Barney Hope drove his tandem up and down the parade, to the glory of Eastbourne, but with small satisfaction to himself. He did not care for the admiration of those who were strangers to him. Although his state was princely, and had all the exclusiveness which attends princeliness, it was a condition of things not at all to the liking of so companionable a man as Barney. His magnificent plan, which gave employment to an amateur gardener, had apparently miscarried; for no word came from the girl at the school, and, whatever attractions the tandem had for other inhabitants of Eastbourne, it certainly seemed that Edna Sartwell did not share them, at least sufficiently to arrange for a drive with the young man and any of her companions who dared to break the rules of the school for the giddy whirl of his lofty vehicle. Barney cursed his luck and also his messenger. He was sure it was Marsten’s fault; some clumsiness on his part had undoubtedly spoiled everything. Now that Barney thought over Marsten’s demeanour when he returned, he saw—what he should have seen at the time, from the gruffness and shortness of the fellow’s answers—that he had made a mess of it somehow and was ashamed to confess his failure. Marsten had merely contented himself by saying to Barney that he had delivered the letter unseen, and that the girl had given him no message to take back. Barney could get no satisfying particulars from him regarding the incidents of the meeting. Had he talked with her? Of course he had. It was necessary to explain how he came to be there. What had she said? She said very little. Had she seemed angry? She did not seem any too well pleased. And thus Barney, with industry and persistence, endeavoured to draw the truth out of a reluctant man, who appeared only too eager to get away and commune with himself, and who evidently did not appreciate the fact that it was the duty of a messenger to communicate full particulars of his embassy to his chief.

Now that Marsten had so hurriedly gone to London,—probably loath to admit his diplomatic failure, yet fearing to be sent on another mission of the sort,—Barney was convinced there had been some awkward hitch in the proceedings, which was all the more annoying as he could not discover what it was, and so he set about to remedy it with that unfailing tact of which he knew himself to be possessed. For once in his life Barney had to confess that he did not know what to do. He did not care to return to London and admit defeat even to himself. One of his favourite boasts was that he never knew defeat; for where—to use his own language—he could not pull it off himself, Providence seemed always to step in and give him the necessary aid. He began to fear that his customary accuracy in detecting the interposition had for once failed him, for he remembered he had looked on the unexpected advent of Marsten as a distinct manifestation that fortune still favoured him; but, as day after day passed and no answer came to the letter he had sent, Barney began to have doubts as to the genuineness of the intervention on this occasion. At last, in deep gloom, he came to the conclusion that life under the present circumstances was not worth living if it had to be lived in Eastbourne without knowing a soul, and reluctantly he determined to return to London. He ordered out his tandem for a final exhibition, remembering that, even though he took no pleasure in it himself, it would be cruel to deprive the loungers along the parade of their usual delight in watching the elegance of the turnout and his own skill in handling a team placed endwise. After all, the innocent frequenters of Eastbourne were not to blame for what had happened, so why should they be punished unnecessarily?—said the ever-just Barney to himself. They should be allowed to feast their eyes for the last time on the tandem and its master, and Heaven help them when he finally departed! Barney mounted his chariot with a sigh; for, aside from the fact that this was in a measure a last act,—and last acts always carry a certain amount of pathos with them,—it is depressing to have it proven that one is after all under no special protection, and to have doubt cast on former instances which heretofore have stood unchallenged.

Barney drove his spirited horses with perhaps less than his customary dash, a chastened dignity taking the place of the exuberant confidence which generally distinguished him. The bracing air, the rapid motion, the feeling of controlling destiny that a man has when he is driving a tandem, all failed to raise his spirits, as might have been expected; for the very fact that he was driving alone emphasized his disappointment, and made this world the hollow mockery it sometimes seems to the most cheerful of us. Yet how often has it been said, in varying forms, that the darkest hour is just before the dawn!—and how often will men forget that simple nocturnal fact!—a defect of memory the more remarkable in a person like Barney, who so frequently had had opportunity, while on his way home from a post-midnight revel, of verifying the phenomenon. Just when his despair was at its blackest—on the fourth drive down the parade—he was amazed and delighted to see Edna Sartwell coming down one of the side streets all alone. She had a newspaper in her hand, and was looking anxiously, and, as Barney could not fail to see, furtively, up and down the street, apparently expecting to meet some one, yet fearing that her intention might be divined. Barney understood the whole situation in a flash: she had been afraid to write or had been prevented from writing, and had stolen alone from the school in the hope of meeting him. Well, they all did it, so far as Barney was concerned; and, in the glow of exultation that came over him at this proof of success, and the assurance that, after all, his luck—or whatever it was—had not deserted him, there was just a faint, annoying tinge of regret that she was no more proof against his fascinations than all the others had been. Man is but an uncertain creature at best, and never knows just what he does want. A moment before, it would have seemed to him that nothing on earth could have given him greater pleasure than a sight of her; and yet, now that he saw her looking for him, he was actually sorry she had not been walking unconcernedly along the pavement like those who were strangers to him.

However, it must be added in Barney’s favour that this feeling of being perhaps a trifle too much sought after was but transitory, and that it did not for a moment interfere with his action. He pulled up his team with a suddenness that caused the front horse to turn round and face its driver, threw the reins to his groom, and jumped down with a grace and celerity as charming in its way as was his driving. The groom disentangled the horses as Barney accosted Edna with that urbanity which was perhaps his distinguishing characteristic. The girl seemed surprised to see him, and was plainly more than a little embarrassed.

“I am so glad to meet you!” cried Barney. “Why, the very sight of you makes this dull old Eastbourne smile like a rose, don’t you know. I haven’t had a soul to speak to for ages, and I began to fear I should lose the use of language. I give you my word, it’s the truth! I do think—that is, I did, until I saw you—that Eastbourne is the dullest spot on earth.”

“Then why did you come here?” asked the girl.

“Oh, now, I say, Miss Sartwell, that’s rather too bad! It is, I assure you. You know I said in my letter I came solely for the pleasure of seeing you.”

“So you did. I had forgotten.”

“Yes; and you never even answered my note, Miss Sartwell. I call that rather hard, don’t you know.”

“You see, Mr Hope, we are not allowed to write letters from the school; that is one of the strictest rules.”

“And are you so afraid of breaking a rule as all that? When I was at school the delight of being there was the breaking of all rules—and of most other things as well. I thought perhaps you would not mind breaking a rule for once, even if only out of pity for a friend stranded on this inhospitable coast.”

Edna blushed when he spoke of the breaking of rules; then she lifted her honest eyes to his and said: “I am afraid I pay too little attention to the rules after all my pretence of regard for them. I am breaking a rule in being here now; but I was so anxious to see a newspaper that I stole out to buy one. That is why I am here, and I should not stand talking to you, but must go back at once.”

“But I say, Miss Sartwell,” protested Barney, “if you break a rule merely to buy a paper, surely you will break another, or keep on fracturing the same one, when you know how much pleasure it will give me to take you for a little drive.”

“Oh, I couldn’t think of such a thing, Mr. Hope—I couldn’t, indeed, and you must not ask me! I wanted the paper to see if there was anything more about the fire. I should never have known about it had my father not sent me a short telegram that gave no particulars. I suppose he did not have time to write.”

“What fire?”

“The fire at the works.”

“Bless me! Has there been a fire?”

“Didn’t you know? There has been a terrible fire; the east wing is destroyed, and two men have lost their lives—two of the workmen. There would have been a frightful loss of life had it not been for one of the men who is dead. It is supposed, so the papers say, that in trying to save the life of the other he lost his own.”

“Dear me! how perfectly awful! I wonder why Mr. Sartwell didn’t wire me, as neither father nor Monkton is there. You see I never read the papers myself—never have any interest in them. If a fellow could only know when there is to be something in them worth while, it wouldn’t be so bad; but one can’t go on buying them every day, in the hope there will some time be something in them, don’t you know. Besides, people generally tell me all the news, so I don’t need to read. I hear even more than I want to hear, without looking at the papers; but, you see, I know nobody down here, and so am slightly behind in the news of the day.”

“I must go now,” repeated Edna, who had listened to his remarks with ill-disguised uneasiness.

“Oh, but that’s just what you mustn’t do!” cried Barney, with great eagerness. “Have pity, if not on my loneliness, at least on my hopeless ignorance, don’t you know, in a matter that I, of all others, ought to be interested—vitally interested—in. You see there may be no insurance, and perhaps I’m a beggar—may have to sell my tandem, don’t you know; sacrifice my pictures, and all that sort of thing. I must hear about the fire, and all about it. It’s of more importance even than the condition of the workingman, to me at least, dear as that subject is and—all—interwoven—as I may say, with my very—ah—being,—the workingman, don’t you know.”

“But,” protested his anxious listener, “I know nothing about the insurance,—nothing whatever. You should go at once to London, by the very first train. There has been an inquest, and I expect to find a report of it in this paper. You can buy a paper at the station, and then you will learn everything that is to be known until you reach London.”

“I say, Miss Sartwell,” said Barney, in an injured tone, “you surely can’t expect me to understand what’s in the paper! I never could, don’t you know. They seem to me to print such rubbish. Now you can explain it all to me in a very short time—you always make everything so clear. If you will just step into this cart of mine, I’ll drive out of town and around behind the school; then no one will see us, and you can reach there much more quickly than if you walked, don’t you know.”

The girl frowned, and Barney saw with surprise that she perhaps had, after all, some of her father’s impatience. He felt he was not progressing quite as favourably as he could wish; but a few words would put that right, if he could get her to go with him for a drive.

“Mr. Hope,” she said, severely, “you will pardon me if I say that, under the circumstances, you should be busy in London rather than idling at Eastbourne. An unexpected calamity has happened; the business is deranged, and men are out of work just now when they need it most; yet here you stand idly talking of tandems and driving!”

Barney opened his eyes wide with astonishment. Here actually was censure, plain and undisguised. He had never encountered it before from any lady, except perhaps from his mother—and she did not count; for, as he knew, she would be the first to resent blame placed upon him by any one else.

“But—but what can I do?” stammered the unfortunate young man, with strong emphasis on the personal pronoun.

“I, of course, don’t know; but that is what I should find out, if I were in your place.”

“Nobody pays the least attention to what I say: they never did, and it’s not likely they’re going to begin now. Your father didn’t even take the trouble to telegraph, although he knows I’m here.”

“He knows you are here?”

“Of course. He was coming with me, and both of us were going to call upon you; but, unluckily for me, he couldn’t come, and here I am stranded; and I must say, when you talk like that, I think fate is a little hard on me.”

As the girl looked at him, her expression softened; she felt she had been unfair to him, and she had a keen sense of justice.

“I had no intention of saying anything harsh,” she replied. “I merely told you what I thought any one in your position would do. Don’t you agree with me?”

“I always agree with you, Miss Sartwell. I’m rather a blockhead, at best, don’t you know; but I usually recognize the right thing when some one points it out to me. That’s one great fault I find with myself: I don’t see things till after every one else has seen them; then they all seem so plain that I wonder I didn’t notice them before. People are so impatient with a fellow like me, that sometimes I feel sorry for myself,—I give you my word I do! If they would take a little pains,—but then, of course, no one ever cares whether a fellow goes right or wrong.”

“Oh, yes, they do!” cried the girl, quickly. “I’m sure I care very much.”

“You think you do,” replied Barney, dejectedly; “but you won’t even risk a slight scolding at the school to give me the advice I need at the time I need it most. But that’s the way of the world,” continued the ill-used young man, with a deep sigh. “All I want you to do is to take a short drive with me, and tell me what you know of the disaster, and what you think I ought to do under the circumstances. I brought this turnout from London on purpose to take you out. It isn’t as if I were suggesting anything clandestine, for I came with your father’s approval. I wrote to the mistress of the school, telling her so, but she answered with a sharp reprimand. Then I wrote directly to you, but my letter was returned with an intimation that I was trying to do something underhanded. So you see, I made every effort to be square and honest, but the honest people wouldn’t have it. That’s the sort of conduct that drives men to crime. Then I took to more questionable methods, and got that young fellow—I forget his name—to carry a letter to you. That offended you——-”

“Oh, no!”

“It’s nice of you to say so,” Barney went on, mournfully; “but I am so used to disappointment that a little extra, more or less, doesn’t matter. I see now I was wrong to send that letter in the way I did—I always see those things after; but I was forced into it. I expect to end up in prison some day, and never realize my crime until the judge sentences me. I suppose I ought to be above the need of an encouraging word now and then, but I don’t seem to be.”

“What do you wish me to do?” asked the girl, a shade of perplexity coming over her face.

“All I wish is a little straightforward clear-headed advice. Art beckons me in one direction, and advises me to leave business alone. You said just now that my place was at the works, and that I shouldn’t be idling here when there was so much to be done. Mr. Sartwell quite evidently hopes I shall keep out of the way, or he would have told me of the fire. I seem to be a superfluous person, not wanted anywhere—not even by the police. What do I wish you to do? I wish you to let me take you for a little drive into the country, and tell me how I can help your father at this crisis.”

“One is so conspicuous up there,” she said, glancing with distrust at’ the waiting tandem. “No; let us walk to the end of the parade. There we can sit down, and I will tell you all I know about the fire, and, if my advice is worth anything, you shall have it. After that you must let me walk to the school alone.” Barney was forced to content himself with this, and he reluctantly ordered the groom to take the horses to the stables.

The two walked along the parade to the most sheltered seat, where they sat down together. The young man’s mind was in a whirl; the coldness of his reception excited him, and made him fearful of losing what he had thought, up to that time, was his for the asking.

He proposed to the girl, and was rejected.