ERNEST and his two sisters walked homeward along the banks of the river, and thence up by a winding path to the top of the cliffs. It was mild weather, and they decided to pause in the little temple of classic design, which some ancient owner of the Drumgarran estate, touched with a desire for the exquisiteness of Greek outline, had built on a promontory of the rocks, among rounded masses of wild foliage; a spot that commanded one of the most beautiful reaches of the river. The scene had something of classic perfection and serenity.

“I admit,” said Ernest in response to some remark of one of his sisters, “I admit that I should not like to stay here during all the best years of my life, without prospect of widening my experience; only as a matter of fact, the world is somewhat different from anything that you imagine, and by no means would you find it all beer and skittles. Your smoke and sun-vision is not to be trusted.”

“But think of the pride and joy of being able to speak in that tone of experience!” exclaimed Hadria mockingly.

“One has to pay for experience,” said Ernest, shaking his head and ignoring her taunt.

“I think one has to pay more heavily for inexperience,” she said.

“Not if one never comes in contact with the world. Girls are protected from the realities of life so long as they remain at home, and that is worth something after all.”

Algitha snorted. “I don’t know what you are pleased to call realities, my dear Ernest, but I can assure you there are plenty of unpleasant facts, in this protected life of ours.”

“Nobody can expect to escape unpleasant facts,” said Ernest.

“Then for heaven’s sake, let us purchase with them something worth having!” Hadria cried.

“Hear, hear!” assented Algitha.

“Unpleasant facts being a foregone conclusion,” Hadria added, “the point to aim at obviously is interesting facts—and plenty of them.”

Ernest flicked a pebble off the parapet of the balustrade of the little temple, and watched it fall, with a silent splash, into the river.

“I never met girls before, who wanted to come out of their cotton-wool,” he observed. “I thought girls loved cotton-wool. They always seem to.”

“Girls seem an astonishing number of things that they are not,” said Hadria, “especially to men. A poor benighted man might as well try to get on to confidential terms with the Sphinx, as to learn the real thoughts and wishes of a girl.”

“You two are exceptional, you see,” said Ernest.

“Oh, everybody’s exceptional, if you only knew it!” exclaimed his sister. “Girls;” she went on to assert, “are stuffed with certain stereotyped sentiments from their infancy, and when that painful process is completed, intelligent philosophers come and smile upon the victims, and point to them as proofs of the intentions of Nature regarding our sex, admirable examples of the unvarying instincts of the feminine creature. In fact,” Hadria added with a laugh, “it’s as if the trainer of that troop of performing poodles that we saw, the other day, at Ballochcoil, were to assure the spectators that the amiable animals were inspired, from birth, by a heaven-implanted yearning to jump through hoops, and walk about on their hind legs——”

“But there are such things as natural instincts,” said Ernest.

“There are such things as acquired tricks,” returned Hadria.

A loud shout, accompanied by the barking of several dogs, announced the approach of the two younger boys. Boys and dogs had been taking their morning bath in the river.

“You have broken in upon a most interesting discourse,” said Ernest. “Hadria was really coming out.”

This led to a general uproar.

When peace was restored, the conversation went on in desultory fashion. Ernest and Hadria fell apart into a more serious talk. These two had always been “chums,” from the time when they used to play at building houses of bricks on the nursery floor. There was deep and true affection between them.

The day broke into splendour, and the warm rays, rounding the edge of the eastward rock, poured straight into the little temple. Below and around on the cliff-sides, the rich foliage of holly and dwarf oak, ivy, and rowan with its burning berries, was transformed into a mass of warm colour and shining surfaces.

“What always bewilders me,” Hadria said, bending over the balustrade among the ivy, “is the enormous gulf between what might be and what is in human life. Look at the world—life’s most sumptuous stage—and look at life! The one, splendid, exquisite, varied, generous, rich beyond description; the other, poor, thin, dull, monotonous, niggard, distressful—is that necessary?”

“But all lives are not like that,” objected Fred.

“I speak only from my own narrow experience,” said Hadria.

“Oh, she is thinking, as usual, of that unfortunate Mrs. Gordon!” cried Ernest.

“Of her, and the rest of the average, typical sort of people that I know,” Hadria admitted. “I wish to heaven I had a wider knowledge to speak from.”

“If one is to believe what one hears and reads,” said Algitha, “life must be full of sorrow indeed.”

“But putting aside the big sorrows,” said her sister, “the ordinary every day existence that would be called prosperous, seems to me to be dull and stupid to a tragic extent.”

“The Gordons of Drumgarran once more! I confess I can’t see anything particularly tragic there,” observed Fred, whose memory recalled troops of stalwart young persons in flannels, engaged for hours, in sending a ball from one side of a net to the other.

“It is more than tragic; it is disgusting!” cried Hadria with a shiver. Algitha drew herself together. She turned to her eldest brother.

“Look here, Ernest; you said just now that girls were shielded from the realities of life. Yet Mrs. Gordon was handed over by her protectors, when she was little more than a school-girl, without knowledge, without any sort of resource or power of facing destiny, to—well, to the hateful realities of the life that she has led now for over twenty years. There is nothing to win general sympathy in this case, for Mr. Gordon is good and kind; but oh, think of the existence that a ‘protected,’ carefully brought-up girl may be launched into, before she knows what she is pledged to, or what her ideas of life may be! If that is what you call protection, for heaven’s sake let us remain defenceless.”

Fred and Ernest accused their elder sister of having been converted by Hadria. Algitha, honest and courageous in big things and in small, at once acknowledged the source of her ideas. Not so long ago, Algitha had differed from the daughters of the neighbouring houses, rather in force of character than in sentiment.

She had followed the usual aims with unusual success, giving unalloyed satisfaction to her proud mother. Algitha had taken it as a matter of course that she would some day marry, and have a house of her own to reign in. A home, not a husband, was the important matter, and Algitha had trusted to her attractions to make a good marriage; that is, to obtain extensive regions for her activities. She craved a roomy stage for her drama, and obviously there was only one method of obtaining it, and even that method was but dubious. But Hadria had undermined this matter of fact, take-things-as-you-find-them view, and set her sister’s pride on the track. That master-passion once aroused in the new direction, Algitha was ready to defend her dignity as a woman, and as a human being, to the death. Hadria felt as a magician might feel, who has conjured up spirits henceforth beyond his control; for obviously, her sister’s whole life would be altered by this change of sentiment, and, alas, her mother’s hopes must be disappointed. The laird of Clarenoc—a fine property, of which Algitha might have been mistress—had received polite discouragement, much to his surprise and that of the neighbourhood. Even Ernest, who was by no means worldly, questioned the wisdom of his sister’s decision; for the laird of Clarenoc was a good fellow, and after all, let them talk as they liked, what was to become of a girl unless she married? This morning’s conversation therefore touched closely on burning topics.

“Mrs. Gordon’s people meant it for the best, I suppose,” Ernest observed, “when they married her to a good man with a fine property.”

“That is just the ghastly part of it!” cried Hadria; “from ferocious enemies a girl might defend herself, but what is she to do against the united efforts of devoted friends?”

“I don’t suppose Mrs. Gordon is aware that she is so ill-used!”

“Another gruesome circumstance!” cried Hadria, with a half laugh; “for that only proves that her life has dulled her self-respect, and destroyed her pride.”

“But, my dear, every woman is in the same predicament, if predicament it be!”

“What a consolation!” Hadria exclaimed, “all the foxes have lost their tails!”

“It may be illogical, but people generally are immensely comforted by that circumstance.”

The conversation waxed warmer and more personal. Fred took a conservative view of the question. He thought that there were instincts implanted by Nature, which inspired Mrs. Gordon with a yearning for exactly the sort of existence that fate had assigned to her. Algitha, who had been the recipient of that lady’s tragic confidences, broke into a shout of laughter.

“Well, Harold Wilkins says——”

This name was also greeted with a yell of derision.

“I don’t see why you girls always scoff so at Harold Wilkins,” said Fred, slightly aggrieved, “he is generally thought a lot of by girls. All Mrs. Gordon’s sisters adore him.”

“He needs no further worshippers,” said Hadria.

Fred was asked to repeat the words of Harold Wilkins, but to soften them down if too severe.

“He laughs at your pet ideas,” said Fred ruthlessly.

“Break it gently, Fred, gently.”

“He thinks that a true woman esteems it her highest privilege to—well, to be like Mrs. Gordon.”

“Wise and learned youth!” cried Hadria, resting her chin on her hand, and peering up into the blue sky, above the temple.

“Fool!” exclaimed Algitha.

“He says,” continued Fred, determined not to spare those who were so overbearing in their scorn, “he says that girls who have ideas like yours will never get any fellow to marry them.”

Laughter loud and long greeted this announcement.

“Laughter,” observed Fred, when he could make himself heard, “is among the simplest forms of argument. Does this merry outburst imply that you don’t care a button whether you are able to get some one to marry you or not?”

“It does,” said Algitha.

“Well, so I said to Wilkins, as a matter of fact, with my nose in the air, on your behalf, and Wilkins replied, ‘Oh, it’s all very well while girls are young and good-looking to be so high and mighty, but some day, when they are left out in the cold, and all their friends married, they may sing a different tune.’ Feeling there was something in this remark,” Fred continued, “I raised my nose two inches higher, and adopted the argument that I also resort to in extremis. I laughed. ‘Well, my dear fellow,’ Wilkins observed calmly, ‘I mean no offence, but what on earth is a girl to do with herself if she doesn’t marry?’”

“What did you reply?” asked Ernest with curiosity.

“Oh, I said that was an unimportant detail, and changed the subject.”

Algitha was still scornful, but Hadria looked meditative.

“Harold Wilkins has a practical mind,” she observed. “After all, he is right, when you come to consider it.”

“Hadria!” remonstrated her sister, in dismay.

“We may as well be candid,” said Hadria. “There is uncommonly little that a girl can do (or rather that people will let her do) unless she marries, and that is why she so often does marry as a mere matter of business. But I wish Harold Wilkins would remember that fact, instead of insisting that it is our inherent and particular nature that urges us, one and all, to the career of Mrs. Gordon.”

Algitha was obviously growing more and more ruffled. Fred tried in vain to soothe her feelings. He joked, but she refused to see the point. She would not admit that Harold Wilkins had facts on his side.

“If one simply made up one’s mind to walk through all the hampering circumstances, who or what could stop one?” she asked.

“Algitha has evidently got some desperate plan in her head for making mincemeat of circumstances,” cried Fred, little guessing that he had stated the exact truth.

“Do you remember that Mrs. Gordon herself waged a losing battle in early days, incredible as it may appear?” asked Hadria.

Algitha nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on the ground.

“She did not originally set out with the idea of being a sort of amiable cow. She once aspired to be quite human; she really did, poor thing!”

“Then why didn’t she do it?” asked Algitha contemptuously.

“Instead of doing a thing, she had to be perpetually struggling for the chance to do it, which she never achieved, and so she was submerged. That seems to be the fatality in a woman’s life.”

“Well, there is one thing I am very sure of,” announced Algitha, leaning majestically against a column of the temple, and looking like a beautiful Greek maiden, in her simple gown, “I do not intend to be a cow. I do not mean to fight a losing battle. I will not wait at home meekly, till some fool holds out his sceptre to me.”

All eyes turned to her, in astonishment.

“But what are you going to do?” asked a chorus of voices. Hadria’s was not among them, for she knew what was coming. The debate of last night, and this morning’s discussion, had evidently brought to a climax a project that Algitha had long had in her mind, but had hesitated to carry out, on account of the distress that it would cause to her mother. Algitha’s eyes glittered, and her colour rose.

“I am not going to be hawked about the county till I am disposed of. It does not console me in the least, that all the foxes are without tails,” she went on, taking short cuts to her meaning, in her excitement. “I am going to London with Mrs. Trevelyan, to help her in her work.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Fred. Ernest whistled. Austin stared, with open mouth.

Having recovered from the first shock of surprise, the family plied their sister with questions. She said that she had long been thinking of accepting the post offered her by Mrs. Trevelyan last year, and now she was resolved. The work was really wise, useful work among the poor, which Algitha felt she could do well. At home, there was nothing that she did that the housekeeper could not do better. She felt herself fretting and growing irritable, for mere want of some active employment. This was utterly absurd, in an overworked world. Hadria had her music and her study, at any rate, but Algitha had nothing that seemed worth doing; she did not care to paint indifferently on china; she was a mere encumbrance—a destroyer, as Hadria put it—while there was so much, so very much, that waited to be done. The younger sister made no comment.

“Next time I meet Harold Wilkins,” said Fred, drawing a long breath, “I will tell him that if a girl does not marry, she can devote herself to the poor.”

“Or that she can remain to be the family consolation, eh, Hadria? By Jove, what a row there will be!”

The notion of Hadria in the capacity of the family consolation, created a shout of laughter. It had always been her function to upset foregone conclusions, overturn orthodox views, and generally disturb the conformity of the family attitude. Now the sedate and established qualities would be expected of her. Hadria must be the stay and hope of the house!

Fred continued to chuckle, at intervals, over the idea.

“It does seem to indicate rather a broken-down family!” said Ernest.

“I wish one of you boys would undertake the position instead of laughing at me,” exclaimed Hadria in mock resentment. “I wish you would go to eternal tennis-parties, and pay calls, and bills, and write notes, and do little useless necessary things, more or less all day. I wish you had before you the choice between that existence and the career of Mrs. Gordon, with the sole chance of escape from either fate, in ruthlessly trampling upon the bleeding hearts of two beloved parents!”

“Thank you kindly,” said Fred, “but we infinitely prefer to laugh at you.”

“Man’s eternal reply to woman, admirably paraphrased!” commented Hadria.

Everyone was anxious to know when Algitha intended to go to London. Nobody doubted for a moment that she would hold to her purpose; as Fred said, she was so “beastly obstinate.”

Algitha had not fixed any time. It would depend on her mother. She wished to make things as little painful as possible. That it was her duty to spare her pain altogether by remaining at home, Algitha refused to admit. She and Hadria had thought out the question from all sides. The work she was going to do was useful, but she did not justify herself on that ground. She claimed the right to her life and her liberty, apart from what she intended to do with either. She owed it to her own conscience alone to make good use of her liberty. “I don’t want to pose as a philanthropist,” she added, “though I honestly do desire to be of service. I want to spread my wings. And why should I not? Nobody turns pale when Ernest wants to spread his. How do I know what life is like, or how best to use it, if I remain satisfied with my present ignorance? How can I even appreciate what I possess, if I have nothing to compare it with? Of course, the truly nice and womanly thing to do, is to remain at home, waiting to be married. I have elected to be unwomanly.”

“I wonder how all this will turn out,” said Ernest, “whether you won’t regret it some day when it is too late.”

“Don’t people always regret what they do—some day?” asked Hadria.

“Perhaps so, especially if they do it sooner than other people.”

“When are you going to make the announcement at head quarters?” asked Fred.

There was a pause. The colour had left Algitha’s cheeks. She answered at length with an effort—

“I shall speak to mother to-day.”