helena. I'm dashed if I didn't act well ! '

' Rippingly/ she nodded. ' But not quite well enough,
for me. And of course I didn't act well enough for you —
because I can't act, can I ? You know I can't. You are
the person who knows. Oh, if only '

It came. She caught her breath and shut her eyes, her
head leaning helplessly against him. The truth had struck
her, and from her, reverberated to him. For a moment it
stunned — froze in both that beautiful, elemental rapture
of discovery. Then each was seized with scruples — for the
other, of course. She first.

' It's nonsense, of course/ she said, in a reasonable,
resigned little tone. ' Silliness, — it's all a fairy-tale, — I
quite see that. I've known it always when I was sensible,
not asleep. After this, you will go away again.'

216 THE ACCOLADE

' I shan't.' He swore it. • ' You are mine.'

' Yes, — listen, — because you are not like other people.
You are a king's son, — can't do what you want.'

' I can choose my princess, — Goldilocks.' He touched
and smoothed her treasure of hair with his fine brown
fingers. He had taken her completely in his arms. Terror
and joy seemed exactly equal to Helena, she stood on the
knife-edge between them. Each panting breath she drew
was joy and pain. Was this heaven, she wondered ? She
had often speculated in her childhood what heaven was.
Yet still she strove for daylight reason, valiantly.

' Listen, Mr. Ingestre '

' Say John,' he commanded.

' I can't, — I really daren't. Oh, don't you see ? She
is there already. You have chosen.'

' I never chose ! I swear it. ... Helena, we don't. If you
will put it that way, I'll use your reasoning. Lord knows
it was Ursula's fault even less than mine. She was laid
before me, to take or leave, at a moment when my father
had me at his mercy. I always meant to tell you this, it's
the thing I had hoped to tell you. . . . Listen now. I'd half-
killed my mother, you know, in trying to chuck my — er —
kingdom for the stage. I still think the other's a better
kingdom. My father in a fury is — what he is. I was bad
enough at the time, half off my head, but I'm nothing to
him. Mother was too ill to help me, and that, of course,
was my fault, — and his advantage. See ? He used that
against me at every turn, went on at it, hammered — beast !
— it did for me in the end. He knows how to do for me —
pretty well — I never told Mother half. I was sick of it, —
tired out, — I was only twenty-two.' He took breath,
exhausted even in the recital, as it seemed. ' Course I'd
made love to the girl, — her people expected it, — she wanted
me, made it pretty clear. And I liked her — think I did — '
He paused anew, his eyes seeking, his brow raised. Then
he brushed all vain apology aside. ' But anyho\v, what
dc es it matter, darling ? I'd not seen you then. I couldn't

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 217

know, couldn't guess, I should ever find you. Could I ?
Tell me if I could.'

But she was still hopeless, drooping like a shorn flower, —
terribly pale. His scruples came then, inevitably. ' My
little girl/ he murmured. ' Have I hurt you ? I was
wrong.'

' No,' she gasped. ' I've never been so happy. It's
enough — for all my life.' He watched her silently.

' I've hurt you,' he repeated, ' it's monstrous. How old
are you, Helena ? '

' Nineteen and three months.'

' Monstrous, — it's too young. You can't know.'

' Teach me to know,' she said. ' I'm not afraid.'

' You're goodness itself, — heaven's goodness. I oughtn't
to touch you.'

He loosened the constriction of his arms, and she
instantly nestled closer to him. Every movement of
her childish confidence alarmed him more. If she had
shown the least suspicion, shrinking, — knowledge, as he
said. But she was at home in his arms, had flown there
straight, nature guiding and her warm heart. She felt, as
he did, that all other things in the world might be wrong
— this was right. She was made for him : most glorious
and most terrible, they knew it, both.

Only in him the grande passion, the great stress,
awakened deeps unknown to her. The whole of him, and
the knowledge he had painfully earned, arose to defend
her. All his past experience went for nothing, if it could
not illuminate this. Seeking desperately to think or
Helena, to see things for her, John was for the first time
humbled, knew himself unfit. How could he ever pay
what he owed her for that confession ? How could such
as he pretend to pay ? That was his first thought, and
significant as his posture at her side. Her innocence and
devotion, together with her high courage, completely
conquered him. He knew, as he knelt there, he was
' overthrown ' like Orlando : at her feet, for life.

218 THE ACCOLADE

' Unless my mother is worse,' he said with difficulty, ' I
am going to the country next month. I must go down for
a time, — later I join my wife abroad.'

' Abroad ? ' Her hand tightened on him.

' She's ordered to some baths, for her health. She's
not strong.' He was still seeking desperately the things he
could, and could not, say. His swift glances constantly
swept her in, as though for tonic and consolation. It was
the same anxious look that had puzzled her at the recep-
tion : different now, for she understood it. He needed her,
needed sorely : she wondered she had not guessed.

' Must you go to the country ? ' she said.

' I must, — business : and it is some way.'

' I am going with my brother and Mr. Auberon to the
Lakes in August,' said Helena. ' We shall be walking about.'

' Then it is less far/ said Johnny. ' Much.' He cursed
Mr. Auberon in his soul. How dare he walk with Helena
across the Lake country ? Of all glorious girls to walk with,
in a glorious land ! Black thunder gathered on Johnny's
brow.

' I shall come and walk too,' he observed.

' No, — because you have your business.' A pause.
' Don't look so cross,' she entreated. ' I'll write to you, —
give me your address.'

' It's Routhwick, my father's Yorkshire estate.' He
wrote it on the back of her dance-card, with his arms still
about her, and said absently, — ' You can see the hills from
there.'

' Do you love mountains ? ' said Helena, her eyes adoring
him. ' I'm so glad, — so do I.'

' I was born at Routhwick,' said Johnny. ' I love every
inch of it : for which reason, no doubt,' he added, handing
back her card, ' my wife does not. Now I've got to go, —
my little angel.' He clutched her, and looked her all over,
with hungry eyes.

' My evening's done,' he said, holding her clenched hand
back against him. ' The best of my life, so far. Is yours ? '

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 219

She nodded. He looked down at her hand doubtfully, and
kissed her fingers once.

' Good-night,' said Helena, lifting her mouth to him like
a child.

' Oh, Lord help me,' said Johnny internally. But he
did not do it, even then. He bent his cheek to her fair
brow a minute, holding her to him with all the force, the
life that was in him ; and then let her go, and dragged
himself away.

Helena, after a space, straightened herself, and went
back to the ballroom. Her step was languid, and her limbs
tired, — to her own surprise, for it was only the third dance,
and she was young enough hardly to know fatigue.

' What's the matter with Miss Falkland ? ' said some-
body in her hearing as she passed : and added, not in her
hearing, — ' Good heavens, how lovely she looks ! '

By luck — great luck — she passed Mrs. Shovell before
she reached the fullest light. By better luck still, Helena's
own brother was sitting at her side. They rose simul-
taneously, and Harold, striding forward, put a hand upon
her.

' Come this way a minute,' he said briefly. ' Mrs. Shovell
wants you. Don't go on.'

Helena, pallid and brilliant-eyed, looked beyond him.
' Someone is waiting,' she said dreamily. ' I'd rather not
make a fuss.'

' My dear girl, the fuss will make itself if you go through
that door, trust me. You don't know what you're looking
like.'

' But — what will you say ? ' Helena succumbed to the
pressure on her, with a faint sob of relief.

' I'll say Mrs. Shovell is seedy, and you're looking after
her. That'll hold water, won't it ? ' He turned round.

' Brilliant,' said Violet. It was brilliant, being near the
truth, for she was not well, and had come that evening
simply not to disappoint her friends, the Weyburn family.

220 THE ACCOLADE

' It'll rile the Mater too,' murmured Harold, ' which is
all to the good.'

He looked at the two girls a moment, and went on with a
nod, satisfied that he had done well in this last move. Two
moves, indeed. For, turning over his resources, after his
failure with his mother, he had made straight for that girl,
Helena's friend. She had proved to be pretty well up-to-
date in the Ingestre business, — Harold had expected that.
He had spotted her as a girl of sense at their first encounter,
long since, in Regent's Hall. Sense was all Harold granted
Violet, but it meant something, from him. He had really
had quite an enjoyable half-hour at her side, conveying
things to her through the medium of perfectly conventional
dialogue, and being adroitly met half-way. After Harold's
mother's recent exhibition, it was refreshing. He even
ventured to broach the subject of the Lake District expedi-
tion in August : and Mrs. Shovell saw the point of it, which
Harold had hardly hoped of her. She showed her sense
once more in being interested.

This pleasant plan Harold had himself proposed, as a
remedy for all ills, at a date as early as Easter. He had
counted on his mother's recognising instantly its supreme
value for Helena : combining as it did fresh air, hard
exercise, Harold's society, Auberon's moral support, and
the absence of the cad Ingestre, all in a single flash of
Harold's genius. But his mother, failing to recognise
anything of the sort, or to see anything as Harold
saw it, had put it off and off ; until now, Harold much
feared by the signs in his sister's face, it had come too
late.

Lately, encouraged by Helena's sensible friend, he had
gone into detail. Knowing the Westmorland district like
the back of his hand, he had drawn plans for Mrs. Shovell,
and recited strings of beautiful and suggestive names,
together with the inns, farms, streams with bathing
properties, and other places of refreshment he meant to
patronise. Mrs. Shovell seemed to like listening, though

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 221

she said little, — but then she was not well. Her sense
altogether had been so remarkable, and she looked so nice
at Harold's side, that with a new flash of his genius, he had
invited her to come too. This would complete the quartet,
put a finishing touch to Helena's cure, and be extremely
exciting for Harold by the way. But Mrs. Shovell, owing,
he supposed, to babies and such -like, did not see it. There
was a little line in her forehead, together with a little curve
of her lip, that suggested the proposal amused her. Harold
had just been wondering why she smiled like that, as
though he were far younger than she was — which was not
the case — when his sister hove in sight, and distracted him.

Now, leaving Violet in charge, he abandoned duty,
content on the whole with his evening's work ; and
returned to the simple charms of the younger Miss Weyburn
— perhaps to rest his mind. But he took one more momen-
tous decision before the evening was quite out, having
turned it over carefully. He would give a few selected
facts to the old governor at home, and get him to talk to
Helena a bit, during their customary walk in the Gardens
on Sunday afternoon. The old governor, with girls, had
good ideas at times.

As for his mother, he gave her up.

IV

Johnny arrived late in his own home, but Ursula was
waiting for him. Her mother-in-law being really ill, she
had quietly annulled the dance, though she was already
dressed for it when the news came. Johnny, who was
dressed too, had gone straight to his father's house ; and
she had not seen him since, though he had telephoned soon
after his departure that there was no immediate reason
for anxiety.

Ursula, sitting alone by the hearth in her handsome
drawing-room, had not wasted her time, Her ringers were

222 THE ACCOLADE

busy : she was learning her new crochet-stitch by patient
practice, and making by its means a shawl for a widow, or
a petticoat for an orphan, we are not sure which. Soldiers'
daughters have their eyes turned on the suffering centres
of the world, the war-centres, at least : and since war is
common in our civilised era, so is widowhood in its wake.

So working, Ursula reflected steadily. John's mother
was hopelessly ill, and though these sharper crises came and
went, they could ultimately finish in but one way. Agatha's
death would add to Ursula's responsibilities immediately.
There was no doubt her father-in-law would continue to
appeal to her to act hostess on his premises ; or, what was
more probable, considering his mother's age, shift the
whole burden of entertainment to Ursula's house. It
would change the quiet life of her house considerably, and
it would ' stir up ' John. Having got so far, Ursula set
her lips, turned her crochet, and diverted.

She thought of her dress for a period, — the sight of her
beautiful satin ball-skirt reminded her. If Agatha died
before the season ended, she would have to sacrifice some
very handsome gowns. On the other hand, she knew she
looked well in black, being fair, — that was a gentle consola-
tion. The only time Johnny had complimented her in
recent years, was when she suddenly draped herself in
black for a Royal funeral. She had cut out Violet Shovell
on that occasion, another pleasing reminiscence. Now she
might confidently hope to cut her out for a considerable
period : since, if there were any real sense of fitness in the
girl at all — as Ursula trusted — she would adopt full mourn-
ing too.

Johnny would mind, — that was the next subject that
occurred to her : he would feel his mother's death consider-
ably,— she must prepare herself for that. He had been
visibly frightened that evening, and would be sulky, as
surely, when he returned. She could not pretend to ignore
Johnny's devotion to that woman, one of the innumerable
women with whom she was expected to share him. If he

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 223

lost his mother, he would not even come to her for consola-
tion,— not he. He would go elsewhere, to Violet, to some
other little inexperienced doll of a schoolgirl — unnamed.
Yet, reaching that thought, her crocheting work grew
feverish, irregular, endangering the immaculate outline of
the widow's shawl.

She cast her eyes over herself, not her dress this time, and
glanced up at the lighted mirror. There was nothing wrong
with her, — she had more, not less, than the majority of the
women she encountered. She was not a thrilling beauty,
of course : modish artists did not press to paint her, as they
had done with one or two of Johnny's lovely cousins : but
she was well above the average. She dressed well, and
set off her dresses, — that she knew by the tailors' attitude,
if not her own eyes. She rode, skated and danced well,
if not brilliantly. She kept herself heedfully up-to-date
in her reading, — even poetry : she had often been in
front of Johnny there. As house-mistress she was perfection,
dared anybody to compete; and all Johnny's random
friends, lugged in at any hour, respected her. Why then
did he not at least respect ?

No, it was John who was different from all other men,
she decided, not she from her married sisters. It was, it
must be, he who was in the wrong. She thought bitterly
of her old suitors, — she had more than one. With any of
them — she thought of each in turn — she would have been
happier. So would they, not a doubt of it. They had
all paired off, quite rightly, she did not blame them :
but any of them, she guessed, would have been a little
better off with her. She knew what she had to give, and its
market value in the world, exactly : she did not exaggerate.
Only, in presenting this series of benefits to John, she had
not happened to add children to the list.

The girl stopped working : her hands dropped wearily.
She had done all she knew in that matter as well, she had
not failed her duty, nor the ideals of her upbringing. She
had not complained, barely alluded to her disappointment,

224 THE ACCOLADE

— certainly never to John. She had been patient, cheerful,
prudent, attentive to her health, she had armed herself
with reasoning, she had prayed. Her religion, though
temperate like herself, was earnest and genuine. Her
priests assured her there is an answer to prayer, — she had
not found it. She had prayed, — yes, besought, humbled
herself, striven in soul till she was tired. She had striven
against jealousy, too, in this one thing: though of course,
poor girl, she had not succeeded. She refused to believe
her bitter feeling to Violet dated from the birth of her
child : she had ante-dated it to the point where, in John's
father's house, she had first tempted him to admire her.
So with other married women, — of the rest she did not
think. Ursula, cognizant of her generation, had heard or
read in current reviews that the great unmarried ranks
of women suffer from this same privation, bitterly. But
what was their suffering, compared with hers ? Wedded,
and stripped of her right. Enthroned by a haughty family,
that the world might see her indignity more clearly. A
whole ring of eyes fixed on her anxiously from year to year,
and each year sliding past her empty, futile. Middle-age,
in all its horror, threatening just ahead. Doctors' sugary
consolations, empty auguries, practised no doubt on
hundreds of women as miserable as herself. Could they
not see that to her, more than to all the hundreds, a child
was owing, essential to her position, a crying need ? Fools
that they were not to divine it must be so, however well
she feigned the contrary ! Fool that her husband was,
calling himself so clever, most of all !

To-night, when John came home, he looked exhausted,
and seemed taciturn. He told her his mother was better
and sleeping, but that was all he said on the subject. Then
he remained long, his hands locked across his eyes, saying
nothing at all. Ursula asked him at last if his head was
aching, and he denied it ; but the question seemed to
rouse him to her existence, and he turned his attention to

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 225

her passingly. The sight of her still in her ball-dres
seemed to annoy him, and he asked her why she had
not changed.

' Why haven't you ? ' said Ursula tranquilly. ' I
suppose mine is the same reason, — laziness/

' You're not lazy/ argued Johnny : obviously at his
Grossest, but Ursula forgave him.

' I assure you I have been lazy this last hour/ she said,
glancing instinctively at the fine growth of the crochet
shawl. ' Will you have some whisky, John ? '

' No/ he said. ' Water alone, — I'm beastly thirsty/

She handed it, and he did not thank her. He drank
eagerly, though, she noted, and the rare flush was per-
ceptible in his dark face. Ursula, who never quite lost the
hope of his falling ill and really needing her, began to be
interested. John was not immune from earthly microbes,
after all, though he might like to be thought so.

' What are you doing ? ' he snapped suddenly, snatching
his hand away : for, laying down her work, she had
extended hers to touch his wrist.

' I wanted to see if you were feverish/ said Ursula.
' However, it's just as you like/ She took up her work
again. ' I suppose if you were you wouldn't tell me.
You'd go and see a doctor on the sly, and fly at everyone
who asked you how you were/

' How well you know me/ said Johnny. ' I've never
been better, as it happens/ He gazed at the lamp, lying
full length in his chair, and added dreamily — ' In my life/

' It might be the influenza/ said Ursula after a pause.
' There's heaps about/

' It isn't the influenza/ said Johnny.

As luck would have it, he sneezed at this moment, and
Ursula glanced at him. She doubtless considered it proved
her point. However, he really could not be bothered about
what Ursula did or did not consider. She was beside the
mark.

He felt in his pocket for his handkerchief without looking,

226 THE ACCOLADE

and — as luck would have it again — pulled out with it the
half of a long white glove.

' What on earth ? ' said Ursula.

Following her eyes, Johnny looked down, laid hands on
the glove without haste or emotion, drew it completely
out, folded it, and tucked it into his pocket again. . . . Now
he was in for it, — so much the better !

There was silence in the room, a meaning silence.
Ursula herself had put out his clothes that evening, and
assured herself that the pockets were empty. The glove,
therefore, was a recent acquisition. The sight of it
frightened her sensibly. Not that he had never taken
girls' gloves before, — it was quite on the cards he had a
collection, labelled, in some corner of his fastness in the
studio, to show his friends, — it was the occasion that
frightened Ursula. Indeed, granted the occasion, and
with the evidence she held, a stronger mind must have
given in, admitted then and there her defeat. Not Ursula.
She knew it meant something, but she shut her mind to
what its meaning must be. She sat immovable, im-
penetrable, trying to control her troubled breathing ; to
prevent, by will force, the flush she felt mounting to her
face.

' I left when the clock struck twelve,' said Johnny to
fill the gap, ' and picked this up on the doorstep. Cin-
derella for kids, adapted. It was a pretty ball.'

' You mean — you went ? '

' For an hour, yes.'

The girl gasped. ' An hour ? To-night ? '

' I went to-night.'

' A lot you care for your mother,' said Ursula, on a
hurried breath, quite coolly.

' That won't hold water, my dear,' thought Johnny.
' Get on.'

' Is that glove Violet's ? ' said Ursula presently. She
had achieved disdain.

' A size too large, I should say,' said Johnny. ' Get on.'

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 227

' Likely I should guess,' said Ursula, ' for your amuse-
ment. Whoseever it is, you ought to return it. It's
dishonest, to say no worse.'

' And you're dishonest, to say nothing stronger/ returned
Johnny. He added with impatience — ' Oh, shut it, Ursula :
it's no use.'

His eyes were covered again. She stirred his own
obstinacy. He would not argue on such false lines. She
bored him, simply.

Presently, having recovered herself, Ursula began to
lecture.

' When I've been doing all I can for you/ she said,
' refused the Weyburns myself, — to go and flirt '

' I didn't flirt/ said Johnny. ' I swear it.'

' You might think of yourself/ said Ursula, disregarding,
' if not of me. As if fifty people wouldn't notice you were
there, when I refused ? As if they won't all be talking of
it to-morrow, and why, and how '

' Oh, I say, will they ? ' murmured Johnny.

' That's what you like/ — she rode over him. ' Really I
think it's what you live for, — showing off.'

'Thanks/ he said, 'I don't really. -I can't do more
than deny it. And I rather doubt if eyes are fixed on my
doings to that extent. I hope not '

' Rather late to hope it/ said Ursula.

She saw the chance shot had got home. He had flinched
for the moment, thinking of Helena : but not for long.
Past was past, for Johnny. Besides, he was growing
interested. The way Ursula kept it up, in the face of all
the facts, of the truth, which she knew, was extraordinary.
The scene, the position was unhackneyed, to say the least.
It touched the sublime absurdities.

' Let's get the point of view/ he said agreeably. ' Per-
haps you thought I was showing off, lately/ — he touched
his pocket, — ' displaying my winnings, — did you ? Well,
you can take my word for it, I'd sooner you hadn't seen.'J

' For her sake/ returned Ursula icily, making him start.

228 THE ACCOLADE

' But I shouldn't trouble about that, you know. She'd
rather I saw, — if not her own husband '

' Husband ? ' Johnny gaped for an instant, genuinely,
ingenuously amazed. Then, seeing the tack, he dropped
comedy. He gathered himself too, his mouth shutting into
its most dangerous line.

' Now look here,' he said quietly, ' I must ask you to be
so kind as to leave my cousin Violet out of it. I'm beastly
sorry, and so would she be, poor little girl, since she likes
to be useful. But you can't use her, in this instance. It
simply can't be done.'

' Use her ? ' Ursula paled a little before the charge.
' What do you mean ? '

' What should I mean ? There are limits, even for me.
See ? Get on to somebody else, do you mind ? There are
lots to choose from, married as well.'

' But what do you mean, about Violet ? I want to
know.'

' Sure ? ' he jeered bitterly. ' You don't care for truth,
as a rule, — and I can tell it, I warn you. Better let it
alone.' As she still stared, after some silence, — ' Am I to
tell you ? ' he said.

' Yes.' She dared herself and him.

Johnny tossed up. ' All right,' he said. ' On my word,
you deserve it, dodging behind her like that. . . . I'm jolly
fond of Violet, you mayn't know, and you've never been
fair to her, — for myself I won't speak. You were jealous
when she was fourteen — oh yes, you were. She's done a
lot for me, at different times, and stood a lot from me too.
It's been no fun for her, knowing me, always. I was ready
to treat her to a dose of my difficulties last night, but I
found, for once, it couldn't be managed. She really couldn't
be bothered with me.'

' Oh, last night, was it ? ' said Ursula. ' Did she snub
you? '

' Longing to hear about it, aren't you ? ' said Johnny,
turning his laziest drooping look upon her, passingly.

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 229

' Not often I get snubbed, is it ? But she's one of the people
who can do it, I admit that, — she can do it in style.' He
waited again, tantalising deliberately. ' She looked ill
last night at the concert,' he said slowly. ' Granny noticed
it. I took her home.'

' 111 ? ' said Ursula. She had turned and started : then
she shrank, visibly.

' Just so,' he said. ' I hadn't meant to speak of it, —
granted Granny, it was safe to get round. Granny was at
her best, at the concert. " That girl will faint," she said to
me, as pleased as possible, half-way through. It was her
unusually — er — jovial expression that showed me. Ghastly
they are, the old women, — gloating, — I've seen it before
now. 'Course Granny had nine of her own, — some time
since, — ' he paused, the sneer fading on his expressive face,
— ' she might have forgotten a bit, put it at that. Anyhow,
I went along to the kid, and asked her not to faint, for my
sake, because Granny was expecting her to, — and she
didn't, — scored. I never tried to stop a girl fainting before/
said Johnny, pensively, ' but I was pretty sure that was
the way to do it, granted there was a way, — and I was
right. Now I shall know next time. It's true, all girls
aren't so beastly considerate for a fellow's feelings as she
is, — or so sensible, — or so brave. She was better in the
interval, talking again. Only she looked awfully seedy,
poor little thing, and her hand — which I happened to be
holding — was jolly cold. So I saved her from Granny's
humane attentions — not to say attendance — that would
have finished her — and took her home myself.'

He glanced again under his eyelids at Ursula, who sat
like a rock, icy, disdainful, her hands folded above her
folded work.

' I returned her to her man,' he went on rather lower,
' and got no thanks for it. He couldn't afford to attend to
me either, — odd, isn't it ? — didn't seem to think I mattered
much. She likes that fellow, you mayn't have noticed, —
what I mean is, you might have left it out of account. As

230 THE ACCOLADE

for him — I might have been a fly on the wall ! He treated
me to a demonstration gratis — knowing I knew the girl was
twice too good for him, it was just his chance. I don't
blame him, either. You'd have called it damned improper
probably. I couldn't have done it better myself.'

Once more he waited to take breath, — he needed it.

' I'm out of it altogether in that little establishment,' he
finished, ' for the next eight months or so. And deserve to
be, no doubt, — you needn't tell me so. Only — if you and
the council of the upright want a name to poke at me — to
shelter behind — you can leave hers alone for the same
period — that's all.'

' I may mention I never used her name,' said Ursula,
breathless as he.

' No, you took care not to,' said Johnny. ' You never
use names, do you ? . . . All right, you can go.'

And she went, of course. It was not in her, or any
woman, to stand more. He had used the whole of his
resources, every art he possessed, in that speech for the
defence of the girl she detested : in the lazy, easy opening,
becoming ever swifter and fiercer as he closed in on her
and reached the end. The process resembled not torture
so much — Johnny could not torture when his blood
was up, however he might wish to do so — as a surgical
operation. He fully intended to hurt her ; yet that he
was cutting himself, from first to last, even more deliberately
than her, was what she could not realise, knowing so little
of his private longings, or of his peculiar pride. She had
never cared to recognise the fact that John's desire for
children, for any child, for youth about him, was as eager
and simple as hers was selfish and vain : naturally —
since it was one of the admissions that must shake her
self-righteous attitude towards him.

She was almost aghast, in consequence. The contrast
he depicted, in that light edged tone, was too complete,
too cruel, with their own conditions. Heartless, so to turn
her own weapon against her, so to carve the scene he had

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 231

witnessed on her brain, that all night long, as he must
have known, her jealousy would rage at it fruitlessly.
And that when she was stricken already by his faithless-
ness, by his all too probable desertion. He deserved
nothing of her, nothing. All means of resistance, of
retaliation, would be justified, when he could treat her,
his own wife, on his own hearth, like that.

She swept out, still and stately, pausing to put her work
quietly away before she went. As a display of her own
fixed attitude it was perfect ; and he looked on at it,
hopelessly.

' Oh Lord,' he soliloquised, subsiding after his dramatic
effort. ' She makes me, — I can't help it, Mother. Must
get through to the real thing, somehow. I expect I'm a
beast.'

Having uttered this excuse aloud, to one of the visions
that haunted him, he lay silent for a period, collapsed
sidelong in his chair, his restless eyes seeking any way of
escape — but one — from his entanglement.

' Coward, — she's such a coward' he asserted, still half
aloud, as though controverting somebody. ' And such a
bat ! Blind bat, — with claws, — sticks to you, bah ! . . . I
hate bats, darling, — I loathe bat-women, — don't you ? '

It was an appeal, addressed to Helena's white glove,
which he had slipped out for his consolation, and was
holding against his cheek. After this outbreak, he sat for
hours into the morning, fondling the supple fabric of the
glove, and considering.

PART IV

THE SELF-DECEIVER

IT was conveyed to the head of the Ingestres by means of
a well-written note that, owing to her mother-in-law's
precarious condition, Ursula had postponed her cure at
Sophienbad till later in the autumn. She thought of
accompanying John to Routhwick instead, so as to be
within easy reach of telegrams. She hoped this plan would
meet with John's father's approval. She trusted dear
Mother had passed — and so forth.

To judge by the grunt with which John's father received
the message, it did not meet with his approval as entirely
as Ursula hoped.

' What do you say to that ? ' he asked, handing the
sheet to his mother across the breakfast-table. ' Personally
I say, thank you for nothing, young woman.'

' You will have to be more civil than that when you reply
to it,' said Mrs. Ingestre. ' It is extremely well expressed.'

' But bad policy, hey ? ' said her son. ' Mistaken in
the case, I mean. I think she's wrong.'

' I think she's right,' said Mrs. Ingestre instantly.
' Routhwick's healthy, and smart doctors are notorious
idiots. Ursula never looks so well as when she has been
down there.'

' I'm not talking of health,' said Mr. Ingestre. ' Routh-
wick's healthy enough. Johnny '11 get sick of the sight of
her, that's what I mean, if she sticks to him like this.
A bad move, I call it. Better to give him a rest.'

' In my day,' said Mrs. Ingestre, ' people did not ask
for rests from their wedded wives, — they put up with 'em.

235

236 THE ACCOLADE

As Johnny has brewed he must bake, and she's a thoroughly
nice girl.'

' Thoroughly/ said her son grimly. He glanced at the
letter. ' Why can't she say what she's up to, though ?
She must know I should see through that. She doesn't
care a button for Agatha, never did. What's the good of
putting it on, then ? It's just a shade slippery.'

' You might allow something for common civility,' said
Mrs. Ingestre.

' I do,' said her son. ' I always allow for polite lying.
But that's not polite, — it's offensive to common sense.'

He got up, and took the note away with him. He
answered it with perfect courtesy, but more coldly than
his wont. He liked smartness, and admired ingenuity,
but cunning was a thing he detested, and he had marked
again the shade of slyness he had noted before. He was
sensitive also, for the moment, to slights to Agatha : and
the rather cloying tone of condolence in the note did not
ring true. Lastly, though he had little feeling for his son at
common times, he could not doubt his real grief at present.
He suspected that Johnny's instinct, like his own, was
towards solitude in sorrow ; so that, even from that point
of view, it was bad taste in Ursula to dog him.

' She's playing for her own hand,' thought the man of
experience. ' That's how she'll go through life probably,
— poor Johnny ! '

He opened by the same post a note from Helena Falk-
land, enclosing a photograph of herself as Rosalind he had
asked for, and she had promised. The note was only a
couple of lines, girlish and modest in style, with a little
joke in passing in reference to a conversation they had had.
But Mr. Ingestre dwelt longer than was necessary over it
and its accompanying picture, the grace and strength of
the young frame, the sweet firm lines of the face. ' Per-
haps we were wrong,' was the silent result of his medita-
tions : but he did not say it aloud. He shut the little
letter safely away, and enthroned the portrait on his

THE SELF-DECEIVER 237

writing-table. Meanwhile, the dowager Mrs. Ingestre made
her way to Ursula.

There was, between her and Ursula, a certain sympathy,
owing largely to the fact that both had need of criticising
Agatha. Ursula, as we have said, had a well-preserved
grudge against her husband's mother. Mrs. Ingestre had
merely the common maternal grudge against any female who
presumed to marry her son. It was inconceivable that she
should have approved any daughter-in-law completely :
and perhaps Agatha, on the whole, had stood wear as well
as any victim the old lady could have selected. The fact
that such a critic found so few weaknesses, in the end, to
deal with, spoke more than volumes of flattery in Agatha's
favour. The word ' blue-stocking ' really summed them
all : and that fine old term, in our day, has perforce lost
some of its bitterness. But Mrs. Ingestre consoled herself
by never granting Agatha's virtues except grudgingly. A
blue-stocking, as such, is necessarily incapable of fulfilling
an ordinary woman's duties in life : much less the duty
required towards the head of the Ingestre family. Mrs.
Ingestre, in consequence, discounted Agatha's best efforts
always.

As, for instance, when her grandchild's birth was
announced to her, she said, ' Oh, she's managed it, has
she ? A girl, I suppose.'

When she was informed it was, on the contrary, a fine
son, she said instantly, ' She'll spoil it. Keep the whip-
hand for your life, John, or the child will be ruined by her
fads.'

When Mr. Ingestre's ' whip-hand ' failed signally to keep
the young man in the ways of his fathers at eighteen years
old, Mrs. Ingestre pointed to Agatha again as the secret
promoter of discord. Johnny's tame submission, on the
other hand, perplexed and troubled her mightily, until
she found a comfortable explanation for it in a senti-
mentality derived from his mother's family, which would
certainly weaken and dilute the Ingestre stock.

238 THE ACCOLADE

Since Agatha had deprecated the Thynne connection,
Mrs. Ingestre had been strong in promoting it, and found
endless virtues for Ursula during engagement and the
early period of marriage. Since then her favour had
wearied slightly ; but it sprang up in force whenever she
perceived injustice being done to the girl. Her son's
remarks at the breakfast-table had awakened this contrary
spirit : and she paid Ursula the honour of a visit that same
afternoon.

' How kind of you, Grandmamma,' said Ursula, taking
great pains with her enunciation. ' This is Mr. Auberon.'

' I have had the honour,' murmured Mr. Auberon,
standing very straight and looking conscious.

' Have you ? ' said Mrs. Ingestre, shooting her sharp
glance at him. ' When ? '

' I was with Miss Falkland that day in the Park when
you — ' ' spiked us,' Quentin was inclined to say.

' So you were,' Mrs. Ingestre nodded, recollecting, for
her memory was remarkable. ' My grandson told me
then that Ursula knew your family.' She took a general
view of the youth, and found him ' presentable,' as she had
done before. ' I knew an Auberon once,' she remarked.
' Hugh, — a rogue he was.'

' That's my father,' said Quentin.

' Indeed it wasn't,' said Mrs. Ingestre. ' Your grand-
father, perhaps.'

' My grandfather's name was Quentin.'

' Quentin ? Yes, there was a Quentin too, — they were
brothers. Couldn't forget a name like that,' she added.

' It's Mr. Auberon's name as well,' said Ursula, secure
that her visitor was pleasing. ' Do you like it, Grand-
mamma ? '

' Romantical a trifle,' said Mrs. Ingestre. ' Hugh's
better: I like short names. Short names for men, and
long for women. My mother was called Eleonora, — there's
no more beautiful name than that.'

' Helena is more beautiful,' said Quentin boldly.

THE SELF-DECEIVER

239

' It's the name of a great beauty,' said Mrs. Ingestre
drily. ' I don't allude to Miss Falkland, — there was another,
once before. She made a lot of mischief, the other one did.'

' I hope you don't imply ' laughed Quentin.

' I don't imply anything against a pretty girl, above all
in a young man's presence.' Mrs. Ingestre, greatly pleased
with her wit, turned to Ursula. ' Take my cloak, my dear :
your room's too hot.'

For the next twenty minutes, the dowager talked
exclusively to Mr. Auberon, and left out Ursula altogether.
This means, of course, that she fell in love. It is easy for
a very old lady to fall in love with a very young man,
well-made and well-mannered, who takes the trouble to
be agreeable. Nor was Mrs. Ingestre averse to sense and
a well-made brain in man, — the Ingestres were not fools ;
nor to the fact that a great-uncle who was a rogue, at
some indefinite period of the past, had introduced him.
It speaks well for the standing of a family to have rogues
two generations back : and the whole appearance of this
boy spoke well for the family's future. Mrs. Ingestre was
pleased : and since he was kind and clear, she was puzzled
by nothing, — a great advantage in talking to his age, —
except one point, that she instantly brought up, when he
had taken his departure. She swept aside Ursula's attempt
to win commendation for her protege", in order to make
this point.

' Did you understand, my dear,' she said, ' that he, and
that girl, and a brother of hers, were to make a tour ? '

' Yes, Grandmamma. In the Lakes, so he said.'

' Was her father to be of the party ? '

' No, just the young people, I think. Walking, you
know.'

' I know very well. And striding over rocks, and sleeping
at inns, I presume, — and bathing in company, one might
almost gather. He must be engaged to her,' said Mrs.
Ingestre.

' Not quite, I think/ said Ursula.

240 THE ACCOLADE

' Well, he will be, before the tour is out. Not that it
makes it any better,' said Mrs. Ingestre bitterly. ' The
mother must be out of her mind.'

' People do it,' said Ursula.

' Maybe. They don't, with a girl like that. Have you
seen the girl ? '

' Often/ said Ursula. ' We know her. She acted here.'

' Acts, does she ? I hadn't heard that. Acts well ? '

' Charmingly, I thought '

' What did John think ? ' said Mrs. Ingestre, cutting
across her ; and after five minutes' strict examination,
in the course of which Ursula was badly harried, con-
cluded— ' Rubbishy, in short : why not have said so ? '
Then, more pleased with herself than ever, she proceeded,
' Johnny's been gallivanting with her, so they say.'

' Oh, the usual thing,' said Ursula.

' What do you mean by that ? ' said the dowager,
fixing her.

' Johnny won't be left out, you know what he is. So
many people admire Miss Falkland. Of course he had to
see a lot of her over the acting, and she dances rather well.
That alone is enough for Johnny.'

There was a pause while the old lady took in the
general bearing of this. ' You think there's no danger,
then ? ' she said.

' Oh, well/ said Ursula coolly, ' I dare say her mother
is wise to engage her to a nice man as soon as possible.
Girls of that age are silly. Will you have some more tea,
Grandmamma ? ' While she manipulated the tea-service,
she added, with the same imperturbability — ' And of
course John encourages her, — he's so vain.'

' Encourages ? ' said Mrs. Ingestre. ' The world's
getting upset with a vengeance. It was the men presumed,
and the girls encouraged, in my time.' She looked closely
at Ursula with her keen little old eyes. ' So you think
Johnny lets himself be wooed, do you ? ' she said sardoni-
cally.

THE SELF-DECEIVER 241

' Oh, don't put it like that ! ' Ursula took it smiling.
' You know what he is, that's all. Give John an inch,
and he'll take an ell.' Before Mrs. Ingestre could inter-
vene, she proceeded. ' He's got a glove of hers, I know
that. I told him he ought to give it back again. I think
flirting should stop short of stealing gloves, don't you,
Grandmamma ? They're so expensive.'

' You told him he ought to give it back, did you ? '
said the old lady, once more taking a keen survey of John's
wife as she brought the tea. She felt the insincerity of her
attitude vaguely, in this affair that had so disturbed John's
family : together with its injustice implied to the girl she
had seen in the Park that day. But she was puzzled
simultaneously by the steadiness of Ursula's serenity : and
being puzzled, gave herself a rest.

' Men used to pay wagers with gloves,' she said, divert-
ing to reminiscence. ' My niece Eveleen used to get
dozens, — kept herself in gloves that way. She always won
her wagers, — ' the old lady chuckled a little at recollections
of that favourite niece — ' or else they were afraid to tell
her she had lost them. That's likely enough.'

' That's Violet Sho veil's mother, isn't it ? ' said Ursula.
' Well, nowadays John snatches Violet's gloves to make
things even.' She paused. ' All the same, Grandmamma,
I never can help thinking there's something on the other
side when men do things like that. Johnny wouldn't, I
mean, with everybody.'

' Encouragement,' said Mrs. Ingestre curtly. ' That's
what you mean. You dislike Violet, — needn't tell me that.'

This sudden keenness disconcerted Ursula. But it was
only momentary, a little stamp, instinctive on the old
tyrant's part, on Ursula's pretension in advancing a judg-
ment in her presence. She sipped her tea and finished at
leisure.

' But she's a nice little pretty girl for all that, and a good
wife, as present-day women go. I am going there to
enquire, when I leave you.'

242 THE ACCOLADE

After that, Mrs. Ingestre returned to Quentin Auberon,
and the question of Helena's engagement, contentedly.
That, being as she thought her own idea, was the thing
that had really taken hold of her. It was relief unspeak-
able to Ursula to have thus forestalled the old lady's
knife-like prying — for of course she had come to pry — by
this happy chance. To start a rumour before the season
closed that the conspicuous girl was engaged — even though
it should be a rumour merely — must be balm to Ursula's
sore pride, and assist her determined attitude. Considering
Mrs. Ingestre's gift for gossip, she saw every opportunity
of doing so.

Chances were all for her. Mrs. Ingestre had seen Helena
first in Quentin 's company, — his first mention of her in
Ursula's house had been to admire her name. They were
known to be constantly together, even to live beneath the
same roof. The young man had a bearing of ease and
confidence that was reassuring, and was a parti any family
would approve. The Lakeland tour was the finishing
touch, conclusive to Mrs. Ingestre's ideas : Ursula really
blessed Helena's brother for having thought of it.

Best of ah1, for Ursula's credit, Mrs. Ingestre, though acute,
was old. The very old, however well-dowered originally, can-
not entertain more than one idea fully at a time. Before the
picture of Quentin, now impressed on her mind, the picture
of Johnny — the dangler after beauty, snatching a young
girl's glove for a joke, and being ' told ' to return it —
could not seriously stand. Mrs. Ingestre dropped it in
catching at the new interest. She also carried away a
strong impression that Ursula's terms with her husband
must be better than the family had imagined.

Nor had she a chance of revising any of these impressions,
for, as she expected, her great-niece Mrs. Shovell refused
her. So Mrs. Ingestre ' enquired ' : that is, pried on her
doorstep for a period, and plagued her domestics. She
extracted, with great labour, the fact that Violet had gone
out to Lady Weyburn's the night before, and come home

THE SELF-DECEIVER 243

late, and tired. So she bade the indignant parlour-maid
tell her mistress she was a little fool, always trying to do
twice as much as was suitable or prudent ; and drove
home, contented with her day's work. She stopped half-
way at a florist's, whence she despatched flowers, with her
love, to Mrs. Shovell. For Eveleen Ingestre's daughter,
when all was said and done, was necessarily more interest-
ing than General Thynne's : and she was a direct de-
scendant of the elder line as well.

II

Harold Falkland, who seldom disturbed Quentin with
family problems, gave him a pretty broad hint, on the day
following Lady Weyburn's ball, as to the state of things
with Helena. Quentin had already taken warning on his
own account from the girl's appearance, which changed
in the course of a week, — a very hot week certainly, — from
the rather hectic vivacity of strong excitement to an
extraordinary slackness and dejection. He did not like
either state, they were so different from the equable cordi-
ality of the girl he knew : so he was not much surprised
at Harold's confidence concerning a misplaced attachment,
with a ' cad ' lurking somewhere in the background, un-
named.

He was sorry, and said so briefly : but what he said did
not seem to satisfy Harold. Harold seemed longing,
during the period of their private interview, to get on to
something else ; but for all his celebrated ingenuity, he did
not succeed in conveying it. The most noted diplomat
might indeed find it hard to convey to another party that
he would like him for a brother-in-law, as soon as con-
veniently possible : and that was what Harold longed to
do. It never seemed to enter Auberon's head that he
could have solved the situation, in his own person, easily.

The fact was, Quentin had his vexations at the time,

244 THE ACCOLADE

and though he was sympathetic about the Falklands'
problems, he was really more concerned about his own.

His aunt's return from the south relieved him of im-
mediate responsibility concerning the girl Jill, and he was
only glad to be quit of it. But of the abiding problem of
her situation as regarded Jacoby the rat, he was not
relieved, because he did not choose to be. He left his aunt
her side of the work, which was the girl, but almost
immediately he took up his, for he did not consider Miss
Havant qualified to deal with it, or at least as properly
qualified as he was. That he disliked such business pro-
foundly was no bar to his determination, rather the reverse.
Miss Havant was only thankful on her side to deliver the
burden of Jacoby into his hands. Like most capable
detached females, she had had to forgo man's assistance
in life too often, not to value the luxury when it was offered
her : and young as Quentin was, she trusted him.

Quentin saw Jacoby twice in person, having twice sought
him in vain. In the first of these interviews he impressed
on him the necessity of leaving his daughter in peace to
make her way, so far as it might still be possible. He used
to the full on the occasion his own prestige, and the
naturally authoritative Auberon manner, and then hated
himself for it when he saw the little rat of a man cower
from him, offer him flattery and obsequious promises, no
word of which Quentin found himself able to believe. The
natural impulse that possessed him was to stamp this
obvious failure out of existence, to end him as one
ends a cockroach, there and then. Yet he was once
more glad, on returning to the healthy Falkland com-
munity, that he had reached to the knot of the com-
plication, the root of the evil, in person : seen him,
addressed him, and gathered up the facts. Though, as
need hardly be stated, the facts concerning Jacoby were
grit and ashes in an Auberon mouth.

Jacoby was still living on the woman, Quentin dis-
covered, with whom he had fled from Geneva. He had

THE SELF-DECEIVER 245

quarrelled with her once, but managed to conciliate her
subsequently. He had not ventured after all to show
his face at Geneva, and such ' pickings ' as he could
claim from his wife's small inheritance, and the transfer
of the house, were sent to him by Miss Havant, who
settled up her former friend's affairs. On the money
derived from these two sources, and on a loan he had
wrung from Quentin, he was living for the minute in
tolerable ease, — far greater ease than he deserved. All
the above facts, with the exception of the last, — his
own advance to the man, — Quentin shared with his aunt ;
and such was his address and high-handedness in carrying
through this unaccustomed business, that it was years
before she discovered how, drained by the ingenious little
rat, he crippled his own resources at the time. Nobody
learnt of it, since he preferred to bear the burden of his
experiments alone.

Nothing he could do, however, in the way of counsel or
persuasion, would induce Jacoby himself to take up work.
All his attempts failed there. Jacoby did not want to work,
Quentin could only suppose that he had never found it
necessary. The man's physical condition revolted him,
and he did his best to spur him to undertake something
active, if only to improve his health. He consulted various
people, including Ursula Ingestre, about trades for Jacoby,
— he even attacked Harold Falkland's brother-in-law,
the sleek and egregious Thomas. Thomas, abominably
patronising in tone, suggested agriculture and emigration.
Quentin's opinion was that our colonies were sufficiently
plagued with ne'er-do-weel rats already. Thomas then
yawned and said the only thing he could think of for
Jacoby was that he should marry a rich widow. Which
was so near to Jacoby's own ideal of a successful existence,
that it classed Thomas at once, in Harold's judgment, as
one of the rat fraternity.

That which vexed Quentin's soul above all was that
the insufferable Jacoby had got hold, — he could not

246 THE ACCOLADE

think how, — of Jill's success at the Ingestres' party, and
the interest there expressed in her by the professional lady,
Mrs. Mitchell. Quentin really had thought he was the only
person to know of that, — he had not mentioned it even
to Jill, lest he should have to disappoint her. The rat's
methods were beyond investigation ; yet, like others of
his kind, he had always haunted the theatrical world a
good deal, and he might have chanced upon some of John
Ingestre's half-and-half acquaintance. It proved a fatal
chance, for Jill. Mrs. Mitchell had written twice very
kindly to Quentin, assuring him that she had the girl in
mind, and would see what could be done for her when the
season reopened. Alas, it was borne in upon Mr. Jacoby
that he had had this promising situation to deal with, once
before in history. He had worked his daughter's first
training at the expense of various kind persons who had
heard her recite in Switzerland at the English hotels. Now,
setting out to make the most of Mrs. Mitchell in turn, he
waylaid Mrs. Mitchell's hot-tempered husband at his
theatre, with quite disastrous results. Mrs. Mitchell sent
a note of warning to Quentin ; and Quentin, who really
had had high hopes from the connection, let his own
temper go in an interview with Jacoby. The man seemed
to have the fatal trick of ruining, soiling everything he
touched. Mr. Auberon, struggling against a strong inclina-
tion to kick Jacoby into the nearest pond, and so free the
girl of her incumbrance for ever, renewed his vigorous
warning against tampering with her in her new-found
home, and went back to his own, rather disheartened.

It was about this time he received a somewhat extra-
ordinary note from old Miss Darcy, requesting him to pay
her a visit. Not that there was anything unusual in the
fact, for the old bearded lady liked him, and he called there
now and again, when he could find the time. Whenever
he did so, he had a glimpse of Jill, sometimes a few
words with her, but little more ; for Miss Darcy did not
encourage her ' general servant ' to intrude when she had

THE SELF-DECEIVER 247

visitors. Miss Darcy was kind but, owing to her blue blood,
strict in her ideas. The work of the world ran smoother,
she considered, if people kept their places, and, fond as she
was of Jill, she had never gathered that her antecedents
were so lofty, that she need scruple to treat her as one
treats a superior maid. Needless to say, Jill thought other-
wise ; but she contained herself in her manner, and served
Miss Darcy with proud exactitude and well-acted humility,
hugging her superiority all the while.

Once only, when he came, Quentin found her in the
front room reading to Miss Darcy, and remained there
for the better part of an hour, immovable, to attend. Jill,
who had been disgusted to find him so little impressed
with her beautiful acting of his somewhat over-rated
dramatist Shakespeare, had a second and better chance ;
for it happened she was reading a comedy of Moliere,
and she read it exquisitely. She made both her hearers
laugh constantly, without a smile herself, only throwing a
glance at the visitor from time to time, to make certain
that she was rising in his estimation. It was, — as later
the evidence of her own journal proved, — without excep-
tion the happiest half-hour of her life.

To return to the present, what was extraordinary in
Miss Darcy's note was its agitated style and circumlocution,
strongly suggesting an attack of nerves in the writer.
Miss Darcy was most subject to these, as he knew, for Jill
complained of them. He made allowances himself, for he
was very sorry for the poor old lady, restricted to a small
society of her intellectual and social inferiors, who mis-
judged and laughed at her ; delighted always to talk with
intelligent people, but rarely getting the chance. So,
imagining some such origin for the request, since he
happened to be free that Sunday morning, Quentin went.

He went at an appointed hour, and Jill was at church.
Her mother, through good times and bad, had brought her
up a Churchwoman, and Miss Darcy's own tenets being
exceedingly strict and ' high,' the girl's former habits of

248 THE ACCOLADE

devotion were now fostered. Always inclined to tremble
when Jill was beyond her wing, Miss Darcy was sure of her
being safe in church, which was an additional advantage.

Quentin could make nothing of Miss Darcy for at least
half the interview, though he soothed and talked to her as
calmly as he could. She was in a fever of anxiety over
something, such that even his healthy nerves found it hard
to bear. He could not conceive what the matter was, for
she talked persistently of everything else in the world,
for long. Then, quite suddenly and apropos of nothing,
she alluded to Mrs. Ingestre.

' You know her, eh ? ' she said.

Quentin assented, and Miss Darcy's harassed face cleared.

' Well then, you know what she is, — wise, generous,
broad-minded, honourable, — one of the elect.'

Quentin was rather amazed to hear Ursula qualified by
these and other terms : for Miss Darcy, clutching his knee
with a gnarled hand, quite lost herself in high-sounding
encomiums.

' She is generous, I know,' he said gently.

' Generous ? She does good by her existence ! And
she has lived,' said Miss Darcy, grasping his knee, ' a most
unhappy life. I know, — mind, I alone, — how much, for
I lived with her, the happiest time of my life, though

I fear not the happiest of hers. Her husband ' She

ceased, and shook her head.

' I have heard something of the sort,' said Quentin.

' Young man,' said Miss Darcy, with wonderful feeling,
' your life is all to come. Beware, you and others, what
kind of woman you choose to play with ; because you
will regret it, as he most surely does by now, too late.'

' Too late ? ' Quentin was startled. ' Mrs. Ingestre
is not ill, is she ? '

' She is dying,' barked Miss Darcy. Then, at his look of
horror, she tracked the error with intelligent promptitude.

' Ah, ah, — you thought of Ursula. I always forget
Ursula can be called by that name too. Yes, yes : and I

THE SELF-DECEIVER 249

know they talk of the boy playing, — but not I. Johnny
has something of his mother's spirit, and he has always
been kind to me.'

Quentin made his apology. ' I have not met Ingestre's
mother/ he said. ' I have heard my Mrs. Ingestre talk
of her, that's all.'

' Ah ! — that is not the same.' Miss Darcy waited a
minute and seemed to listen. ' Well,' she resumed with a
sigh, ' you must believe me, then, not knowing Agatha.
It is only, if you knew her, you might understand. I
would cut off my right hand for Agatha — still, I would
do it still. Instead of that — ' She waited and listened
anew. ' Is that the child coming ? Tell me if you hear
the child. . . . Listen. Agatha gave me many beautiful
things, memories mostly, memories of her. And, listen, —
one thing to guard for her, — it is not mine. I held — I hold
it in trust for her and Johnny. You know the thing I speak
of ? — I have mentioned it, — yes.'

Quentin did not know, the least ; but he waited, not
to worry her, sure that it would come out.

' A painted woman, that boy said to tease me. A little
Marechale somebody, — he knew the history, — I didn't
care to know. Hold your tongue — I said — dragging dead
scandals out of the dust-heaps : hold your impudent
tongue, and use your eyes if you have them. . . . But he'd
sooner use his eyes on the originals,' she broke off, ' I know
him. Do you know Johnny ? ' She snapped at Quentin
suddenly.

' I've met him,' said Quentin, who began to see light
slowly.

' Met him ? And he amused you ? Ah, but he's hard
to know. He'll catch a likeness in a miniature to a girl he
knows — a living girl — this cousin or that he's danced with
— and good-night to the rest. That's what it is to be young
— a treasure of treasures too ! Why, the pearls alone would
have paid my house-rent for a year, — and he said I'd
stolen it, the rascal ! Stolen, do you hear ? '

250 THE ACCOLADE

Quentin had a shock : but with the strange anguish of
her tone, the situation came clear to him. At that point
of her rambling discourse, it would be fair to say he divined
the whole. His hostess had lost, or thought she had lost,
this ' treasure ' she spoke of, trusted to her expert care
by the benefactor and friend. She was overcome, out of her
mind, at the mere vision of such a betrayal of her trust,
and at such a moment above all. Like all extremely nervous
subjects, Miss Darcy could not in her emotion trust her
own senses, and she wanted the support of his. That
explained her private summons, and her pitiful agitation,
very simply. Only, why his, not Jill's ? It crossed his
mind promptly to wonder why.

His surmise was quickly justified. Miss Darcy sought, or
rather produced, a little key. She had actually been holding
it all the time in the palm of her shaking hand. She handed
it to her visitor, and directed him to a certain cabinet , clamped
to the wall, as Quentin happened to perceive. He asked which
drawer, and shetold him thetopone. The topone was empty,
he explained. It must be the second then, she said. The
second was full. Quentin went through innumerable little
packets of soft paper, and softer wool, all most daintily
wrapped and clearly labelled, — scraps she had saved from
her father's lordly collection in old days. He would fain
have lingered over some of them, but could not, in kindness.
There was no miniature in any, and so he told her, in the
firm easy manner that seemed to reassure her best.

' The third ! ' barked Miss Darcy, watching him with
anguished eyes. He knew at once the third drawer was
where the beloved portrait ought to be. It went to his
heart to see the efforts the poor old creature made to act
indifference, when he was forced to tell her, that among
the many miniatures in the third drawer, there was none
with a pearl frame.

' Dear, dear,' she said, ' then I have put it somewhere.
My memory's getting so bad. It's because I sleep so
poorly — insomnia — young folk never know the torment of

THE SELF-DECEIVER 251

that. I cannot send you to hunt in my bedroom, — no.
Well, well, then I must show you another day.'

Her simple anguish was evident at his failure to find
the thing she had already, probably, sought in every
corner of her orderly collections in vain. It troubled
Quentin to leave her in such a condition, but he saw not
how he could enquire more. He knew already from Jill
that she suffered from sleeplessness cruelly, and had tried
innumerable cures for it in vain ; and this loss, if it proved
to be one in reality, was enough to craze if not to kill her,
he privately thought. Yet the responsibility was certainly
hers, and he could take no steps to help without imper-
tinence, beyond those she required of him. He had a
strong impression always of her innate honour and dignity,
delicacy also, broken as she was ; and he saw she wished,
insofar as it was possible, to stand alone. The matter lay
between her and the Ingestre family : no third party could
properly intervene.

Outside Miss Darcy's dwelling, in the backwater of the
old London square, he lingered deliberately, intending to
catch Jill coming back from church. The church was just
round the corner, he could see its spire, and the hour made
it probable the congregation would soon be out. His
design, clear to himself as always, was to judge how far
Jill had penetrated Miss Darcy's state of secret woe, and
whether she had been allowed to guess its origin in the
portrait's loss. Not of Miss Darcy's own accord, he was
certain, having thought over the matter. She was really
fond of the girl, and for nothing in the world would she
let Jill suppose that blame or suspicion might attach to
her. On the other hand, Miss Jill was very sharp, and her
patroness feeble and not always mistress of herself, when
her nerves were out of gear. The girl might at least be
able to throw some light upon the subject.

There Quentih stopped, in order to look into his own
feelings. It would not do to let himself drift into a cynical

252 THE ACCOLADE

attitude towards the girl. He waited, where a tree of the
square garden overhung the paling, for it was a very
warm day. He was asking himself, as often before, what
he really thought of her : why his judgment did not cry
out at once, as his aunt's or his sister's would have done,
at the idea of her being suspected of a common theft.

It was, he could only believe, that she was different in
his company from what she was with Miss Darcy, his
sister, or his aunt. She would not, ever, meet him on
equal terms. She preferred to posture and undulate, give
him soft answers, play her little games. Why ? He could
not answer, or rather he would not, — it annoyed him too
much. There were times when he had broken off the
dialogue, so conscious was he of what he called her insin-
cerity : that is, of the fact that she was shadowing him,
giving him the reply he wanted, or that she imagined he
wanted, rather than the facts she knew. Now, in the
matter of her father, it was of first-rate importance that
he should know as well. She should have seen that. Yet
it was so she always answered him, watching his face with
her little glances, declaring that she never saw Jacoby,
had dropped all communication, — always in so sweet a
manner that Quentin failed to trust. The shying of his
spirit before her methods was at moments so violent that
he felt he could see no more of her, — that he must leave
her case. But the case, to his cooler brain, was interesting :
Miss Darcy asked him to visit her, and somehow, Jill was
always there.

Leaning against the paling in the shade, he looked back
along the side of the square he had traversed, to be sure
that none of the figures issuing from the church direction
were Jill's. He was just moving on again, determining to
make the tour of the square, and if she were not in sight,
go home, when he was aware of two figures proceeding in
the opposite direction, as though to meet the church-going
crowd. Far off as they were, Quentin knew both at a glance.
It was Jacoby and the woman with whom he lived. They

THE SELF-DECEIVER 253

were debating eagerly and privately, and looking neither
to right nor left.

' There ! ' thought Cjuentin. It was the summing up of
many doubts, and a challenge to his sister, with her
obstinate ' pukka ' about Jill. Sharp on that came the
thought that now he could test her, for those two must
have been purposing to meet her, the coincidence was too
flagrant otherwise. So he waited where he was, severe in the
shadow, biting his lip.

Ten, — twelve minutes by his watch elapsed, while groups
of people from the church crossed steadily. They diminished
to an occasional figure : then the little figure he expected
appeared. She turned the corner, hurrying rather, having
doubtless guessed she was late ; but as usual, neither haste
nor her infirmity could make her ungraceful, any more than
small means and lack of leisure could make her ill-dressed.
Her eyes peered out under a wide sun-hat, — too wide,
since some men looked after her, — but most becoming to
her little kitten-face. She looked charming, dangerously :
ind the line of Quentin's young mouth took a sardonic
turn. Through the thick shadow of the trees he walked
towards her, but she did not see him coming at first. He
was nearly opposite Miss Darcy's door before she spied
him, and then she showed no atom of discomposure,
though her colour was a little heightened when they met.

' You are coming in ? ' was her first remark, looking
innocent and sweet.

' No,' he said. ' I've been with Miss Darcy. I only
waited a minute or two, in case you came.'

She merely smiled at him : it was enough, he hastened
on.

' Do you always go to church alone ? '

She nodded. ' Always. It is my holiday.'

' She's been expecting you/ said Quentin : the police-
man, which is part of the English official character, rising in
him as he spoke. ' Are you always so late ? '

' No/ said Jill. ' It was a long sermon. Though not so

254 THE ACCOLADE

long as in Geneva,' she added pensively. Standing by him,
she slipped her hand through his arm. Quentin was in the
act of drawing it away, when he remembered. She had the
best excuse for using him as a walking-stick, after all.

' Miss Darcy doesn't seem well/ he said abruptly.

' She is old,' said Jill, and sighed. ' It will not last long.'
She looked thoughtfully at the house.

' Would you be glad to get away from her ? ' said
Quentin. He suspected it. Her look was ' wild as grass '
in the sun this morning.

' Oh, no. ... But she is tiresome sometimes. She takes
things to make her sleep, and then, next day, she is cross.'

' Has she been more cross than usual, lately ? '

She looked at him. ' You found her so ? ' she said, with
the prettiest concern. ' Perhaps, if I had been there '

Quentin did not rise to it : he never rose to personalities
from Jill. ' I thought she might be worrying about some-
thing,' he said.

She waited a second, and then laughed sweetly. ' Possibly
me,' she said. ' You mean that ? She is always anxious
about me when I am out. And I must tell her all that has
passed, when I come in again. I do that very well, the
telling.' She glanced at him. ' I shall to-day.'

' What will you tell her ? ' said Quentin, unwisely. He
happened to want to know what had passed, while she was
out.

' I shall tell her I met you,' said Jill, her eyes gleaming.
' Then she will know that you did not come for her alone.'

He bit his lip again for a moment. The idea that his
company could be in dispute, between a woman of sixty,
and a child of sixteen ! He could have laughed, and yet —
Unchildish, to say the least, that flash of jealousy.

He tried probing a little longer, but she was too much
for him. Or else she was completely innocent. But since
she constantly tried to lead him off the subject, — his
subject, — into the personal realm, he suspected she was
not so completely innocent as she seemed.

THE SELF-DECEIVER 255

' I saw your father last week,' he observed abruptly, —
his last card.

Her bright look faded. She made a slight grimace.
' He ? Is he still in London ? ' she said. As he was com-
pletely silent, words cut off, she looked up at him anxiously.
Then her hand dropped off his arm.

' I do not want him,' she said fiercely. ' Qu'il me fiche
la paix ! I will kill myself if he comes here, — tell him
that.'

' You needn't be frightened,' said Quentin pacifically,
feeling repentant for the moment. ' He won't come to the
house, anyhow : I think I can promise that. He knows
the danger, when you are really getting on, — if you make
it clear to him also.'

' Frightened ? ' she repeated. ' I am not frightened,
— ever, — unless you frighten me.'

' I'm sorry. Did I ? '

Once more, his tone was cold. After waiting a minute,
with a murmur that she was late, she ran into the house.

Well, what was a reasonable man, with a logical mind,
to make of a creature like that ? Reason was not in her.
If Quentin had been less than so completely English, he
would have shrugged as he walked away.

What does the barrister do when the witness, held at
arms' -length for cross-examination, creeps round the arm
in order to get closer to him ? A wise barrister drops the
case. Quentin dropped it, shook her off temporarily,
while he walked home at full speed. But her bright
beseeching eyes, her clinging hand, — the hand that clung
because of physical need, — came back to him at times,
when he was sleepless and overworked. It was a hot season,
and the glittering heat of towns propagates the microbes of
worry and self-question, as well as many more. He often
lay wakeful, rigid, vexed in mind over many things, and
that lame girl-child among the many.

However, countless of Quentin's former friends had

256 THE ACCOLADE

worse heat-fevers to contend with in India, as he told
himself constantly : and his country holiday in the cool
green north was not far distant : so he worked on, and
did not complain.

Two or three weeks after that, when hardly any but
the workers were still in town, Quentin was congratulated,
— twice in one day.

He bore this most trying and unexpected situation with
all the grace a young man can summon on the spur of the
moment, for his chivalry sprang awake to protect Helena's
name. He said he was much honoured by the report, but
the report was false : and begged his informants to con-
tradict it at the source whence they had derived it, instantly.

But worse was to follow. Quentin was still working in
London up to the verge of his holiday in the last days of
August, almost solitary, for his acquaintance had scattered
to the four winds during the month. His aunt was at his
sister's cottage in Gloucestershire, young Mrs. Ingestre in
Yorkshire with her husband, Mrs. Falkland, so he under-
stood, had gone abroad, the Captain and Harold were
golfing, and Helena was alone, alone and resting, at the
old country home in the West. Quentin feared his letter
would be a shock to her when it came, but there was no
avoiding it.

' DEAR Miss FALKLAND,' he wrote. (They had long
been on the verge of Christian names in speech, but not in
writing.)

' I feel I ought to tell you at once, if you have not
happened to meet it, that a report has got about of our
engagement, heaven knows how. Worse than that, the
" Post " has published a notice. You may trust me to
choke off the report, at every opportunity I have, and
some of my friends are dealing with it too. The notice,
I think, had better be contradicted from head-quarters :
and as I have not got Captain Falkland's address, I let

THE SELF-DECEIVER 257

you know on the spot and enclose the slip. I never heard
of a false report of that nature getting into print before,
and I can't help suspecting ill-will or a bad joke behind it.

' I need not tell you how awfully sorry I am, — it is
bound to be loathsome for you, especially just now, when
you thought you had got rid of chatterers. If I thought
anything I had done with you, or said about you, could
have misled people, I should cut my throat, or get Harold
to do it, instantly. But I think we can boast of a strong
position, and snub scandal-mongers to our hearts' content.
After all, it is on the verge of the silly season, and the
papers must say something, mustn't they ?

' One more thing. I have written to Harold that I
retire from the expedition, I need not say with what
regret ; but if the fashionable press is following your
doings already with such close interest, I shall certainly
not seem to track you more than necessary, so Mrs. Falk-
land can be reassured. Don't trouble to answer this, since
Harold says you are fagged and resting. I thought it
preferable to write to you direct in the circumstances.

' Yours very sincerely,

' QUENTIN AUBERON.'

Helena, that same evening, despatched three letters.
She was not a voluminous writer at any time, so we may
give them in their entirety.

' DEAR MR. AUBERON,

' Thank you. Father will contradict it. Now
listen.

' If there was a question of anyone retiring from the
expedition, in consequence of a mere mistake like that,
which is not a scandal after all, — it would be me. But I
shall not, — I stick to our bargain. I do not think the
fashionable news is following my doings to the extent you
imagine, to begin with : to go on with, there is no fashion-
able news, thanks to mercy, within twelve miles of Keswick,

258 THE ACCOLADE

Last of all, we should defeat our own ends by separating,
since such numbers of our friends know of the plan.

' I think, when you want to defeat lying, whether ill-
natured or merely silly, — I can't say which this is, — the
straightforward course is bound to be the best. Our
thoughts and intentions in doing the thing are what
matter finally, not the thing we do. My thoughts and
intentions are very windy, with rocks sticking up in the
right places, and blue in the distance behind them, and
springy underfoot. I believe yours are the same, and I am
certain Harold's are. Harold's last letter, which was long,
was entirely about his boots. Do please get a better pair
if you can manage it, or he will be unbearable on the

subject, all the time.

Yours very sincerely,

' HELENA F. FALKLAND.'

That was Quentin's first letter from the beautiful Miss
Falkland, and he kept it.

' DEAR FATHER ' (ran the second to the Captain),

' I enclose this slip if you have not seen it. I don't
suppose you read the fashionable column in the " Post."
Will you do the proper thing about it at once, with full
authority from me and Mr. Auberon (enclosed) to con-
tradict it flat.

' I have written nothing to Mother about it so far, but I
have myself a theory, which I think might just explain. You

know that very strange young I have refused at least

half a dozen times. Lately he has seemed determined to
annoy me, and he dislikes Q. A., and I believe might
possibly do a thing like that. Only you understand I have
no earthly evidence, so you will be careful, won't you,
Father dear, and not get angry too soon. It is perplexing,
isn't it, — I feel like sorcery somewhere. Never mind.

' I am quite well, absolutely, so do not worry about me.
I am only growing old very fast, with these rather startling
adventures. I can't think of your kindness that day in the

THE SELF-DECEIVER 259

Park without crying, still, which must mean I am a little
nervous : but the mountains will soon cure that. Yet it
is so terrible to be trusted, in life, that sometimes I would
prefer an Elizabethan father, who beat me hard.

' Yours,

« TT »

The third letter was the shortest of all.

' DEAR MR. INGESTRE,

' It is not true. Three days, I have counted, you
have thought it true, and it is not. And your mother so
terribly ill, the papers say, and I can only send this little
word to help you. Praying is no use to you, is it ?

' H. F. F.'

She sent that to the London address : guessing what
was the fact, that John would have been recalled to
town.

in

Self-deception is an extraordinary thing. It is wonder-
ful and terrible to mark, in life, the extent to which human
beings are capable of wilfully blinding themselves, shutting
away the truth. To a student, the soul of Ursula would
have been an interesting enigma at this period. She
knew, in the honest depths of her, that her husband was
struggling with such a passion as shakes a man once in
his lifetime, — a passion for another than herself. He
had shown it her clearly, had barely made an attempt to
conceal. She refused, in the superficial layers of her daily
thinking, to admit it at all. A girl of nineteen, indeed !
— it was the last indignity : consequently, since she retained
her dignity unimpaired, it could not be. As conviction,
slowly and inevitably, crept upon her, she fought with
greater fury, setting her whole will to resist. It could not
be, — it was not, — at least long enough to deceive com-
pletely nearly all those with whom she came in contact.

260 THE ACCOLADE

In this dangerously distempered condition of the human
mind, when truth does pierce unaware it hurts the more.
It inspires the greater fury, and occasionally drives a
sufferer — even as sensible as Ursula — to do a thoroughly
foolish thing. This is the only way in which we can account
for the strange step referred to in the foregoing letters :
a step which was so wild, so utterly unlike Ursula to
everybody who knew her, that only one person, and that
the cleverest of her acquaintance, ever suspected her at
all. Barring that person, she remained absolutely secure
from suspicion, all her days, even amid the superior and
sceptical intelligences of her husband's family.

It was over a letter from Mrs. Falkland that the idea came
to her, or rather that the emotions came that prompted
the idea. John brought her the letter, one of the last
days before they left London, and while he was still
preoccupied by his mother's state, and doubting whether
he should go north at all. He had not fought Ursula's
proposal to accompany him to Yorkshire : indeed he
hardly seemed to have taken it in, a sign of his great unrest
and distraction of mind. In that condition, he was apt
to be passive, domestically, and Ursula had her own way
and had made all the arrangements in advance. Already
John was going to be much more comfortable at Routh-
wick than he could possibly have been if he had not
accepted her. This was balm to Ursula's conscience, of
course, for adding to his daily and nightly weariness by
forcing her presence on him when he preferred to be alone.

He handed the letter to her in her workroom, and in so
doing, he asked her idly what she had been addressing to
herself.

' That's Mrs. Falkland's handwriting,' said Ursula.

'Go on ! ' said Johnny. He was really incredulous.
There was certainly a marked likeness between their
sloping pointed hands, both of the old-fashioned order ;
though Ursula was surprised his sharp eyes should be
deceived.

THE SELF-DECEIVER 261

' You'd better forge me a cheque or two,' he remarked
as he left the room. ' She's a rich woman, — growing richer,
old Samuel says. It might be useful at a pinch.'

Mrs. Falkland's letters, increasingly frequent, grew in
intimacy also. She was determined to know Ursula. They
were also long, and Mrs. Ingestre was prepared to be bored :
however she read it through to the end.

Mrs. Falkland was going away, abroad for a month. This
was a relief, since Ursula had feared she might propose a
visit to Routhwick. John would never stand her, even
for a couple of nights. . . . The doctor advised — Ursula
passed it over. Mrs. Falkland was so concerned to hear
Ursula had put off her own nice plan of Sophienbad, they
might have met, et cetera. Yet so easily understood in
the circumstances, one's husband's family, so trying for
them all — the reader's eye slipped on.

' Dear Helena is looking run-down, really I think London
tries her. After all, as Father says, she was born a country
lass. She will be alone here for a bit, since Father is going
to his golf ing-place. However, the three have their plan
for September, all fixed up, so that will be nice for all parties.
I depend so much on Quentin's good sense, really, for both
of them. . . . What you allude to about him interests me.
I had noticed something of that nature myself, though of
course you know mothers go for nothing in these days.
Indeed it would be a nice thing, suitable as you say.
Howard pished as usual, when I mentioned it in his hearing,
but I tell him a girl must marry sometime, and he could not
wish a better kind of man. Then Father said Helena was
to use her own judgment, and time before her, and so on,
as of course there is ; so I have said nothing to the child
at present, though one cannot fail to notice little signs.
It is my idea, though safer not to repeat it, that they are
corresponding regularly. After all when a girl of that age
goes to meet the post '

That was where Ursula stopped. It was there her
judgment exclaimed ' You fool ! ' to the complacent

262 THE ACCOLADE

mother, and her honesty admitted whence the daughter's
letters came. She knew it as well as though she had seen
John's handwriting upon them. There was a single con-
vulsion, or contraction of rage within her, no more : then,
as she believed, she mastered it. At least she read on
calmly to the letter's end.

But truth so treated has her revenge. There is a truthful
hour of the early dawn, well known to all unhappy people,
when sleep on the one hand withdraws its flattering wing,
and no day on the other has appeared to warm our hopes :
a time when nature prefers that man should not be con-
scious, unless for the most solemn watches of birth or
death. It was then Ursula awoke in an empty room, — a
room in that horror of emptiness familiar places have when
dismantled for packing, hinting a season's desertion in
advance. Looking about her, she knew the chill of despair,
and all her customary safe-guards failed. She knew Helena
beloved by John as she was not, as she never had been :
that the whole of his thoughts all day, all night, possibly
at this moment where he was sleeping beneath his father's
roof, were with her, that chit, that child, in her western
home. Ursula lay rigid, the poison spreading within her to
deadly hatred, — she let it for once have its way. She
admitted the devil, and the devil proposed hatred of
Helena, of Helena's silly mother, but first and foremost of
him. Then, having suggested every conceivable relief in
vain, — for Ursula in the dawn was still ascetic, armed, and
miserable, — he whispered in quitting her a mischievous
idea.

' Print,' said the devil, — or one of his imps that haunt the
regions of sleep.

The devil does not like dignity, of course, in his victims,
since he pretends, on all accounts, to so much majesty
himself. Or he may simply have wished to tease her,
having failed to tempt, — we will not vouch for the Satanic
psychology. Like other hard workers in the world, he has
to amuse himself, and he probably saw his opportunity.

THE SELF-DECEIVER 263

Ursula rejected it as folly of the night, absurd. By
full daylight, she would barely think of it, it seemed so
silly. What could be the advantage, to anybody, since
it must be contradicted the next day ? Yet there was,
even by full daylight, a subtle flavour, refreshment, —
entertainment almost, — in the thought of her husband
seeing that eminently reasonable forecast, printed. There
is that about print, — still, — which persuades : its uniform
is respected. A printed lie would reach him, hurt for the
moment, the more that he admitted a liking for the man.
He would not regard the rumours, of course, his vanity saved
him : but that would trip him, vanity and all, — it must.

So the idea did not really leave her ; and in the first
recurrence of her fury, one morning in Yorkshire, when
his indifference had goaded her passingly, she wrote off
the announcement to one of the papers he regularly saw.
She enclosed it with some others, to be posted by her house-
keeper in London. Having finished it, forged the Falkland
name, she was terrified, rather pleasantly. It was a crime,
— the first of her life, she was sure. There was a thrill in
committing a secret crime, as there would be in repenting
it. She barely thought of detection, she was so accustomed
to her own prestige, — rightly, as it proved, — but remorse,
even lengthy remorse was probably in store for her. It
might be, she faced the penalty, — at least she would see him
suffer first.

She did not see it. She lost that consolation completely,
owing to her untoward fate. The morning the lie was
circulated in the London paper was the same morning that
her husband was himself summoned south, by a message
whose curtness suggested urgency. Ursula offered to
accompany him, but was rejected. Her plans failed at
every point.

At the terminus, Johnny's father came to meet him, — a
surprising event. It was the last thing he would have done
at common times ; and had he been as quick as usual,

264 THE ACCOLADE

Johnny would have guessed that a stronger impulse than
kindness, — say curiosity, — must have prompted such
an effort on his father's part.

As a fact, Mr. Ingestre's mother had called his attention
to the notice of the Falkland girl's engagement in the
' Post ' that morning, and both had wondered, though in
different degrees, how Johnny would take it. Old Mrs.
Ingestre had prophesied it, of course, for long : she had
spent a month in industrious prophecy ; so that her son's
measure of wonder, over the crowning incident, exceeded
hers. Mr. Ingestre was most genuinely curious as to the
effect on Johnny, even apprehensive in a remote degree.
His appearance in the evening at the station was the
direct result.

The way his son winced and whitened at the sight of him
was the first hint that Johnny, summoned with such
enigmatic curtness, might give his unlooked-for appearance
another interpretation.

' All right,' were his first rather hasty words, in conse-
quence,— ' she's asleep. Sorry if I startled you, but it
comes and goes. She may weather it again, Ash win says,
though he doubted it this morning. That's why I wired,
have to take the professional's word.'

It approached an apology, and Johnny accepted it with
a nod, but his worn and sulky look did not alter. Anxiety
soon spent him, as his father knew. Not a woman of that
waiting family group but could stand the shocks and
retardations of a long illness better than ' the boy,' — so
they recognised. It was not only that he loved his mother,
it was that he was made differently, faced all things
differently. It was vexatious, but true.

' Where's Ursula ? ' said Mr. Ingestre, as his son pulled
his few possessions out of the train.

' At Routhwick,' grunted Johnny. ' I told her she'd
not be wanted.'

' One for Ursula,' thought Mr. Ingestre, rather pleased.
It always pleased him that a man should prove master in

THE SELF-DECEIVER 265

his own household ; and in this case he thought that
Ursula's unskilful tactics, as exercised on her husband,
deserved the snub. He had no doubt she would have
preferred, and was probably prepared, to come to London.
Ursula's perfect correctness, on all occasions, was a thing on
which the family counted, though they pretended to scoff.

' Seen the papers ? ' he proceeded blandly, since Johnny's
back was conveniently turned.

' No,' he said, after a pause.

He could act, of course : yet his father was pretty clear,
after a few minutes' further experiment, that he had not.
He had started early, and the London papers arrived at
Routhwick late. In the train he had had the news of the
day, it seemed, but had doubtless been too worried to
glance at it. At least his eye had not fallen on the dangerous
paragraph, and Mr. Ingestre, for some reason, breathed
more freely. It struck him perhaps as rather rough luck
that the two blows should fall on the boy at once, though
in general he would have said such shocks to his self-
assurance were good for Johnny. That had been, at least,
throughout his son's youth, his own educational principle.

They went together to Johnny's house, since he had
business there, and his mother's state of exhaustion, as
described by the doctor, gave him time. On arrival he
looked sharply through the letters that were awaiting him,
and then pocketed, without opening, one of them. Nothing
to be made by his father out of that. The house was in
the hands of workmen, watched over by the caretaker, a
lady of a bland and impervious appearance, and a self-
satisfied smile, calculated to arouse Ingestre passions to the
uttermost. Johnny interviewed this woman on certain
points for Ursula, and heard out some lengthy complaints
of the workmen and what not, in silence. His father
looked on the while, unwillingly impressed. He did
business rapidly, — it was not that. He had never doubted
his son could govern, for all his careless ways. He only
heard what complaints were necessary, checked the rest,

266 THE ACCOLADE

and planted his orders plainly and patiently too. It was
that patience, and low clear tone — his stage-tone, well-
measured and directed, — that was unusual. He did not even
swear when, having finally disposed things to his taste
upon his premises, he was stopped again by the caretaker,
just as the car was moving off. She came out on the step,
rolling her hands in her apron in a complacent and leisurely
fashion, having lifted one to detain the chauffeur, with an
air that made that lofty functionary snort.

' What now ? ' said Johnny, turning.

' Begging your pardon, sir, I was forgetting. A lady
called.'

' Hullo ! ' thought John the elder, at the speaking change
in his son's face.

' Said she must see you, sir, — most pressing she was.
Had no idea you were gone away.'

' Did she ask for me or Mrs. Ingestre ? ' said Johnny.

' You, sir. That's why I '

' Had she a name ? '

' Oh yes, sir, certainly : but she didn't leave a card.
Said you'd know her without, sir.'

' Without a name ? ' said John the elder.

' Fool ! ' muttered John the younger. He looked straight
at his father under his haughty eyelids, — they were facing
one another in the car. ' Perhaps she said she'd write,'
he said to the woman.

' Yes, she did, sir. She'd write immediate. I gave her
your address.'

' Genius ! ' said Johnny, less discreetly. ' Well, — and
she was young and beautiful, wasn't she ? '

' No, sir. No indeed, sir. More like a gentleman to look
at, you'd say.'

' Dressed like a gentleman ? ' said Johnny.

' What is this pastoral ? ' said Mr. Ingestre to nobody.

Low as both spoke, they were very audible, and the
driver had his hand across his mouth. The caretaker also
was fingering her chin with her plump hand, but not, it

THE SELF-DECEIVER 267

appeared, for the same reason. Johnny saw the gesture
first, and interpreted.

' The Honourable Darcy,' he said to his father. ' Bet
you it was. A beard, had the lady ? — right, I'll go.' He
nodded to the woman, and the car started.

' What's the Honourable Darcy want with you ? ' said
Mr. Ingestre, though without much interest.

' Don't know, — I'll see.' Johnny was equally absent.
Suddenly, however, he moved, and called to the chauffeur.
' We're passing her place/ he informed his father, ' or
close by. I'll see her now, — it won't take long.'

' Rubbish,' snapped Mr. Ingestre, who happened to want
his company. ' You've not dined.'

' I don't want to,' said Johnny.

' That's nonsense, — you'll need your strength later.
It's nothing but restlessness,' he added, rousing. ' Why
can't you ever stick to one thing at a time ? '

Mr. Ingestre found himself upon a familiar tack. Scores
of times, he had said that in youth to Johnny. ' Young
dodger, — never know where to have him,' — were the least
abusive epithets addressed to his mother concerning him.

Johnny proceeded now to dodge and defeat him just
in his old style. He intended to see Miss Darcy. His
excuses mounted in absurdity in proportion as his father's
impatience increased. They wrangled for half a mile, and
called contrary directions to the chauffeur. When that
official, who was a philosopher, drew up at the entrance to
Miss Darcy's square, Johnny unlatched the door with a
jerk.

' Mother's fond of her,' he said sulkily as he got out.
' There might be something I could do.'

He remained with Miss Darcy a good hour. Finally,
his father had to start dinner without him.

' Well, did you see her ? ' he said, when his son chose at
last to join him, from the floor above, where he had been
interviewing his mother's doctor.

' No/ said Johnny, looking a trifle sulkier than before.

268 THE ACCOLADE

' He says it could do neither of us any good to-night.
That's the way he puts it. Jolly careful of our feelings,
aren't they, these medical swells. He's been talking to her
quite a lot.'

His father waited a minute, rather taken aback. ' I
alluded to Miss Darcy/ he explained. ' As for Ashwin,
you can trust him. I broke through his orders once about
your mother, and regretted it.'

' Why ? ' said Johnny roughly. ' Did he curse you ? '

' No, — I cursed him, for being right. I can't do with
these infallible people.'

' Should have thought it was what you paid him for,'
said Johnny. ' I like Ashwin, he's got manners. Hand us
the bread knife, will you ? '

The meal proceeded on these terms, with little or nothing
said ; nothing agreeable or confidential anyhow : merely
the brief remarks that strangers might have offered to avoid
the burden of silence. Wretched as they both were, and
for just the same causes, they could not communicate by
natural means. That each had the wit to penetrate the
other's thought made things no better between them, rather
worse. They shortened the meal by mutual consent and
adjourned to the study, where, with the helpof smoke, things
were a little better. But even so, it did not last. Johnny,
having strolled about a little, was the first to open fire.

' Since you're at leisure, father,' he started, addressing
the newspaper in which his sire was shrouded, ' we might
as well get it done. Fact is, that poor old thing's in a devil
of a coil, and it's my fault.'

' Yours ? Who are you speaking about ? ' The news-
paper dropped.

' Miss Darcy. I — er — thought you enquired.'

' I did, about an hour since,' said Mr. Ingestre, folding
the paper back with care. ' I'm ready to hear,' he added.

' Well, there was something in it, as I supposed. It took
some time to make her speak, she was so frightened, but
I got it at last.'

THE SELF-DECEIVER 269

' Well ? ' said his father. Johnny spoke with an effort,
in jerks, so he began to be suspicious.

' Well, you know the Hope miniature of the Marechale,
with the pearls, in the Hall collection, — little lady in pink.'

' Yes, yes. What of it ? '

' I took it across to show her, once upon a time.'

' You'd no business to,' snapped his father.

' Mother knew of it.' A pause. ' She said — old Darcy
— we'd no notion of its value, not the pearls but the picture.
I said I had a very good notion.'

' It's the picture of an uncommon pretty woman,' said
Mr. Ingestre.

' That's the kind of thing I said,' said Johnny. ' She
swore we were none of us fit to have it, and all the good
things in England were in hands equally frivolous and
incompetent. She stuck to it herself in consequence.
Mother and I told everyone she had stolen it, knowing
the old miser was as safe as a house. Well, '

' Well ? ' said his father impatiently.

' She's lost it,' said Johnny, looking in front of him. ' So
it seems.'

' Confound her,' said Mr. Ingestre, — only he said worse.

' She's almost out of her mind,' observed Johnny.

4 She's long been that,' said Mr. Ingestre, getting up.

' It's nerves,' said Johnny, ' no more. Her faculties are
quite in order, as I proved.' He eyed his father cautiously
a minute. ' It's no earthly use going round to rag her, she
won't find it the more for that. I've done everything that
can be done, for the moment. It's a case for a doctor,
I should say.'

' It's a case for a magistrate,' said Mr. Ingestre, ' or a
madhouse. She can take her choice. If it's lost,' he added,
' I shall hold you responsible.'

' I hold myself,' said Johnny. ' It's my loss as much as
yours. Don't lose your temper.'

That produced the required effect. Johnny had known
it must come, of course, for the last half-hour, so he hurried

2;o THE ACCOLADE

it up, in a gracious and filial manner, by his final remark,
and let loose the furies. He seized the opportunity himself
to get several things said, which he had wanted to say for
some time past. Anyone unaccustomed to their methods
would have been sure such language could never have been
lived down on either side without murder committed, a
formal meeting, or a law-suit at least. But the servant
who brought the coffee in the midst of it took the domestic
situation with great calm. Mr. John's return to town prac-
tically implied it, granted ' the master's ' irascible condition,
which had been known to his household for weeks. They
quite looked forward to Mr. Johnny, since he was bound
to conduct the lightning upon himself, sooner or later, —
and after that things would be more comfortable.

Which was the case. Later, Mrs. Ingestre's doctor, who
looked in before he left, was received with elaborate courtesy
and friendliness, by both parties. John and his father even
took Sir Claude's expert advice as to what, in the problem
of Miss Darcy's nerves — carefully detailed — would be the
best steps to take concerning the treasure she had lost, or
was concealing. The doctor heard the evidence out,
scarcely needing to cross-question, and temporised,
advising them to wait a while before either the police, or
the commissioners of lunacy, were applied to. Sir Claude
said gently that, granted an old lady of the kind described,
the piece of property ' might turn up ' in the course of a
week or two, in some quite obvious place that would
suddenly come to her mind. He gave a few gentle opinions
of the same moderate nature on his patient : then he said
good-night to the pair in the study, and went his way.

When he had gone, John the elder dropped into a chair.
' Clever fellow, Ashwin,' he remarked.

' Never says all he thinks,' said Johnny pensively.

' Tricks of the trade,' said Mr. Ingestre. He crossed his
legs, and took up his former newspaper, glancing round
once as he did so. ' You get to bed, my lad,' he advised.
' You've had enough.' He had observed Johnny was

THE SELF-DECEIVER 271

always more exhausted than he by their little encounters,
though he showed up in style at the time.

' Well then, sit down/ was his next suggestion.

But no, Johnny preferred as usual to rest on his legs,
and air his thoughts at a six-foot attitude. He stood where
he was in his glory, while his natural authority, infirm and
useless, lay in his chair.

Being thus disobeyed, and within range, Mr. Ingestre
touched him with his foot in a manner of careless patronage,
or ownership, — much as a trainer might a fine young dog,
in taking stock of a pack he had reared. This was one of
his habitual manners when he was feeling amiable : and
a good example of a manner no parent should ever indulge
in, unless he wants to be detested.

' Perhaps we're both out of condition a bit,' he suggested,
as his son flushed and moved aside. Johnny did not
consider, and never had considered, that he was his father's
property. He simply could not get the point of view.

' Speak for yourself,' he said, turning his back. ' My
condition's all it should be, ask Fox.' Fox was the agent
at Routhwick. ' He and I have hardly been out of the
saddle except to eat and sleep for ten days past.'

' Really ? ' said Mr. Ingestre pleasantly. ' I say, what
a palpitating life for Ursula.'

Silence from Johnny. His next remark surprised his
father.

' I shall have to talk to her about this business,' he said,
half to himself.

' To Ursula ? The miniature ? What next ? '

' Keep cool,' advised Johnny. ' I'd not really done when
you broke out before. Fact is, there's another inmate in
the Darcy manage, — a girl Ursula saw fit to recommend,
on a charitable inspiration, because she had a good-for-
nothing father. Disreputable,' said Johnny, ' was the
word. Used by Ursula it misses its full sense, but still . . .'

' Ha,' said Mr. Ingestre, smoking in his chair, ' You
interviewed the girl, I suppose.'

272 THE ACCOLADE

' No/ said Johnny. ' Darcy won't hear a breath against
the girl. As to the father, Ursula never let out that
damaging fact, it seems : and she only let it out to me,'
he added reflectively, ' in confidence.'

' Confidence ? ' said Mr. Ingestre, with a queer look.

' A trifle forced, perhaps/ said Johnny.

' What dashed bad business/ said Mr. Ingestre, after
thought, ' not to let the employer know. I thought Ursula
had some business intelligence.'

' It's liable to be obscured by kindness/ said Johnny.
' Ursula would tell you her business was to get the girl in
somewhere, by any means. That's what they call charity,
— political jobbing's nothing to it/ Having thus amused
himself, he added, — ' I dare say Ursula wanted to spare
the old freak fretting as well. Only she might have chosen
a better way of doing it, that's all. If she'd seen the state
she was in to-night — well — ' John cast about for a com-
parison, but none seemed adequate. ' Not worth it, you
know/ he finished frowning. ' No fun/

His father was not naturally sympathetic, but it did
occur to him at this juncture that the boy's own nerves
might have suffered in the interview, since he had un-
doubtedly inherited that womanish commodity from some
quarter of the family : and also that, for the same reason,
he had probably manoeuvred Miss Darcy the ' freak '
extremely well, during the short time granted him for
the operation. Neither of these two thoughts had occurred
to Mr. Ingestre before, and it was hard to say what could
prompt them ; unless it was a likeness to Agatha, crossing
Johnny's face as he stood reflecting, half turned away. In
reflection, he often had a look of her, — it was true Mr.
Ingestre's own family did not waste much time over the art.

' Do you know anything of the girl ? ' he demanded.

' I happen to, — yes. She's an artist, and highly im-
pressionable,— the usual thing. A bad man, really bad,
could get her under his thumb. Not a common blackguard,
because she's not a common girl.'

THE SELF-DECEIVER 273

' How do you know that ? ' said his father. ' Second-
hand ? '

' First-hand/ said Johnny. ' So do you if you were
attending. She played Celia and Rosalind in succession
under your nose, that Sunday at my place.'

' Good — Gad ! ' Mr. Ingestre shifted his position, in-
terested. ' Oh well, granted a genius, of course, anything
may occur. You won't see that painting again in your
lifetime, Johnny.'

' You've stopped suspecting Miss Darcy, have you ? '
said Johnny. ' I thought you might, in time.'

' If you're inventing this ' said his father wrathfully.

' I'm not. Only I've no more evidence against the one
than the other. If anything, the betting's against Darcy,
because she knows the value of the thing, and the girl does
not.'

' She might, of the pearls,' grunted Mr. Ingestre. It
was a poor contention, as the pearls were worth about a
quarter of the painting, signed as it was by a celebrated
hand. ' And she might have heard the patronne talking,'
he proceeded.

' That shows how little you know our bearded friend,'
said Johnny. ' Her discretion's absolute, and she has
shown the thing, she insists, to nobody. She carried it
with her once to a museum, to compare with a replica or
something : and when she got back she was tired, and gave
it, still wrapped up, to the girl to put away. Miss Celia did
so under her eyes, and brought her back the key. After
that, Darcy was laid up for a month, more or less, and has
only just discovered its absence from the drawer. She's
looked, she assures me, everywhere.'

' Has she good eyes ? ' said Mr. Ingestre.

' So much so she's unable to believe them. She made me
and another man she trusts look too.'

' Hey ? What other man ? '

Johnny glanced at him under his eyelids. ' A walking-
safe of a man,' he said at leisure ' Church, State, and the

274 THE ACCOLADE

Ten Commandments. A man even you would trust on
sight.'

' You know him, eh ? '

' I do, — so does Granny : she'd back me up. Personally,'
said Johnny, ' I'd put the whole job into young Auberon's
hands on spec., since he's already behind-scenes about
the girl's connections. I only want a word from you to
write to him.'

' Auberon,' pondered Mr. Ingestre. Momentarily ab-
stracted, he gave his son carte blanche to act as he proposed,
with unusual carelessness. Auberon, — that was the name !

The morning's paper was lying within reach of Johnny's
hand on the table, but Johnny seemed completely incurious
about the fashionable news to-day. Also, his father had
been unable, for some reason, to broach the subject, —
there had been, he told himself, no chance.

Now, here was the chance, a perfectly natural opening,
as good as any diplomatist could desire. Mr. Ingestre had,
therefore, to admit a real unwillingness to lead into the
subject, an apprehension as to possible results that grew
by waiting. No sooner had he realised this shrinking in
himself, than he resolved to risk it. Turning, he cleared
his throat.

' Is that the " Post " ? ' he began. ' If you're not using
it, I'll take a look.'

Silence from Johnny, who seemed not to have heard the
remark. He was standing by the table, in the lamplight,
motionless as usual, when he was not in violent action, half
turned away. He seemed to be reading something, with
his head bent, so his father waited a little. He spent the
interval till he chose to attend in taking stock of him, as
before, but with something less than his former com-
placency. Some consideration had crept in since, as it
seemed, to mar his contentment with his own production.

The boy had mentioned his own ' condition ' lately, —
condition was the word. Johnny had the conscience of his
generation in those matters, and he had kept control,

THE SELF-DECEIVER 275

visibly, at every point. Admirably, insolently ' fit ' to
the trainer's eye, not a doubt of it. That such a figure of a
youth should not have strong sons of his own to succeed
him was wrong, — it was bad management, — on the part of
the heavens, of course. In any other case, Mr. Ingestre
would have said something ought to be done about it : in
this case it was difficult to devise an alternative course to
that of his own tradition, his own advice, which Johnny
had followed in marrying Ursula.

Agatha had warned him, another tiresome thought.
Ancient conversations with his wife had haunted him
lately. Agatha had implied, in clever phrases that recurred
to him, that marriage before nature is ripe for it is not the
way to ' settle ' an unsettled youth, the contrary. She
glorified marriage, of course : all women did. It is their
specific, their talisman, — never a thing to be lightly under-
taken, better any risk than that. Not a duty above all, for
anybody on earth, — that was Agatha's line, the contention
her husband's family so easily overruled.

For the alternative risk, in her son's case, was great, as
she must have known. His disposition, at that critical
turning-point of his youth, threatened the future, in more
ways than one. Even at that age, Johnny's perspicacity,
in the matter of the women who fawned on him, was
tremendous, startling to his father's self at times, — his
wilfulness and wildness, even among his chosen courts, was a
by-word, — and it could be easily argued he would never
settle, if he did not settle then, while the family still had
him in hand.

It had been so argued, and here was the result, — not
bad, all told. He spoke of his wife familiarly, even with
a kind of justice, — without fixed prejudice, anyhow. On
certain lines he respected her, John was sure. Whether
the essential lines — but what are the essential lines, with
women, after all ?

At about this point in his meditations, he became aware
that it was not a book his son was holding. What he had

276 THE ACCOLADE

taken from the writing-table was a portrait, and during the
long silence, believing himself unobserved, he had been
studying it minutely.

' How did you get that ? ' he broke silence at last,
becoming conscious of his father's eyes upon him.

' What's that ? — little Rosalind ? She sent it me, some
time since. . . . Flattered a bit, don't you think ? ' he
ventured presently.

' No,' said Johnny.

It was on the tip of Mr. Ingestre's tongue to pursue —
' Have you heard she's engaged ? ' — but he did not say it.
He still could not, — less than ever. His own lack of spirit
to tease the boy really surprised himself. There was no
occasion for such squeamishness. Had he made a fuss, it
might have come easier : seeing the portrait in his hands,
his father was quite prepared for a rash outbreak: to see him
claim it, cast it from him, tear it, trample it, anything. He
did nothing at all but gaze in silence, holding it high, rather
close to him, in the fine pose the critic had noticed first.

' It's jolly good,' he said, laying it carefully down again,
when he had finished his inspection. ' I think I'm going
up, now, father, — good-night.'

Mr. Ingestre's pleasant peace was quite shattered, by
this untoward incident. He wished to goodness he had
never left the confounded thing about. It might even be
called inconsiderate, granted the boy's state, had he guessed
it. But who could guess ? He had taken his mother's
word too hastily that all was well, decently well at least,
and nothing doing. But now — broken ! Broken utterly,
and by a girl of nineteen ! Johnny's indifference to making
himself ridiculous, that was the worst sign. His father
knew well, in his own experience, the worth of that as a
symptom. Mr, Ingestre got up from his comfortable chair,
when his son had gone, and limped round the study, and
tossed things about, and ejaculated to empty walls, and
felt the want of his wife, most bitterly.

THE SELF-DECEIVER 277

' He's been hanging things on the trees up there/ said
John to the shade of Agatha, resentfully. ' Bad as the
fellow in the play, what's-his-name with the scrolls, —
Orlando. Forget if there are any trees at Routhwick,
perhaps there aren't, but he'll do as bad. I tell you he will :
he's got it in him. That's not my side of the family, you
know,' he pursued to Agatha's shade, ' it's yours. You're
responsible, — so you can get him out of it.'

Then he stopped. Agatha's tact and wisdom would
never get him out of difficulties again. It struck him in
the face, that thought. He sank into his chair again, and
forgot Johnny.

IV

Ursula's lie found its mark next day. When or how
John learnt of the published engagement, nobody knew,
except that his relations noticed a difference in him about
midday. He eyed the said relations like enemies when he
met them, and even that hardened warrior, his grand-
mother, dared not address a word to him at the lunch-
table. He looked at once furtive and ferocious, like a
creature caged, — just the look he had had, his father
remembered, once before in history, when baulked of his
fixed desire. He seemed then, and seemed now, to be
crouching under compulsion, watching any chance to spring
clear, and follow the course, the one possible course, on
which his lowering eyes were set. He was not at all,
for his natural authorities, an encouraging spectacle, and
they did not look at him more than necessary. They
shunted the burden of him on to the doctor, who was
inclined in any case to retain him on the upper floor.

During that day and most of the next, he had to bear
it, since his mother had her periods of comparative ease,
and asked for him invariably. Tied to home, he devoured
his heart in silence. Then, at the first chance, — woe on
Ursula had she known — he went straight to Violet.

278 THE ACCOLADE

It was after eleven o'clock at night, an unheard-of hour
for calling, but that was nothing in his mood. He sent
in his card with two words scrawled on it, — ' three
minutes,' were the words, — and she admitted him. She
knew of course she had to, he could not suppose she would
refuse ; yet, still observant of all forms, he entered quietly,
mastering himself in deference to her state. So would
John's wild ancestors have deferred to woman, no doubt,
on this occasion only : in his black modern garb he merely
followed an ancient rule.

She was in occupation of her husband's room, and in
his chair, doing nothing for a wonder, — possibly waiting
for him : alone, that was the chief thing, all Johnny
asked. He crossed the room and kneeling by her, laid
the printed slip before her eyes, while his own eyes asked
mutely, ' Is it true ? '

She read through the slip with her brows rising. Then
she looked at him. She had expected some change when
they met, something to match the change she had found
in Helena, that unforgettable evening : but she was hardly
prepared for what she saw. He was quite different, —
nothing she had ever known.

' I can't say,' she answered his mute appeal. ' She has
not written to me, and I have seen nobody for weeks. It
must be true, I suppose. I am astonished, John.'

' You don't know it to be false,' he demanded.

' I feel,' said Violet, ' as if it is. She has mentioned that
young man to me, but not like that.' She covered her
eyes.

' I'll go, — you're tired,' said Johnny, resigned.

' I'm not, — I'm thinking.' She dropped her hand and
turned the slip over. ' Which paper ? — it is out of season,
of course. Mistakes occur.' She read through the notice,
very carefully. ' Isn't it usual to give the full name ?
Helena Frances is her name, she told me once.'

' Who draws up the notice ? ' said Johnny.

' The girl's people, as a rule.'

THE SELF-DECEIVER 279

' Sure ? ' He pressed her keenly. ' Our side did mine,
I'm positive.'

' Aren't you apt to be exceptional ? I did my own,'
said Violet. ' Everything the girl's mother should do, I did.'

' Have you a second name ? '

' Yes, John, I have yours. And I put it into my announce-
ment under direction. I'd back Father for formalities
against anyone in London. The full name is certainly
usual.'

' You're an angel,' said Johnny, his strained face clearing
slightly. ' Then you think it might be a fake ? — but
whose ? '

' It's wild to assume it's a fake on that evidence,' she
said. ' If Helena's father wrote it, he might forget she
had a second name. Or they might want to drop it, for
some reason. That is simply support to the evidence —
internal— that I have.'

' I shall go on to the office,' declared Johnny, snatching
the slip. There was a pause, while he still knelt at her side.

' Are you sure you had better ? ' she said gently. ' To
question such a thing is unusual — and you are conspicuous,
John.'

' Curse it ! ' he said low. ' All right, I'll leave it. They
all combine to torture me. You're a little angel, all the
same.' He held her wrist a minute, as though he knew he
should go, and could not. ' Three minutes is up,' he
remarked, and still waited, biting his lip.

' No hope ? ' said Violet.

' Mother ? Oh, none whatever, but that it'll finish
soon.' He gazed about her, still with that look of a thing
entrapped. ' I'm mad, with this life. I shall go mad,' he
asseverated. ' I tell you, if they're driving her into this,
they can look to themselves. She shan't be coerced '

' You mean, you prefer to coerce her.'

' I don't. It's not necessary. I tell you it's not ! She'd
come of her own accord, if I made a sign. She loves me,
Violet.'

28o THE ACCOLADE

' I know.'

' You do ? — Of course you know ! ' The radiance crossed
his face, all the same, to hear it spoken. He had clutched,
and was hurting, her hand. ' And perhaps you know I
love her ? Well then — she'd come to me, — I'd die for her,
— what more's there to say ? '

' Nothing, for me.'

' 'Cause you're tired ? ' he asked, searching her swiftly.
' No, no, — I see, — 'cause you've got it all. Well, haven't
you ? ' She nodded, shrinking almost. ' You've too
much,' he triumphed, ' you know it, — more than your
share. Very well, give me mine. You know what I want,
it's not so unusual. Put it into words, since that's your
line. Let's hear a good woman tell the truth for once, —
'stead of quoting ! '

' You've a right to your share,' she said faintly. ' Like
Charles, — like any man, — of course you have.'

' Good, then, — you give me leave.' His whole powerful
will was concentrated on her, driving her to speak the
thing he wished.

' What's my leave ? ' she flashed, at bay. ' John, I can't
argue, can't you see ? If you come to me now, in that
name, I can only say one thing.'

' Pass me, — hey ? ' She nodded.

' Shocking ! ' he jibed mechanically : but he was caught,
as his subsequent silence proved. Her simple concurrence
reached him more easily than any argument, since he was
in a mood to rout argument, to relish routing it. Instead
of that, he found her at his side. Johnny was not certain
he approved of it, but it soothed him to be supported
simultaneously, so his feelings were mixed. He allowed her
to lean back in her chair, and waited, absorbing her peace.

' It's so terrible,' she murmured presently. ' She was
so young, as young as my Margery when they played
together. And then— that night you had seized her,
John. I can't forget.'

' No/ he assented. ' It scared you too.' Diverting his

THE SELF-DECEIVER 281

eyes, he dwelt on his own memories. He had worn his
memories to rags by dwelling on them, fruitlessly.

' But that means/ he said, with a flash of prevision,
1 she could get over it, grow through it, — doesn't it ?
Doesn't it, Violet ? Youth means that.'

' She will never forget,' said Violet.

' Think not ? ' he said, half eager, half mocking. ' You
know, it's deuced odd, — I can't remember what I said.
Generally, I could make 'em remember, at least, but —
Odd little things women are ! I can't follow the way they
think. . . . And as for argument,' said Johnny pensively,
— ' futile ! '

' Futile,' she echoed voicelessly. His face changed.

' Don't, my dearest girl,' he said, sudden and low. ' I've
no right to rag you, and at such an unholy hour. Not
your fault anyhow, — no, it isn't, you shut up ! You're
not as important as all that comes to, — never were. Nice
of you to see me, of course, — so on.' She laughed at the
characteristic apology : and Johnny, pleased with her
laughter, reflected it in a gleam.

' You were told to keep out the pack of us, weren't you ?
— bet you were ! Bad for you to have raging beasts about
the place.'

' You're not,' she protested. ' Don't call yourself
names, John. I believe you're considering, — taking into
consideration, — even now.'

' I don't want to,' he assured her. ' It must be Mother's
fault, — oh, Lord ! '

He remembered his duties again, groaned, and rose.
He had been crouching at her side throughout the inter-
view. ' I didn't come for advice, anyhow,' he remarked,
as soon as he was on his feet.

' Well, you haven't got it, have you ? Nothing worth
coming for, anyhow.'

' I never regard kids' opinions,' said Johnny.

' Oh, no, — I hoped you never did.'

He still did not laugh, though he waited beside her an

282 THE ACCOLADE

instant longer. ' I never knew anyone just like you/ he
said. ' Except my mother, — you're her kind.'

With that, he kissed the little hand he had half crushed
in his bitter debating, and went, sudden and swift, about
his business. It was a fact he had come more to think in
her society, than to take advice. He just registered a
note in passing of her attitude to Helena, as of his mother's
towards Ursula in a former interview. The claims of
youth, a plea for the thing unmade, that was the only
platform Violet stood upon, and who with better right ?
That aspect of things, — her aspect, — had risen quite
unbidden in Johnny's mind as he knelt beside her, risen
to fade again, but it had been there. He absorbed it in
his fashion from the fact of her, her surroundings, and
her situation : as for any words she used, they slipped
away.

Except, indeed, in the practical matter of the printed
announcement. Her comment on that was worth storing
word for word, since it gave Johnny a loophole, made
life worth pursuing till the following day, when Helena's
little letter was handed to him, and glorified a passing hour
with its healing ray of truth.

Helena little knew how he needed her prayers that day,
for his mother's condition was terrible, and hardest, of
course, upon him. The day following that again, the
printed lie was formally contradicted in the morning news,
with an editor's apology that caught attention by its
somewhat cutting style. Tempers, the casual reader
would surmise, had been lost over that paragraph, possibly
between an accomplished editor, and an irate retired
Army Captain visiting his private room.

That same morning, Johnny found himself, to his
immense relief, in a train, travelling back to Routhwick.
How it came about he was hardly aware : except that
the great doctor with the gentle manners had suddenly
put his foot down. He could do no more good, said Sir

THE SELF-DECEIVER 283

Claude, and he was doing himself harm. He had better go
back to his natural occupations in the north. Mr. Ingestre
grumbled, but learning that his wife herself had expressed
the wish, had to give way. He conveyed that, generally
speaking, he did not see the use of Johnny, and said various
entirely true things about him, his wife, and his methods
of living, to his face. Johnny for once did not answer,
he was too tired. Sir Claude answered for him, effectively,
when he had left the room.

Johnny, having all the newspapers in the train, a store
of cigarettes, and plenteous leisure during his long journey,
not to mention a calm of mind, owing to Helena, Violet,
and so forth, that he had not enjoyed for days, took the
editorial paragraphs in the ' Post ' very carefully to pieces,
and drew his own conclusions from them : to wit, that
neither of those irate gentlemen had found a scapegoat :
which was as much as to say that the fake, with the excep-
tion of that one slip Violet had noticed, had been uncom-
monly well done.

Very good. It was ' one to the kid,' and he might or
might not let her know it. He would see. It was clear
that some young rotter had faked old Falkland's signa-
ture,— or Mrs. Falkland's, was it ? — which did Violet say ?
Johnny's eyebrows went up at this point, and then down
again. He had an idea.

He lit a second cigarette, dropped all the papers about
the floor, and collapsed in a comfortable attitude, his chin
on his bent arm against the window, and his eyes on the
fleeting country beyond the train. It was hideous blackened
country for the most part, so Johnny did not look at it,
he looked within. He looked at all kinds of things, casually,
since he wanted to enjoy his smoke as well. Then, just
for the joke of it, he began to put them together. Cer-
tainly, it hooked together nicely rather, when you came
to try :" that defective notice, the irate denial, Violet's
useful remarks concerning mothers, and his own more

284 THE ACCOLADE

useful observations concerning wives. Wives in general,
— Johnny's wife. Curious ! Most quaint.

He lit a third cigarette, with an air of business, and
retracked his whole acquaintance with Ursula, which had
not been an unpleasant one, exclusively, to judge by his
face. His face, — which reflected all his thoughts, whether
people were there to look at him or not, — contained some
pleasing memories. But still, he felt surprised. It was,
so to speak, out of order. But it had its share of entertain-
ment too. Johnny might be wrong, of course, — he had
been, once or twice in his career, — but certainly, it looked
as if she cared. A little, let us say, — she cared a bit, —
not quite such a stone wall as she seemed. A mad caprice
like that, — a nice, respectable, well-bred girl

Johnny's expression grew pensive, — what the novelists
call wistful, — beautiful, indeed. It was a pity that, and
his easeful attitude, were entirely thrown away on the
only other occupant of the railway-carriage, a venerable
gentleman in the further corner, reading the ' Church
Times.' At his fourth cigarette, this gentleman gave him
a reproachful glance, — professionally reproachful, — and
opened, with a jerk, and his lips set clerically, the other
window. Johnny drawled — ' Thanks,' — to this manoeuvre,
and put him out. He could not stand people with mouths
like that. Then he relapsed into his leisurely thoughts
again. The country was getting cleaner, the fields less
tired, the water more lively, so that captured some of them,
naturally. The heavy nightmare he had left behind him
retarded a few more. But what remained were placid,
and not without a consoling quality.

' " As it was in the beginning," ' he concluded. ' They're
all the same.'

He concluded it, by an oversight, aloud. A sudden
rustle reminded him of the venerable party in the corner,
who had turned and was glaring at him. Johnny,
who had not noticed till that minute that he wore
black gaiters, apologised for the quotation. He said it

THE SELF-DECEIVER 285

was odd how tags of things, like that, stuck in one's
head.

After the Archdeacon, or whatever he was, had got
out, — he got out at the next station, — Johnny did not
look to see whether he got in again, further down the train,
— Mr. Ingestre turned to business, and wrote a letter
which had been delayed, the letter to young Auberon.
The last day or two he had not wanted to think about
young Auberon, naturally : now that Helena had acquitted
him, Johnny could turn his thoughts that way again. It
was time, full time, to make a move in the matter of the
Hope miniature, it was not a thing which, however his
father might rag him, he could really afford to let slide.
He had spent another difficult hour the preceding day in
manipulating Miss Darcy, and had decided nothing more
could be done with her. Nor need to be done, thought
Johnny, since she had let drop a fact which practically
fixed the blame upon the girl.

The letter he wrote to Quentin in the train was exceed-
ingly clever, — smart, like all his business dealings, con-
densed and curt. He put the case as he saw it, and asked
Quentin, as a favour, to deal with it if he could. He did
not want, he said, to prosecute anybody if it could be
avoided, or at any rate until he must. He was courteous,
but quite firm. He said Quentin would recognise the
gravity of the situation, in the value of the article.

That was exactly the thing of which Quentin, receiving
the letter, had not had the least idea : and it was the thing
which, grave official as he was, made it imperative he
should act at once. He had imagined, of course, that poor
Miss Darcy, in her agitation and anxiety, had magnified
the trinket's importance, and her fault in one : but he now
recognised she had not done so. It appeared the thing had
been valued by experts once or twice, when the French, or
legitimate connections of the little pink-robed Mare"chale
had made the marauding Ingestres offers for the picture.

286 THE ACCOLADE

The prices put upon it differed according to the fashion
and the date, but they were all so high as to make the
notion of a crime, in connection with it, more probable on
the instant. Obviously, as Ingestre said, it was a serious
thing.

Likewise Quentin admitted, since Ingestre was the
sufferer to that extent by the loss, he had a perfect right
of dictating methods for the thing's recovery. Much as he
himself detested the business, little time as he had to
engage in it, he could not complain at being employed. It
was even considerate, from their point of view, to employ
him. He thought once of his aunt, — consulting her any-
how,— but decided against it. Ingestre had appealed, in
confidence, to him.

Likewise he could not but see the direct pointing of the
evidence, just as Johnny did : and above all that of the
last most damaging little fact he had collected from Miss
Darcy. This was simply that the drawer in which Jill
had been seen to place the miniature, and which she had
appeared to lock, had been found unlocked the day Miss
Darcy discovered the treasure's disappearance. It was a
very black little fact, for it suggested foresight, and the
habit of cunning and concealment, such as might well
have been derived from Jill's parentage. She could not
take it at the time, but she prepared the way for taking
it later, when her benefactress's eyes were off her. It was
bad, certainly ; almost as bad as it could be ; Ingestre
was right.

As for Miss Darcy's self, Johnny's little plea to exonerate
her, though short, was eloquent : and Quentin, who had
had the same ideas about her, more vaguely, felt it the
more. He liked all the letter, but he liked that part the
best, it matched his own sentiments so precisely. Johnny
knew the bearded one, so he pleasantly declared, better
than she did herself : since obviously she conceived her-
self, in her present state, capable of any folly or forgetful-
ness. She could not possibly be fraudulent, he said, and

THE SELF-DECEIVER 287

was most unlikely to be negligent, in those matters which
had been the chief interest of her life. Her collection was
her hobby, — a spinster's hobby, — which, otherwise stated,
meant the thing round which the best of her brain revolved,
— the thing which a family would have been in happier
circumstances. Instead of beastly lap-dogs, said Johnny,
she had beautiful knick-knacks, enamels and paintings,
that was all. She would sooner have died than either
assume possession in secret of a thing that was not hers,
or leave the said thing, unguarded, in an open drawer. Even
if her reason was tottering, — which it was not, — habit, life-
long habit, would have been too much for her there.

' Granted/ said Quentin, after an instant's reflec-
tion : and he, like Johnny, set the ' bearded one ' aside.
Well then

He met Jill in the square garden, of which Miss Darcy
had a key. He summoned her there by letter, preferring
that Miss Darcy, who still upheld the girl's innocence,
should not know. Jill might ask for the key after dinner,
he suggested, to have a little walk. That such a proposal
on his part would be likely to raise Jill's poor little hopes
to the skies, he never reflected, his mind being set on far
more serious things. That her mind was set, in advance,
on him, was, to say the least of it, inessential. It was also
foolish, extremely silly at her age. It was a hot summer
evening when this — to her — delightful clandestine meeting
took place. She met him just without the garden, and let
him into it, with charming, childish importance. Even
to Mm, she seemed younger than usual that evening, —
pretty and gay.

There were still two ways of it possible to his mind,
of course : that Jill had taken the thing for her own
purposes, to raise money upon, for her amusement, or even
in a spirit of passing spite to tease Miss Darcy : and that
she had been used as a cat's-paw by her father. Ingestre
in his letter guessed the latter, not knowing the girl at

288 THE ACCOLADE

all, only knowing of her circumstances, from his wife.
Consequently, Quentin began upon his old tack of investi-
gation, duty-bo;, nd.

But no : she denied all knowledge of, sight of, or com-
munication with, her father. She put herself right,
instantly and eagerly, in Quentin's eyes, so as to begin
that pleasant stroll together in the twilight on the best
of terms. Jill often wondered why Mr. Auberon was so
curious about her father, when she disliked him so, —
disliked him increasingly, — wanted to finish with him
altogether. However, she gave in to that little fad of his,
and assured him that she had long been at liberty, utterly
undisturbed. Her father, most probably, was out of
London. He might be at the end of Europe, for her.

Then he told her about Ingestre's treasure, — he called
it a ' little picture,' — and the history of the loss by easy
stages. He could not put the case complete, for the relief
of his own mind, because she interrupted him.

' The dark one who speaks so well ? ' said Jill, of Johnny.
' I don't like him much,' she added reassuringly. ' But
she is always better the days he comes.'

Quentin, ignoring this sort of thing, proceeded.

' Lost ? ' said Jill.

' Well, disappeared. Miss Darcy can't find it.'

' Miss Darcy ? ' cried Jill. ' She cannot look for things,
— she cannot move about.' Her violence increased of a
sudden. ' She is an old, silly, ugly thing. Pulling drawers
open, and shutting them, and talking to herself. As
if I had not seen her. Of course she has put it some-
where.'

' Ingestre looked as well,' observed Quentin.

' Men ! ' said Jill, with exquisite contempt. ' They can-
not find things. When he loses things at home, his wife
looks for him. He sits in a chair.'

Quentin looked in front of him, trying not to be amused.
She certainly knew Ingestre, for he had seen the very
thing she described take place.

THE SELF-DECEIVER 289

' Then I suppose/ he said, ' it's useless to mention that
I looked too.'

' You ? You looked for her ? When ? '

' Some time ago.'

' Some time ? And you did not ask me to look ? '

' She did not want to worry you.'

' Old fool,' said Jill. After this ungrateful remark she
waited a little. Her aspect, her colour had visibly changed,
he noticed.

' Of course, then, she has dropped it in the street,' said
Jill. ' Her hand shakes, — you have seen it.'

' Yes, but she has not dropped it. She had it last in the
house.'

He explained about the last appearance of the precious
packet, and then the little matter of the open drawer. He
was extremely clear, and as kind as he could manage. He
tried to believe in her still, he really wanted to, — only, she
had not enquired yet what the thing that was lost was
like. Surely that was the natural question, since it had
been wrapped in paper when she handled it. Quentin had
called it ' a little picture ' simply. The alert policeman
in him could not be overcome, and, owing to her soft
manner, it obtained every moment more ascendancy.

' I suppose,' he said, as easily as he could, ' nobody likely
to tamper with such a thing could have been in the front
room ? '

' Mr. Ingestre,' said Jill, on the instant. ' Extremely
likely. He would take it away one day, and then he would
come back to frighten her. He would frighten her rather
well. And she would shake all over, and her eyes stick out.
That would be amusing for him. He finds everything in
the world amusing, — me as well.'

' Ingestre doesn't laugh at you,' said Quentin, ' come ! '

' He does. He laughs at my leg. He is very amused,
the way I walk about. He brings that woman flowers, —
he never brings flowers to me. I am better than she is,
prettier, but he does not think of me, I am a servant. He

2go THE ACCOLADE

hates me, because I acted better than him. I did, he cannot
forget it. He looks at me in that fashion, because of that.'

Quentin, impatient of her egoism, did not reply. This
was her way, either to appear exaggeratedly conscious of
her lameness, or else obstinately to disregard it. Either
method vexed his straightforward mind. Why not admit
her disadvantage simply, and accept the sympathy and
help they were all ready to offer ?

Silence, in the summer dusk, fell between them. What
Jill's thoughts were, he could not gather, it was getting too
dark to study her face. She was panting a little, he
noticed, with the effort of her last rapid speech. As for
her eyes, they were fixed across the garden, — there was
another couple strolling in the distance, and she might
have been observing those.

' It would surprise you very much if I found the picture ? '
she queried at last, sweetly, and curling round his arm.

' No,' said Quentin, troubled at once. ' I hope you will.'

' You hope it ? Really ? Well, listen. I will look, —
and find. . . . Perhaps I will find. Do you hear ? '

' Very good,' said Quentin, still troubled. Why would
she not be straight ?

' And when I — shall have found, you will thank me. Yes? '

' We all shall/ he said.

' You,' said Jill. Silence. ' You are content ? ' she asked.

' Nearly.' The policeman bit his lip.

' What else ? Tell me.'

' Well, I had better describe the thing to you, hadn't
I ? Before you look for it.'

' Describe ? '

' It was wrapped up, of course, when you put it away.'

' Good,' said Jill. ' Yes, it was wrapped up all nicely,
with a little string. And it will be wrapped up when I
find it, when I bring it to you, just the same. Be sure of
that.' She dropped his arm.

' Then I need not tell you any more.' He stopped short,
facing her, looking her in the eyes.

THE SELF-DECEIVER 291

' No,' she said softly, looking back with her strange seduc-
tive smile, her strange unfixed gaze, that seemed hardly to
see him. ' I shall not trouble you, — you have no need.'

Confession, was it not ? More than that, she flattered
his one weakness, his weakness for government, for
influence. She would return that beautiful thing that had
been taken in a moment of mischief or covetousness, —
very natural, in the little poverty-stricken artist that she
was, — for his sake. That is, owing to his power of per-
suasion and his skilful handling. She promised it.

And that indeed was Jill's intention, as she hastened,
gracefully limping, back to the house.

Though John said little to Ursula on his return to Routh-
wick, she gathered that in the self-imposed penance she
was undergoing there, she had small prospect of immediate
release. He had parted with his mother, he told her shortly:
but from other sources of information in the family letters,
Ursula learnt that, though Agatha was dead to all intents
and purposes, the news of her last breath might still be
months ahead. Thus John could go about his duties with
a free mind, or at least unhampered by suspense ; and
John's wife could still postpone her mourning, and amuse
herself, within reason, as she would.

Not that she wished for society, she explained to John.
To fill Routhwick was difficult at any time, it was so
enormous and unwieldy ; to fill it with an ordinary house-
party, at such a moment, would be in exceptionally bad
taste ; not to mention that it was, in her view, a dreary
place, suited to students and sportsmen, perhaps, but
useless for the ordinary social purposes. Ursula hated
Routhwick, with its bare stone frortt and large cold rooms,
and a mere pretence at grounds or garden, close under the
moors, and raked in consequence by all the winds that

292 THE ACCOLADE

there disported. It was ugly, to her view, at least as
compared with the suavities of the south-country Hall :
and John, of course, was making it as dull for her as possible,
— that was his way of conveying to her that she should
never have come at all. At times she regretted the step,
as his father had prophesied ; at others, it became anew
clear to her consciousness that her duty was to watch
over him, ignore so far as was possible his marked ingrati-
tude, and recall him by her patient presence and strict
attention to his comfort to his family obligations.

Unfortunately Johnny allowed her little opportunity of
comforting him. He resumed exactly the life he had been
leading before he went to London : rose early by choice,
and was to and fro all day, transacting visits of business
or diplomacy in every corner of the large estate. The
keepers, the farmers, and Mr. Fox, a vulgar man whom
Ursula could hardly tolerate, had most of his society.
Though she rode well herself and shot fairly, John never
even suggested she should accompany them : and often
seemed to forget her existence for days together, picking
up meals in the country round from anyone who offered
them, and not appearing at home till nightfall, too tired
and drunk with the keen air to do more than fall asleep
in his chair. Every day he seemed to get handsomer and
browner and bolder, and to attend to her less : younger
too, alas, — she was feeling the difference in their true ages
now ; among the old farmers and servitors, the weather-
beaten men of the dales, he looked a boy; and was treated —
being Master Johnny at Routhwick — by one and all as such.

As for her shot at him in the dark, she could not say
if it had reached him even, wounded him still less. She
could follow his thoughts now less than she had ever done.
Nothing in his demeanour seemed altered, unless that he
appeared, if anything, a trifle more pleased with himself
than before. Ursula world have feared he had missed
the report and consequent gossip about the engagement
altogether, — but that it was inconceivable, considering that

THE SELF-DECEIVER 293

he had been in his grandmother's company. None of the
family, at least, would let him off, and old Mrs. Ingestre's
letters were full of allusions to the amusing stir created,
at the height of the slack season, by the false report. Its
effects elsewhere had been undoubted, and that he alone
could have escaped was unlikely. No, it was probably
nothing but obstinacy and pride. He was as vain as ever :
and, being a man, he was also busy, — and well.

Ursula was neither. She was fagged and she was bored,
and he would not amuse her. He talked to her at times,
of course, since he was not a person to be silent ; he aired
his own thoughts in her company, and attended little to
her replies. She might have been anybody or nobody, for
all the real attention he gave her : and he looked at her
like the furniture, with no appearance of taking her in.
His odd times, and the more desperately rainy days, he
spent over music, in which again he did not choose to let
her share ; and in what she supposed was his writing or
editing, conducted in strict privacy in a small log-house or
chalet that he owned, in the wood beyond the garden.

This little ' Lyke-wood,' as the old residents called it,
was a mere thicket, and shut in the so-called garden to one
side. It was not the least pretty, merely serviceable for
protection, its component trees misshapen, lichen-covered,
straining and strident with that eternal moorland breeze.
Words cannot say how weary Ursula grew of that sound
by night and day ; yet John seemed to love it, listened
to it willingly like the gypsy he was. Men, Ursula told
herself often, have no nerves.

It was down in this little camp of his that she informed
John one morning that she meant to intermit her virtuous
abjuration of all society.

' Can I come in ? ' she said, just tapping the door.

' I suppose so,' said Johnny politely. He looked at her
as she entered. It was a wet day, as usual, — the weather
had been bad since his return, — but she was admirably
clad as always, and the water-drops on her rough clothes,

294 THE ACCOLADE

the slight crust of mud on her strong shoes, were by no
means unsuitable attributes. He knew she had not been
well, but she never looked otherwise than trim and shapely,
though her eyes were slightly strained, he noted, and her
lips a little pale. Ursula always said she was all right when
he asked her, but he knew pretty well, by this time, when
she was not. For all that, a dozen men of his acquaintance
would have called her a fine girl, and a wife to be proud
of. He only felt he could have welcomed, at that moment,
any woman in the world who looked a little different.

' Am I interrupting you ? ' asked Ursula, glancing at
his papers, which were freely strewn about the table.
John was oddly shy about his writing, and she did not
often disturb him. However, he appeared in a fairly
good temper, so she supposed things had been going well.

' When Byron's wife asked that,' said Johnny, still
scrawling something, ' he said " damnably."

' I see, — so you won't.'

Ursula smiled faintly, turning to the fire, a tiny brasier,
quite adequate for the small room. It was a remarkably
pleasant little place, Johnny's log-house, though completely
simple. It had the air of a settler's shanty in the back-
woods, or something even more primitive still : not without
reason, since it belonged to the period of his youth when
books of adventure held the foremost place. It was strictly
his own property, — his mother had planned and presented
it to him when he was still a schoolboy, so of course it
suited him. Her portrait was over his table, a portrait
dating back to that period, long before Ursula's reign.
The log-house had nothing to do with Ursula, so she was
naturally critical. She tried the dust on the shelf above
the hearth with a finger while she was speaking, and whisked
a little of it off, discontentedly. It was so hopeless to keep
him clean. Johnny watched her with a suspicious eye. It
was his dust, and she had no business to meddle with it.

' My works aren't quite up to Byron's,' he told her. ' So
I understand from my publisher.'

THE SELF-DECEIVER 295

' How modest.' Mrs. Ingestre put her hand to her neck
iof a sudden, with a frown Johnny knew. It meant
neuralgia — he believed : she had never directly told him
so. ' How can you live in these draughts ? ' she murmured,
turning about to search the walls. ' Why on earth don't
you have those holes stopped up ? '

Johnny's eyes followed hers to one or two nicely-cut
round holes in the log-house walls. He speculated on
them a minute, his eyes widening gravely. They were
not very far up the wall, — they had once been as high as
his shoulders, they were now about as high as his waist. The
furious west wind, not to mention the furious western rain,
was chasing and flurrying and dripping through them. It
did make the log -house a little draughty, as Ursula said.

' Sorry,' he said, ' but I couldn't possibly. I might want
'em, any time. Stop 'em up, indeed, — I like that ! They're
loopholes.'

:>. ' Loopholes ? ' said Ursula, perfectly vague. 'What for ? '
ir. ' Rifles, of course. What d'you suppose ? ' Johnny
tilted his chair on to its back-legs, still speculating on his
surroundings. ' It was the Indians, that night, I think, —
or Silver's gang, — Silver, probably. But you never know
who mayn't attack a place like this, — have to be ready for
anything, — jolly well prepared.' He glanced at the ceiling,
not so far above his head. ' Luckily our defences were in
order, thanks to the Captain. We've held it so far. Only
one of ours was found stretched by his loophole, a bullet
through his heart. One of the best of 'em, too, — the quiet
one. What was his name ? ' He turned on his wife.

' How should I know ? ' said Ursula, without a smile.

' You ought to. He was the valet, — body-servant, —
something like Blandy he was. Blandy would behave
like that at a pinch, — offer his life for mine. ... I'd let him
know if he didn't,' added Johnny.

' What a baby you are, John,' said Ursula after a pause.
' Talking such nonsense.'

' I'm not, — it's the classics. Not at all stuff for babes,

296 THE ACCOLADE

either, — you go and look it up. Do you a lot of good, that
yarn would. Just the thing for you. Can you load a gun ? '

' You know I can,' said Ursula.

' That's not the proper answer,' said Johnny, annoyed.
' You're a woman, ain't you ? — you look it. Very well,
your answer is — "No, alas, show me how," — something
like that. Good Lord,' said Johnny, moved, ' why, Violet
would have known how to answer, better than that ! '

' Violet can't load a gun,' said Ursula.

' Well, Barbara,' said Johnny artlessly. ' Janie Clewer, —
any of them. You don't seem to know the simplest things.'
He swung his chair back upon its four legs again. ' Very
good, then don't come and disturb me — er — Byronically
in the log-house. It isn't the place for you, and it isn't done.
You're nothing but a feminine female, — you go home.' He
recurred to his papers, contentedly.

Mrs. Ingestre did not go home. She looked down at the
brasier for a time, — she was drying her feet, her nice strong
shoe on the fender. Ursula always found her feet consoling,
they were so well-made : and her neuralgia was feeling better
for the warmth. It had been furious, at intervals, during
the morning, but she had done everything she should do,
all the same, and kept her temper, so nobody had guessed
she was not completely well. She let John at the table
settle into something like reasonable sense again, — call it
his right mind. He was toying with the leaves of his
manuscript now, smiling at something, — one of his own
jokes, probably. He was forgetting all about her, rapidly :
and she must speak, if she meant to, soon.

' John,' she said, ' I've been thinking. I've no reason to
refuse people who absolutely ask to come here, have I ?
We're not in mourning yet.'

' We're not in mourning officially,' said Johnny.

' If you object, I'd rather you said so,' said Ursula. ' I
can get out of it quite easily. It's only Mrs. Falkland —
and one night.'

There was a pause, as she expected. He had lifted his
head at the name.

THE SELF-DECEIVER 297

' I can do with Mrs. Falkland, for one night/ he said
slowly. ' But I thought you said she was abroad.'

' So she is, or she would not have offered it probably.
She can't have heard the latest news about your mother.
As it is, she begs me not to let them disturb me.'

Another pause, while the pronouns sank in. ' Them ? '
said Johnny. ' Is the husband coming too ? '

' No. It's not the parents at all. It's for the sake of those
children, — the walking-party. They are not far off, and
the weather's been so bad, — inns and so on, I quite under-
stand it. Her getting worried about them, I mean, — the
least I could do '

She stopped, for John's eyes were turned upon her, and
she could not go on.

' The least you could do is to offer to take the children
here for a night. Considering your old friendship with the
various parents. Is that it ? '

' If you object, I won't,' said Ursula. Her utterance
failed, fell dead. Johnny could still fight through his eyes,
and was doing so, ruthlessly. ' They may refuse, of
course ' she pushed on.

' They will not refuse,' said Johnny. He flicked over
three leaves of his manuscript, — like a sword-flash, that
movement was. ' Very well.'

That was like him, to accept the challenge, — take up the
gage, — only she had not expected it. She had very nearly
counted on his refusing point-blank ; especially since he had
plenteous excuse for the moment, and since she took him
by surprise. But not he. ... Now the die was cast. She
would have now to realise at leisure all the risk she was
running in so daring him, — daring him to do his worst. It
was valiant, in the peculiar style of Ursula's dull courage :
valiant in the effort it cost her, that is, but incompletely
weighed. She reckoned without him, the unknown quantity
that he really was to her. She might regret it later. All
too probably she would.

And it is notable that John, furious as he was at the

298 THE ACCOLADE

trick, admired her. It was abominable, but fine in its way,
it really was. Her pose, her imposture, was still held
sublimely : he was still to think she knew nothing of his
faithlessness, or at least, that she did not care. Vain as he
was, he had another pang of questioning whether she did
care really, whether her attitude towards him was not
simply mocking and cynical. It would have been so in
another woman, any other, — not in her. She was capable
of nothing so obvious and so direct as that.

He laughed, when she had left the log-house, and
remained for some time, his head in his hands. Then he
said, ' Lord, she's done me,' and laughed again. To be
' done,' and by such simple means ! What it is in life to
have to do with fools, — obstinate fools. Of course she had
not begun to guess what he had gone through, was going
through daily, or she could not, in mercy — Helena there !
The sublime cheek of the conception, — the glorious idea !
There, at Routhwick : after knocking about with that
rough-haired pair on the hills, sleeping at inns, eating what
came, to take her in, dry her feet, look after her

Johnny, immensely hospitable, like all his family, looked
about him and beyond the window. Ursula called Routh-
wick an ugly place, perhaps it was : but it was not comfort-
less— precisely. He could see that she was happy, show
her a thing or two, — some things Ursula did not know of,
since she never looked. He could have her here in the
log-house, on a beastly rainy morning, just like this. He
could — what could he not do, having herself, looking in her
sweet eyes.

Johnny swore : he uttered a really bad word, and got
up. The work on which he was engaged was interesting,
but he could not continue to attend to it ; Ursula's intrusion
had disturbed him fatally, even in the Byronic measure.
He rose and went to the little hearth, where his wife had
stood, turning his back upon his mother's picture, — ponder-
ing if the strength were in him to withstand a test like this.
The ancestor whose records he was exploring would not have

THE SELF-DECEIVER 299

withstood it for a moment, — his own father would hardly
have withstood. If Ursula stuck to her present methods,
goading him every day till the choice was offered him, he
would not answer for the result. As it was, in the daily
endeavour to exhaust himself physically and resist all
teasing thought, thought returned in a rush at times like
this, changing all things in life into one fierce desire, reck-
less, regardless,' — the desire to assert himself, his lordship
of life, at anybody's expense. Why not ? — he was no better
than his ancestors, really : nothing prevented it but a few
catchwords of the day, — and even so, his day had other
catchwords. If he could forget his generation, forget his
social responsibilities, his duty to the future, his obligation
from the past, all the subtly-instilled truths of his mother's
teaching, for one instant, for one single blissful hour, would
not the sacrifice of all the past, all the future, of life itself
— of honour itself — be worth it ? He shrewdly guessed
it would. He was not deceived, at least, as to his own
weaknesses. He could forecast his own penance accurately.
But hers

' MY DARLING/ wrote Mrs. Falkland,

' Father seems quite all right, so don't worry about
him, if you are really enjoying yourselves, though I am sorry
you get so much rain. But I am distressed to hear the boys
are so inconsiderate, dragging you up at those hours, and
then giving you no proper meals all day. Will you tell
Harold from me that if he cannot regard poor Quentin,
who certainly needs all his sleep, I insist on his regarding
you. I remember too well the appearance you presented
in Switzerland, after the week you went walking with
Harold alone. And if serious then, it is simply fatal now,
when all kinds of people and the best papers want your
photographs. Father found another bit about you in the
" Chatterer " and said he was enclosing it but of course did
not. As if every word they say about you, my jewel, does
not matter, but of course he is mooning over golf. |

' I think you had better accept this, really very kind,

3oo THE ACCOLADE

from Mrs. Ingestre for the last week-end. I was at my
wits' end where to give you a little rest and comfort and
respectable food, not to say society, but I know she is to be
trusted. Quentin knows her already of course, which
makes it easier, and Harold ought to because I certainly
introduced him. I gather from Mrs. Ingestre that Routh-
wick is a fine place, their second but the largest. So have
your habit sent up and your white silk for evenings,
servants and people — I must have you look nice.

' Don't get yourself all thin and burnt before the autumn,
my dearest, will you, and do let the others do those dreadful
things alone. That evening walk to see the sunset sounded
so nice for both of you, but as for Striding Edges I think it
can hardly be the thing. Love to my dear boys.

' YOUR OWN MOTHER.'

' What's the Mater saying now ? ' said Harold, when
his sister received the above letter at an inn at Grasmere.
Helena had remained gazing at it and the enclosure it held,
a little longer than seemed absolutely necessary in the case.

' She thinks I am getting burnt,' said Helena, returning
to her duties at the tea-tray.

' Ho, ho ! ' said Harold. ' What with,— the snow ? '
During the first week of the walking-tour they had had
every conceivable weather except fine weather, which had
naturally amused them very much.

' And she thinks we are doing too much,' added Helena.
She retained the letter, though Harold, desirous of further
diversion, stretched a hand for it.

' Oh, is that all ? ' he said contemptuously. ' Now
suppose we cut the sandwiches.'

• Helena, refusing to be hurried in any degree, cut them
nicely, and they went out, in the gently falling rain. It
was such sweet - smelling, delicate, insinuating rain, that
nobody could possibly complain of it, and it looked like
clearing later. This constituted in itself a distinct improve-
ment on the*day before, so they started in excellent spirits.
Helena, having combated vigorously for her rights in being

THE SELF-DECEIVER 301

allowed to carry something, and having failed completely
and been snubbed, determined aloud that she would
never again join a walking-party where ' they ' were two
to one. On the contrary, her plan was, next time, to invite
a nice strong girl to walk with her, — such as the elder Miss
Weyburn, for instance, — and to take Harold.

Harold retorted that he had no objection, but why the
elder ? The other was

' To carry your things, dear,' explained Helena.
' Dorothy is not so strong.'

Harold then said, rather hastily, that he thought the
plan hard on Auberon.

' Quentin shall come too, if he likes,' said Helena,
relenting, — and ruining her position by relenting, like a
girl. For the die was cast, and since her confidential
exchange with Mr. Auberon, on the subject of their
engagement to one another in the columns of the ' Post,'
Mr. Auberon as such had ceased to exist. Christian names
all round were the rule of that expedition ; dating from
about the third hour after their meeting at Keswick, the
rule had to be firmly made.

Later on, having Harold alone for a short period, she
showed him her mother's letter. He had, of course, to be
shown it, and it was better, during first discussion, that
Quentin should not be there. Quentin had vanished
temporarily over the horizon, to discover the way, with
the aid of his own special map, which was better than
Falkland's. Mr. Falkland and his sister were sitting side
by side under a wall, — a very wet wall, with draughty gaps
in it, — Mrs. Falkland would have died, had she known.
There was a faint gleam of sun, — a reflection of a kind of
design, on the sun's part, to come out, if possible, for their
benefit later on, — and it lit up a few of Helena's little
gold-dust wisps of hair, which the wind had loosened
previously. Her eyes were on the point of her stick, in the
roadway, — Harold's fixed, in a dreamy rapture, on his
boots. It seemed a pity to break his reverie on that

302 THE ACCOLADE

subject, but Helena had to do it. She had been making up
her mind to it, for some time past. So she handed him,
with a comment, her letter.

Harold looked it over carelessly : he seldom read his
mother's letters completely through, and this seemed just
in her usual style.

' What the deuce ' he said, his attention riveted

half-way.

' I expect we had better go,' said Helena, still looking
in front of her. ' It's kind of her, as Mother says.'

Harold, having glanced at her rather anxiously, re-read
Ursula's note with care. There was a leisured languor about
that note, together with a point-device propriety, which
made the civility seem particularly deliberate. Mrs. Ingestre
was not being obliged to ask them, — it was her own idea.

Well then, — he could not be there, thought Harold.
There was no mention of him. He had gone fooling off
somewhere on his own, sporting probably, since he was
that kind of chap. But in that case, why did Helena look
so — well — and why on earth should she want to go ?

' I don't understand it,' he said briefly. ' Why should
we go ? What can she want with the gang of us ? There
isn't one of us she really knows. Besides '

' Perhaps she wants Quentin/ said Helena. Her fair brow
was strained a little as she watched her stick. She did so hate
deceiving Harold, — hated it ! Why should fate be so hard ?

' Well, I don't suppose for a minute Auberon wants to
go,' said Harold. ' No more do I much, to tell the truth.'

' You think I'd better refuse, then ? ' There was the
same alarming languor in her manner that he remembered
that night at the ball, an expression as of one entranced
or mesmerised by something, — distant music, or memory.
In his active sister, — in surroundings such as these, — it was
terrible. It reinforced his suspicion, too, that she knew the
fellow to be there. The question was on his lips, but he
could not ask it. Her dreamy dignity held him up.

' I think you'd better refuse,' he assented gravely after
a pause.

THE SELF-DECEIVER 303

' Wouldn't you come with me, if I wanted you ? ' For one
terrible minute, he thought she was going to cry. And she
turned her eyes to his, beseeching, — it was not to be borne.

' Oh, of course, if you want, I will,' he said hastily.
' Just as you think best. We needn't bother Auberon to go,
that's all. It's only a night she asks us, is it ? '

' Two nights,' said Helena.

' Good,' said Harold.

He did not mean it was good, of course, — far from it ;
but he was toiling inwardly, and coming by degrees to a
bold resolution. Could a consultation, a comparison of
impressions, on such a tricky question as this, by any
means be arranged with Auberon ? Harold consulted him
about nearly all other problems in life. It was distinctly
difficult, but it presented a gleam of possible future light
in Harold's gloom, — about as much as the sun was offering
to light their day. With luck, and care, it might be done.

Harold and Quentin left Helena on the first or inferior
peak to enjoy the view, piled all their food, maps, and
encumbrances, and most of their clothing, round her, and
climbed the second or superior peak alone. Going up, no
man could talk, owing to nature's limitations. On the top,
no man could talk, confidences anyhow, because of the
wind. The confidences would have been carried into several
counties. Besides, as usual on the tops of things, there was
another person there, of a kind no one ever wants to meet
anywhere, in a checked cap. Coming down, however, by a
zigzag path that took things easy among rough gorse and
fern, on the side remote from Helena and her lady's peak,
and with nothing but a black-faced sheep, at times, to over-
hear,— which inquisitiveness Harold discouraged with small
stones, — he put the Ingestre invitation before Auberon,
just by way of preliminary, to get his general ideas.

Auberon's general idea was that he had to be back in
town that Saturday night, and couldn't, thanks. He did
not even say he was sorry, — perhaps he was not. He did
not chop courtesies with Harold.

THE ACCOLADE

Harold, looking bothered, said, ' dash, then they had
better refuse.'

' Why ? ' said Quentin. No more.

But there you were, — Harold told him. He hoped he
was not betraying his sister's confidence in so doing, — but
then, Helena had never confided in him, if you came to

that. And really, if any man in the world was safe He

told him the whole thing rapidly and curtly, with infinite
relief, for he had told no one freely yet. With his father,
he had had, all the same, to pick and choose, or the good
Captain would have stumped off incontinently to call
Ingestre out. With Mrs. Shovell, Harold had not spoken
out, because the temptation to imply the half, in her
company, had been too much for him. Auberon, of course,
by one means and another, got it all, not only implied, but
stated. He told Harold not to be an ass, and to say what
he meant, several times. He ejaculated ' why,' and
' what,' and such simple particles, and glanced over the
three or four counties which their situation dominated,
with his steely eyes. Eagle's eyes, Helena called them ;
they had that setting, and high, imperial look.

When Harold's confession was complete, he said nothing
at once in commentary, and Harold had a qualm. Of
course he knew his prejudices. Suppose he had ' put him
off ' Helena for good ! That would be frightful, really, —
he had not thought of that.

' Of course, I know Mrs. Ingestre's all right, it's not
that,' he said apologetically, to fill the gap. He had never
quite been able to gather Auberon's opinion on Mrs.
Ingestre. Quentin had interviewed her, or made use of
her in his fashion, several times on different subjects, and
called on her politely once or twice. He spoke of her on
the business side with approval : but Harold had an idea,
all the same, there was something in her he disliked. Her
being married, possibly, — that would be quite enough.
Perhaps merely an ancient vestige of the sentiment that
had led Quentin's father and uncles to besiege Ursula's

THE SELF-DECEIVER 305

father's barn. Blood-feuds, it is true, are a little out of
date, but constitutional antipathies undoubtedly remain ;
and the Auberons and Thynnes were both the kind of family
which reproduces a type, persistently, through the ages.

' And, of course, the invitation's in form,' Harold pro-
ceeded, punctuating his remarks with stones, at sheep.
' And Helena wants it safe enough, but there you are !
It's such a weird idea of the woman to want her, if he's
there, — and weirder still for the girl to want to go, if he's
not, — and the chances are she knows his movements,
curse him, — and the Mater of course is blatantly off the
whole shoot, — and altogether it's a bit rocky, to my ideas,
and I wondered if you '

' I'd let her go,' said Quentin. ' Why shouldn't she ?
D'you mean you don't trust her ? '

Harold was ashamed.

Yes, he thought a lot of Helena, not a doubt of it. How
he got there, Harold could not think, for they never went
at all deep in their daily conversations. They talked
largely about things beneath their eyes, as people do, out
walking, and about the morrow's plans, and about the
weather, — inevitable and fruitful theme. But they talked
as friends talk, who are sure of stable foundations to the
sympathy which expressed itself in these superficial ways.
It was true Helena was an unusually sensible girl ; and
though it was she, quite often, who led the subject, and
though they had plenty of common friends, it is probable
that the discussions of the trio contained less mere careless
and disparaging gossip than that of any other chance
grouping of young London people, at that time disporting
themselves upon English soil.

Altogether, as time went on, Harold refused to be dis-
couraged, at least as to Auberon's side. He only took good
care to avoid the most distant pleasantry as to their being
engaged to one another, — precious good care ! There was
no point in it, since the thing was obviously working in its

3o6 THE ACCOLADE

own way. Whoever the inspired idiot was who had forged
that paragraph, Harold drank to him silently, every night.
He had done excellent mole-work, underground, in Harold's
cause. It would never have struck him, himself, to produce
a match in just that way, but with a queer fellow like
Auberon, — really queer as regarded girls — he might well
have had a worse idea. Quite evidently he felt responsible
from that moment, for Helena, — and that meant so much,
with him. He had to make up to her for something, —
what, Harold could not quite see, unless it was for owning
his own name. He also looked at her a little, not merely
towards her. And when it came to looking at Helena, well —
not to put too fine a point on it, Harold backed the family.

Besides, how could Helena watch Auberon, walk by him,
talk to him for three weeks, day after day, and not realise
that was how a man should be ? He would be a connection
to be proud of, — to eclipse Thomas utterly, once for all ;
and Harold hoped his sister Con would be driven, in the
happy event of Helena's real engagement, to recognise her
own fatal mistake. That is to say, he greatly feared she
must do so. He had already, before the three weeks were
up, committed himself to telling Con, in a letter, that that
amazing bit of impudence in the ' Post,' that had made
the governor so rabid, was not, in Harold's opinion, so far
ahead of actual truth. What always struck Harold most
in Auberon was (he added to Con) his first-rateness, the
kind of thing that seasons a man and makes him last.
His eyesight (Harold's brother-in-law, it will be remem-
bered, wore eye-glasses) was remarkable, he spotted the
most remote objects from the mountain-tops, and his
geography was never out. As to his future, the C.B. was,
of course, speculation, but the betting was on it, in the next
ten years. At least, he would never be one of your arm-
chair philosophers, and his present form was tremendous.
There was indeed, but a single point in which he could be
said to be inferior to Harold's self, — his boots. ... As for
Helena's, they were rotten.

PART V

STRETTO

' WHAT does " stretto " mean, John ? ' said Ursula, one
evening.

He was lying in his chair by the fire, in his favourite
attitude, full-length, hands locked across his eyes, and
she was sitting at the piano. His attitude was one of
attention, but Ursula was fairly well convinced that he
was not attending to her. He did not attend when she
practised, commonly ; and if her studies had caused him
any annoyance, he would most certainly have said so.
At least, one knew where one was, with such as John.
Ursula was a good worker by nature, systematic and
conscientious, and though she might toil among things
she did not fully understand, she toiled well, in a spirit
of willing servitude to a god she recognised. Possibly
this was why, even though she should repeat a passage
twenty times, Johnny bore the noise she made uncom-
plaining : and was able, at need, to abstract his thoughts
completely.

He seemed to have done so now, for ne answered
absently —

' Stretto's the Italian for strict.'

' Strict ? That won't do.' She seemed puzzled.

' In the sense of close, — the opposite of slack. Con-
stricted.' He turned, moved his hands, and took in her
attitude, frowning at the page before her. ' Oh, music,
is it ? ' he said.

' It's the end of a fugue,' said Ursula.

' How many characters in the fugue ? — parts, I should
say. Is it a four-part ? '

309

3io THE ACCOLADE

' I suppose so.' She examined it. ' Yes.'

' Well then, it means that all four characters appear
together on the scene at rather closer quarters than they
did at the start. Whereupon, naturally, the fun begins.
Just as it does in the last act of a good comedy or novel.
See?'

' I see,' said Ursula, ' more or less.'

' It's a decent composer's opportunity,' said Johnny.
' Ripping, it must be, chivying 'em into line.'

' Why don't you write fugues, if it's so amusing ? '
said Ursula.

' Because I can't,' said Johnny simply. ' Anything more ? '

' Oh no, you can go to sleep again. It never occurred
to me a fugue was like a novel.'

' Didn't it ? ' said Johnny, surprised. ' Oh, then,
perhaps it isn't, and I'm wrong. I was only trying to give
you an idea.'

' Oh, I've got the idea, thanks.' She began to play
again. ' A fugue's a good deal — tidier than life,' she said
through the music indistinctly. ' And novels are meant
to be life-like, — that's all.'

' A fugue is tidiness itself,' said Johnny earnestly.
' Blessed order — management — peace. Violet once said
it's like a well-spent day.'

' Did she ? ' Mrs. Ingestre turned. ' I say, that's
rather good.'

' Think so ? ' said Johnny. ' I said it was like the way
you spent a day, not like the way that we did.'

' You and she ? Dear me, how clever of you. I hope
she was flattered.'

' She was, awfully,' said Johnny. ' At being classed
with me. I don't suppose she's got over it yet, if you
asked her.'

' I don't propose to,' said Ursula. Seeming to tire of
the fugue of a sudden, she got out another music-book
from the shelf above her head, and Mr. and Mrs. Ingestre
resumed their avocations.

STRETTO 311

Much later in the evening, when John appeared to be
really asleep, not pretending, beneath his hands, and
Ursula had given up the piano, and recurred to her crochet
in the sofa-corner, out of regard for him, a servant came
into the room. The Routhwick servants were a stage
lower than the Hall servants, in not being so sure of their
appropriate demeanour at all contingencies of life. This
one, having hesitated and glanced at his master a moment,
crossed and spoke to Ursula privately.

' How very extraordinary ! ' Mrs. Ingestre exclaimed,
rising. Then, as her husband started awake, — ' John,
it's that girl.'

' What girl ? ' said Johnny crossly. He did not like
being roused at all.

' Why, that girl who acted for you, — what was it ? —
Celia. The one I sent to Miss Darcy, and Mr. Auberon
knew about. You can't have forgotten,' she added sharply,
' so don't pretend to. She acted rather well.'

Johnny had the appearance of having forgotten because
he was gazing at Ursula blankly, his dark eyes rather
distended. He looked dazed.

' Stretto ! ' he suddenly ejaculated.

' What do you mean ? ' said Ursula, deeply vexed at
such behaviour before the servant.

' Who did she ask for ? ' said Johnny sharply to the
servant.

'You, sir,' said the man. 'But seeing you were asleep '

Ursula frowned. ' I'll go,' she said quietly, and was
moving.

' Indeed you won't,' jerked Johnny, ' if she asked for
me.' The servant stood looking in front of him at nothing,
as seemed to him best. The situation admitted misunder-
standing, to say the least. Yet there was no doubt what-
ever that the girl, looking like a foreign actress, limping
to the side-door of Routhwick, had asked for his master,
and he could but tell the truth. To his surprise, Mrs.
Ingestre showed fight on this occasion.

3i2 THE ACCOLADE

'You had better let me go, John/ she said quietly, flushing
as she spoke. ' It's my business, naturally, — bound to be.'

' Far more likely mine/ said Johnny, — simply to
exasperate her, she was sure. How could he, — and before
the man ? — he was unbearable.

' Show her into the library/ he said to the servant.
' I'll come directly. And — I say — take her some coffee in
there, — she'll be cold/

When the servant had gone, there was a silence, both
recollecting themselves, for the crisis had been unexpected,
for both. Then Johnny, who was on his feet, turned, and
actually apologised.

' Sorry I took the wrong line/ he observed. ' I was
startled rather suddenly awake. I had not thought of
the thing as it might appear to the domestics — let's say,
from the gallery. I hope you — er — see it correctly from
the stalls ? '

' I don't understand you/ said Ursula dully. Her flush
had faded to utter pallor, and she looked ill. She had had
another momentary blinding shock at his insistence, —
could not escape it, of course. That girl too, — it was really
not conceivable. Yet she knew how often he visited Miss
Darcy, especially lately : the link, had he needed it, was
there.

John made a step to her, and took her wrist. 'Look here/
he said, rather low, ' Lord knows we're at cross purposes, in
life, sufficiently. I don't mean to have it about this.
If this is stretto, let's get things straight, as strictly
straight as possible . . . Ursula.' He made her look at
him, by the simple process of saying her name. It was
long, — ages, it seemed to her, since he had spoken it.
And he said it so attractively, so unlike all other men, —
it was unlike all other appellations to her, in that tone.
A woman remembers the lover's tone, in her own name,
infallibly, — in this case, most cruel memory.

' Don't speak to me/ she said, striving with his hand.

' I will speak, and you have to listen. ThisHs not

STRETTO 313

melodrama, on my honour, — do just make an effort and
turn your mind aside. I know you haven't a scrap of
faith in me, and you may be right, — we won't go into that.
But in this instance you are wrong, d'you hear ? There's
an excellent reason why the young person should appear
from the void like this, and ask for me. Another reason,
— different, — d'you understand ? '

' Yes/ she answered faintly.

' Well, next, the young person's line of life, properly
speaking, is the same as mine : and odd though it may
seem, I take those people seriously.'

He looked at her, and she nodded dumbly again.

' Well, lastly, old Darcy thinks the young person is
head-over-ears in love with young Auberon.'

' What ? ' said Ursula. She put her hand to her brow.
It was true, she had heard that, — John had alluded to it
when he got the letter one morning, as a joke. ' Oh, Miss
Darcy's a fuss/ she said. ' I'd not take her word for it/

' Well, will you take my word for it I'm not ? ' said
Johnny. ' Nor's she,— I doubt if she likes me even. I
rather think she despises me, — quite right too/ He waited.
' There are precious few people I'd let despise me, but
she's one. I don't let you, — do you despise me, Ursula ? '

He had no right to do it ! His voice ran through all
its chaffing, charming tones, simply to get her forgiveness
for having hurt her, — because she had openly winced
once, — when he was torturing her every day.

' Is that all right ? ' he persisted, as though he really
needed reassurance.

' It will do/ said Ursula, swallowing. ' I know you can
always — persuade people/

' That's not fair.'

' Well, you're not fair. Let go of me.' He did so and
put his hands behind him. ' You might be more careful
— before the servants/ said Ursula, gathering voice and
dignity again. She could find neither, while his touch was
on her still.

3i4 THE ACCOLADE

' I know, — it was deuced bad management, — my fault.
I should have let you go before me. You were in the right
of it. Are you satisfied ? '

' Yes,' she gasped surrender. When he had gone, she
dropped helplessly back into her place on the sofa again.
She felt shaken and ill, her thoughts unstable. She thought
she believed him, — in this instance, — it was not that. It
was that he should have ventured, in the circumstances,
to touch her, hold her, speak in that tone. Unfair, —
intolerable, — always where she least expected him to be :
always seizing his advantage like that before she could
seize hers : always leaving her worsted, exhausted, even
when he owned that she was right. . . . She hated him,
— yes, she did. She had to hate, — she had no other
earthly security.

She sat long, as it seemed to her, — transfixed, gazing at
the log-fire, with its cheerful irrelevant spurting of sky-
blue flame ; unable to look forward or back, to question
her sensations, or even to wonder greatly. She could not
feel curious about others' remote concerns, when her
own suffering possessed her. Then she heard his voice
again, speaking to the servant, rating him apparently,
anyhow on its sharpest note. He was making a commo-
tion as usual, where none was needed. She supposed she
had better go, and arose wearily.

' Idiocy,' said Johnny, standing in the middle of the hall.
He held a paper in his hand. ' Why couldn't you do what
I told you at once ? '

' Why,' said the first servant to the second, ' couldn't
you show the young lady to the library at once, instead of
leaving her out there ? '

The second servant, though frightened, was a female,
consequently no young ladies for her. ' I only left her in
the entry a minute,' she declared, ' while you went through
to Mr. John. She was in such a state with the wet ' — here
she perceived her mistress, and appealed with confidence

STRETTO 315

beyond — ' that I brought her no farther than the flags,
which I washed myself this morning. Then she gave me
the parcel for Master, and I put it on the hall-table there,
thinking it best. When I went back, she was gone.'

' Gone ? ' said Ursula.

' No sign of her,' said the kitchen-maid positively.

' Go after her,' said Johnny to the man. ' Tell Blandy
to go with you, and take a lantern, and look sharp. I've
got to see her here, and no delay. And you ' — to the girl —
' cut along and tell them I want Rachel, quick — don't stop
chattering, — I'll come to the stable. . . . Gosh, what a
mess ! ' he added, turning at last to his wife, with all his
father's bitterness. ' You'd have thought they had a spark
of sense among them, anyhow up here. I allow the idiots
at the Hall to maunder about, since that's what they think
they're paid for. No farther than the flags, — washed this
morning ! — a girl who'd walked in this weather from
Kettley Mill ! '

' Kettley ? She couldn't/ said Ursula promptly. ' She's
lame.'

' Lame or no, she's done it. She's come from London, —
no other way from the line.' He was in a flame of temper
or agitation, she could not be certain which. ' Where are
my boots ? ' he said, pushing roughly past her.

' Gone to be dried, probably. John, you're never going
out again ? What's the use ? She couldn't get far, — the
men will find her. What can be the fuss ? '

' Nothing, except I don't like it,' said Johnny, his back
turned as he reached down his riding-coat, already drenched
through twice that day. Putting it on, he seemed to make
an effort for self-control. ' Better get in, Ursula, — I'll
explain later. Here, you can take this.' He put a packet
that lay on the hall-table into her hand. ' It's wet,' he
observed. ' Look after it, you'll soon see why. And keep
a fire in the library, will you ? ' he called over his shoulder.
' Drinks and so on, — we might be late.'

Two minutes later she heard the trampling of the horses

3i6 THE ACCOLADE

behind the house, on the stones of the stable-yard, and
saw the flash of lanterns through the back window in the
hall. He meant it actually, — he was going out on the
moor-roads, in the driving rain, to look for that lame girl
in person, when he had been riding all day.

She sat down once more in her place by the fire, too
dazed to be resentful even, quite perplexed. Why should
he be so excited, when he asserted, in a manner she had
had to credit, the girl was nothing to him ? He was really
strange, Johnny, — in later years he might become eccentric,
if he continued to give rein to all his impulses like this.

After a pause, she rang the bell, and asked for the
kitchen-maid to be sent her who had taken part in the
scene in the hall ; and while she waited, she released the
packet John had given her from its wet string and damaged
wrappings.

Wonder overcame her anew when she found the Hope
miniature within it. Wonders accumulated steadily.
Ursula had seen it once or twice before, though she had
never taken much interest in her father-in-law's antiques.
That was an absorption of Johnny's in which she had never
pretended to share. It was a pretty thing, though, the
pearls were good. She turned it round and over, and
finally looked at the painting.

The little pink-robed Marechale smiled at her across one
shoulder, a mystical, mischievous smile. Like Violet, John
had asserted, she remembered, which was partly why she
had not cared to study it too frequently. She saw no
resemblance, it was his fancy. Violet wore that colour
occasionally, but she did her hair quite differently, and had
— to say the least of it — less laxity in fastening up her
clothes. The ease of the Restoration did not appeal to
Ursula. The Marechale had been a bad woman, anyhow,
of that she was convinced. She had left her husband, all
sorts of awful things. She had not been a pretty woman
either, really : there was another portrait of her in the
Hall collection, in which she appeared quite plain. As for

STRETTO 317

this, — the little white shoulder and neck were pretty, but
flattered, of course. The delicate miniature style is
flattering always. And even here she was sharp-featured,
straight-browed, — a minx.

One of the Ingestres, — the one John was writing
about, Ursula had happened to discover, — had been
devoted to her, written her letters and verses, and a
journal intime, and generally done his best to blacken
her memory. He had also fought duels for her, — killed
several people in cold blood, — as John would doubtless
have done for Violet, had he seen a favourable opportunity.
Not for Ursula, of course. None of them had ever been
known to do it yet for the woman who belonged to them.
So Ursula reflected in the bitterness of her spirit : charging
him as usual with that passion for romantic incident and
artifice which was really hers, — since her colourless spirit
thirsted for such adornment, and his could constantly
supply its own.

' Oh, — Hannah,' said Ursula, as the door opened to the
aproned kitchen-maid. ' I just want to know about this.
You let the girl in, didn't you ? She came round to the
side-door ? '

' Yes, ma'am,' said the girl, feeling her apron. She
seemed, for all her plain and stolid appearance, to have
been weeping in the interval.

' How was it ? Don't be frightened. Did she change
her mind about coming in ? '

' No, ma'am : she said from the first she would stop
where she was outside. If I'd thought Master would want

to see her special ' (We translate Hannah, — her

accent being well beyond any pen.)

' Yes, I know,' said Mrs. Ingestre. ' But you might have
brought her in out of the cold, — she is delicate.' She
waited for this to sink in. ' Then it was about waiting she
changed her mind ? '

' Yes, ma'am : took fright of a sudden you'd say '

' Did you say anything to frighten her, any of you ? '

3i8 THE ACCOLADE

The girl twisted her apron again ; the truth was in
Hannah, but she found it hard to express. ' Kate said
she looked like a gypsy,' she burst out. ' I think that's all.
I'd have said tramp myself, she was so muddied.'

' Did she say herself she had walked from Kettley ?
How did your master hear that ? '

' I didn't hear her say so, ma'am, but she looked it and
more. Perhaps it was in the note that Master had,' Hannah
added after a moment.

' Ah, she gave you a note as well ? '

' Yes, ma'am, all tied up, the note and the two packets.
I left them for Mr. John in the hall.'

Ursula corrected the title mechanically ; she did not
like the younger servants using it, whatever the men might
do. She would not be Mrs. John herself, either, — it sounded
so middle-class. She was extremely particular about such
details, always, however distressed or distracted she
might be.

' Two packets,' she said. ' Then there was another
packet too ? '

' Yes, ma'am, books or something. There's the note
still, ma'am, in the hall,' ventured Hannah after a pause.
' It's crumpled a little, — Master threw it down.'

' How like him,' thought Ursula. She had no doubt
Hannah had read the crumpled note in crossing the hall,
but she remained calm. ' You can bring it,' she said, ' and
then make up the library fire. That's all.' She was still
curious about the other packet, but had demeaned
herself, in her judgment, enough. She gave her orders,
easily and firmly, to Hannah, and took the note from
her with indifference.

The chances were, of course, that all the kitchen were
discussing her and him, and the little third party whose
dramatic entrance and exit had been quite in John's
favourite style. Added to that, his own uncontrolled
behaviour had been enough to spur gossip, especially in
such benighted parts as theirs. Ursula had little faith in

STRETTO 319

the outer respectability of these Yorkshire people, their
cumbrous honesty and impassive devotion. She observed
they liked her husband, people always did : — Hannah had
been crying because he said three cross words to her
probably. But that such feeling would deter them from
ill-natured jibing at his expense, or at hers, she did not
suppose, for a moment.

Consequently, she had a pang of relief to find the note
Hannah handed her was in French : — that at least would
be beyond them.

' Sir,' said the note, in a fine foreign hand. ' Here is
your picture. Will you give this to Mr. Auberon ? Your
faithful servant/

That was all, — no name.

Well then, why had John been so frightened ? That was
simple enough. Looking back, she saw his behaviour now
as anxiety, or apprehension. The note was sober and
straightforward, and respectfully expressed : even a prying
menial could have found nothing in it. Had there been
another note for Mr. Auberon which he had also read ?
A book, the girl said : a small book too, since John had
pocketed it. Ursula now remembered having seen him put
something away.

And why Mr. Auberon ? Why his name so introduced ?
There was new food for speculation in that. She remem-
bered Miss Darcy's report, which John repeated lately.
Could there be anything really in it ? Could a child of that
age be really in love with him ? Of course, Ursula was
ready to admit his attraction. What if he should return
the feeling ? The girl was a gypsy, as the cook said, — a
little witch. What in that case became of the scheme for
attaching him to Helena ? — But Ursula could not believe
it ; he was not at all that sort of man. It was John's
nonsense, and Miss Darcy's everlasting fussing, no more.

Out of sheer curiosity, for she was very tired, she

320 THE ACCOLADE

remained up till midnight. She heard the rain not falling,
but thundering down, — raining as it can only rain in our
beloved island's mountain districts, — splashing on the
drenched court and strong stone-work of the house. It
had been so raining, more or less, for forty-eight hours :
awful weather, as even the natives said. The Mule, their
neighbouring river, was raging high, threatened such floods
as were remembered in John's childhood, five-and-twenty
years ago. The old bridge at Kettley, the nearest crossing
to Routhwick, was in danger, and would doubtfully stand
the strain of the volume of mountain water that shouldered
and surged past, overpowering the huge limestone blocks
that paved its course the length of the dale. Ursula had
that day heard her servants discussing it, in the dialect
she hated, — which John loved, and could imitate, at need,
superbly well. He often went into the kitchen to talk to
them. She had found him there that very morning, sitting
on the table, drying his wet clothes by a splendid fire, and
while he attended to the cook's discourse, breaking bits to
nibble off the great curling sheets of oatcake she had
suspended from the beam. Conversation was curtailed
when ' the mistress ' entered, naturally ; but she had heard
that fact about the bridge, and about the bad floods further
down the valley where it opened out towards the town.

However, rain or no, none of the men came back to the
house before one o'clock, though once she heard barking,
and speculated whether they had returned to let loose the
dogs. That was dangerous, — the dogs were fierce, — unless
John himself were there. He could manage them, naturally,
as Ursula could herself, at need. He and she were dog-
lovers, and had trained many in partnership. But it was
hopeless their following scent in this rain, she wondered
it should be attempted, but that Johnny rated his dogs'
intellect above their patient noses. He was clever as a
dog himself, resourceful, prompt, no means would escape
him, so far as any means were available in the rain-sodden,
pitch-black night.

STRETTO 321

Ursula grew bored, extremely. Prompt for practical
means herself, she was not rich in mental commentary or
imagination. She tried to comment on her husband's
proceeding, but comment in every direction was blocked.
The rules by which he lived, if he had rules, were dark to
her : the things that bulked important, or stirred him to
the quick, were never hers. There were but two lines of
explanation of his present conduct open, really, if he were
not urged by a shameful interest in the girl : the everlasting
obligation of justice, and the universal service owed to
youth. Of the former Ursula had at present no inkling, the
second she would not face ; only, as time went on, her
hand pushed the miniature, little by little, away from her,
— why ? She saw no likeness there to her first little rival :
and never for a moment — not for more than a moment —
did those scenes before her marriage, when the beautiful
enigma of childhood first struck him, in her despite, come
up. Why in any case should she he troubled by flashes of
his face in youth to-night ? He was hers no longer : dead,
or else she was. She was frozen, she greatly preferred
to be.

He reminded her of it himself anew, when he at last
came in, dripping, and would do nothing but stand by the
dark window of the library, watching, as though he still
longed to be out.

' She's a kid,' said Johnny, in answer to all his wife's
arguments and representations. It was long before she
could make him leave the window, the relentless roar of the
rain, and come near, or at least nearer, to the warmth and
comfort she had prepared.

After a time he told 'her a little of what they had been
doing, not much ; it was not interesting, being nothing
but search and enquiry, totally unrepaid ; and he told her,
when more closely pressed, some history, — the history
of the Marechale's portrait. He told it in his manner,
which was not Quentin's ; for, in the intervals of his
inquisitions and explorations, during those dark hours past,

322 THE ACCOLADE

he had been coming, by quick intuitive stages, to quite a
different conclusion.

' The thing's been sold, you see,' said Johnny, ' and for
a song.'

Ursula did not see it, so he had to explain to her, while
he dried. He showed her what she had altogether failed
to notice, a small label hanging to the miniature ring.
The sum of five pounds was clearly marked on the label.

' You mean it was sold for five pounds ? ' ejaculated
Ursula.

' No, for less : two or three, probably. Five was the
sum for which she bought it back.'

' She bought it ? She couldn't, — she's no money.'
. ' Well, made him,' said Johnny. ' It's all the same.'
As Ursula stared, he went on, in a manner of certainty
which amazed her. ' The man got hold of it, — her father,
— by some means, I shall see what presently, if I can't
guess first ; and sold it, of course, — luckily to a fool who
didn't know its value, or we'd have been done, for good ;
and the girl never even learnt of the loss till Auberon was
suddenly down on her. ... I don't blame Auberon, mind,
I put him up to it, — thought myself jolly clever too, — I'd
have sworn she was the thief. . . . But I used him, see ? —
being rushed in London : and he used his methods, which
are probably — er — less elastic than mine, see ? — and it
never struck me that we might both be wrong, and if so,
guilty of rank brutality, — the rankest on the list.' As Ursula
had no comment or question, he added pensively, leaning
back against the tall chimney-piece, — ' Because she was
in love with him all the time.'

' That's only Miss Darcy's idea ' began Ursula.

' It isn't, it's mine,' snapped Johnny. ' You've got to
believe it. Nothing else explains the case.'

' The note, you mean ? I read the note,' mentioned Ursula .

' Hang the note ! Nothing else explains the whole
position. It simply won't bear any other interpretation.
D'you hear ? '

STRETTO 323

' I hear. Don't be so cross, John. Why don't you go to
bed, if you're tired ? '

' I can't.'

His eyes moved to the window, furtively as it were. He
had turned his shoulder to her, but his fingers were snap-
ping unconsciously, hanging at his side. Every inch of him
was impatience baffled, energy foiled. She could not but
observe it. He did not waste breath saying that it was
wholly extravagant, unheard of, that a child of sixteen in
quite low water should travel from London to Yorkshire
in order to restore him his small piece of property in person,
and then, oblivious of possible profit or reward, vanish into
the wilderness again. It fell in easily, as it seemed, with
John's conception of the girl : a conception picked up at
random, since he could at most have had only a few
scattered glimpses of her ; whereas Ursula had had the
benefit of a prolonged and searching enquiry, the whole
object of which had been Miss Jacoby's religious practice
and principles, and had dismissed her at the end in very
fair security. Not that it was the first time, of course, that
John's views and Ursula's upon a young female had failed
to coincide, — that was always happening ; but in this case
his rush of ready conviction, indifferent as it were, seemed
threatening to disturb her own.

' What was it she left for Mr. Auberon ? — a letter ? '
she asked.

' A book.' His hand moved to his pocket. ' Her journal.
Of course the whole evidence is there.'

' John ! Why don't you look, then ? '

' I can't,' he said again, frowning. ' Can't you see ? '

Ursula found she had to ' see/ since his manner really
allowed her no escape. She disliked the necessity, conscious
of being swept from her everyday bearings into a larger,
darker world, the world into which, all this time, he had
been looking steadily.

' What do you think — she's done ? ' she said, nervously.

' I hope that one of the sixty odd people I have warned

324 THE ACCOLADE

to-night have arrested her. I've been at two stations and
all the inns, and most of the farms, and driven my wishes
into their thick skulls all I know.'

' Yes ? ' said Ursula.

' I hope that. And I fear '

' Don't, John ! ' She broke in ~pon him. ' She — she
couldn't, at her age.'

' No child-suicides in the world, are there ? ' he said.
' Did you ever look at the statistics ? '

' There aren't, here.' So spoke the Englishwoman,
obstinately.

' Well, and she didn't belong here. She belonged — that
of her that didn't belong to the stars — to the most neurotic
nation in Europe, — and she showed it too, at every turn.
I was frightened a bit, that time she acted. So was Fanny,
though she didn't say much. I bet she was thinking the
same. Kid was all right in the shop, you know, — the trade,
I don't mean that. She wanted working hard, though,
working to death, — some of them do. She never seemed
quite — I'm speaking in the past tense,' said Johnny,
breaking off of a sudden. ' I don't want to, I want to keep
sight of all the chances. There are other chances, of course,
— perhaps I'm a fool. But it feels bad to me, distinctly
bad. Since we're alone I don't mind saying so. I know the
sort, you know, — I've so to speak met it about. . . . And
the river's there,' he added.

Ursula remained transfixed and staring, while he spoke.
' The river ? ' she repeated after him uncomfortably.
' It's dangerous, of course, — the bank's steep near the
road.'

' Dangerous, that's it,' agreed Johnny. ' Jolly danger-
ous.' His dark eyes, unusually brilliant, pierced her
passingly, above the clouds of his own steam. The hot
fire had penetrated him by this time, and he was steaming
like a volcano. Ursula put out a hand to feel his sleeve,
and for once he let her, tamely.

' I don't know why you always like to think — the worst,'

STRETTO 325

she said resentfully, replying to the look, as she dropped
the hand.

' Face it,' substituted Johnny. ' Better to face the
worst, along with the other chances. Then you can look
at 'em, and compare, and take the most probable, can't
you ? ' She said nothing, so he elaborated. ' It might be
an accident, as you say. She might have left the road, and
walked along the bank to — er — see the view, and got too
near, and slipped in, mightn't she ? Only it's not probable,
because you don't see views at midnight : and as for
warning, the beck itself would warn her, fast enough.
The Mule's making a bit of a noise to-night. Listen ! ' He
threw back his head.

Ursula did not listen. ' Well,' she said, as coolly as she
could, folding her hands, ' being so clever, what do you
propose to do ? '

' Oh, — er — much what you would have done if it had
been an accident,' said Johnny, turning tiresome at once,
as soon as he had divined her curiosity. ' Because the
results would be just the same in the two cases. Specially
in a stream as quite considerably out of hand as the Mule
is this evening.'

' Don't talk like that,' said Ursula in her repressive tone.
Johnny let himself be repressed : he did not seem much to
want to be otherwise.

' I must write to Auberon,' was his next remark, after a
space of motionless reflection against the chimney-piece.
' I wired, but I said I was writing, so I must.' He felt for
his pen.

' You needn't, now/ protested Ursula. ' Do leave it till
the morning.'

He merely said he must, while it was fresh. He had to
tell Auberon just what he had done, and meant to do, to
spare his coming uselessly from London. Of course, one
man was enough : and Johnny was, or had been, equally
concerned.

Ursula refused to see that he was the least responsible.

326 THE ACCOLADE

So far as she could gather from his account, in the practical
matter of the theft, he had only done what anyone would
do. She did not see why they should be further concerned
with it, really. The girl, having played off her little coup,
her little score, as John would say, had gone back to her
disreputable father, probably. It was only vexatious that
Ursula should ever have been beguiled into recommending
her, — a girl who played tricks on men like Mr. Auberon and
John. However, it was no use arguing with her husband,
in this state. She let him go his way.

' Mr. Auberon won't be back in town till Monday/ she
observed presently. ' He's still at that place above Kendal.
The Falkland girl knows his movements, and she's coming
to us to-morrow.'

' Is she ? ' said Johnny absently. He was writing.
' Kendal then,— I'll send to both.'

' If you'd spoken to me before you went out,' said Ursula
after another interval, moralising in a quiet room, ' you
needn't have wasted a telegram.'

' It won't be wasted, it'll get round,' said Johnny, still
absent. Of course, he would never allow her to be right :
that was inconceivable. He played with his report to
Mr. Auberon for some time, — he did not seem to be thinking
much about it, smoking, and fidgeting about, and looking
out of the window. ' Fidgeting ' was Ursula's word,
ridiculously inappropriate to his lazy, easy movements.
But then John did everything by means of appearing
not to do it : Ursula had never seen him sit seriously down
to a thing in his life. How he got through his letters, she
never could imagine, considering the variety and voracity
of his correspondents : yet he managed somehow to content
them all, and he contented himself, by the things he wrote,
enormously. He covered a sheet or two, to his satisfaction,
to-night. After that he wrote to Miss Darcy that the
Mare"chale had turned up, and he hoped to send her news
of the other young person shortly, — Ursula never even
suggested this, it was his own idea. Then at last he could

STRETTO 327

be persuaded to settle, or sleep if so inclined, in his chair.
Move to the upper floor he would not, — Ursula began to
wonder if he meant to stay there all night. But he might
be intending to migrate to his log-house as soon as she left
him in peace : he had all the materials for camping there,
since it was his pleasure to believe he could use it if he
wished. In ways like that, he was a schoolboy. Wherever
he was he liked to have a corner, a retreat, — played, as it
were, with his independence. Ursula had grown used to it :
she even had a theory that he had done it in youth to
escape from his father, and had made the habit too young
to break it easily.

Now she might have left him to his devices, — she was
tired out, — only she did not want solitude at present : she
felt safer, curiously, at his side. The idea that he could
face the chance of that girl drowning herself, on a nasty
wet night like this, calmly as he did, or at least easily, — it
stirred very unpleasant sensations. She tried to believe it
was his nonsense, love of posing, love of teasing her, — such
a thing could not remain sober possibility by the light of
day. Yet he had not looked light-minded when he talked,
the contrary : and he was certainly putting himself out in
an unusual degree.

She decided to converse, at last, as the least of evils.
Thinking wearied her so. Unluckily as soon as she wished
for conversation, John seemed more inclined to go to sleep.
However, whenever her nervous little observations reached
him, he was pleasant enough ; at least he did not snap, as
he had done when he first came in.

' They say Kettley bridge is dangerous,' she remarked
once, in the growing stillness of the room : forgetting
he had heard when she did. ' The engineer's been down to
look at it.'

' So they told me,' said Johnny, stirring. ' I crossed it
twice this evening.'

' John ! ' She jumped. ' How could you ? '

' It was quite easy,' said Johnny, arranging his arms

328 THE ACCOLADE

behind his head. ' And by the same token, though it's been
damned — condemned — since this morning, that ass Levin-
son had never set a watch. Anyone could get across it, —
so I did, on Rachel.'

' But why ? '

' Quickest way to the line, of course ; I wanted to be at
the station before the up-train. It's my bridge, not
Levinson's,' added Johnny, as though that had anything
to do with it.

Kettley Bridge had been for a century back a bone of
contention between the two families who owned land on
either side of the Mule. Ursula, of course, knew the story,
— indeed, living with Johnny, she had heard too much of
it. There had been a Suit in Chancery, or something of
that sort, on the subject, in the time of John's grandfather,
the Ingestre of the day : who had, to the disgust of his
descendant, lost the case. Kettley Bridge, its rights, and
its reparation, were adjudged to the other party, with
whose present representative, Lord Levinson, the Ingestres
had naturally picked as many quarrels as possible, ever
since. But the bridge remained the sorest point : and

rsula, glancing at John's face, suspected him of being
secretly pleased, now that the ' ass ' Levinson had proved
himself so palpably unworthy of his charge. It consoled
Johnny for much, that fact ; even for the prospect of the
whole of the Routhwick inhabitants being forced, in the
event of the bridge's collapse or disablement, to go eight
miles round to the railway.

She returned to the immediate matter of his recklessness
in riding over. She talked for some time about it, and
Johnny listened to the lecture, eyes cast down. ' You
might have sent somebody,' was her final remark.

' My best enemy ? ' enquired Johnny. ' I say, you
ought to have been a mediaeval baron's wife.' He added,
as though recollecting for her benefit, — ' I didn't notice
any cracks going across, — nor did Rachel, or she'd have
let me know. I expect Levinson's engineer's a fool.'

STRETTO 329

' Anyone but you, of course,' said Ursula.

' I should have been sorry to lose Rachel/ said Johnny,
after a prolonged silence. Ursula had thought he was
asleep, but he seemed to have been thinking it over.

She found no reply, so the subject dropped.

II

' The bridge is gone/ was his first remark the next
morning. He greeted her with it when she came down-
stairs. ' One pier is breached completely, and the rest will
go in the day. I say, the river's colossal. You'll have to
come and look.'

It was still raining without, though less furiously, and
from a slightly clearer sky ; but even that, in other parts
of the country, would have been called a very wet day.
However, since it was evident that most of her household
had turned out to look at the Mule in spate, Mrs. Ingestre
did likewise. It was certainly, in its way, a thrilling sight,
and stirred even her apathy a little. There was a vast
quantity of water, — three times as much as usual, — four,
five times, it was useless to calculate, — and it was making
a great noise. She had heard the noise in the night as she
lay awake, and had some thoughts of thankfulness that
the house had not been built nearer to such a clattering
stream. Ursula did not go as far as the bridge, naturally,
not having breakfasted, — that was a mile away ; but the
country people and servants, standing in groups about the
steep bank with skirts or kerchiefs over their heads,
pointed her out a piece of the masonry, with an obliterated
figure of the bridge's date upon it, which had been swept
down as far as Routhwick gates.

Ursula looked at it, vaguely impressed ; the thing had
once been an object in the landscape, certainly ; but she
could not have John's feelings, who had known Kettley
bridge from his earliest years. He had been up early,

330 THE ACCOLADE

— if he had slept at all, — and talked to everyone, including
Lord Levinson's engineer, through his hands, across the
river : though he carefully abstained from addressing that
worthy proprietor himself.

' He's chiefly pleased with himself for having said so,
yesterday,' said Johnny sarcastically, of the engineer.
' And when I asked if Levinson would build it up during
the next half -century, he said nothing ; or at least,
nothing that I could understand.'

' Perhaps Lord Levinson was too near him/ said Ursula.

' Or perhaps,' suggested Johnny, ' he had never been
taught to speak.' He had to score over that engineer
somehow. ' Bridge went at about three o'clock,' he added
pensively. ' Jove, I wish I'd been there ! '

' And you crossed it '

' About five hours previously. Five hours too soon,'
said Johnny, as he walked back to the house at her side.
' Too soon for the fun, of course, I mean.'

Ursula wished he would not be so silly. He had done
the same thing the night before, hinting, — it annoyed her.
It was simply boasting, — John was not the least the kind
of man to kill himself, or to let himself be killed tamely,
in any circumstances. She felt a good deal more secure
than Johnny's own mother had felt, as to that. He was
too fond of his own comfort, for one thing, not to say his
own appearance. The wife's view of the husband is
biassed a little after, say, ten years' matrimony at his side,
by the fact that she must provide food and easy chairs
for him, in all circumstances. A civilised home-keeping
wife, like Ursula, seldom sees her man in the most flattering
circumstances, — she invariably sees him in the least flatter-
ing, and beyond escape. She has to take much on faith,
in short : and since Ursula's faith in her young man was
limited, and since he swept her out of the way whenever
he turned active, or took things in earnest, she had little
chance to improve her views.

She had not seen him, for instance, that morning, when lie

STRETTO 331

stood at break of day by the wrecked bridge of his childhood,
and looked at all the water-spirits of the white Mule, whiter
in the dawn, broken loose, glutted with conquest, careering
down the dale. It was a spectacle to go to the heart of any
hill bred man. Johnny always upheld the Yorkshire rivers
against all native rivals, against the Scotch, against the
Welsh, — even against that majestic Dart, set in golden
bracken and age-worn rock, which Helena, very properly,
had advanced against him once in conversation. Standing
there, watching the Mule's mad race, letting himself be
bemused by its innumerable noises, he had wanted Helena
instantly, instinctively, — just to show her how wrong she
was ! She was in every outburst of Nature's glory for
him, as the beloved always is for those that haunt the
shrine. This was his country, his own beck, he could have
sketched her the shape of every rock in sight from that
bridge, — those rocks which were now overwhelmed and
formless with white water. He had washed there, waded
there, plunged in midday heat into the shadowed pools,
he was king of every curve of that water-way, simply by
right of knowing it, not because his father owned the land.
So he drew Helena into his reverie, being his own as well,
sharing his raptures of necessity : and they watched it
together in the slowly-growing light.

Nor had his wife seen him the night before, when he
devoted himself for several hours of unrelaxing effort to
the quest for the other girl, the lost one ; directing half
a dozen assistants, and not sparing himself. That, his
business incarnation, she hardly knew better than his
imaginative one. This morning too, before Ursula found
and fed him, he had been about the work again : examining
the various nets he had spread over-night, to see if that
little fish were caught in one of them ; and again at table
he was absent rather, put out and puzzled by his unsuccess.
Jill might have been a ghost or a fairy, she had passed so
utterly disregarded. • Yet she was a figure to attract the
Yorkshire attention, lame and un-English, her hair queerly

332 THE ACCOLADE

dressed and her accent peculiar, — most outlandish to
their views. Ursula put that point as she made the coffee,
and John seemed to accept it, for a time.

Then he broke out with a theory of her genius, — that
those who can act at all, can act anything. Having got
his coffee out of Ursula's deliberate hands, and feeling
happier in consequence, he elaborated this view, carrying
it to absurd extremes, as soon as she objected. When Jill
passed the ticket-collector, he said, — always granted she
came by rail at all, — she was looking exactly as plain and
cantankerous as one of the Leeds mill-girls, whom she had
been studying in the train. When she enquired the way
to Routhwick, — as she must have had to enquire from
somebody, — she was looking exactly as Londonified and
pretty-pretty as one of those girls from the other place,
summoned urgently from the south to join the Routhwick
staff.

' Do you mean the housemaid at the Hall ? ' said Ursula
patiently.

Yes, Johnny meant her : the one with all the hair, a
most loathsome female. That little girl Hannah last night,
the one that washed the flags, was ten times her superior.

' You didn't think so at the time,' said Ursula. ' You
frightened poor Hannah, — she had been crying when she
came to me.'

Johnny seemed interested, but not remorseful. It did
not hurt any of them to cry at times. He explained it was
really because his standard for the Routhwick girls was
so elevated. She could tell Hannah that, if she liked, or
he would if he happened to see her. The chances were,
to-day, that he would be doing other things.

Ursula took this to indicate that he would not be found
in the kitchen in the middle of the working-morning :
which was as well for the household order generally, and
the steadiness of the younger maids. Nor was he : she
saw little of him all day.

When the belated post came in, — delayed by the floods,

STRETTO 333

or the bridge's collapse, so Ursula vaguely comprehended,
— he was there, appeared as it were from nowhere, and
claimed his part. Ursula had a card from Helena Falk-
land, which she kept : and though his eye was on it, he
asked no question. She also had a long and piteous screed
from old Miss Darcy, which she handed to John, having
glanced it through with a shrug. He took it away, with
the rest of his things, to study in retirement, or on horse-
back, or ranting about the grounds, — whatever he had
immediately in prospect : she did not ask.

As the day proceeded he grew wilder, more oddly
radiant, like his mood of the night before with a difference,
the sulkiness or nervousness was swept away. Why not ?
Helena's spirit had been with him in the dawn, as he stood
by the river ; and all day long her body was drawing
nearer, by the devious dawdling lines from Kendal. He
felt it was : he had no need of time-tables or post cards :
he was sure.

Ursula chased him after luncheon, since he did not come
in for that meal, enquired of everybody, found he had been
in most places, and ran him down finally in his own log-
house in the Lyke-wood, at about three o'clock. She met
coming away from the log-house as she approached it a
person who saluted her, and whom she just recognised as
the police-constable from Egstone, their nearest town.

' Well ? ' said Johnny impatiently : as though she had
not at least as much right there as the police.

' I only wanted to know your intentions,' said Ursula,
with beautiful moderation, and in an agreeable tone.

' What about ? ' He did not lift his eyes to hers.

' Those children, — the Falklands. Are you going to
meet them ? Because if not, I must. They will have to
come right round by Egstone, and that's eight miles.'

' I know,' said Johnny. ' I told them at the stable.
Eight miles is nothing on a decent road.'

' Then you're going ? '

' Of course.'

334 THE ACCOLADE

' Of course,' thought Ursula. It was not his habit to
meet the lady visitors. It was only this visitor he was
bound to meet. Yet she had not been certain he would go :
he had been so odd, lately. ' I wasn't sure/ she said
aloud, ' if you knew the train.'

' There's only one they could come by/ said Johnny.
' Now get out, — do you mind ? '

A spurt of sheer rudeness, just like him : and when
there was not the least necessity. Ursula wished he would
at least preserve the forms. At times he did, even in
private, and always before the world. But she could not
count on him ; every now and then he would give her
these cruel starts, unforewarned, showing her, as it were,
the truth, — the clean, naked, paralysing truth she wished
not to look upon.

She surprised herself in the wood by a sob, — she who
never cried. It was wicked of him, it really was, — what
did he mean by it ? For a minute she felt like a child,
as helpless, and as mindless too. She was tired, tired of
trying to follow him, cling to him through all his blinding
changes; she was dazed, it was all a work for which she
was not made. How could he clasp her wrist and speak
her name as he had done last night, and then level a blow
at her, across her face, such as lay in the manner and tone
of that last sentence ? It was wearing her out, slowly and
surely. She could not go on so, for a lifetime. She might
be driven to ask mercy soon.

That his manner was always directly influenced by hers,
she did not know : for she flattered herself she had but
one manner. Whenever she was thoroughly false in look
and tone, he shrank and struck out instinctively. The
night before she had been peaceable and ordinary, a pleasant
background in wife-like guise, — she had not disturbed
him, and he had let her be. He had even amused her a
little. For a short period she had been — quite unaware to
herself — piteous, and really appealing. It was then he had
reassured her, and taken her hand. Insensitive as she

STRETTO 335

was, the million shades of manner in mortal intercourse
had no effect upon Ursula ; she could only say when John
was nice, and when he was cruel to her. That she knew.

It drew her unwilling tears, now in the little wood. She
had to stand, resting against a writhen oak, and recover
herself. Life, at that instant, came to a stand-still :
misery, weariness, was all her world. She wished she had
not asked Helena, she did not want the effort of enter-
taining her. She saw how it would be : John would be
brilliant and delightful, — he was furbishing himself for it,
pluming himself for a display, anyone could see. She
would be at her worst, fail to retain her place, struggle
vainly for a full share of her rights, and of course collapse.
The girl would see it: he intended to show his power, sacrifice
her : that was his revenge, — and her last card was played.

She went slowly back to the house, when her limbs felt
stronger. On the way she bethought herself, and diverted
to the stable.

' Mr. John will go to the station, Jarvis,' she said. ' You
need not drive round to the front. Only take plenty of
rugs, won't you. It's rather late for a long drive.'

' Yes 'm/ said the man. He had his orders already, but
that was illicit as he recognised, behind-scenes, since a
young lady was arriving. His mistress never failed her
part, however her husband trespassed on her functions.
The servants felt, and admired, that immutable standard
of dignity, serenity in all circumstances,which she possessed.
He made no single disrespectful commentwhen she had gone.

' Mrs. Ingestre looks ill,' he said to his colleague in the
yard. ' I'd some hope this air would set her up, better
than it's done.'

' Ah,' said the other man, pleasantly agreeing.

' It's a pity, too,' added Jarvis, ' when it suits Mr. John
so well.'

' Folks is different,' said the other man, half-audibly.
He was almost buried under hay.

336 THE ACCOLADE

Harold the philosopher, during the abundant leisure of
their tiresome journey, wondered more than once if that
cad Ingestre, — granted he was at Routhwick, which Harold
could hardly credit of his impudence, — would have the
face to come to the station. He hoped not. . . .

Not that he had any doubts of being able to stand up to
him in perfect style, especially where Helena was in question,
however much glitter or ' side ' Ingestre might offer to
disconcert him. Harold needed not the resource of ' side,'
his own destined attitude of sublime contempt having a
perfectly solid foundation. There was no attacking it.
A man, already the husband of somebody else, who could
make Helena look — well, as she was looking now, sitting
in her further corner, with her head leaning against the
cushion, — when there was a fellow like Auberon only
needing a little time and tactful management to marry her,
was a man whom ah1 righteous, not to say all exquisite
persons, barred. Harold ' barred ' him. He offered him
the renowned black ball. Ingestre might think himself
superior, but he was not in it, simply nowhere. Harold
had thought about it from all possible points of view, and
he was sure.

Helena, meanwhile, was contentedly, dreamily certain
that the end of the tiresome journey meant his — Mr.
Ingestre's face. He was still that to her, he kept his title,
his crown, even though he had held her in his arms. She
loved her brother and Quentin, they had been very good
to her, cared for her beautifully, smoothed all obstacles,
shown her, with the least effort possible, wondrous things.
Men were all nice, — Helena had that happy experience, —
but he was nicest, and noblest : and she would see him soon.

She only wanted to see him, to be sure that he still
wanted her, that she could serve him, if it were only by
being near. His letters were beautiful and like him, but it
was not enough : she longed for his presence too, and his
hand. His touch was wonderful : from the first, no other
man had ever touched her so. In dancing, in rehearsing,

STRETTO 337

in acting, he had done so repeatedly, indifferently, — he did
not know his own power. The thrill, the shiver of rapture
it gave her would probably be absurd to him, if she could
ever find the courage to confide. His face was different
from his masterful fingers, certainly : but she liked his
curious questing glance as well. She marvelled whether
he had ever looked at anyone else like that ; she cherished
a shy hope that he never had.

Well, she had it, at the station, glance and touch as well,
at least for a moment. He was there — all of him — very
much so. Helena confided things to him at once.

' It has been wet,' she laughed, standing at his elbow,
while he reached her properties out of the train.

' Well, what do you expect, in the district ? ' laughed
Johnny, radiant as she.

' That's what we said to one another, every morning.
But we expected better of it really. Of course it didn't
matter the least, we did everything we wanted to, and we
were generally fairly dry in the evenings. Anyhow the
water on us was hot, not cold. Oh, — 'you do know my
brother, don't you ? Fancy/ — she looked from one to the
other, — ' I thought you must.'

Harold refused to fancy anything. He thought Helena
far too easy, — as for the cad, his ease was revolting. Harold
was stiff. As he walked stiffly behind them up the plat-
form, he began to think that, all the same, he had under-
taken a rather ticklish responsibility. Perhaps he had
grown a little too used, of late, to Auberon's moral support.
And he suddenly wished Helena did not catch attention on
all sides, as she did when she was really happy. She had
no right to be happy in Ingestre's society, — lovely still less.
He would have to talk to her about it.

' I promise you,' said Johnny solemnly, as he packed her
into the carriage, ' this evening, that you shall be really
dry. Will that suffice ? '

' Entirely,' said Helena. ' You mean it's a thick
house ? '

338 THE ACCOLADE

' Thickish. Unluckily all the approaches to it are at
present broken down, owing to the — er — water.'

' Oh, Mr. Ingestre ! Can't we get there ? ' She was
laughing, brows up, just as he had longed to see her laugh.

' We heard,' said Harold stiffly, ' about the broken bridge.'

' Not for some hours,' said Johnny to Helena. ' What's
worse,' — he looked in her eyes, — ' I must leave you and
your brother to make your way to Routhwick alone. I have
business here myself, and I mustn't keep you. — Am I
excused ? ' said his eyes. Helena's answered them.

' Falkland,' said Johnny suddenly, ' would you mind
coming this way a minute ? It's a point I want to settle,
and it strikes me you can help.'

Harold, who had jumped at the summons, highly un-
expected as it was, went tamely ; and they walked into the
station entrance, while Helena made friends with the dogs.

' Can you tell me,' said Johnny, cutting crisply into
business, as soon as she was out of sight, ' if Auberon got my
telegram this morning ? I wired to him in London last night.'

' He got it before we left Kendal,' said Harold. ' He was
meaning to stop on there, till he heard.'

' Stopped up, did he ? Lucky then I doubled my letter.
There was no necessity to stop.'

' He seemed to think there was,' said Harold. He waited,
then his stiffness gave way a little. ' He's a man who's
nuts on a job, never lets it slide.'

' So I have always supposed,' said Johnny, politely.
' Er — isn't he due in town on Monday ? '

' Yes, but I expect he could get out of it, really, at least
for another day. I mean,' said Harold, ' he only thinks
he's wanted.'

' I feel for him,' said Johnny. ' Your sister, I suppose,
knows nothing about the business.' Harold merely shook
his head. ' Do you ? '

' I know all Auberon knows, which wasn't much when
I left him. He was pretty puzzled, if I may say so. It
seemed deuced odd ? '

STRETTO 339

' It is. It's nasty too, and getting nastier.' Johnny
glanced backward. ' I mustn't keep Miss Falkland. We
can talk later on, to-night. I only wanted to know if she
knew, and whether he had commissioned you.'

' Me ? ' ejaculated Harold. ' Auberon ? Good Gosh,
no, — he wouldn't think of it. Sooner than that/ he added,
' he'd come himself.'

' Right,' said Johnny, turned, and called over his
shoulder his apologies to Helena. His eyes dwelt one
moment on her golden head ; then he vanished into the
opening of the station.

Mr. Falkland went back to the carriage thoughtfully. He
climbed in, pushing away the dogs. His eyes had a dreamy ex-
pression. He was wondering, — as ordinary mortals wonder
about the powers beyond, — what would happen if Quentin
Auberon and that fellow Ingestre should meet.

Johnny had debated long, all the morning when he was
not thinking of Helena, how much it was his business to
let young Auberon know of the evidence that had fallen
into his hands regarding Jill Jacoby, — regarding her ideas,
intentions, and all too probable fate. It was a most extra-
ordinary coil, and he scolded himself for the conviction
that was weighing on him, growing in weight, that the girl
had left Routhwick in sudden panic that night, having
restored his property to him, only to take leave of all her
earthly troubles, as soon as possible, under cover of the
night. He would have done so in her place, that was all of
which he could be certain. It was by feeling along the line
of her individuality that certainty reached him, — that
' temperament ' always really so simple, to him so familiar,
which even in its feminised variety he could guess.

That was his strongest evidence, that instinctive know-
ledge : beyond that he had the girl's written testimony
in her strange ' journal,' and old Miss Darcy's letter to his
wife, with its lament that Jill had been ' so queer ' those
last days, and then gone, left her in the lurch.

340 THE ACCOLADE

He had glanced at the journal, only glanced, but enough
to be sure that the idea of suicide had never been strange
to the child. She had nourished herself, through the
dangerous phase of exotic girlhood, on the parallel problems
of love and death. Her own deformity absorbed her too,
as he suspected. In life, her alternate seductive use of it,
and gallant disregard for it, were a symptom. Without it,
and the other impediment, her father, Jill could have done
anything, mounted anywhere, so she clearly believed.

Well, that was bad, a very bad beginning. Worse came,
when the will to love and be loved, at ah1 costs, possessed
her, — when she came to see that as the only solution, the
single escape. Johnny passed those pages, — they were
not things for a man to read. Only, the mere fact that she
had let such matter out of her hands was significant of loss
of balance, — must mean some voluntary abandonment to
despair.

Beyond that, vindication of herself in the matter of the
theft, and vindictiveness, — a good measure of that as well.
She certainly meant to pay the man out for daring to
suspect her, that had been part of her plan. She had a
double weapon against him, confession and self-martyrdom,
and she used both. She vanished, and left a sting behind
her, secure in the fact that he would feel it. So he would,
not a doubt. Clever, but not permissible, thought Johnny.
He had closed the journal half-read, determining that that
boy, clean and steady and sane, perfectly just in his
dealings so far as his lights would carry him, should never
look into it. There was no need. There was no reason to
bring a strong man down, lay him low, with the reckless
insinuations of a neurotic girl. It was not fair to her, the
child, either. Viewing her as a child, it was not fair.

Her self -vindication in the affair of the portrait was,
however, complete ; and that being John's business also,
equally his reproach, he studied in detail. It was easy, for
the last entry in the book was a kind of summary of her
case, which, if true, acquitted her. Jill had put the

STRETTO 341

miniature away, just as Miss Darcy had described, beneath
the eyes of her employer, following directions, and barely
regarding it : only, she failed to lock the drawer. She
thought she had, fumbling with the little key, but she had
not done so. About a week before she saw Quentin in the
square after church, her father had called to see her, and
Miss Darcy herself, since Jill was momentarily occupied,
let him in. Here entered, of course, Ursula's original
mistake or miscalculation, in not having warned Miss
Darcy of Jacoby's existence. Jacoby, however, had not
asked for his daughter by that name : as ' an old friend,'
with no doubt a most taking and airy manner, he had
obtained entrance ; and Miss Darcy, bent on kindness, had
left him in the front room for five minutes while she went
to find the girl.

Two minutes, possibly, — that would have been suffi-
cient. Jacoby, interested in the old lady's curios, took
a turn round her room, and tried her drawers. He
never suspected she could own a thing of colossal value,
naturally. The miniature was a handy little object,
worth studying at his ease, so he pocketed it, and re-shut
the drawer. He did not mention the matter to Jill, and had
been sent packing by her, very promptly, when she came.
But she had been frightened ; and Quentin, that Sunday,
had seen the relics of her fear.

Nothing in the book gave evidence of her crisis of horror,
when she found herself challenged, suspected, out of the
blue, and by the man on whom her little hopes had been
building so long. John could imagine that. From that
minute, it struck him, her brain was shaken. Strange little
remarks and wanderings covered the period of those latter
days. The whole was in French, of course, which made the
sayings more difficult of rendering. ' She is snoring,' she
wrote of Miss Darcy. ' She takes things to make her
sleep, but I cannot, just yet.' English occurred in one place,
a quotation : ' " Men have died and worms have eaten
them," ' she quoted Rosalind, ' " but not for love." — But

342 THE ACCOLADE

women are different.' Johnny, glancing here and there,
only wondered she had held up so long. She was waiting,
so it soon appeared, for her month's salary. Then she met
and battled with her father, one morning when Miss Darcy
thought her in church, and obliged him, terrorised him by
threats of exposure, suicide, what not, to re-purchase or
redeem the miniature. In what quarter it had been sold,
or pledged, Johnny never discovered ; into private and
ignorant hands, most probably, since any respectable
dealer in the town must have suspected, or at least come
nearer to its value. It was surely one of the oddest
adventures that little portrait had suffered in a not
uneventful life, to be sold and re-purchased for sums which
severally would hardly have paid for one of the pearls.

All this he meant to tell Auberon ; he had already
hinted a part. As for Miss Darcy, he would be able, in time,
with judicious manipulation, to soothe her. She really
seemed to have cared for the girl, had treated her gener-
ously, and was shocked out of all reason by her sudden dis-
appearance, and the note she left to say that she was never
coming back. Ungrateful, that note sounded, flippant, if
not quite wild. ' Sleep well,' it finished, — that looked as
though the former preoccupation as to sleeping, — the
need of sleeping, — had returned to the child's half-crazed
brain.

By accident, or with intention, Johnny now believed she
must have done it. Nothing else could explain her elimina-
tion, as it were, from the neighbourhood. She might, of
course, have slipped or stumbled to her death. The river
must have tempted her, those wild white spirits whose
appeal Johnny himself had been barely able to resist. He
had let that thought cross his own brain, as he stood by
the Mule, — ' a magnificent death,' — and magnificence
appealed, would appeal to the end, in just the same degree
to Jill. If so, of course, they would never find her ; they
might almost as well give up the search. In miles of
torrent water, with endless irregularities, rapids, and deep

STRETTO 343

pools, it is by a mere chance that an object washed down
ever reappears.

He would do what he could, of course, all sensible
precautions ; he had been doing so, and authorities were
warned in all directions, but especially down-stream.
Johnny's name went for much, and he was sure of prompt
service and secrecy. Equally of necessity, his little Helena
must know nothing : it was all a deal too grim.

That was his last conclusion as he rose from the station
bench where he had been reposing, running through in
mind the list of telegraph and telephone communications
recently sent. The cutting of the nearest road communica-
tion with Routhwick was a bore : apt to delay messages,
at least such as came along the line. The fact that the
following day was Sunday was a bore as well, — a country
Sunday being stagnation. However, he thought he had
done all, for the moment, that he need.

His tall form passed out of the station slowly. He was
reflecting, looking ahead, with Helena — an evening with
Helena — solely in his mind.

' Isn't that Mr. Ingestre, of Routhwick ? ' said a south-
country porter, to a boy.

' 'Course it is,' said the boy contemptuously.

' Well then, you catch him. He's wanted at the office,
message just come. No need to telephone it further, if he's
here.'

The boy offered to carry the message, — there was more
chance that way of a penny for his pains.

' You do as you're told,' said the porter in a particular
manner. ' Sharp.'

The boy whistled, seeing his look : turned sober, and went.

Gravity is communicable, somehow : especially through
the medium of simple minds. Mr. Ingestre, of Routhwick,
happened to be cared for in that neighbourhood, — and Mrs.
Ingestre, of Routhwick, had been so in past times, still more.

Johnny read the message offered him, four words long,

344 THE ACCOLADE

without a change of countenance. He had been prepared
for it daily, of course, for a month, or thought he had been
prepared. The two men at his side, and the breathless boy,
had quite unconsciously taken off their hats.

' If you'll allow us to express our sorrow, sir,' said the
old station-master, naturally the spokesman, in the fine
northern speech which it is a wrong to travesty, ' we have
never forgotten her here.'

Johnny looked round him once.

' Thanks,' he said. ' My mother always loved the place.
She'd have lived here if she could.'

in

Helena was patient to find his place empty at dinner,
Harold was vaguely relieved. Ursula was vexed extremely.
The kind of irregularity was what vexed her most, and
John did it of late, she was certain, simply to disturb her.
What object could he have in such behaviour ? Going to
meet and flirt with the girl at the station — quite unneces-
sarily— as he had done, obviously, in his best style ; and
then failing what was his plain duty at dinner. It looked ex-
traordinary before the servants, too, — if he would only ever
think of appearances. Lastly, since she had no explanation
to offer, it threw a most uncomfortable burden upon her.

' Mr. John's come back from Kettley, I suppose ? ' she
said to his servant, Blandy, who waited.

' I believe he has returned, madam,' said the young man,
with a face of stone. He was immovable, as Ursula had
long known : though she used him almost as freely as
John. Blandy, much bullied in old days, beautifully
trained in about four professions at present, was an
anomaly in a respectable household, — as much so as John's
studio in London. He had gone camping with Johnny and
his special gang, both before and after marriage, and
people like the Earl of Dering treated him, under Ursula's

STRETTO 345

nose, like a dear old friend. He was certainly not a valet,
that was absurd : he was something between a maid-of-all-
work and an orderly. He was still more like one of those
' second young men ' beloved of Shakespeare, who hear all
their master's secrets, are used as a dumping-ground for
his humours and a practising-ground for his wit, and are
rewarded with casual bags of gold and the hand of the
gentlewoman, at the back of the stage, while the lord and
lady settle up their affairs in front. Blandy had been
offered this part in old days, no doubt unconsciously, and
he filled it with conscious precision. He was extremely
good-looking and very well-dressed, and he would have
gone to the stake for Johnny.

' Is he down at the bungalow ? ' — Ursula insisted on this
offensive suburban title for the Lyke-wood house.

' He might be, madam,' said Blandy.

' Well, does he know that dinner is ready ? ' said Mrs.
Ingestre lightly, ' because he has been known to forget.
Anyhow we are not going to wait for him.' — She addressed
her guests. ' He's writing, probably, that's his way. He
has sudden fits of it, and nothing will move him.'

' What is he writing ? ' said Helena, rather shy. Johnny,
in his various confidences, had not communicated the life-
history of his great-grandfather's great-uncle, — he thought
it unsuitable to Helena's ears. Her eyes, rather, since most
of his confidences had been on paper lately. It was painful
to him not to tell her, since it interested him extremely :
but he had desisted, with care.

' You mustn't ask,' said Ursula, smiling. ' If you ask,
he says — " Oh, something I thought of," — just like a boy
at school. He's terribly afraid of being taken for a literary
light, did you know ? Nothing hurts John's feelings so
much as being thought literary. I've often noticed it.'

' Well, literary people are rather irksome, aren't they ? '
said Harold. ' I've known one or two.'

Ursula turned to that side with relief. She had taken to
Harold at once,

346 THE ACCOLADE

' Is Mr. Auberon irksome ? ' she asked demurely.

' Auberon doesn't write books.'

' What does he do ? ' said Ursula.

' Yes, — what does he ? ' said Helena. ' I believe Quentin's
a humbug really. He looks fearfully wise, and asks weightily
for the butter, and opens his letters as if '

' Helena,' said Harold, ' you'll be sorry for what you're
saying. Don't go on.'

' How many times have you three quarrelled in three
weeks ? ' said Ursula in the pause, as Miss Falkland laughed.
The servant Blandy's eyes were fixed on her as she laughed.
Blandy was lamenting sorely his master's absence. He
had seldom, in his varied experience in Johnny's wake,
seen such a nice young lady.

' We haven't really,' said Helena. ' Harold and I tried ;
but he always intervened in such a far-sighted manner,
that it didn't seem worth it for the next hundred years or
so, and we stopped.'

' In whose favour did he intervene ? ' said Ursula.

' Harold's,' said Helena.

' Liar ! ' said Harold, leaning back. ' Mrs. Ingestre,
look here. Auberon always supports the weaker side. But
he's always found on the stronger. Can you do that ? '

' I just can, Mr. Falkland/ said Ursula. She began to
wish John would come and talk to them. Their lively
young wits and splendid spirits would soon undo her, if
he did not. ' I am sure,' she said peaceably, ' Mr. Auberon
is a very wonderful person.'

' He isn't, the least,' said Harold and Helena simul-
taneously. They disclaimed the epithet, eagerly as one
must, of a friend.

Obviously, Ursula had put her foot in it, — but how was
one to know ? She had quite forgotten what it was like to
be twenty years old. It was only Johnny who never forgot.

Later, after dinner, she made an excuse and left them.
It was really not to be borne. The result of the day's

STRETTO 347

wearing agitation, with its alternations of self-reproach
and sharp resentment, was to make Ursula really cross, —
it did not happen often. She was slow to anger, as to other
emotions, and even when it moved within her, she could
master it, as a rule. Now she felt a refreshing sparkle of
real wrath ; she meant to get at him, scold him,' — she would
have liked to box his ears. His father had done that, and
more, she knew, in his unmanageable youth, and Ursula
had never doubted it had been exceedingly good for him.
She had even said so, in public, among the Ingestres ; and
Johnny's grandmother had approved the sentiment, and
Johnny, being talked of, had pleasantly agreed. But he
did not look at his father when he said it ; and he never
made capital, for all his irreverent tongue, out of those
tales of parental tyranny. If pressed, he generally implied
that people in general, no names insisted on, were perfectly
right in their attempts at discipline, and had had reason, —
more than reason, — for the worst they did. It was only by
talking to the men, the older keepers at the Hall, and
noting how fiercely they roused on the subject, that his wife
grew to suspect, by degrees, that what he represented as
well-meaning but unprofitable measures to control him,
on his father's part, had often been sheer violence and
brutality.

Being launched on this line of irregular thought, she
recollected another thing. As, huddled in a cloak, she
walked rapidly down the familiar way towards the Lyke-
wood, she remembered that, in the good quite early days of
their marriage, when every possibility lay before, he had
begged her to control his own temper, by any means she
could manage, so that their child, when they had one, might
never see him so. He implied that for a child to see a
parent beyond himself, — really beyond, as any of his race
might so easily be, — was a hateful thing in the child's
later memory, an abiding nightmare to be avoided at all
hazards, prevented by any means. It struck her then that
he had never forgotten some of his father's black rages :

348 THE ACCOLADE

but she had dismissed the incident, and overlooked its
occasion, since.

He looked at her as she entered the log-house with eyes
that seemed to be shy, — she had that strange impression.
She had never in her life seen John look so, though Helena
had done so frequently.

' Dinner ? ' he said.

' Dinner ! ' ejaculated Ursula. ' It's half-past nine.
You can have dinner if you like, but you won't get it with
us.' This was her mood of rating, — it had a faintly
improper effect upon her own ears, and she bethought
herself. ' Do you mean they didn't tell you ? Blandy had
no orders ? What on earth have they been doing ? '

' It isn't his fault,' said Johnny. ' No one came down
here. . . . Ursula, I say, — look there.'

He pushed the telegraph message towards her. Ursula,
brought up short, stared down at it.

' Good gracious ! ' she said, and could not immediately
say more. Then she drew it closer, and looked at the
hour marked upon it. ' You mean you've had it since
four ? '

' Bit after four, wasn't it ? I was down there when it
came. So was Blandy, of course, just after. He drove
down to fetch me. That's why.'

Ursula took it in. He had told the servant — not her !
Then she mastered herself anew, — she needed it.

' I'm very sorry,' she said with propriety. ' Poor
Mother.' Then she walked slowly away to the little
hearth, and stood there, turning her back to him. So like
him — all of it — so maddening, hopeless ! — yet her tongue
was tied. Once more he had worsted her completely. . . .
Ten o'clock on Saturday night, and the funeral would be
Tuesday, — yes, Tuesday at latest ! The stupidity of men,
even clever men, amazed her. Why could he never, for one
instant, think of her ?

' I wish you had told me,' she said in a carefully

STRETTO 349

moderate tone at last. ' I'm sorry, of course, — but it was
very inconsiderate.'

' Inconsiderate ? ' said Johnny.

' Clothes.'

There was a pause. She had him, — clothes, to be sure.

' I say, I'm beastly sorry,' he said, rising to his feet. ' I'd
no idea it was so late. Has the post gone ? What's to-
morrow ? ' He seized the calendar.

' Sunday, of course.' Luckily he felt it also : it was not
nothing to him how his wife appeared, especially when she
must, on so formal an occasion, hold a prominent place.
The foremost, indeed : at such a season there would hardly
be another Ingestre woman in reach of London. John felt
it to such a degree, that he began to scheme for her
immediately, — clever, rapid scheming, — likely to forestall
Ursula's grievance, snatch it away from her altogether,
unless she hastened to defend her dignity.

' But look here, — Sunday,' he broke out. ' You couldn't
have in any case, could you ? They wouldn't have got a
letter, first, — and shops and so on, — can't purchase on
Sunday, can you ? — if it's purchasing you want.'

Ursula put him in his place as to what could be done,
in the women's world, on Sunday ; but it was little use.
John would not stay in his place. He was not ignorant, —
his ideas about clothes were wonderfully correct, — there
were no blunders that she could take hold of, even there.

' Lucky for you I look forward,' she said, cutting him off.
' I can just manage, I think, as it happens, starting early
on Monday. The heaviest things I got before I came north.'

' Did you ? ' said Johnny. She had them then,— that
was all right. He sat down again frowning in his chair.
Well, what did she make such a fuss for, then, — disturbing
him ? — just like her !

' Are you going ? ' he said, planting his elbows on the
table, and playing with a pen.

' I'll get out in a moment,' said Ursula with intention.
Her resentment was coming back. She had been shocked

350 THE ACCOLADE

out of it momentarily, but he seemed to feel his loss so
little. After all, there was no reason why he should, — now.
The thing had lasted long enough, — he had had time to get
used to the idea of losing her. He was making the best of
it, — Ursula had that thought. She was a little ashamed
of it, but it came to her.

' You might come and help me,' she said, after an
interval. ' There's young Falkland, — he's a nice boy
enough, — but still. . . . And they saw you, after all. You
can't get out of it, — pretend not to be here.'

' No, I can't pretend it,' said Johnny, looking in front of
him. ' I might have managed — if I'd not gone to the
station — purpose to rile you — mightn't I ? '

That had certainly been her thought ; he picked it up
complete as usual. He had himself chosen a situation that
put him in the wrong either way, whether he entertained
the guests, or held aloof from them, as he seemed more
inclined to do. Ursula had got so far as to suppose that
what he was considering was a question of etiquette. He
did regard etiquette at times, generally when she least
expected it. Further than that she would not look, it
became altogether too confusing. She was tired of it. She
could have no duty in the case, anyhow, the responsibility
was his. Etiquette, of course, she knew about, and might
even prompt him a little.

' The girl will offer to go, at once, of course,' she observed.
' Her manners are all right. But I shall have to insist on
their staying till Monday, all the same, considering the
Sunday trains. I couldn't let them go to the inn, either, —
that's impossible. They're both, so to speak, in my charge.'

' Why tell them at all, then ? ' said Johnny. ' No point
in it. Only make them feel in the way.'

' Would you really prefer that ? ' said Ursula, turning
to look at him sharply. He did not meet her eyes, gazing
in front of him still. Did he not want the girl to go, then ?
And why, if he intended retirement? Swiftly all her
jealousy and suspicion surged again.

STRETTO 35i

' Oh, Lord, you must choose,' he said, breaking out
unexpectedly and leaning back. His whole expressive face
seemed to melt and change, took colour even. ' Can't you
see ? I can't do more than I'm doing, — it's on the cards
I can't do that. You'll really have to play up, Ursula, —
think a bit for yourself. I know at a pinch I've always
done the thinking, — from the first, — but a man can't
always, in this life. You're as old as I am, anyhow, — you
might jolly well take your turn. . . . This is a pinch we'd
not thought of, — you don't suppose I'd planned it, do
you? Very well then, think for yourself.' He flung his
books aside, clearing a space before him. ' And think for
me a bit, if you're capable of it,' he added lower, ' and if
you're not altogether lost to — to decency, think for her.'

There was a pause. ' Very well, I will not tell her any-
thing, at least till to-morrow,' said Ursula, — kindly.
Clearly, she intended to be kind. She added as she turned
to go — ' But I can't prevent her thinking it rather — odd.'

' Oh — Lord ! ' murmured Johnny. Planting his elbows
on the cleared space on the table, he had dropped his head,
as though in utter boredom, on his hands.

' I mean,' Ursula pushed on, ' I shall have to tell her
something about you,— invent something,— what shall I '

' Nothing/ he flashed, in a kind of horror, lifting his
head. ' Invent, — you ! — you're safe to make a mess of it.
. . . Say nothing to her, for God's sake. Let her alone.'

Ursula said nothing to Helena. It was not hard to
avoid confidence, since she did not care for her much, and
only now and then, in rushes, felt amazingly small and
mean under her eyes. She left it entirely till the Sunday,
trusting the servants and people would be silent, and
rather thinking, somehow, that they would. Silence, a
cloak of silence, fell about Johnny. All his retainers, with
one accord, formed the ring. That they knew, to the
youngest of them, Ursula had little doubt, — anyhow,
Blandy had been at the station.

352 THE ACCOLADE

Besides, messages and communications, by hand, rail or
wire, rained on the house all day. Ursula was puzzled how
so many people could have heard, but supposed it had been
in the London extra editions. Everybody wrote to John, —
his immense circle of friends, men and women, young and
old, famous and the reverse, seemed to have been waiting
for the chance. Ursula saw his father's writing, Jem
Hertford's, young Lord Bering's : the remarkable hand
of his mother's doctor, and the still more singular screed
of Mr. Quarle, the brutal painter, who had produced the
so-called portrait of her husband at the Hall : Violet, of
course, the eternally youthful Mrs. Clewer, Lady Ruabon,
who at forty-five made no secret of her devotion to him,
and Barbara Weyburn, a girl of twenty-one. Even the
Mitchell woman,— even poor old Miss Darcy,— she recognised
them all before Blandy, deft and silent, swept them up
and carried them out of sight. All those people thought it
was a special occasion to commiserate, evidently : John's
own father did, — she was a little astonished he should
write. But then there were directions to be given, no
doubt, — times and places for the ceremony, — things Ursula
also needed to know. But she dared not go to the Lyke-
wood house again : even her cold courage failed her.
She waited, expecting him to turn up, to stroll in any time,
having thought better of it : having decided, all the same,
to amuse himself with a pretty girl, as it had always been
his strict habit to do, till now. Why, his duties as host
to a man she had never known him fail at any point,
till now. John's hospitality was part of him, she had
always counted on it without a thought, — even counted
on his relieving her of many of her just duties. But no
sign, no sound : it might have been his corpse — the thought
came to her once, crossing near the entrance to the wood —
that lay down there.

Towards the end of the afternoon, she took her resolu-
tion, and told Harold, not Helena. She found it easier.

STRETTO 353

Harold was shocked. Really, the children had excellent
manners, considering all things, — their mother, for instance.
Harold put his sympathy in the neatest and lightest form
possible, for Mrs. Ingestre's ear — exactly fitted to Ursula's
degree of grief, as it happened : and asked to be allowed to
tell his sister on the spot, so that they might move to the inn.

' Please don't trouble, Mr. Falkland,' said Ursula.
After a few more well-chosen speeches, she added, ' It's
quite a consolation, in a way, to have you : especially
your sister, — she's so sweet.'

Well, so she was. That was not pure invention, lying,
— really it was not. There was something in her manner
and appearance, her tranquil little way of occupying her-
self about the Routhwick rooms, her friendship with John's
dogs, her easy enjoyment of everything, the country above
all, — that soothed Ursula's sore and embittered feelings.
No one could be rude or peevish to Helena, anyhow, how-
ever one might wish her away. It was not a question of
appearance either, it was apart from it, just behind her
appearance as it were. But even her good looks Ursula
admitted, quite readily, as she had always done, even to
John. Her eyes, which seemed always to be watching,
drooping to pensiveness, or levelled intent, were the blue-
grey Rossetti dreamed of. The constant breezes and
draughts of the place — even Ursula was ' rough-haired '
at Routhwick — ruffled all her little gold-dust curls. The
pearl-tints of her skin seemed to have gained, rather than
lost, by three weeks' reckless exposure to rain and wind.
Three weeks of sun, Mrs. Ingestre privately decided, would
have freckled her ; but then, as Helena had been driven
to grant, smiling, that walking party in the Lake District
had had ' practically ' no sun at all.

' I say, Helena,' said Harold. ' Ingestre's lost his mother,
— did you know ? '

He had taken her arm, just for safety, as he came up to
where she stood, beside the long flower-bed in the kitchen-
garden.

2 A

354 THE ACCOLADE

Routhwick territory, it should be said, was chiefly
kitchen-garden. Ursula had again and again impressed
upon John, since he had to be there so often, the desira-
bility of ' laying out ' the place, so as to bring it at least
into tolerable rivalry with the Hall. Nothing was really
wanting to do it, — certainly not money in John's pocket,
nor time on his hands : nor taste, if one came to that, nor
soil, nor even climate, since the huddled and gnarled trees
of the Lyke-wood, curled into grotesque deformity by
centuries of western gales, successfully protected the home
demesne. But John only laughed, and told her to let
Routhwick alone, it was better as it was : it had always
been like that. Granted the kitchen was the best room in
the house, and carrots and cabbages the principal products
of its terraces. But the kitchen was ripping — no other
word for it : and carrots and cabbages, if Ursula took the
trouble to look at them, were jolly nice things. Quite
as delicate, the one, as the rotten maidenhairs in the green-
house called his mother's at the Hall : and a long way
more beautiful, the other, than his father's everlasting
orchids. And if she would go and look at one purple
cabbage he had in mind — latitude and longitude carefully
provided — she would see.

For all that, the long flower-border in the walled garden
was beautiful, in September above all. They were the
range of colours that before all others Johnny adored, those
early autumn shades. Late summer, they were of course,
at Routhwick : everything there was late. There were
even tall lilies still, of some late-flowering species, taller
than any Helena had ever seen : pallid pillars of greenish-
white, among the revel of pinks and purples, orange-tawny
and delicate mauve. She could almost look into the white
lilies' faces, — with a little stoop she really could.

She was so stooping when Harold came to her, but he
drew her upright. He knew, good brother that he was,
that the thing was serious, or might be so for her. That
was why he came to her promptly, no delay. He could not

STRETTO 355

deceive himself, like Ursula, though he would have been
just as glad as Ursula to be deceived.

And she winced at his words, — she drew back her
beautiful head and shut her eyes as that truth, already
half-divined, went home. Just like the lilies, she was at
that moment, and pale as they. She could not have turned
much paler, she had been beating her brains against
circumstance, the last twelve hours, too much.

'All right, dear,' she said. 'We must go, of course.
Have you packed ? '

' I told her so, — she won't have it,' said Harold. ' She
puts me off with talking, every time. But I'll make her,'
he added deliberately, ' if you want.'

Want ? What did she want ? What — it was inevitable
— did he want her to do ? Her thoughts, the winged
shadow-thoughts of youth, swept the whole horizon,
flickered over the whole heaven of feeling, during the few
frightened minutes while she took it in.

First, and strangely, the conviction crossed her that
it was over, all over, finished for her : that his mother's
noble spirit had chosen this fashion to banish her utterly,
knowing that by her approach, by her existence even,
she was causing him suffering, doing him harm. It was
the conviction of being completely cut off, crushed like a
leaf by the calamity that had wounded him, that had
turned Helena white. She could do nothing, — nothing.
She counted for nothing to all eternity. All was at an end.

Then, her mortal womanhood revolted, gave it the lie.
How could she not serve, since he wanted her ? His eyes
had already informed her of that, and now — how much
more ! The sure instinct to help came with the sure
divination of his greater need. Whither could this new
star she followed, this later duty, the truth for which he
once had blessed her, lead but to his side ?

The strife of new right and old right for the moment in
the girl was frightful, seemed to clutch at the very founda-
tions of her life. Then character triumphed, as character

356 THE ACCOLADE

always does, and her sweet serenity flowed back. Nothing
mattered, nothing could go really wrong, since he was there.

Where he was, Helena knew with a natural under-
standing that would have put Ursula to shame. True as
a dog's eyes, hers had turned, as soon as her brother
informed her, in the direction of the Lyke-wood house.
Where should he be, in the wide domain of Routhwick,
but there, in the spot where his mother's spirit, and the
spirit of his own childhood, permanently dwelt ?

Helena knew all about that little camp of his, though
she had never seen it. She knew the books on which it
had been founded, as well. A log-house, with a pine-wood
stockade, loopholes in the logwalls, even a private well
of water, — what happy English child does not know
those things by heart ? Child as she was still in mind,
Helena had longed, in sheer joyful curiosity, to see it,
ask him about it, hear him explain its curious defences to
her, — with his hand under her bent arm as she stood close
to him, — all in mightily solemn jest. He had been used
to entrench himself there in youth, so he had informed
her : once, with his mother's hardly-wrung permission,
for the whole of a summer night. John, aged twelve, had
held the log-house, she could guess with what breathless
delight, from dusk to dawn : against imaginary enemies,
truly, but what was that ? It remained his own place,
by the lasting right of childhood : and it was necessary
for his own people, who came there in the true spirit, to
look at it through his eyes.

Well then, being there, he would show her the rest as
well. She had but to let him lead, watch him and follow :
his leading could not be wrong. And first and foremost,
said all the Falkland instincts, she must not run away.

Helena, having drawn breath, and stated her decision,
looked at Harold. Harold, of course, was steadily gazing
away.

' Ingestre's in London, probably,' he said with a fixed
gravity. ' She didn't say so, — takes for granted we should

STRETTO 357

understand. So I did, of course. It's natural he should
forget everything in the circumstances, — things like us,
I mean.'

' Yes, dear,' said Helena, and kissed him. She did not
often do that.

Rescue ! — thought Harold : if Auberon would only come !
He had a mind to telegraph to Auberon, if only for counsel
and consolation. He might come alongside anyhow, back
Harold up. Then anew, glancing at his sister's pale face,
he had to abandon the idea.

Instead, Harold took her arm in a comforting manner.

' Now come a walk with me up that hill,' he suggested.
' It's a good hill, and we've not been there. The chances
are we see Ingleborough from the top. If you don't come
now, Mrs. Ingestre will catch us for church, and that '

Helena agreed with him. Church was not what she
wanted, either. And — well — anyhow she had been there
in the morning, that was once.

IV

The first night was bad, for Johnny : the second night
was worse. He all but gave way, at one frightful moment
of suffering, towards ten o'clock.

His trouble was, that one word would call her to him.
He knew that. The word was written on a scrap of paper
before him, and he had but to send it, by any one of his in-
numerable trusted hands. The service that Johnny had
earned by sane command was true service : they would
none of them blame him, his men, nor would they talk. A
breath would bring her to him, the breath of his royal wish.
So near, so easy, — so utterly beyond his reach.

He could not doubt she would come, eyes closed, he had
never doubted it. Doubt was a wrong to her, in his view.
And once there, at his side, under his eyes, — he need not
look beyond. Sufficient for the golden moment, that would

358 THE ACCOLADE

be : all-sufficient for eternity, surely. He lifted his eyes
to his mother's face on the wall. She would not reproach
him now. How could she ? She had only seen half, on
earth, as the best women can only see. She knew more
now, — why, she had guessed it previously. She must have
guessed, being his mother, a man's mother. Now she knew
the other half presumably, — she had at least deserved it,
by her valiant life. It was a cruel thing, the battle on
earth of man and woman, — it was not a fair thing, for either,
such pain, such deception in one another constantly, even
the best. Mother and son, father and daughter, husband
and wife, — but not when a man and woman really loved.
That was the exception, the truce granted by the gods.
He had come near to an equal understanding with his
mother, — well, he and Helena could complete that perfect
round. The divine right of love was theirs. He alone had
enough, quite enough, to float that little girl's world away,
carry it to the safe harbour where he would place her, his
prize, his golden fleece, beyond the harming of the crowd.

Could he ? Could he save her ? That was what they
had all found so hard. He looked at the pile of his writing
on the table : that ancestor of his, in whose personality he
had immersed himself willingly, had had some of these
feelings too. He had suffered one tremendous tide of
passion, rising very clearly to his descendant's eyes in
those ancient crabbed letters, which had broken against the
walls of convention, breached them as the raging Mule had
breached the bridge. And what had happened later ?
Well, the raging tide had sunk again, and a thousand hands
had patiently rebuilt the barrier, calling upon their various
gods or idols to bless the work.

Traitors, — his enemies, — how he loathed them all.

He looked down at the Marechale's portrait, and his
face softened slightly, for he thought of Violet at once :
he always did, seeing that painting. Something in the turn
of head and neck was like her, some flicker of quaint
character persisting in the lashes and the lips. He gave

STRETTO 359

her a kindly thought, hoped she would get through, before
he recurred to his ancestor and the origin of the picture
again. He read through some of the pages of his chronicle —
fair, he trusted he had been fair. The woman was probably
not worth one tithe of the feeling that had been spent on
her, — only he had no means of knowing the other side.
Her letters, though her remarks were often quoted and
referred to, were missing from his bordereau. Perhaps, —
he half smiled at the thought, — she could not write. She
was a little nobody, in origin, only she made men mad
about her, she had that gift. Helena, thank Heaven, was
not that sort. She did not keep her distance, and smile
across her shoulder, tempting those who passed. She met
you fully, fairly, — and modestly. Few girls could find that
happy mean. But no girl had ever matched her. Helena
was divine.

So young too. Young, and his youth was going. He
felt it slipping from him in these wearing nights of pain.
His chance was going with her, his last chance. For he
could never look at a second-best after her, that Johnny
knew would be impossible. She staled all others of her
kind, so extraordinarily. If he ever felt himself slipping,
he must slay himself, surely, sooner than that. His mother
would grant him licence there to break his word. He knew
his own weaknesses, and the weaknesses of his race as well.
But he had been privileged by his artist-birth to know
the best, meet it before his own best manhood had
weakened ; and since it had been so granted him, he
must never get beyond it. That was why he met the
grinding torment of these two nights open-armed. Let it
come, since it was in her honour, all of it : sear him, scar
him, mark him as hers alone. And let him never lose those
marks while he lived, nor beyond death, he trusted.

Ursula he never thought of, — for the time he let her be.
Ursula and Helena, one could not look at both of them,
it was useless. Young and glorious and kind, consoling,
condescending, — yes, comprehending in every look and

360 THE ACCOLADE

accent : softening when he softened, smiling when he
smiled, shadowing to his gravity, ringing true to every
testing touch, — except that he had long stopped testing,
since he knew her: that was Helena, — Rosalind, it was
the same. Rosalind to his senses she had always been.
Perhaps she existed because that crabbed old Shakespeare
had first conceived her. Or else she had always existed,
that was better still. She was a spirit, a light of the earth,
the English earth, — ah, no, she was not ! She was no
spirit, — infinitely better, a beautiful warm frame of girl-
hood. . . . Useless, he could not do it : he must give in.

He did not give in : the summoning word was never
sent. Perhaps he knew in his heart the whole time he could
not send it ; that his treasure was sealed. He wrore through
the weary hours to midnight somehow. Towards midnight,
he took his pen again, and wrote on rather dreamily, a
little chapter. It might or might not go into the book, —
he thought it was truth in its way, — Violet would tell him
if he asked. Her judgment was sufficient, and she was a
woman, luckily ; — though of course it was always possible
that the stuff he wrote at midnight would not bear the light
of day. She — Helena — would not read the book, — she never
read books like this. He did not want her to, specially :
unless some day when he was dead, when she was old, a
grandmother, — then she might be allowed, perhaps. Her
— well, her husband could decide.

He stopped writing of a sudden, lifted his head, and
sat motionless. His quick ear had caught a sound. He
heard, or thought he heard, the clink of the little iron gate
which, at the wood's outer extremity, gave upon the road.
He sat, every sense on the alert. There was a step, no
doubt of it, approaching rather cautiously through the wood.

It was after twelve, and he had no dogs with him : but
Johnny was not easily deranged, in life, and rather wel-
comed occurrences ; more especially at this moment, being
heartily sick of his own company. Anything, even a
poaching tramp, was better than that. A pirate would

STRETTO 361

have been far better. His namesake Silver with the timber
leg would have been received, cutlass and all, with en-
thusiasm. But there was small hope of it. Caution, even
extreme caution, in coming through the Lyke-wood,
did not necessarily imply an evil-doer, it was imposed by
the Lyke-wood's peculiarities upon the simplest citizen.
To-night there was a moon, Johnny believed : he had not
looked out to see, being otherwise occupied. But a moon
made the place worse, if anything, since the shadows of the
branches imitated the roots of the trees. Further, the im-
mediate defences of the log-house, contrived when John
was twelve years old, but not quite devoid of the subtlety
of his maturer genius, though now a little decayed and
overgrown, made the approach to his camp, as he would
have said, ' no fun.' It was not only visionary pirates who
might easily get a broken head or ankle for their pains.
Taking all things together, having listened a minute, the
master of the log-house rose, and lamp in hand, went to the
door to throw light on the situation.

In the period of his great-grandfather's great -uncle, this
would have been distinctly a rash proceeding, since any
lurking enemy or rival could have shot him, full-lighted,
where he stood at the door. But Johnny rather thought,
for the moment, no one would be kind enough to shoot him :
that was a little too much to ask. He held the lamp high,
frowning into the obscurity.

' Who's there ? ' he challenged, in his low carrying tone,
— what Fanny called his ' pretty ' voice, which could have
been heard with ease to the wood's other extremity. ' Speak
up, whoever you are, or else clear out.'

' Thanks,' said a rather tired voice out of the furthest
gloom : no more.

John's strained face under the lamp-light changed oddly,
— anyone would have said to pure relief. Likewise his
manner changed, on the instant, though he pitched his
voice to carry still.

' Stretto,' he politely addressed a shadowy broad-

362 THE ACCOLADE

shouldered form, just visible against the faint light of the
sky in the wood's opening. ' By which I mean, look out
for the stockade. That's the entrance where I'm lighting,
— catch on the inner side of the gatepost, — got it? —
good. Now come straight up the track I'm making, and
you'll be clear of the snags, not to say snares. They're
tolerably guileful, some of them, though I say it that
should not.' He watched his visitor past the last defences
before he spoke again, in his ordinary careless voice. ' Not
but what I was expecting you, generally speaking. Only
not just at midnight — my mistake.'

He lowered his lamp-torch on the words, and Quentin,
slightly smiling, came into the illuminated ring.

' Thanks,' he said simply again. ' You seem to be well
defended in these parts. I'd begun to think I'd got wrong,
since I asked for Routhwick. The people at the inn said I
should find you, though, so I chanced it, and risked the
short cut. Fact is, I've had a fair day of it, first and last.
Can I come in ? '

Quentin did not mention that the people at the inn had
told him he would find Mr. John in a singular manner, as
though Mr. John were something fine and precious, his
presence on the parental estate a secret to be withheld,
and his person at all costs shielded from the profane.
Quentin, not having heard of Mrs. Ingestre's death, had
laid it to the habitual Yorkshire caution, — one never got
a question answered here without reservation, and a
certain suspicion of the questioner as well. Beyond that,
he was not inquisitive, and had been too tired to trouble
about the matter. He had, of course, by some means to
see Ingestre.

Now, here he was, much as usual, with no especially
alarming attributes of dignity, — not even dressed, — and
what was far better, with no women about him. To get at
Ingestre without having to fight past Mrs. Ingestre and a
flock of ladies was almost more than Quentin had hoped,
shooting him thus at random, as he had been practically

STRETTO 363

obliged on a Sunday to do. He would have faced any
number of pirates, like Johnny, sooner than the civilities
of a country-house drawing-room to-night. He had come
up late on the chance, trusting the ladies of the house
would be in bed, but one never knew. He had been enabled,
during the latter part of his day's work, to make a fair shot
at the Routhwick influence, not to say the Routhwick
revenue ; and he could hardly gauge, with his limited
experience of smart society, what the corresponding
Routhwick habits might not be. He was prepared for
anything.

Now, glancing about the quaint little quarters, so
eccentrically guarded, to which John introduced him, —
the white wood walls, the smoke in the air, the skins on the
floor, the confusion of books and papers on the table, not
a whiff of femininity anywhere to be detected, — his relief
was the greater. Relief spoke in his face as clearly as in
Johnny's. They were both purely thankful to find one
another, to join forces over a problem that had become
too much for either singly : and the eyes of both,, when
they met in the fuller light, declared it.

' This is Routhwick, more or less,' said John. ' It's my
department. Sit down.' He swung a basket-chair round
in front of the fire. It was ages since he had had a guest at
the log-house, but luckily there was a chair. He was pro-
pelling the guest with one hand towards it, when he with-
drew the hand with an exclamation. ' I say, — you're wet.'

' I'm beastly sorry,' said Quentin. ' Shall I spoil your
things ? I came across the stream.'

' What ? ' gasped Johnny.

' Forded it — last night, — excuse me.' He dropped into
the chair, leaning back.

After an interval John, who still held the lamp, implanted
it carefully. ' You forded the Mule ? ' he repeated. ' You
couldn't.'

' I did, somehow : don't ask. It was not a first-class
exhibition. The water's gone down a bit, and I found an

364 THE ACCOLADE

easy {dace. I was washed down a bit in the deepest part,
bat as you see, I wasn't drowned.'

' Where ? ' said Johnny.

' Not far from here.' Being close pressed, Quentin told
him exactly where, and it was the only possible place for
miles, both ways. Consequently, Quentin was not ' having
him on,' but stating fact. At least, unless he were a very,
very accomplished liar, with which talent, somehow,
Johnny did not credit him.

' I've been knocking about since,' he added to his
description, brushing some of the Lyke-wood mosses off his
sleeve, ' and I stuck at the inn for a time, so I dried. No
harm in a fire, though.' This last was a tribute to Johnny's
camp-grate, which his eyes profoundly approved.

' Why ? ' said Johnny. He subsided into his own chair,
to attend.

' Why I forded it ? Because I had to. I came across
country from Kendal this morning, you see ; and having
the map, I didn't enquire. I'd better have enquired, for
the map deluded me. There -was a road all right, — but
there wasn't a bridge.'

' No/ said Johnny. ' There's not been for forty-eight
hours. But you — er — might have gone round.'

' I hate going round/ said Quentin. ' I'm sick of it.'
He leant to the fire, elbow on knee.

' So do I/ his host admitted. He recollected his own
feat of audacity, which had startled Ursula, and had to
admit he was beaten. This was better, — it was even jolly
good. And on top of a walk from Kendal, five-and-twenty
— thirty miles, it must be that. He tried to reckon, but his
eyes were on the boy. It needed an explanation, a human
explanation, above and beyond mere recklessness and
record-breaking. He examined Quentin curiously and
cautiously.

' Great Scott/ he commented privately, ' what a rage
the man was in ! '

And he had been, obviously : he saw the embers of it,

STRETTO 305

even now. He had been furious with that lame girl, for
putting him in the wrong so completely. Well, so he
ought to be, — most healthy and natural, — Johnny admired
it. Granted the man's unheard-of situation, — always
supposing the tragedy the journal hinted at were a fact, —
Johnny would have felt, or tried to feel, the same. He
would not have forded the Mule in September, though, — he
would have stopped at that. But then, he knew the Mule's
tricks, — Quentin did not. He was foolhardy and rough-
haired, and took such risks in ignorance. Silly young
ass !

Johnny got up after an interval, and went to a cupboard.
' Here, drink this,' he directed. ' My department can rise
to whiskj', anyhow. You must be— er — pretty tired.'

' I'm all right,' said Quentin : but he drank it. He also
sat for some time silent by the fire, his host taking stock of
him with constantly renewed interest, his fine limbs,
splendid shoulders, the shape of his bent head. He might
not know the complete case for tragedy John was with-
holding, but he suspected it, — part of it, — oh yes ! The
attitude reminded him of some statue, one of the innumer-
able exhausted runners, or stricken warriors, of Greek art.
. . . Young huntsman, not captured yet ! He would not
be, if he could help it. He was fighting the toils, the fine
invisible meshes thrown after him, almost visibly. He was
indignant, still, that any had dared approach. That was
why he had burst through the stream. He had the water,
the woodland green, still on him. . . . Johnny's mind ran
back to the classics, to antiquity. They were needed,
somehow, in the case.

' Jolly good thing you're not dead,' moralised Johnny,
having thought it over, by degrees, with the aid of his c
• Isn't it? '

' It might be argued,' said Quentin, moving.

' Think they'd have missed you ? '

' My people, you mean ? Not for some time, — the
iff.'

366 THE ACCOLADE

' I mean your — er — superiors. Your natural directors.
All the people you habitually obey.'

Quentin paused, — a good pause. ' At the Office ? Oh —
no. I might have been missed for forty-eight hours, till the
other fellow learnt his work. I don't suppose they'd have
bothered to drag the stream for me.' He added after a
short pause, — ' That's what you've been engaged in,
isn't it ? '

' Yes,' said Johnny. ' Dash ! ' he added privately. This
was exactly what he had intended Auberon not to know.
There was no object in his knowing, — at present. There
might never be. ' Think it's a work of supererogation ? '
he said aloud.

' Oh no/ said Quentin. ' It's better to be on the look-
out.' He resumed his stricken hunter's pose above the fire.

A bit down-hearted, evidently. Johnny wondered what
he had been learning, since he got across the stream. He
was abominably acute, no doubt of it. He had never met
so incisive an intelligence. It seemed to strike out from
every look and word, though he was sparing, by nature, of
both. Luckily, John's people on the estate were sparing
of words as well ; they did not like talk much, both by their
own nature and his training, — knew they had better not.

' You've been over my tracks, then/ he said easily.
' Seen Fox ? '

' I talked a bit to him/ said Quentin, ' and one or two of
the farmers.'

Johnny's dark brows met. Fox would not have a happy
life, if he had been gossiping. Johnny led his assistant
on the estate a life at all times, which probably made him
sigh for the serenity of a Better Land ; but he would cease
to find any interest in existence at all, if he had been
betraying Johnny's confidence.

' May I ask/ he said politely, ' when the deuce you found
the time ? I can't fit it into the day's work from Kendal,
somehow/

' Only this last hour or two/ said Quentin. ' Chiefly

STRETTO 367

when I stuck at the inn. I couldn't do much till I had seen
you, naturally.'

' Ah, — and you put off trying to see me, — till now.'

' I did, that's the fact. You see, earlier on, I thought you
couldn't be got at. Couldn't make out what they were
driving at, down there. I nearly settled not to try it, till
the morning. It's just their way of talking put me off.'

There was apology perceptible in the rough-haired
visitor's tone. After all, one could not tell Ingestre the
secondary reason, or arriere-pensee, had been to avoid his
wife. It is possible John divined the secondary reason in
the silence that succeeded, — since he had once or twice
noticed Auberon forbear, with Ursula. Auberon had a
manner of forbearance which was slightly conspicuous to
the irreverent outside eye. Johnny had had to suffer it
once or twice himself. When he did answer, it was slowly.

' They're a good lot,' he said, ' about these parts, — extra-
ordinarily faithful. They've a name for fidelity, but it is a
fact. What they were driving at, and failed to say, was
that my mother died in London on Saturday. She was
fairly well known here, some time back, and it was feeling
for her — as much as me — accounts for their way of talking.'

The basket chair creaked as Quentin rose. It was a good
rise, too, — all in one piece, for all his weariness. The soldier
in him, deep-rooted, showed at that instant.

' I'm sorry, Ingestre, — I'd no notion. I've not seen the
paper for days. I say, why the deuce didn't you turn me
out ? Crowding you up like this.'

' Because I didn't want to. I like to be crowded. You
sit down.' John turned, and their eyes battled a moment ;
then the visitor subsided slowly into his seat again.

' I could go to the house/ he reasoned. ' Mrs. Ingestre '

' Mrs. Ingestre's in bed, — what d'you take her for ? She
goes to bed sharp at ten in the country, like all decent
people, — making up the season, four hours a night. What
did you come at such a time for, if you didn't mean to sleep
with me ? '

368 THE ACCOLADE

' Here ? ' Quentin was taken aback. ' But I say,' — he
looked round him, — ' you haven't a bed.'

' There's a bed,' said Johnny.

Quentin looked at it. ' That's yours.'

' I'm not using it.'

Quentin waited anew, to take it in. His host was a
remarkable person. But then he had gathered that, in the
course of his late investigations. All the fellows he had
come across spoke of Ingestre in the same — what one might
call — provisional manner ; true, that is, for the time being,
but liable to be upset by some unforeseen outbreak in their
subject the following day. At present, as it appeared,
Ingestre was not sleeping anywhere, according to himself.

' I've taken a bed at the inn,' he remarked gently, having
glanced round him once.

For some reason, this innocent remark proved exasperat-
ing. Mr. Ingestre had been sitting with one elbow on the
table, smoking in elegant ease. Now he swung his chair
round to face Quentin, removed his cigarette, and said in
succession several offensive things. He seemed excited.
The argument appeared to be — so far as there was an
argument — that since Ingestre had put himself out for
three days past to do Quentin's work, and had spent good-
ness knew how much money and worry in the process,
Quentin himself was necessarily attached to Routhwick
from the moment when he set foot on the premises ; and,
equally from that moment, under its protection — and its
direction too.

It was on the last point, needless to say, that Quentin
differed. He did not mind being protected, he could stand
that. Johnny asked him if he saw, during his discourse,
several times, but that point he failed to see. Johnny said
they might do things differently at the Board of Trade —
Quentin corrected him — but hereabouts things were like
that, — they always had been. Quentin was hampered by
laughter, rather, but he put his own views competently, all
the same.

STRETTO 369

' It's my concern/ he contended, ' ours anyhow. You've
no right to bother with it at all, really.'

' I've the best right,' said Johnny. ' Morally speaking,
it was my concern as much as yours. More so.' He
proceeded to demonstrate this. ' I ask you to look at that
bit of writing I sent you.' (This was the summary of the
evidence that exculpated Jill, contained on the last page of
her journal, which Quentin had been allowed to see.) ' Well
now, — which of us was wrong ? ' said Johnny.

' I was,' said Quentin haughtily.

' Only because I was,' Johnny pointed out. ' I wrote
you out my ideas, — in a railway-carriage, — I remember
doing it. Well, what did you do ? You merely acted on
them I '

' I beg your pardon,' said Quentin.

' You did,' said Johnny. ' And they were wrong ideas.
See?'

' You're mistaken,' said Quentin. ' What I acted on was
my own observation.'

' And what's the good of that ? ' said Johnny. ' You
don't know what to look out for. Good Lord, — your
observations of that kid finished where mine began.' The
discussion was pursued on these lines until — the visitor
being unfairly handicapped by politeness, — Johnny proved
to his own satisfaction that, morally speaking, in the matter
of Miss Jacoby, he had the pull over Auberon, first and last.
Then —

' Speaking less than morally ' said Quentin.

' What's that ? ' said Johnny. ' I say, you've done
enough thinking for the present, strikes me. You get to bed.'

The boy had blushed. ' No, really, I'm serious. I retain
responsibility, Ingestre, I'm afraid.'

There was a pause. ' Meaning the kid threw herself at
your head ? ' asked Johnny.

Quentin had a visible shock. ' You knew ? '

' I — er — divined it. So did old Darcy. So did my wife,
very probably.' Johnny considered how many lies he had
2u

370 THE ACCOLADE

better tell. ' That makes no difference,' he explained for
Quentin's consolation. ' It's just a little way they have.'

The guest was silent, looking tired. His arm lay along
the chair-arm, since he was resting : but his hand at the
extremity of it was closely clenched.

' I assure you,' said Johnny, still with the kind idea of
consoling him, ' it's simply incidental to the kind of thing.
It — er — always happens : that is, constantly. You couldn't
have stopped her.' He considered. ' Not with any number
of blue-books, you couldn't. Some one else might have,
of course. I might, if I'd known you '

Quentin broke in. ' Drop it, at least till we find her/
he said.

' Right,' said Johnny. He was serious for several
minutes, excessively. It was a serious matter, — might be,
after all. Only — • —

' You mean to tell me,' he tried again very gravely after
the interval, ' you think you could have helped it ? '

The boy was rigid and motionless, teeth set, without a
doubt, though his head was slightly turned away, — and
that expressive hand clenched on the chair-arm. He was
really one of the completest things of his kind John had
ever come across : all of a piece within as without. And
after all, it was no fun for him.

Johnny speculated on his guest for a time, leaning back
in his chair, his eyes at their widest through his rings of
cigarette smoke, except when the smoke reached them,
when they narrowed up. He tried, hard, to capture
the point of view. Never in his life had he had so much
difficulty : but he did, for some moments, accomplish it.
Still, his natural man protested. Conscience, of course,
was a fine thing, but you can overdo it, for the just balance
of life. What you may call a sense of proportion is necessary.
To go back, as this man was probably doing, and painfully
re-track every step of one's acquaintance 'with a girl — it
was true he had done it himself by Ursula lately, in the
train coming north. But not with the same purpose,

STRETTO 37i

precisely. Not impelled by conscience, exclusively, and
his duty to the state. Not with the entire weight of his
Imperial responsibilities, the future of society, the develop-
ment of the species, — what England expects. — Useless : the
whole of the humour John had taken pains to exclude
from the serious situation, came crowding back into it,
in his thoughts, and visible in his eyes. The rest of his
features he kept with an effort, but he could have been
observed keeping them. It was a strain.

As a matter of fact, Quentin could hardly have fallen
into kinder hands, in a position which exposed him to the
common scoffer ; simply because John's genius was not
that of humour, but comedy : a far broader and more
benevolent thing.

' You go to bed,' he said decidedly, at last.

Quentin stirred. ' I can't take your bed, Ingestre,
really,' he protested.

' I tell you, I don't want it. I'm going out soon.'

He spoke with finality, and rose as he spoke ; so Quentin
had to take him at his word. But he made one more effort.

' Not about my business, I say,' he said, looking up with
a certain shy earnestness, — nice at his age. Johnny
approved of it. He shot him a friendly spark in response.

' No,' he said, ' about my own.' He added, after an
interval of strolling about — ' For want of better — in life.
See?'

' No,' said Quentin.

' Well then, take your boots off,' said Johnny, with a
happy thought. ' You don't know much. You can tell
them at the Board of Agriculture I said so. Got every-
thing you want ? ' he added, looking round him.

' Yes,' said Quentin serenely, without stirring. He was
thinking deeply.

' Ingestre.' .

' Well ? '

' Helena — Miss Falkland — I suppose she's gone home.'

' No, she's still there at the house.' What — in the name

372 THE ACCOLADE

of the eternal — John was momentarily transfixed. Being
so frozen, he spoke in a still, soft voice. ' Why should she
have ? ' he ejaculated in sudden indignation, his colour
rising. ' It's Sunday to-day, isn't it ? Saturday to
Sunday's not a week-end.'

'No,' said Quentin. ' Only I thought — your mother '

' Ah, just so.' John mastered himself. ' Well, she hasn't.
At least, I think she hasn't. I understood from Ursula
on — er — whichever day it was, she didn't mean her to,
anyhow. What I mean is, if she had, chances are I should
have known. With any luck,' said Johnny, ' you'll see her
to-morrow, — er — get a good chance at her. We're going
south.'

' Thanks,' said Quentin peacefully. Young cub !

' If you don't want to, — mention it/ said Johnny,
turning on him suddenly in a nasty manner.

' I do, thanks. It's all right. . . . Don't bother about
me,' added Quentin politely. ' You've got your writing.
I shall be all right.'

On consideration, John did so, — that is, retreated to his
writing, — and it was about time. Few young men, so
highly skilled in various deception as Johnny, could have
given themselves away so completely, as he during those
last few responses. He could not help it. Do what he
would he flushed, flashed, stirred to his depths at the mere
mention of that name. Nobody was to take it on their
lips in his presence, that lovely name of hers, — another
man above all. He was a flame on the instant, a flaming
sword, — he was a tiger, with lowering eyes, patrolling
softly about Helena's temple, and swinging his tail. Johnny
became a tiger easily — it was the thing he did best :
perhaps he had it not so far behind him. Having moved
about and eyed Quentin from several points of view, — all
unfavourable, — he patrolled to his table and sat down,
dropping himself sulkily into his chair and trimming his
light. Teach him to talk about her, — said Johnny's
expression, — mention her like that — as if she had been

STRETTO 373

anybody, or anything to do with him ! He chucked his
books about a little, and then settled down to his writing,
exceedingly still.

Mr. Auberon, thus left abruptly to his own devices,
felt at ease, for all his somewhat unusual treatment. John's
celebrated method of hospitality was simple, — or rather,
it was threefold. He always took for granted people
liked him, to begin with, — which had the odd effect, as a
rule, of making them do so. He said everything he wanted
to them, for just so long as he felt inclined. When he had
had enough of it, he left them to themselves, with a supply
of good tobacco. The plan was only applicable to men, of
course : at least, the last part of it : the rest was, after all,
much the same for the two sexes. He had found it answer
to such an extent, that rather too many people liked him
in the world. Witness the formidable pile of their letters
on his writing-table, of which only a bare half-dozen, and
those the easiest, were replied to as yet.

Quentin responded to the treatment as others had done.
He felt, for all his day's wear and tear of body and mind,
comforted, supported, — really entertained. He was also
beginning, he believed, to get the hang of Ingestre, though
it was hard to keep on steady lines with him, he put one
out so deliberately. It was some time since he had stopped
regarding him as a ' waster,' which had been his original
impulse, during the conversation in John's house, in which
they compared their political views. Of late, chiefly
owing to his clever letters, his opinion of him had gone up
by leaps and bounds. After all, a man's own letters are
evidence. Right into the midst of this growing apprecia-
tion, came Falkland's confidence on the hill-tops concerning
his sister ; and Quentin felt bound, as the Falklands'
friend, to think of him with temporary disgust, — though
curiosity. He was already interested enough, in a personal
manner, to be curious.

Then there was the recent business of the hunt for the

374 THE ACCOLADE

missing girl, — the other girl. There could be no further
question, after Quentin's late researches in John's neigh-
bourhood, that he was generous, — any more than that
he was able, — and domineering. Obviously, in that
matter, he had poured forth money like water, and bully-
ragged the whole of the country-side. It did not need
Quentin's detective talent to discover that. There was
hardly a man, official or otherwise, within the radius his
researches had covered, who did not cringe at the mere
mention of his distinguished name.

Quentin the improver said ' feudal ' at first to this,
with all the disparagement that word conveys in the
modern mouth ; but as he worked back to the house that
was the centre of the feudal ring, he detected something
that was not feudality in the attitude of the country-folk
towards the family, — that is, to the son. There was friend-
liness, fatherliness even, in the old farmers' manner, and
an active partisanship about the farmers' wives. Fox the
agent, a down-looking, coarse-made man, with whom
Quentin had spoken passingly, was under young Ingestre's
thumb. He spoke with an ill-bred accent, but a reticence
of good breeding that was certainly imposed on him from
above. More, he let no word of complaint or criticism
escape him, though he had the chance, more than once.
It was true he called Johnny a ' young viper ' at one point,
but the term seemed dropped in pure admiration of his
soft and deadly methods, employed against a firm of
London contractors who had tried to ' do ' him over fitting
out one of the model farms. Generally speaking, Quentin
gathered that Ingestre got his money's worth out of every-
body who worked for him, and just a little bit extra as
well. Something that ' feudality ' alone cannot account for,
with whatever virtuous and unassailable sentiments
feudality may be bound up.

Very well : then there was this matter of Miss Falkland
— Helena : that was harder by far. It was so hard, con-
sidering the leap of the unconquerable fires in John's

STRETTO 375

splendid eyes lately, that Quentin flinched from it shyly,
and, for the moment, turned to something else.

He took in his surroundings, which were extremely nice,
and exactly suited him. Complete, as well ; all the
materials for the so-called simple life were there, though
some of them were not exactly simple. Certain details —
the silver lamp at Ingestre's right hand, the porcelain
cup to his left, the fine linen on the low camp-bed, the yet
finer tobacco Mr. Auberon was enjoying during his reflec-
tions,— seemed borrowed or imported from a more elaborate
life beyond.

It was a mere dependance, this chalet, to use the dear
Swiss term : yet the man was living in it, no doubt of
that. Nor was he cut off completely, as the ' pukka '
hermit should be, for he was being well served. Quentin
knew far too much about camps and their unlovely make-
shifts not to be rapidly convinced of that. Whatever his
design in self-seclusion might be, a trained servant was
involved in it, — only that made the situation odder, if
anything. And he wrote by night, — and walked at dawn,
— and slept by day, presumably. Was that the latest
mode of ' making up the season,' Quentin wondered, for
the selecter sections of London society ?

Then he dropped external investigation, and his thoughts
took wing again, — to the women. It was time. First to his
own distant mother, whom Quentin kept secret, like all
his best possessions, and before the picture of whom, held
steadily in mind for a moment, he saluted Ingestre's grief.
That was all right at least, no trickery. Then, by no
devious course, to Falkland's sister, whom already,
unthinking, he embraced among his best possessions too.
He had her friendship. He had come to know her lately,
really know her, in the airy echoing solitudes of the
mountain-sides. He liked Helena, admired, — and trusted
her. That faith he had expressed to her brother had been
no mere form of words. He believed in her loyalty, honesty,
and good sense as he had not yet believed in woman — girl

376 THE ACCOLADE

rather, — but he made the necessary allowances. Helena was
young, and she was tender-hearted. She had been fascinated,
caught by the man. Deliberately or no on his part, he
had captured her. Well, everything was already for him,
Quentin quite admitted, — no competitor in whatever lists
could be more finely equipped. Fate had granted him,
at the crucial instant, this additional chance of working
on a girl's sentiment, a woman's pitifulness, — his sorrow
and his loss. Urged with the arts which any man who had
seen him act could credit to him, it might have been fatal
for Helena, — just. It just might, thought Quentin, having
cogitated, turned it over carefully : and the man was far
too adroit not to see his opportunity.

Very well : there had not been much choice, and he had
chosen. He had ' cut ' the girl, — shown her out, — a thing
that made Quentin himself wince to think of, in the case
of Helena Falkland : a fortiori worse for a conqueror such
as Ingestre, who had barely recognised defeat before. He
had negatived, deliberately, his own assertive nature :
forgone all action at the crisis, withdrawn from the heroic
attitude, — simply refrained.

There was a long pause in Quentin 's cogitations there,
his eagle-eyes lowered to the little brasier. He had thirty
miles of uneven English road in his limbs, and it was
delightful to rest in such comfort, quiet, — with a record
behind him. Falkland would be sick with him, for ventur-
ing to break the record for a summer day single-handed.
Falkland, in all such undertakings, expected to be at his
side.

Well then, to resume, granted he had got it straight,
the thing was there, it did exist, — the poets and people
were right. He had always hoped it might be so. Quentin's
youthful bitterness had grown on him fast of late, owing
to circumstances, and to over-work : and it needed a
powerful counteracting influence, just at this point, to
shake off the cynical scales. Now he had it, — what one
might call a decent demonstration, and in a human form

STRETTO 377

he could respect. Feeling always in a mild degree responsible
for Helena, since he had become engaged to her mistakenly
in the public columns, and in the popular mind, Quentin
did respect Ingestre, and thanked him too. It might be
a poor show from the purely dramatic point of view, but
from Quentin 's it was a ' good effort,' — what his father's
family called a ' beau geste.' His eyes, on their last travels
round the log-house, rested for a passing instant on the
owner's head. John's dark head was propped on his hand,
while he answered letters with the rapid indifference of a
ready writer. His guest, courteous on instinct, had not
disturbed him even to the extent of spying on him pre-
viously : but he just glanced that way in approval now.
One could not say anything to him, naturally ; but Quentin
would have liked to thank him once — as demonstrator —
if as nothing else.

Soon after that, being all but asleep, he decided it
might be as well, after all, to go to bed, as he had been
directed to do some time since. Having picked up the
facts he required from head-quarters, he had to ' cut,' at
all costs, before the women were about in the morning.
Not that he specially wished to avoid Helena — Miss Falk-
land ; only he thought, just at this moment, considering
everything — and Ingestre — it might be as well. Ingestre
might quite well put a bullet through his head, on the
impulse of the moment, if he spoke to her, — that was one
thing. But besides that, he was the sort of man who
finished things off, once he had begun them ; and he
would finish them best, in this instance, — and with that
girl, — alone.

Later on, John went out, as soon as the first light gave
him an excuse. It could not be called a new habit for him
to see the sun rise at Routhwick, but it was a habit which he
had intermitted for a considerable period. It belonged to

378 THE ACCOLADE

the log-house's quite young days : to the days when his
mother had been his only natural authority, — call it the
only days when John had recognised authority at all.

It had been a fine night, and it was going to be a lovely
day, this that took him south to his mother's funeral. It
would be wasted in the train, — the first fine day for a
month and more ! Such is life. Johnny bathed first : then
he took a walk to the village post-box, to get the letters off
his hands : then, being practically-minded by daylight,
and having still plenty of time in front of him till the
world rose, he made a tour of his property to see if he could
catch any of his servants out in their manner of disposing
things — his things — overnight. However, since they were
all unnecessarily conscientious in this part of the world, he
found nothing particular to criticise. He sought and
prowled about in vain. It was not beautifully done — far
from it — but it was thoroughly, efficiently done, — a working
efficiency. There was not an ounce of originality or taste
in one of them.

This applied especially to the garden. On the gardeners
above all Johnny had to keep a hand of iron, or he would
have taken prizes for turnips and so on at all the local
shows, and never had a flower worth looking at.

Flowers reminded him; and still practically -minded,
thinking of the immediate future, he went to have a look
at the lilies. Ursula would object to them, probably, be-
cause they were not completely white. Also, they would
send masses of common white things, paper-white and
scentless from the hothouses at the Hall. But then, this
was Routhwick, his mother's own place, and the beds that
she herself had first cultivated.

The lilies were there all right, at the extremity of the
walled garden, in his mother's long bed, wide-awake,
crisp, and looking out for him : not dank and shut and
sodden like lots of the flowers. They were a proper kind
of plant to look at, upstanding, generous, not coy and shy
and silly, — Johnny did not wonder his mother liked them.

STRETTO 37Q

And these were a new kind, procured with much labour, a
kind she had never seen. They had taken to the Yorkshire
soil at once — nice of them — it would be a bit of a pity to
cut them down. Still, all things must go in a month or
two, and now they were just at their best.

Very good. Johnny — perhaps a little less than practical
by this time, — decided the lilies should go. They were
very nice lilies, if they were not quite the correct ones.
They smelt nice too, less overpowering than the early kind.
Ursula could have the correct ones made, — in plaster of
Paris, — or chiffon, — if she wished. He did not cut them
while they were still wet, that could wait. He only inter-
viewed them critically, all in turn, devoting them internally
to the sacrifice, — to the pyre.

Then he turned round, and stopped, as though shot.

The thing he had not thought of, all this time, was that
Miss Falkland should rise early to look at the lilies too.
How could he think of it ? First, he was thinking for the
moment of other things, — there were really so many just
now. And next, having always seen her in London, he was
apt to forget that she was a country girl, — country born
and bred. He thought she remained nicely asleep till
people called her, and then did all the things that girls do,
and came to breakfast. He thought she was like Ursula,
in short, who nowadays never got up early except for
hunting, and only then when he lugged her out of bed.
How could he so have mistaken — values, as to think Helena
was like Ursula ? Yet he had.

She had not seen him, and he was frightened, and stood
still. Frightened was the word. He looked behind him, —
there was no retreat. The path he stood on finished in a
bay of the wall, cosily occupied for social purposes by a
green seat ; and her path joined it, just ten yards away.
He could advance, of course, and meet her : go to meet
his fate, as it had always been his boast to do, — but he was
frightened, terrified without shame of doing harm to her,

380 THE ACCOLADE

she looked so exquisite as she came. She was moving
slowly, stately in her manner, head bent, her skirts brushing
the wet flowers. And so pale, — heavens, how pale she was !
She had been suffering, a day and two nights, because he
had snubbed her. . . .

There was another thing too, a thing he had noted long
before, when he met her first in the hides' company, that
day in his father's hall. Only if he suspected, guessed at
it then, it exhaled from her now, — the immaculate.
Meredith, in a famous passage, holds that those who sleep
beneath a flowering tree in spring-time must be good. It
is surely as true that those who choose to wake and walk
at dawn must be pure, — there is a marked unwillingness
to face that hour otherwise. Our poets prove it : Herbert
could qualify the dawn in a few lovely words, — Herrick
could not, however much the glow-worms lit the dusk for
him. It was that, something like that, but less expressible,
that Johnny felt in her : foolish, no doubt, since she was
a far from extraordinary, ignorant English girl. But since
she was the beloved of his life, he may be allowed to have
an instinct in the matter.

She came to the end of her path, and stopped.

' John ! ' she said. They were alone with nature, so
nature spoke.

' Yes, my dear,' he said quickly, for he had the advan-
tage. By at least a minute and a half the advantage had
been his. They stood at their full height, beautiful pair, at
ten paces' distance, their eyes exchanging facts intimately,
but without familiarity. Familiarity is never a quality
bred by grief. ' Over,' said his eyes, and hers did not
dispute it, only her wistful look strengthened to certainty.
That was what Helena had expected, to find him in the life
and feel quite sure.

' I'm sorry about your mother,' she said softly, when
she could.

' I knew you would be,' said Johnny. ' That's why it
was — no good, partly. I had to be alone.' That was

STRETTO 381

as far as he ever went, at that or any other time, in
apology.

Again they stood in the sun, and she looked downward,
the insidious moor-breeze fanning her little curls. She
was uncertain what came next, questioning as to retirement,
— Johnny must help. So he helped by coming up to her,
meeting her really, — why not ? Since she was here among
the lilies, when he was lonely, why should he, on this of all
mornings, drive her away ? His mother would look after
her, even if he could not. Whatever other realm were denied
them they were king and queen, unchallenged, of this fresh
morning world. One might steal a march, with the least
effort, on the rest of chattering, ape-like humanity. With
the smallest moral or dramatic effort, that could be done.

' Come and see my river,' he suggested, in a delicate
tone and tentative manner. ' It's better than yours.'

Helena was surprised, a little. She turned her head and
looked round her. Then, as though the loneliness and the
lilies relieved her too, she turned to him, laughed a shadow
of her little laugh, and came. So that was all right.
Up went Johnny's spirits, merely to have her : and up
went Helena's, merely to be at his side.

' Do we go that way ? ' she enquired, as he stopped at the
little gate of the Lyke-wood, on the western or gale-ward
side of the garden wall.

' I'd take you, like a shot,' said Johnny, reflecting over
it. ' Only I've got a visitor.'

' A visitor ? '

He nodded. ' Friend of yours. Young Auberon.'

' Quentin here ? ' She was amazed.

' He looked in about midnight,' said Johnny, ' cool as
you please. Sat and told me what to think, for several
hours. Now he's asleep, after a day and a half across
country. He's only had four hours' sleep, see ? He might
be dangerous if we woke him up.'

' Yes, he might/ said Helena thoughtfully. ' Poor
Quentin. Very well.' She sighed, because she had so

382 THE ACCOLADE

wanted to see the camp and its defences. However,
they went on.

Johnny discouraged the advances of the dogs in the yard,
though Helena begged for them. They might knock her
into the river, he said. How far jealousy entered into his
calculations, need not be asked. He wanted Helena to
himself, this morning. So, having told the smaller dogs
not to be asses, and quenched the largest with the heel of
his boot, they proceeded to the stile.

' Sure your shoes are thick enough ? ' said Johnny with
a scruple. ' There's a dew and a half, you know, — pints to
the square inch, — and heaps of time to go and change.'
Helena only laughed : she regarded it as a joke to get wet,
still among those ages. ' And there are hours to breakfast,
I ought to tell you,' proceeded her host. ' Are you hungry? '

' I shall be, if you talk about it,' said Helena. ' Don't.'

' I'll go and get you some cheese from the farm,' said
Johnny thoughtfully. ' It's jolly good cheese, and the
bread's home-made.'

' Do be quiet,' said Helena, laughing and detaining him.
She was so afraid that he would leave her that she detained
him with a hand. ' Talk about something else quickly.
Tell me why Quentin came.'

So Johnny told her, as they went across the fields. He
told her all about Jill ; for, having reconsidered it, or
rather her, he saw no harm. It was a woman's history,
fitted for a woman's ear. It was a girl's history too. There
was much that was painful, but nothing that was odious,
in it. Helena could hear some things he preferred to keep
fromAuberon,— still better, she could be judge what Auberon
ought finally to know. Johnny had wanted a confidante
badly, throughout the business, for he never really liked
thinking alone. He had been very unhappy in the station
that day, and he had all but made a confidante of Ursula.
He nearly always chose a woman, if he could find one, to
think with, — as may have been noticed in this chronicle :
— telling her, of course, what to think by the way, but

STRETTO 383

finding his own thoughts the more easily for her society.
That was why he was so clearly constructed to be a good
husband to somebody, the somebody he had not found.
He had been extremely useful to Ursula, if you came to
that, and Ursula had lost the habit of thinking for herself in
consequence, — because Ursula was not the right one. The
right one would have kept the habit in spite of him, — long,
long since, on the night of his own dance, Johnny had had
an inkling of that. He needed something buoyant at his
side, not a dead weight of dependence, though he was
strong enough — just — to bear that. But it irked him,
and he treated it badly, — though he saw that it thought
in the right way.

Now he had the buoyant thing of his desire, precisely,
and he was perfect in fair dealing. He did not hector at
all, unless in fun, once or twice. Helena did some hectoring.
Helena told him he was hard on Jill : she told him he was
horrid about it. She had always loved Jill, ever since she
saw her act that day, — though of course she had hated
her for acting so beautifully. Thus she explained, and
Johnny quite understood. He had hated the girl for
acting beautifully too. He had had to buck up himself, in
quite a tiring degree, to take her on. In fact it might be
argued — but Helena was not going to pay him compliments,
she was intent on the other question. She made him go
on, right through, to the bitter end,' — which was no end,
of course, only conjecture. His suspicions, — the reasons
of his suspicions, — his view of the girl's character, — all
about it.

Then she was silent for a time, digesting it.

' Poor Quentin ! ' she said. That was her first thought.
It was said with most earnest feeling, and Johnny had to
bear it. He bore it, on the whole, well.

' He was in a fair way/ he admitted. ' Seldom saw a
man so sick. He was ready to heave rocks at the scenery,
as it was. If I told him the rest of it — my word ! '

' But won't you have to ? ' said Helena.

384 THE ACCOLADE

Johnny waited. ' Well, you see, nothing may ever
happen. No reason to put him out if nothing does. Is
there ? '

' You mean, they may never find her ? '

'No.'

' Alive — or otherwise ? '

' They may never find her otherwise,' said Johnny

' And if they do ? '

' Then I suppose I must break it to him. Her intention,
I mean. But I shan't show him the journal.'

' I think/ said Helena, having bent her fair brow, in
earnest thought, for some time, ' that you ought to. Because,
you see, she left it for him. Don't you think you ought ? '

' No,' said Johnny.

' Have you read it ? '

' No,' said Johnny.

' Well, then, how do you know — oh dear,' she laughed,
' if you really think so ! Only '

' Don't you ? ' he asked.

' I've not seen it,' temporised Helena. Johnny con-
sidered for a time. It was beautiful to have so much time
before them, during this leisurely morning walk. They
took full five-and-thirty minutes to walk to the bridge :
which, considering their respective form, was disgraceful.

' I'd show it you if — I thought it any good,' he said.
' But I don't, — see ? It's nothing against you, it's merely
the sickly futility of the whole affair. She was good stuff,
that girl, properly speaking. But she went bad, owing to
circumstances. Rotten bad. Not her fault.'

' I see,' said Helena. ' Poor darling. I wish I had known
her a little more.'

' Yes, I wish you had,' said Johnny, overpowered by the
clear genius of this suggestion. ' You could have taught
her a thing or two.'

' Oh, I didn't mean that,' said Helena. ' I didn't at all
feel like teaching her anything.'

Johnny adored her again for this. Little she knew !

STRETTO 385

But he was quite right not to show her that journal,
obviously. She knew nothing of the sort of kind, thank
the Lord !

So they came to the bridge. ' There ! ' said Johnny,
scoring, by the one word, all that was necessary.

Helena nodded to his challenging spark : and by her
steady look abroad, embracing his river, accepted the
score.

The water had gone down a good bit, as Quentin said ;
some of the rocks were out, and a few were even dry.
But it was still grand enough to think about, even to
think at length : though not so maddening, so distracting
to the spirit as it had been. Besides, the sun improved
matters, the bright morning sun flashing on the foaming
rapids, and making rainbows in the spray above them.
It was a much more heartening spectacle to-day than it
had been that bitter grey morning, in the small hours of
which the bridge went down.

Helena exclaimed with pity — she had pity for every-
thing— over the broken bridge.

' Don't go too near,' advised Johnny, sitting down him-
self extremely near, on a remnant of the ragged parapet.

'Oh, do be careful ! ' said Helena, vexed.

— ' And what you might not understand,' said Johnny,
when she had found a seat near him, harking back as
intimates do to the previous question, after a purely
external interruption, ' some of it, — that journal business,
— was put on. Practising passion, — playing at it. We do
that.'

' Do you ? ' said Helena, puzzled.

' We do at times. When we're— not at our best. It
— er — feels rather nice.'

' Deceive yourselves, you mean ? '

' No,' said Johnny. ' I don't think we ever quite do
that, that's the worst of it. You can — er — confuse your-
self a little, if you're careful. It's a kind of self-indulgence;
risky a bit, like opium - eating, — specially for a girl.
2c

386 THE ACCOLADE

Seems to me worse for a girl, I may be wrong. Not that
she could help it, really.'

He sighed : then, lunging suddenly side-long from his
precarious station, leant on his elbow to gaze at the water
beneath him, loosening several bits of stone by his move-
ment, which trickled into the stream.

Helena gasped, and very nearly clutched him again.
She did wish he would be careful, flinging himself about
like that !

It struck her, considering him in his new position, that if
he had, really, walked with them recently in the mountains,
he would have done things like that on purpose to make
Quentin, who climbed by theory in classical style, annoyed.
Helena could see him doing them. It was wrong, of course,
to imagine him quarrelling with Quentin about trifles, in
the mountains, and the consequent efforts incumbent upon
her, as the friend of both, to make peace. She had better
not think about it, or she might laugh, — or cry, which
would be worse. It had caught her breath already, now
that he was river-gazing, and she could watch him un-
observed, to see how tired he was. So Helena locked her
hands in her lap, in order not to be tempted to save
Johnny from sudden death, if he desired it, and set her-
self, with her eyes on the river, to puzzle at the terrible
problem of Miss Jacoby, — Jill.

' You mean she was not really in love with Quentin ? '
she ventured shyly.

' Oh, yes, my dear,' said Johnny. ' Oh — yes ! '

He was perfectly abstracted, plunged in a river-trance.
So Helena, smiling, let him alone, and leant back in her
more comfortable corner. It was not wrong at least to
rest, and dream, and feel safe in his society. Anybody
could do that. As the sun's strength grew greater, warm-
ing them, there seemed no reason to talk, or move. Lord
Levinson's cows, coming down the opposite bank 'not far
below to drink, and flick at the morning fly with their
tassled tails, scarcely turned a glance in their direction,

STRETTO 387

they sat so motionless. Johnny, indeed, was in danger of
falling asleep. The hot sun of daybreak, after a sleepless
night, is stupefying, — let those who doubt it try.

' Oughtn't we to be ? ' began Miss Falkland at last,

recalled to time after an interval of eternity. ' Oh, what's
the matter ? '

It seemed that her voice, falling into the long pause,
had startled John. Sitting up of a sudden, he put a hand
to his head.

' Idiot ! ' he ejaculated, with astonishing vigour, dropping
the hand to his knee. Overdoing things as usual, he
nearly jerked himself off into the water ; however, he
recovered, and got up. He looked dazed, and drowsy :
seemed searching rather at random for his ordinary faculties
to reassure her.

' I don't mean you,' he explained, stopping in front of
her, — she was gazing up with lifted brows. ' Somebody
else I happened to think of. It just came over me.'

' Lord Levinson ? ' asked Helena. She had, of course,
heard that story, at full length, in Johnny's letters from
Routhwick ; and she had noticed him lately gaze across
the water, as though considering.

' Oh, he is too,' said Johnny reassuringly. ' Only this
is a worse case. Levinson never had any brains. The one
I'm thinking of has got 'em, — one or two.'

' Oh then, I know who it is,' said Helena.

' Do you ? ' said Johnny, disconcerted. Miss Falkland
had also risen, and they turned and began to walk back,
side by side.

' You happen to think of him rather often, don't you ? '
said Helena.

Johnny glanced at her. He had never before let a little
cub of nineteen tease him. Violet, uncomfortably brilliant
as she had been at that dangerous age, had pretty well
had to mind her p's and q's in his company. He had allowed
no liberties.

On the way home, Helena talked to him : he was quiet,

388 THE ACCOLADE

thinking, as was clear ; looking about him, though, — he
never missed anything of interest in the landscape, — he
even bent and picked her up a tiny flower once. Helena
thought of his mother, the way he had always mentioned
her, even passingly : and the way his wife had mentioned
her too. She now supposed, accounting for his altered
manner, that with the return to the house, the day's grave
duties came back to him. He had been entertaining her
lately, acting host, acting courtier, as he had been trained.
It was she who was wrong to have forgotten, even for a
moment, his situation.

They came over the high fields of rich grass, the grass
from which, with the intervention of a few natural processes,
the famous cheeses of the dale are made. They were
plain fields, all of them, well-kept and untrimmed, like all
things in Yorkshire, respectable only in their essential
wealth : with the absurd little stone gaps between that all
well-grown youths and maidens must writhe themselves to
get through. Twice, having energy to spare, he flung him-
self over the wall, leaving her to negotiate the gap alone,
— no sorrow in all the world could quench those fires in
him. And once he refrained from so doing, deliberately,
because there were certain of his labouring subjects in the
path who spoke to him. That was the only moment when
he recalled to Helena his London royalty.

' I'm afraid your feet are undoubtedly wet, Miss Falk-
land,' he said, as they approached the higher civilisation
of his own domain.

' They are undoubtedly,' she laughed. ' Only I think I
like your kind of wetness as much as any I have tried
lately — Mr. Ingestre.'

She just added it in order to correct anything she might
have done wrong before. It was marked with that inten-
tion clearly, and Mr. Ingestre swore in his heart. Luckily
she was far, very far from penetrating that department of
him, — he and his mother, between them, had kept her safe.

He pushed her through the little gate into the upper

STRETTO 389

garden, without a thought, his fingers on her arm. Then,
being reminded, he dropped them off her easily, half-way
to the house. His servant Blandy unlatched the Lyke-
wood gate, and issued with a hasty step into the garden,
immediately in their way.

' Hold up,' said Johnny warningly.

' Beg pardon, Miss, I'm sure,' said Blandy, recoiling
politely. ' It's Mrs. Ingestre, Mr. John. She wishes to
know if you'll be breakfasting at the bungalow, or in the
house.'

' I'm breakfasting with Mr. Auberon,' said Johnny
succinctly. ' And it's not a bungalow — tell Mrs. Ingestre.'

' Mr. Auberon's gone, sir.'

' What ? ' Johnny swung round. ' Confound you, what
do you want to let him go for ? I've got something special
to say.'

' Yes, sir,' said Blandy regretfully. ' I went in and
found Mr. Auberon instead of you — as he explained '

' You shut up,' said Johnny. ' It's not your bed any-
how.'

Blandy was not so sure of this : however, he did not
argue, since Miss Falkland was there. ' You'll be break-
fasting in the house, sir,' — was all he said.

' I shan't breakfast anywhere till I've seen Mr. Auberon.
See ? You go and find him,' said Johnny.

' The train's ten-thirty-eight,' observed Blandy. ' That's
starting nine-thirty at latest in the present state of things.'

' When I want time-tables, I'll ask for them,' said
Johnny. ' You go and do what I say.'

' Yes, sir. Mr. Auberon might be some miles off by this
time. All depends the direction he chose to take.'

' And he didn't confide in you ? ' queried Johnny,
leaning against the gate. ' Blandy, you are a goat, really !
I want him. He — er — never said good-bye.'

Blandy looked at Miss Falkland, who was laughing. He
hardly wondered, either. This was not Mr. John's best
manner, the high-class one he kept for public occasions.

390

THE ACCOLADE

It was as though Mr. John did not reckon Miss Falkland
as the public, quite.

' Perhaps he never does say good-bye/ said Johnny.
' Does he, Miss Falkland ? She knows him/ — to Blandy.
' Oh, dash the man ! He never does a thing you'd expect,
so far as I've observed him. I thought he could sleep for
five hours, safe. Blandy, I say, — it's serious/

' Yes, sir/ said Blandy. He now had an idea, by Johnny's
eyes, that it was. He was very well used to reading him.

' Too serious for Miss Falkland/ said Johnny. ' She can
go. At least I mean, we will leave her, with her kind per-
mission. Do you mind ? '

He was silent a minute or two, while the girl made her
way up the garden : quite silent, leaning on the gate.
Then he spoke in another tone. ' Look here/ he said.
' There isn't much time, as a fact, and I'm bothered about
this. Have you — er — got a minute ? '

' Yes, sir/ said Blandy, — mendaciously. He ought to
have gone straight to Ursula.

' It's the usual thing/ said Johnny, drawing him inside
the wood. ' I've been a fool, from the first/

' About the girl ? ' said Blandy.

' That's it. I've a living conviction, now, where she is.
Can't tell you how. It came to me on the bridge. Or
rather where — I ought to be slain for being such an ass/
said Johnny, frowning. ' But I don't suppose we could
have saved her/

' You've done all a man can do/ said the young man,
with absolute certainty. ' And it's your food you want, —
begging your pardon/ Blandy's eyes were directed resent-
fully to John's bed, since they had now reached the log-house.

' Oh, that's all right/ Johnny glanced that way too.
' I didn't — er — happen to have time, you haven't always.
Fact is, I've been keeping two things going the last few
days, — it's that does the trick. And I've pretty well
played the fool in both, as it now turns out, — never mind/

' You tell me what to do/ said Blandy.

STRETTO 391

' Can you, do you think ? You'd be awfully kind.
It's simply catching Auberon, — I'll write to him, — and —
er — backing him up. He's a respectable man of his sort '

' He's a gentleman,' said Blandy.

' Put it that way if you like,' said Johnny. ' I've known
some that weren't. I'd do it if I had a chance, give you
my word. And that young fellow at the house — Miss
Falkland's brother — is a bit young for the job. You're
as old as I am, aren't you ? — pretty near.'

' I shall do,' said Blandy. ' All you've got to do, is to
tell me. There's nothing you should be thinking of, but
one thing, to-day.'

' I've an idea,' said Johnny, dropping into his chair,
' that you said that the day I was married. But I didn't,
I thought of heaps of things. And for all that I got married
very decently, — no thanks to you or Hertford. . . . Blandy,
you are a ripper. Do you really not mind ? There's the
doctor, of course, — or Fox. No, not Fox. Or I could go
by the night train.'

' I wish you would stop talking/ said Blandy angrily.
' You'll go with Mrs. Ingestre by the morning train as
fixed, no nonsense. I'll follow you by the night one. Beg
pardon, Mr. John.'

Johnny laughed. ' All right,' he said, ' only I didn't
fix it. I'd sooner Mrs. Ingestre was out of it, that's a fact.
She's barely fit. Miss Falkland's all right, — she's fit for
anything. I've been telling her about it. And she knows
Auberon, so that's straight.'

Blandy waited now. Such things as were within his
range, he could do ; but all these delicate extras were
beyond him. His master as usual held the strings, and was
straightening them, sitting at his table.

' Look here, — come close.' Blandy came to the table.
' This is what I am writing to Auberon, and what you shall
take. He knows nothing, at present, though he was
getting there, being smart, when I saw him ; and he'll
have seen some of the people by now, If only he hadn't

392 THE ACCOLADE

been in such a darned hurry. . . . It'll be a jar for him,
for certain. You can count on that.'

' Yes, sir,' said Blandy.

' That girl was poisoned, not drowned. She — er — said
so, if I'd thought. Some narcotic, — sleeping-mixture, —
laudanum probably. And the place to look for her is not
in the water, in consequence, — my — er — literary instincts
threw me out, — but on land.'

' Yes, sir/ said Blandy.

' Just on land,' said Johnny. ' Just beyond the bridge.'

' Kettley Bridge, sir ? '

He nodded. ' The bridge that's no bridge. Levinson's
plantation, probably. Not far anyhow, she hadn't the
strength. Quite near the road. I'm as sure of it as if I
had seen her — somehow.'

' Yes, sir/ said Blandy : sure of it too.

' She just lay down, the first place she felt safe in,'
said Johnny. ' That's how I see it — now — I may be
wrong. Lord help her,' he added suddenly, his head
dropping on his hands, ' poor little soul ! '

' That's Miss Falkland,' said Blandy to himself : a bit
of wonderful penetration, born of his love for Johnny. It
was the first time, — and he had heard most of the dis-
cussions,— that he had heard his master speak one word
of pity for the girl he suspected of having taken her own life.

As for Mrs. Ingestre, she had shown disgust, first and
last, on the subject.

VT

Ursula rose that morning determined to do all things
in order and nicely, as she best knew how. On an occasion
of such sober state, of sufficient grief, with two well-bred
and adaptable young people like the Falklands to assist
the proceedings, it might all have been carried through
without error and in excellent style : but John was incon-
venient.

STRETTO 393

He was even excessively so, more than usual. He began
by turning up to breakfast at the house, when she had
reckoned on his remaining in retirement at his bungalow.
That was the first shock. Next, and in natural consequence,
there was not breakfast enough. Miss Falkland was hungry
too, as it happened, but John was ravenous. Between
them, Ursula's resources were taxed, since she had arrested
her household economy with trained precision, in view of
the immediate breaking up of the party. John never
failed to be ravenous just when her arrangements most
required him not to be, that went without saying ; but
this particular morning, it was a little improper as well.
So was his easy manner of conversing with Mr. Falkland,
— so was the too-evident fact that he had been bathing,
— so were his clothes.

Ursula herself came down in black, of course, a sheet of
black, though her husband was puzzled where she found
the materials, since she had assured him two nights since
that she had none. It is rather startling what women can
do in these ways, — dyeing themselves, — it made Johnny,
who still felt sleepy, think vaguely of that picture in a
German story-book which everyone knows, in which a
large ink-pot takes the foremost place. Only Ursula's
face and hands were white — very white. She looked nice,
he freely admitted, whenever he glanced that way. She
had seldom looked so nice in his memory. It was quite
a pity she did not mourn for people, — fairly indifferent
people, — oftener. He could have spared one or two of her
relations very well.

Johnny did not say this last aloud, though he kindly
congratulated Ursula after breakfast. He had the art of
paying compliments with effect and without offence, and
she was not immune from flattery. Since he also strapped
her boxes for her, and gave her more than enough money
for all her extra expenses, Ursula liked him for at least five
minutes. He was distinctly nice, helping her in her room.
But it did not last. He proceeded to cut his wife out with

394 THE ACCOLADE

all the servants in turn, just when she most wished to talk
to them, which made her frantic naturally. There is
nothing a woman can less well bear than man's interference
in that, her peculiar province : and at Routhwick, John
was always doing it. Having had an intimate conversation
with the housekeeper, who had known his mother in the
old times, and made her cry, — if John did not make the
servants cry one way, it was another, — he actually went
and changed ; and reappeared looking so right in every
particular, and so eminently what Blandy called high-
class as well, that Ursula could not but approve of him
again. If John had only always looked like that, it would
have been purely a credit to belong to him.

Finally, when Ursula was just convinced that all was
well, and the day's preparations nicely completed, he made
a perfectly extraordinary commotion in the hall, a few
minutes before starting, over an entirely unimportant
matter, the flowers she was taking to London. It seemed
the gardener had done something wrong about them, and
so John was using the worst language in front of the servants
and in the hearing of poor little Miss Falkland too.

Ursula shut the door of the dining-room, where poor
little Miss Falkland was, for safety, and went to take, as it
was right his wife should do, her share of the blame.

It was nothing in the world, so it turned out, but that
the gardener had, quite naturally, cut all the little yellow
things out of the centres of the autumn lilies, to make
them white.

' They always do,' explained Ursula patiently. ' It's the
custom.'

' Custom be hanged,' said Johnny, only he did not say
that. ' What right has he got to meddle with the flowers ?
I told him to cut the stalks.'

' And they carry better,' pursued Ursula in the same
mild, hushed voice. ' He's perfectly right, John. No,
I did not tell him to do it, — I gave no orders. I suppose
a good gardener knows/

STRETTO 395

John said, then he was welcome to go where the good
gardeners go to, only by the rest of his remarks, it did
not seem to be quite the place. He was ready for him to
go to several places, only not Routhwick. He would not
trouble him to stay there.

' Don't be absurd,' said Ursula, several times. He did
not really mean to send Holroyd away, who had been with
them years. ' They look perfectly nice, and anybody can
see what they are meant for. That's all that matters,
surely.'

Johnny said he did not want to carry the rubbish-heap
to London. His mother had never cared for that.

' Hush ! ' said Ursula, shocked. ' You must be quiet,
John. The whole house will hear you.'

'Let 'em,' said Johnny. 'And see they obey orders
next time, and not cut all my best things to bits. Mutila-
tion, I call it. What's a flower without its anthers ?
What's a woman without her hair ? Perhaps you'll see
it that way, Holroyd.'

Ursula decided to smile, as the least of evils. ' They
look extremely nice, Holroyd,' she said. ' Mr. John's
joking. It's all right/

She hoped it would be sufficient reproof to him to admit
that he could be joking, on such a theme, at such a moment :
but he did not appear reproved. He was rather flushed to
the last, and short-tempered, — he snapped even at Miss
Falkland when she said good-bye. Mr. and Miss Falkland
were going, Ursula had told her household, by the later
train. She hoped they would be quite comfortable, and
really hated leaving them. She was full of apologies,
especially to Harold, but she was sure they understood.

It was a long drive to Kettley Station by Egstone, and
Johnny forgot his grievance against the gardener, and was
quiet enjoying the air. He sat opposite his wife, having
given the white lilies his place beside her, and it struck
Ursula, being at such close quarters, that he looked tired.

396 THE ACCOLADE

Fagged, was her word. She saw some little lines in his
brow that she had never noticed before, and which sur-
prised her. For the first time it entered her mind that
John, her young John, could ever grow old. She regarded
him as her junior, irresistibly, and treated him so, though
she told herself at fixed intervals that his age was no less
than hers.

The whole way to the station, — as is the habit of husband
and wife when free of company and the necessity of talking,
— they hardly exchanged a word.

' Where's Blandy, — at the station ? ' asked Ursula once.

' No,' said Johnny. ' He's coming by the night train.'

She was surprised, but left it. Blandy had so many uses,
that it was waste of time to consider what he might or
might not be doing. She was only disappointed, lazily,
because he could not do things for her at the station. But
then, John would be there.

After a time, Ursula told him what a nice girl Miss
Falkland was.

' Yes,' said Johnny, looking at the view. The view was
no view, since they were driving through the plainest part
of Egstone town.

' It's a pity she's seen so little of you,' said Ursula.

' Egstone Bank,' said Johnny with an effort, ' was built
by William the Conqueror.'

' I don't believe it,' said Ursula.

' I was only keeping it up/ said Johnny. He continued
gazing out for a minute, and then he turned and looked at
her, full in the eyes. Hers dropped, — she also blushed a
little.

Nothing else happened at all till they came into Kettley,
and, at the station turn, passed the post office.

' Why, there's Mr. Auberon ! ' said Ursula, really amazed.

' Oh, good,' said Johnny, stirring. ' Thank goodness.
Where ? '

' In the post office. He saw us, I think. Shall I stop
the man ? '

STRETTO 397

Johnny had already nodded to ' the man,' who had
looked round, and the carriage drew up. ' How long have
we got ? ' said Johnny, looking at his watch. ' Dash it
all ! Why couldn't you leave me a little more time ? '

' How should I know you wanted to see him ? ' said
Ursula. ' You never even mentioned he was in the neigh-
bourhood.' She was offended, — of course. He had for-
gotten she was bound to be.

' Didn't I ? ' said Johnny. ' All right, — shut up, Ursula.'

Mrs. Ingestre did not shut up, when Mr. Auberon, who
was her friend, and whose people her people had known,
approached the carriage. Why should she ? He was quite
a nice boy, and she liked him. She shook hands with him,
and talked, though Johnny could have slain her, having
so little time. Auberon's forbearance under her futile
remarks, on this occasion, was revolting. He had no
business to be civil, — he ought to have shot her or knocked
her down.

' Did Blandy catch you ? ' said Johnny formally, in
Ursula's presence, though he had no doubt of it. ' I
launched him in the dark.'

' He caught me at Egstone Bank,' said Quentin. ' I
waited there.'

' In time, then,' said Johnny.

' In good time, thanks. We got through.'

' I expected to see him, not you,' said Johnny.

' Did you want him ? ' said Quentin, slightly frowning.

' No, — I didn't want you, that's all.'

' John, how polite you are ! ' said Ursula : and so on.

' I had to come in to catch the post,' said Quentin.
' And I had a thing or two to ask as well, if Mrs. Ingestre
would '

' She will,' said Johnny. ' Come up to the station,
Auberon, — I'll meet you there.' The carriage moved.
' Now ' he began.

Ursula broke in, indignant. ' You might as well tell
me, John, — it's too absurd. Talking over me like that,

398 THE ACCOLADE

as if I was a child ! It isn't as if I couldn't guess the busi-
ness, either. And I'm every bit as much concerned about
that girl as you.'

' Yes,' said Johnny. He glanced at his watch again,
and snapped it with decision. ' You're perfectly right,
Ursula. We've rather left you in the lurch these last
days. I've been rather taken up. Now, listen here, will
you ? We don't happen to want you, at the station.
Time's short, and we shall do best alone.'

' Thanks,' said Ursula. Johnny went on.

' Since he's here in this fashion, it can only mean one
thing, — that they have found that little girl, — and that
she's dead.'

' John ! ' She flinched visibly, — quailed. He saw the
sheaf of lilies she was holding shudder.

' Now, — will you abstain from small-talk to him, —
weather and so on ? It's very nice weather, but he prob-
ably knows it, and he has about as much as a man can
bear. Do you quite entirely grasp his position ? '

Ursula, blankly gazing, did not, the least.

' Well, then, I'll prompt a little. That kid slew her-
self for him, — one might almost say to spite him, — because
he would not look at her. I'll make no comment on that,
since you knew her, and you're a woman. . . . Now he's
got to look at her, — only she's dead. No fun.'

' John ! ' she flashed. ' What a way to put it.'

' It's nice and short,' said Johnny. ' He could have got
clean off, — he's no earthly call to disturb himself. I gave
him the chance, at least three times over, — but he wouldn't.
See that ? '

' Yes, of course. He is very conscientious.'

' Quite so, — we agree. Well, now he has to face an
inquest, and the filthy talk a case of that kind always
brings up. He might dodge it again, but he intends to
stand the racket, probably. He will get the whole of it,
since I'm not there. Do you quite see what all that means ?
Do you know him at all ? '

STRETTO 399

' Of course I do. Much better than you do. He's rather
good at business, — he'd manage that horrid kind of thing
quite as well as you.'

' Thanks. You don't know him the least, but never
mind. That kind of thing would suit me better than him,
a lot. If I'd been able to stop, they might have been — er
— persuaded to shoot some of it on to me, — saving your
presence, Ursula. What's more,' said Johnny, ' I'd have
let 'em, — I shouldn't have cared two figs.'

' You needn't be disagreeable,' said Ursula.

' I'm trying to be clear,' said Johnny, ' against time.
It's a little hard. There's just one thing — two things —
that console me, — make it possible for me to go to London
this morning with you, 'stead of to-night. Blandy sat on
me, but that's not what I mean. One is — it's Yorkshire
and not London, — so that people have a jollier sort of mind.'

' Rubbish,' said Ursula. ' People are just the same
everywhere.'

' The other ' said Johnny. ' I'll tell you the other

in the train perhaps.' He got out. ' Go on,' he said,
' go over. I'll stop and get a word with him. Think you
can manage all right, or shall I do the things ? '

' Of course I can manage,' said Ursula huffily. ' I've
travelled alone before. Am I to get your ticket ? '

' No. I'll get both.'

' They won't let me cross without ' she began ; but,

seeing his look, she broke short, and went. After all,
country station regulations went down before John, where-
ever he was ; and this station above all, — and on this
occasion peculiarly. All the Kettley staff met Ursula, her
black robes and her white flowers, open-armed. They
were all most tender of her, she had no trouble at any
point. It was, in its way, enjoyable, a ro}ral progress :
only it would have been better, naturally, had her husband
shared. But John persisted in inconvenience to the last,
turned his back on her, and talked to Quentin Auberon,
— about that nasty affair.

400 THE ACCOLADE

' Shan't we go across ? ' said Quentin. ' I shall make
you late.'

' Dash the train ! ' said John, looking him sharply over.
But he was unchanged, almost. He was not a person who
changed much. With such an appearance in any other
man, John would have questioned if the thing could be
done, — really over. In this man he did not question it
for a moment. If it were not done, he would not be here.

' You were right,' said Quentin, glancing at him with
his cool steel eyes.

' You found her, then ? Dead ? '

' Oh yes. Some days.'

' Not drowned, then.'

' No, she was poisoned, the doctor thinks. Just what
you said.'

' Old Darcy's sleeping-mixture ? ' said Johnny.

' That's it, bound to be. How did you hit on it ? Really,'
said Quentin, hesitating for a word, — ' it staggered me.'

There was a pause. ' Take it easy, you know,' said
Johnny. ' Now listen a minute. I'm far more in fault
than you are, just remember that. Keep it in mind.
Because I held evidence you didn't, — through old Darcy
and so on, — see ? If I'd not been fooling over other affairs,
personal affairs, I ought to have got there, — in both
senses. I just had time. We can time her pretty fairly,
you see, because of the bridge. We all had time to get
over that night and save her, — I did go over once myself.
Only we drivelled, — threw away our chances, — I give you
my word.'

' I'd take it,' said Quentin slowly, ' on anything else.
You're very kind.'

Johnny waited again. Yes, that meant he was beat,
that his brains were. His body was not, even now. He
had done the walk to Kettley in record time, simply to
get facts out of Ingestre, finish the business, bring him-
self up to date. And it was not insensitiveness, — he was
supremely sensitive. He had been struck, full, — wounded.

STRETTO 401

He had staggered, — he used the word. But he had not
fallen : he had pulled up again, and still walked five miles,
hit the post-time, and got in before a train.

Johnny felt, once more, he never could have done it.
Struck in the back like that, spitefully, unrighteously, he
must have gone down. He would have lost his head,
forgotten himself, failed anyhow to come to the scratch.
But then, he could never have been sure he was clean of
reproach. On one score or another, either of tempting
the girl, or of treating her poor little problems carelessly,
he could not have gone scatheless before the internal court,
whatever callousness he might pretend externally. That
was where the crux lay, that was where this boy scored
utterly. Superb self-respect, real dignity, consistent
kindness too : and public duty, — that was what he was
born for. And this frightful vengeance falling on him —
to his nature it was frightful — unearned, and he did not
curse the girl in her grave ! The contrary : now that the
great stroke had fallen, he would lend her his own strength.
Everything he betrayed in that short interview, — and he
spoke clearly though slowly, — of what he had done and
would do, showed up those facts about him. That he
would face the public question, with the oblique odium it
must throw on him, in the common minds : that he carried
all the weight of that childish ill-considered crime in his
own person : that he honoured the dead. He was Greek,
a Greek type, — Johnny regretted he could not hear him
at that inquest at Egstone, just hear him tell the truth.
It was a thousand pities he had only four minutes to know
him better, before a train !

As things were, he could only try to be even with him
in a few small ways.

' I'm sorry I've got to leave you like this,' he said, ' but
my people have orders, and they are to take yours.
Blandy's got my facts, and Falkland's still there to stand
by you, you won't be quite alone. I think,' said Mr.
Ingestre in his royal manner, ' they won't bother you much.

2D

402 THE ACCOLADE

My shanty in the wood is at your service, for yourself —
or anything. It's a quiet place. Is there anything more ? '

' Tell me how you got there, — guessed it/ Quentin said.

' Just in that way,' said Johnny. ' It struck me, came
to me suddenly, she'd be looking for peace, no more, —
to get away. And what better than to leave a broken
bridge behind you ? Put it somebody had told her it
would go in the night, — that somebody I never found.
Wouldn't that do ? I thought it might, at the time.
Anyhow I sent Blandy to warn you on the chance. If
you'd waited, I'd have come along, — but as things stood,
I couldn't risk it.'

' It's first-class,' said Quentin.

' It isn't,' said Johnny. ' it's common sense. All those
things are. One might rag the Psychical snobs about it,
but it's not worth it, for a simple thing like that. . . .
I'm glad it's fixed, at least, for you and everybody. It
rather sticks in your throat leaving a thing like that
undone.'

' So it does,' said Quentin. ' I'd sooner know.' He
added, after an interval, ' There's your train.'

' Is it ? ' said Johnny. ' By the way, Auberon, I told
the whole to Miss Falkland, I thought it best. Will you
— er — excuse me ? '

' That's all right,' said Quentin, his eagle-eyes looking
up the line. ' Look here, you'd better cut and let me get
your ticket, hadn't you ? I'll bring it round.'

' Two tickets,' said Johnny easily. ' But why should
you fag ? '

' I've hardly seen Mrs. Ingestre yet,' said Quentin,
faintly smiling.

' This train stops two minutes,' said Johnny, ' I rather
think it stops for us. That's hardly long enough for a call,
and my wife's a stickler for the time-limit, so it won't
count. Not worth it, in short, Auberon. Ill get the
tickets.'

' I'd better,' said Quentin. ' You're making her anxious.'

STRETTO 403

' That was cheek/ said Johnny to himself as he crossed
the line. ' Common cheek, that was.'

He crossed just in front of the approaching engine,
with the entire personnel of Kettley Station looking at him
anxiously. No one else in the West Riding would have
been allowed to start. But if John could have been killed
by any common accident, he would have been killed long
since. He got over very comfortably, without hurrying
himself, and Ursula sat well back on the station bench,
so as not to see.

Two minutes after, Mr. Auberon, who also seemed to
enjoy dodging trains, brought Ursula's ticket to her, and
bade her a nice good-bye. She had always said he was a
pleasant-mannered boy, if rather distant and didactic. He
had nearly always been helpful handing things when he
came to call.

' And of course, she's to have any of the flowers,' said
John to Quentin hastily at the last, the lilies in his wife's
arms reminding him.

Helena, he meant, was to have them for Jill. ' Stretto,'
that was, — the finishing chord, bringing the two girls, the
sinless and the sinning, together. But as he sank back on
the seat again, his eyes strayed to his mother's lilies with
persistent, frowning discontent.

Helena, at least, would not maul the flowers about.

FINALE

' AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING '

A WEEK after her mother-in-law's funeral, Ursula retired
to her German baths, to make the best of what was left
of the season. This would have astonished nobody, since
Ursula was known never to give up a plan she had once
proposed, unless the heavens fell and prevented her from
performing any part of it. She was a terribly orderly
person. But, just as the hunting-season at home was
opening, to the overpowering amazement of his family,
Johnny went out and joined her ; and after that remained
abroad with her the whole winter long.

The accounts Ursula had written of herself would have
disturbed nobody, had she continued alone, for like many
another morally weak woman, her courage in health
matters approached the heroic. No one would ever
have gathered from Ursula personally that she was less
than well. However, it could only be presumed by Johnny's
remarkable proceeding that she had let him gather it, —
and he certainly had more practice in reading between the
lines of her staid epistles than others of the family. Any-
how, he went.

His accounts of her threw light at once. He said she
was quite bad, several times. What it was he could not
make out, and it seemed the doctors would not help him.
He used violent expressions about doctors' dodging, the
senseless jargon they cultivate, which is alike in all
languages, and like no real language under the sun ;
and he was powerless to extract anything from his wife
herself. But that he was, if not anxious about her, at
least interested, became increasingly evident, and his

407

408 THE ACCOLADE

family at home spent their intellect and ingenuity in vain,
in trying to account for it.

To begin with, there was no misunderstanding him.
' What's she after now ? ' — was a common comment on
Ursula's letters, but they never had the excuse of uncer-
tainty with John's. He wrote himself down, as he spoke
himself out, in life. More clearly even : he weeded his
thoughts of obstruction before he wrote them, — the
arriere-pensee did not tangle the roots of every phrase.

To the first and obvious solution of his preoccupation
in this most unexpected quarter, which occurred to Mr.
Ingestre and his mother simultaneously, and which they
both, in their different disagreeable fashions, threw at
Johnny's head, he returned an impatient negative. There
was no hope of a child, and they could stop talking of it.
Ursula was worrying, that was all, trying to kill herself
over some inanity, as lots of women do, and would not
tell him a thing about it. He thought she disliked him,
he added casually once.

' It's curiosity,' said old Mrs. Ingestre suddenly. ' I've
felt it at times, with Ursula, myself. It puts him out, he
shouldn't know how she works, so as to instruct us all.
That's just like John.'

' No one ever knew yet how women work,' said Mr.
Ingestre, throwing the letter angrily aside, ' least of all the
women themselves.'

' I make an exception for professional women,' said Mrs.
Ingestre. ' Otherwise, I quite agree.'

By professional women, she meant the theatrical pro
fession, as her son knew. He asked how she argued it :
but she had grown confused a trifle, so he had to help her.
' You mean you have to know yourself,' he said, ' before
you can take on another character.'

' That's about what I mean, John. I should have thought
it hardly worth the pains to say.'

' Then you argue Johnny knows himself, and Ursula
doesn't ? '

409

' Johnny's all right,' grumbled the old lady. ' He's
good material.' Nothing would ever make her grant
Johnny was more.

' Do you think he's studying Ursula professionally ? '
said Mr. Ingestre, amused.

' I shouldn't be surprised. Didn't I say so, at least five
minutes ago ? '

' Ah yes, you meant that by his curiosity. Well, in my
opinion, he's set himself a thankless task.'

' You used to like her,' said Mrs. Ingestre.

' She gives him more trouble than she's worth/ said her
son. ' If she's going off her head into the bargain '

' Who said she was going off her head ? '

This excited Mrs. Ingestre very much for a time, but
unluckily it was again extinguished by a flat negative in
Johnny's next clear letter. Ursula was all there, he said,
and was keeping his accounts for him. He was going off
his head rapidly, owing to the perpetual interference and
particular idiocy of his relations.

Next, the Ingestres adopted a theory that Ursula was
jealous of little Miss Falkland. They rapidly added to it
that she had the best of reasons for being so, since little
Miss Falkland had visited at Roiithwick, and (by the
dowager) that it certainly served those Army people right.

With exquisite tact and courtesy, they again flung both
theory and accusation at the head of the son and heir,
in at least two brilliant and offensive letters.

Johnny did not reply at all, — proving no doubt that the
shot had got home, or else that he had suddenly found
another amusement. His next letter home, if it could be
called a letter, was a list of remarks to his tailor, to be con-
veyed, and possibly translated, by one of his plain aunts.

As for his handsome father and grandmother, they were
content for a time, and quiet. Everybody knew about
jealousy, and the only surprising thing was that Johnny
should be put out abvout such a trifle, incidental in all their
lives, However, he seemed to be calming down.

4io THE ACCOLADE

Then old Mrs. Ingestre travelled out to take the sun at
Biarritz in January, and met them. She wrote home at
once to say Ursula was ill.

Ursula remained simply ill, for weeks, no details added :
weeks during which, since his grandmother was present,
Johnny, who seemed to be a little tired of Ursula, went
off with Jem Hertford to Switzerland. During this period,
the young Mrs. Ingestre and the old were tete-d-tete, and
the head of the family in London rubbed his hands ; for
his mother's letters to him had exactly the same degree
of violent impatience that Johnny's had had at the previous
date. She could make neither head nor tail of Ursula, and
she was furious about it. She said her grandson's temper
must be saintly, ever to have stood such a stupid little
thing at all.

When she returned to London, the old lady said irrit-
ably that the girl must be in love, — she could see no other
way of it : she was tired of the whole business. This was
all very well, and even very conceivable in theory ; but
they sought heaven and earth to find anybody at all
plausible for Ursula to be in love with, in vain. There
was nobody, such was the life she had led ; especially since
the Auberon boy had broken off again, and was, by society's
strong presumption, attached henceforth to the Falkland
girl. That string to Ursula's rather feeble bow was broken.
Besides, he had never seemed to attract her seriously,
and all the conversations the dowager had ever managed
to overhear had been extremely pious and impersonal.
So finally the clever old lady, her real penetration at a
loss, had to abandon the idea, and was mightily cross in
consequence.

' And how's Johnny ? ' said Mr. Ingestre, when he
happened to remember.

Johnny, said his grandmother sardonically, was mourn-
ing in retirement. Being pressed as to what that meant,
she said that Johnny was a rogue, getting a? woman old
enough to be his mother to make a public fool of herself

' AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING ' 411

about him, for the amusement of young Hertford, and a
set of smart American people.

This allusion to Lady Ruabon and the Clewers diverted
Mr. Ingestre for a time, but not for long. Johnny was as
usual, was all it came to. Ursula was really more interest-
ing ; for Mr. Ingestre could not but feel, if the case proved
worth the attention to that extent, both of his mother,
and of his son, it would be likely sooner or later to capture
his own as well.

When Ursula came to Johnny and Jem in Switzerland,
she was better : and even joined, with propriety, in some
of their amusements. Not all, because she had not the
strength. The air of the place they had chosen at random
above Montreux seemed to suit her, and so, as long as Mr.
Hertford's holiday lasted, they stayed on. Mr. Hertford
should have been representing a section of his native town
in the councils of his nation : but at the Christmas election,
his native town's section had chucked him out, because a
Labour candidate with convictions had turned up there.
The new-comer was quite a good little fellow, according to
Mr. Hertford, with lots of ambition and ingenuity, and a
literary taste ; and though he did not address Mr. Hert-
ford's constituents in quite such a competent fashion as
himself, had just managed to outbid him in the political
auction, and by splitting up the parties, had captured the
seat. He was a thought too impetuous, though, Mr. Hert-
ford confided to Johnny on the ice, and would prob-
ably overdo it : whereupon the community of Cranford
West, tired of their bargain, would turn to Jem again with
penitence and tears. Pending this desirable consumma-
tion, Mr. Hertford, M.P., could skate in Switzerland: and
did so, to universal admiration.

When Hertford was recalled to London, Johnny and
Ursula had a domestic interval ; and during that time,
having little but her under his eyes, he began, as he would
have said, to get there. He simply could not help it, his
grandmother was right. Having no other human material,

412 THE ACCOLADE

he studied her. Up to the date of that extraordinary
matter of the printed fabrication, he had never found her
interesting ; since that date he had done so, now and then.
He wondered what was really wrong with her, all the while
she was acting under his eyes, as she thought, her normal
admirable self. He was no believer in the well-known
phrases about nervous depression — which meant nothing
at all, — mental strain — of which Ursula was not capable, —
or periods of reaction from the same — which for the same
reason was out of court. He believed an idee fixe was
hampering her, blocking even her ordinary little round of
thought ; and smart as he was, he put it side by side in
his mind, for some time, with that other inexplicable incident
of the written lie, before he suddenly jumped at the con-
nection between the two. When he did reach the truth, he
could only be amazed at not having thought of it sooner,
— this being Johnny's commonest way of surprising him-
self.

The fact that one evening when they were together
alone they got upon the subject of Jill Jacoby and her
tragic little story reminded Johnny of the fact that they
had never talked it over in company. Ursula had never
led that way of her own accord, and he was rather glad,
since he preferred to keep Auberon's counsel. Yet it was,
when you came to think of it, rather unnatural, since it
was one of their few common interests in the past.

That evening Johnny led into the subject, for the reason
that it had come up during the day ; quite casually during
an afternoon expedition he had found himself discussing
it. Some fellow who haunted the Geneva district in winter
commonly, and knew most of the English hotels near the
lake, had once heard a remarkable child recite at one of
them. Concerning the child, Johnny's artistic curiosity
had been awakened, and he had decided privately, on
pressing the man, that it must have been Jill. He had
even picked up a fragment of her earlier history. She had
not been lame in those days, apparently ; she had hurt

' AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING ' 413

her knee in an accident later. She had been a small, very
pretty girl, an elf, with strange eyes and long hair and a
weird beautiful voice. But it was the man described as
attached to her that clinched the case, for it was certainly
Jacoby. It agreed with all the facts about Jacoby Johnny
had ever heard.

Since Ursula knew things about the Jacobys too, he
communicated with her to get her agreement. He wanted
to be agreed with, and having heard the evidence, Ursula
did so quietly. It was probable, she said. Thence Johnny
diverted to Jill's later history, and discussed the theme
lazily a bit. Once launched on it, Ursula, who had avoided
it lu'therto, seemed rather inclined to cling. She pressed
for an explanation of the girl's extraordinary idea in killing
herself, — why should she, after all, when she had good
friends and a comfortable post ?

Johnny was tiresome, and would not answer ; so Ursula
proceeded to enumerate Jill's friends and resources. Her-
self, for instance : Celia Havant, who was a capable woman
in her way : Miss Darcy, who, though a silly old thing,
was kind enough : Quentin Auberon and his sister, both
' interested ' : and even John's actress-woman had talked
about her, asked about her, if you came to that.

Johnny was still more tiresome, and made frivolous
comments on the list instead of helping properly. Ursula
grew fretful, and since Johnny really feared to worry her
in certain moods, he dropped his levity.

' Oh Lord,' he said at last, being prodded by Ursula to
account for the obvious, ' she was a woman and an artist,
and they're the only logical people on this earth.'

' I thought you always said women were illogical,' said
Ursula.

' Not artist-women,' said Johnny. ' They're the best
kind.'

' But why should it be logical to kill herself ? It's very
wrong.'

' Oh yes, — so was the French Revolution, — beastly.' He

414 THE ACCOLADE

leant back and looked impatient. ' I wonder you don't
see it. There she was, only fit for one profession, and
crippled, knocked out. That might be enough alone.
Well, put it she's in love with a man in addition, and can't
get him '

' Why can't she ? '

' Wei, put it she supposes she can't. Say she's a moral
scruple '

' Don't be absurd, John. Moral scruples, — a girl like
that.'

' 'Course they're absurd. I said so lately.' He shifted
his position again. ' Anyhow, Auberon would put any
girl off, — sit on her, — stare her down. Confound him,'
said Johnny fervently.

' Well, but naturally,' argued Ursula. ' It would be his
duty, it he didn't care for her : and if,' — she added uncer-
tainly,— ' if he was all but engaged.'

Silence from Johnny.

' She might have heard of that,' said Ursula presently,
working. Still silence. He did not help her. He was
thinking, biting his hand.

' Miss Darcy might have mentioned it, you know. It
was talked of. It had got about.'

He looked at her once, oddly. She was distinctly white,
but continued bravely.

' Suppose she'd heard. Is that what you mean — she'd
reason from ? Logically ? '

' I give you my word,' he said. ' I'd not thought of
that. You're more logical than I am, — sharper anyhow.
But there was enough without it,' he added, obviously
with an effort.

Ursula moistened her lips, worked on, and said no more.
It was awkward and unfinished, like all their intercom-
munication at this time. — but he saw light in the region
where he had been groping, all the same. A shaft of light
upon Ursula's inner working reached him. That was
where she was, was it ? Could it be ? What a singular

' AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING ' 415

trick of fate ! Yet why not, after all ? — it was quite a
reasonable train of deduction on her side. Rather notably
reasonable, for what he expected of her, — sharp, as he
said. That paper, in which her printed lie appeared, was
just the sort of paper old Darcy would read. Put it that
she had read, noticed the paragraph, and purposely
mentioned the fact of Auberon's engagement to the girl,
hoping to settle once for all her unsettled roving little mind.
Old Darcy had guessed she was in love with the man, after
all, probably some time back, — she was cute enough to
guess before anybody, — before Auberon himself. Well
then, what would be her natural course in the state of
things, feeling herself the girl's director ? Exactly that,
— to extinguish the hope, with the distractions to which
it gave rise, if she had the opportunity.

It was queer, on Johnny's word. He nearly wrote off
then and there to Miss Darcy to ask. He refrained anew,
though, because in his real kindness of heart he had never
disturbed his mother's old friend very deeply about the
business, especially since the distress occasioned by his
mother's death had diverted her naturally from the subject.
The ' bearded one,' he thought, might so easily reproach
herself for things she had or had not done by that girl :
and first and last, she had been kinder to the poor kid
than anyone, that was the fact.

So the only person Mr. John Ingestre did write to was
his grandmother, — because he wanted to score. He told
his grandmother, prematurely, that of course he knew all
about Ursula by this time, and was surprised she should
be still harping on the question. Ursula was all right.
She only needed ragging a little, — the proper sort of
ragging, — his sort ; he just needed time to screw her up
to concert pitch ; and wipe the eye of the medical pro-
fession. After which various proceedings he would bring
his wife back to London as bucked and bean-fed as any of
his precious family could desire.

It was a particularly impertinent letter, full of the kind

416 THE ACCOLADE

of slang which, since she could not follow it, his grand-
mother most disliked, and calculated to make her wish
that Johnny was half his age, so that he could be properly
rewarded for it ; but then Johnny was in exceptionally
high spirits when he wrote it, having been successful on
the ice that day.

However, having made these rash promises on paper,
it was of course advisable to carry them out, which was
considerably more difficult than writing them, and even
exacted a real effort at times.

Johnny ' ragged ' Ursula, for some weeks, in various
experimental fashions, and she took it differently according
to her health and mood, but generally speaking she seemed
to like it rather. That was all to the good, but no more
than Johnny expected. After all, when he really put
his back into it, he could always get the attention of any
woman, even hers. He was simply trying to get her
attention, rather a difficult job just now, for she was vague.
Having fixed it, centred it, so to speak, on himself, there
was more chance of getting to work later, on other things.

But events in life never fall out according to one's
planning, — Johnny had found this, that he could dispose
almost anything human to his taste, sooner or later, but
not the incidents of his career. They all seemed to tumble
anyhow and upside-down.

Ursula took him badly by surprise when the crisis came,
— she frightened him, gave him a real shock. For no winter
sporting in healthful air, fine feeding nor vigorous flirting,
could weed out that weak spot in Johnny, his woman's
nerves.

She came behind him at midnight, in their private
sitting-room at the hotel, at a moment when he was not
reading, but reflecting in his chair. His hands were across
his eyes. He had got rather deep into reflection, one of
those haunting visions of another life, — his real life, —
that obsessed him in solitude. He was just as bad as
Ursula secretly, he admitted it at times like these. He was

' AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING ' 417

obsessed, and hopelessly. Helena was in him, in the centre
of him : he saw, felt her everywhere : pictured her fur-
clad with him on the ice, pushed her lovely supple form
up the mountain-paths, teased her delightfully under the
green boughs on Christmas Eve, held her in his arms at
midnight, as he had once — once only — his weird fate had
dropped that marvellous moment from the skies.

And Ursula came into his dream, spoke behind him,
and spoke, as Helena once had done, a single word, — one
syllable, — his name.

' John ! ' she said.

But such a tone ! Never, even on the stage, had he heard
such a tone upon a woman's voice. Ursula's voice, too,
which as an organ was weak and impoverished, held no
sweet or impassioned range of expression.

He sat up and turned about in terror, ready for any-
thing : and there she was, a very ghost with her loose
fair hair, in her flowing faint-blue gown. Again, no stage
could have supplied a figure to match her, for haunting
fear and desperate remorse : — yet she was no actress,
she cut a wretched figure always on the stage. She was
just being herself for the minute, her own small-spirited
uncertain self, whose presence he felt under her admirable
outer aspect, day by day.

' What is it ? ' he said sharply. ' I say, — are you ill ? '

She shook her head.

' Can't you sleep ? ' insisted Johnny. ' You'll be all
right. Come and sit down a little, — get warm. . . . Lord,'
he added, with a difficult laugh, ' you startled me.'

She came a little closer, at the laugh, and her lips moved.

' What's that ? ' said Johnny, suddenly alert. ' What
did you say ? I say, just say that again, would you mind ? '

She said it again, being helpless, now close at his side.
Murder.

' Oh, my prophetic soul ! ' thought Johnny. ' Now for
it.' He held out his warm hand, and took her cold wrist.
' Ursula,' he said, in a pleasant tone, ' don't be a little fool.'

2E

4i8 THE ACCOLADE

' John ! '

' Well, you are. You're thinking of Auberon's so-called
engagement, — which wasn't one, — ain't you? And its
effects on that infant suicide ? ' She nodded faintly.
' Just so. Well then, you are one, — what I said. As if
a female of that kind ever regards engagements and
marriages ! — they hardly know there are such things.
You're getting mixed with your own lot, I may mention.
Her sort's not like that.'

' How do you — know ? ' She looked awfully ill, certainly,
as she gazed down at him.

' Never you mind,' said Johnny.

* No, but tell me. Don't — joke/

He had had time to consider. ' I know from her journal,
for one thing. There's written testimony for you. Un-
luckily,' said Johnny pensively, ' the journal's torn up,
and burnt, — in my grate at Routhwick. Only you can
take my word.'

' Yes/ she said mechanically, as he looked round at her.

' Jolly glad to hear it, — you didn't always. Never mind.
Miss What's-her-name, Jill, put everything into that
journal, unluckily. Personally, I never read such stuff.
If she had ever seen the thing you're thinking of, the
printed thing, — or heard of it even, — wouldn't she have
flared for pages on the subject ? 'Course she would.
Nothing she'd have enjoyed more. Nothing she'd have
liked better than having such a good excuse for tearing
— er — Miss Falkland's eyes out, and his, and Darcy's —
all of ours, — anybody's '

' Then — she didn't/ Ursula frowned. She was following
all she knew, he could see : doing her very best to follow.

' She didn't, that's all. Nowhere. Never alluded to it.
Consequently/ said Johnny in his crispest tone and best
elocution, ' she never heard. And if she'd heard, which
she didn't, she'd have heard it contradicted, wouldn't she ?
Yes. And if you'd only, ever, remember things I say, you'd
remember I said before she had reason enough to — er —

' AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING ' 419

end herself as it was. More than reason. About twice
too much. I'd have done it for much less '

' John ! '

' If I'd been in her shoes,' said Johnny. ' I never met a
girl I respected for a kind of straightforward thinking like
that girl. I only wish you thought half as straight.'

' I might be— dead by now if I did,' said Ursula, smiling
wanly. Still, it was a smile. She had drawn her hand
from him, and was warming it with the other, nervously.
Johnny gazed at her a minute fixedly, — he was still sitting
up in his chair.

' Witty, that was,' he informed her. ' Something like a
joke. You oughtn't to make jokes, it's not your line, —
specially on serious subjects. . . . Now, do go to bed, and
keep warm, and drop coming in to startle me. You startle
me when you play the fool like that. I'm — er — used to your
behaving yourself, especially towards midnight. See ? '

' I'm — sorry,' said Ursula, trying to smile again. She
did not manage it, and seemed incapable of saying more.
She stood by him some seconds longer, and retired. As
soon as she was gone, Johnny dropped back in his chair.

' Lord — save me for a liar ! ' he murmured, his dark eyes
wide and innocent as he gazed at the lamp. He proceeded
after a second's helplessness — ' And a bad liar, what's

more. I went back on myself once, at least Of

course, it may not have been there, but I didn't read it
to see if it wasn't. Dash this language, — do I mean that ?
I never read it to ascertain it wasn't. I never made sure.
I might have, if I'd thought — but how the deuce was a
fellow ever to guess '

He stuck, mouth open, and remained gazing at the light
for a time.

' Murder,' he said. ' Jolly nasty thing. Poor girl.'

After that he finally shut his mouth — on a cigarette.
He found he needed it.

Ursula seized herself again, as the French say, the follow-

420 THE ACCOLADE

ing day, — she may have done so within the hour, we will
not answer for her strict methods, — and forgot the impro-
priety of that midnight scene as rapidly as possible. The
first result, Johnny noticed, — he was studying her passion-
ately by now — was that she wanted to change quarters.
She did not want to go on looking at that room where she
had forgotten herself — or discovered herself — anyhow
lowered herself before his eyes. After all, the best people
may have nightmares at times, and she was not often like
that. Indeed, looking back, she had never been so before
in her recollection. Even in her first youth she had had
to keep up her position as elder sister, with various critical
young brothers just behind her. The thing was excep-
tional, and so might be overlooked.

Ursula overlooked it. Feeling better, after about a
month in another nice place, which she chose, — and where
Johnny picked up some people with whom he behaved a
good deal too conspicuously for her perfect peace of mind,
— she declared that she wanted English things, not the
perpetual imitation, — and took him home.

She took him to the Hall. Having been ill, really given
way, and so made herself interesting in the eyes of John's
inexplicable family, she was treated with great considera-
tion, and offered her choice in the matter of a spring
residence. She was given to understand that her courteous
father-in-law and her benevolent Grandmamma would
accommodate themselves. This was really rather nice,
and Ursula chose the Hall with her usual capable prompti-
tude. The Hall had nothing to do with any of the scenes
she most disliked remembering, in the first place. Also,
of all the Ingestre houses, appertaining to John or his
father, it was her favourite quarters, where she was-
happiest and felt most firm on her feet. She really enjoyed
its atmosphere of aloof aristocracy, soft servitude, and
immemorial calm. It is just for such people as Ursula
that ancestral mansions and their traditions are made.

John enjoyed the English country too, — she thought o£

' AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING ' 421

him in making her selection, and consulted him even. She
was not purely selfish in the matter : though she had little
doubt he would sooner have gone back to the wilds of
Routhwick and that dreary house. For his own stately
antecedents he cared little, except, of course, for the
beautiful things, pictures and so on, they had passed down
to him, and for a few of their more disreputable personal
lives. He seemed to care less than ever for aristocratic
decorum now, — he was growing worse, — Ursula greatly
feared he would prove eccentric at the end of all. However,
Markham and the men loved him just as much as ever,,
and Ursula herself had sent away the housemaid with the
hair to whom he had so vividly objected, the morning
after the bridge broke down. She could venture easily
now, being the Mrs. Ingestre, — the only one that mattered,
— to do so.

It was a warm morning of March, and she was feeling
fairly ' fit ' and had recovered all her ancient authority
and gracious calm, when she laid down the paper at
breakfast, just as John came in. He picked it up one-
handed in passing to his place, and as he did so, his head
being turned from her, she said, to forestall any unnecessary
exclamation —

' Violet Sho veil's got a son.'

He stopped as though shot, his back still turned to her.
Then he unfolded, and looked at the paper. Then he
threw it on the table unread, and passed on to his own
place.

' Good for her,' he said absently.

He sat down still thoughtful, his glance diverted. It
was several seconds before his eyes took their natural
direction, down the long table, to his wife. Then, immedi-
ately and abruptly, he got up again.

' Ursula, — for Heaven's sake ' he said.

In the very act of speaking to him, when she herself
had been least prepared for it, Ursula had collapsed. Her
head was on her arms, on the table, she was sobbing with

9*2

422 THE ACCOLADE

the abandonment of pure exhaustion, — she had long been
worn out. This, one of the many possibilities she had set
aside, refused to look at, had taken her unaware, just when
she thought she had reached contentment, some sort of
repose. That girl — with everything — it was too much !

' Go away, don't touch me/ she sobbed furious, fighting
with his hand. But of course he did touch. While she
had been hedging, hiding from him, all that winter, he had
been waiting for this, as unconsciously. It must out :
he knew it must, eventually : she was human, after all.
One day she would have to show him her true face.

He took her in his arms, now, by force : he could use
force when necessary, and her strength was nothing to
his. There was only one thing clear to him, she had some-
how to be consoled. He owed her something, — a good
deal, when you came to think. He could not stand and
look on at her so suffering, really suffering, under the
scourge. So he acted it, and acted superbly. He had never
so put his heart into a part before. He felt triumphant,
in advance. Grand, it was, to see all her defences crumble,
vanish, and the truth sweep through. All he knew,
Johnny encouraged it, sought to relieve her of that
stagnant mass of shamming, of false superiority to mortal
weakness, once for all. It was the one hope for her, he
knew that. That was the doctoring she needed.

She was simply helpless before him. Love him ? — of
course she did. Who could help it, when he made himself
like that ? Her young John, the original, the long-lost,
at last fulfilling all her poor little weakly dreams. She had
been at his mercy, really, ever since that evening at Routh-
wick when he had reasoned with her in her wretched
jealousy, and taken her hand. That long tete-d-tete she
had chosen in the north had brought a most natural
vengeance on herself. Each stroke she had aimed at
him, in obscurity, not letting herself look at him in the
light, had recoiled on herself in the end. This was the last
shock, the irrecoverable : for she felt she loved.

' AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING ' 423

She struggled for a period, all her pride struggled against
his consolations, his cajolery. She told him she hated him,
several times. But that was nothing, — Johnny had heard
that sort of thing, in life, before. He was set on conquest,
and he conquered. After all, he knew her pretty well :
better than she knew him, by far, — by far. ... He hemmed
her in, made her listen to him, look at him, kiss him even.
He did not ask to be forgiven, that was ridiculous, art
itself could not stretch to that. But he asked, if she did
not mind too awfully, to be liked : temporarily, of course :
just for the moment, till she felt better, and could eat
her breakfast. And Ursula, lost to commercial calculation,
went beyond liking inevitably, and gave him about four
times what he asked.

She bethought herself later, and regretted it, but it was
done. A terrible thing, feminine weakness ! — a thing to
be escaped, at all costs. Only, being females, they cannot,
— that is the beauty of it. Johnny had learnt that, if
nothing else, in the course of his fruitful youth.

Later still, he went out into the green Spring woods,
alone, to think about it : and to do penance, no doubt,
before Helena's woodland shrine. She lived under the
leaves for him, as Rosalind did in Arden, and he could find
her there with no difficulty. But — really, life was very
odd. ... He wondered during that hour's walk, for the
first time he wondered with all his soul, whether that
logical girl, Miss Jacoby, had not found the simplest way.

However, he did not destroy himself ; he came home to
dinner, and wrote some letters afterwards. We will give
the letters he wrote, because it occurs to us that our hero,
a practised and persistent letter-writer, has not been
treated fairly in this regard. It is our duty to do our best
for all men, and especially heroes : so we do it, rather
late.

He wrote first to Quentin, with whom he had been
corresponding pretty regularly, during his winter abroad ;
though principally upon Quentin's own subjects, as to

424 THE ACCOLADE

which John, whose historical reading was wide and up-to-
date, knew a good deal more than he commonly cared to
show. Quentin made no secret of his opinion that Ingestre
ought to go into Parliament, and had been putting his
persuasions in every possible form, — fruitlessly. Not
because Quentin was young, — on paper Johnny forgot
his age, since he was clever, and treated him as a man and
a brother, very willingly, — but because Mr. Ingestre did
not agree as to the moral obligation. He was, in response
to Quentin's well-urged appeal, hopelessly personal. He
knew far too much, so it appeared, of the private history
of prominent members in both houses, — for several genera-
tions back, what was worse, — to have the smallest respect
remaining for his country's most cherished institutions.
He appended to his injurious remarks a couple of finished
word-portraits of his friends Mr. Hertford, M.P., and young
Lord Dering, by way of illustration, without names :
3'et both so terribly true to type that Quentin, who was
hampered in life by a sense of humour, was laid low for
the time being by laughter, and could get no further with
the argument. Johnny added as an afterthought that
he hated London, — as if that had anything to do with it.
Quentin hated London too.
The present letter ran as follows :

' MY DEAR AUBERON,

' Don't be an ass. It maj' be as you say, that you
ought to read it, though Lord forbid I should ever take
my duty to pieces so carefully : but first, you won't have
it to read, because it's exactly as much my concern as
yours, and I read all that was necessary : and second, you
can't have it, because it's burnt. Can't get beyond that,
can you ? Very well, shut your mouth.

' Of course you can have me up in the courts of justice :
only I warn you in advance that the document that
bequeathed the thing to you is burnt as well, and that
Ursula will say anything in a witness-box that I tell her.

' AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING ' 425

I may have to tell her to say the opposite, but anyway she
will say what I want. And as soon as I have a minute,
I'm going to jolly well give it her for giving my secrets
away, because of course it was she. Women ought to
be muzzled, they shall be next time my side comes in.
What's more, I strongly suspect in whose ear she breathed
it. You can tell young Falkland I thought he had more
discretion. He's a rough-haired young rotter, tell him.
But I suppose you got it out of him, put the screw on,
didn't you ? A nice way that to treat your friends.

' I think the chances are you're inclined to vex yourself
about the whole thing too much. I also suspect you have
been refraining from vexing me. Jolly kind of you, but
the fact is, it's not worth it. The case is not worth it,
meaning the girl. If it had not been you, it would have
been another, — me probably, — that I swear. The only
difference would have been, I should have told her to go
to the devil, and she'd have gone and done it just the
same. It's a case of temperament, do you grasp, and that's
" disease," if you like to call it so. But your dashed
education will never have any effect upon it, nor your nice
religion either. The latter, so far as I've noticed, makes
it rather worse.

' I send you, in this connection, Fan Mitchell's letter,
which may throw some light : for if ever a woman knew
what temperament and what trials mean, she is that one.
And let me have it back, would you mind, — but I needn't
ask you. It's a beautiful letter, English or no, and she's
a beautiful soul. You see she would have found the child
a chance in spite of Mitchell, and Mitchell's no joke. If
only the stupid kid would have waited another month or
two, — but they never wait.

' Close the page, do you mind ? It's better for all
parties. When I last saw old Darcy she was planning
never to move again, but to die where she was. She told
me so. What's more I fear she'll do it, if not distracted,
because my mother's death, coming on top of the other

426 THE ACCOLADE

thing, broke her badly. Is it too much to ask Miss Falk-
land, do you think, to go and see her ? She wouldn't
be afraid ? I'd send my young cousin, only unluckily she's
rather taken up for the moment, so I'm driven to apply
elsewhere. Could you get in a request, some time or other,
— don't mind about mentioning me.'

Johnny was just going to sign it, when he stopped,
leant back a moment ' drooping his eyes,' and added above
the signature —

' And I say, would you mind asking Miss Falkland to
marry you ? I understand it's expected of you, and has
been for some time.'

' That'll do him,' he thought, as he sealed the letter up.
' And Heaven help her,' he privately added.

To Miss Darcy he wrote, that the miniature of the
Marechale had been examined by the experts, just to see
that it was all right, after its last remarkable escapade,
and re-valued by the way. And that the price put on the
pink lady's little head was really so preposterous, that he
could not reconcile it with his conscience to keep her at
the Hall. So would Miss Darcy mind resuming her
guardianship, at least for a time, until he had had a safe
made ? And would she mind keeping the transaction
dark from Johnny's father, until he had had a safe made
for himself ?

To Violet he wrote —

' MY DEAREST GIRL,

' That's as it should be, never mind the rest.

' I wish I could see you in your happiness, but I can't,
you must excuse. My present business is to see Ursula
through. Nor have I pressed her for a message, nor will
I invent one, when the heavens are showering real blessings

' AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING ' 427

on you. My own you will take as intended, straight
from the middle of these green woods. You can simply
have no notion what they are this year. Or at least per-
haps you can, Mrs. Shovell, with the spring in your
arms.

' Markham was moved, when I told him. I had to
entreat him to keep calm. His eyes rolled for a time, and
he seemed big with prophecy. But nothing came of it
except to request his respectful remembrances, which I
hereby send. It may, of course, have a dark significance.
Markham may, at heart, be a traitor to the younger line.
But for all these years I have spent in cultivating him, I
shouldn't like to think it, darling, so I won't. I left feeling
polished by the mere contact, as usual. I often think, if
Markham had been my father — never mind.

' My Life is finished, — don't be alarmed : I mean that
of my great-grandfather's great-uncle. My own is going
on a bit longer, I expect, at least I never felt so inex-
tinguishably alive as I do this March. I want you to
read, mark, and digest the Life, however, not only because
it's jolly good stuff, and a beastly well-contrived defence of
a blackguard, nor because you may have some remarks,
to offer on some parts of it, to which I shall not attend, —
but because it may open your eyes to some things in this,
blackguard by the way. That's why I had to defend him,,
probably. His love-letters are simply ripping, just like
mine, and it's a close thing which are the worse spelt,,
the French or the English. One of my dishonesties is to
transcribe them all correctly — I mean incorrectly — I
corrected them. It's a pity, though. Why haven't we
the spunk nowadays to spell as we choose ?

' If I grow to be old, Violet, as he did, and can avoid
drink, as he did not, I should like to write, for the sake
of such friends as are left me, the history of this last year.
I suppose the wise man, the sapient, never surprises
himself. Which is as much as to say, heaven has no sur-
prises left for him. Poor brute ! All the same, if I had

428 THE ACCOLADE

known there was, in earth or heaven, such glory lurking,
I should not have ragged the heavens in my youth so
blatantly. As it is, I'm a bit shy of them, the scene-
shifters aloft. For who knows, next time they open, what
they mayn't have to show ?

' I think H. will come to you, and soon. I see
her when I see your face, with your child. And hers
anticipating, shadowing, — but don't let her know too
soon. I feared for a moment, you know, I had shaken her
out of her natural growth, like forcing a wild-flower, a
horrid thing. But keep her back — you can, my little wise
woman — keep her out of doors, since that's her place.
Let it come slow, so it will last long, and remain good for
her, entirely good, to the uttermost end. I should blame
myself otherwise. I do, as it is. It is a situation I can't
manage, since I could not foresee it, — beats me, — lays me
out. The only one in the world.

' Love to Margery. Thine, same as ever,

' JOHN.'

PRINTED BV

TTUi ERENDON AND SON, LTD.
PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND.

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