ON the lawn of the Red House, a little group was collected under the big walnut tree. The sunlight fell through the leaves on the singing tea-kettle and the cups and saucers, and made bright patches on the figures and the faces assembled round the tea-table.

Hubert Temperley had again brought his friend Joseph Fleming, in the forlorn hope, he said, of being able to give him something to eat and drink. Ernest and Algitha and Fred were of the party. They had come down from Saturday till Monday. Ernest was studying for the Bar. Fred had entered a merchant’s office in the city, and hated his work cordially. Miss Du Prel was still at the Red House.

Lady Engleton had called by chance this afternoon, and Mrs. Walker, the vicar’s wife, with two of her countless daughters, had come by invitation. Mrs. Walker was a middle-aged, careworn, rather prim-looking woman. Lady Engleton was handsome. Bright auburn hair waved back in picturesque fashion from a piquant face, and constituted more than half her claim to beauty. The brown eyes were bright and vivacious. The mouth was seldom quite shut. It scarcely seemed worth while, the loquacious lady had confessed. She showed a delicate taste in dress. Shades of brown and russet made a fine harmony with her auburn hair, and the ivory white and fresh red of her skin.

She and Temperley always enjoyed a sprightly interchange of epigrams. Lady Engleton had the qualities that Hubert had admired in Hadria before their marriage, and she was entirely free from the other characteristics that had exasperated him so desperately since that hideous mistake that he had made. Lady Engleton had originality and brilliancy, but she knew how to combine these qualities with perfect obedience to the necessary conventions of life. She had the sparkle of champagne, without the troublesome tendency of that delicate beverage to break bounds, and brim over in iridescent, swelling, joyous foam, the discreet edges of such goblets as custom might decree for the sunny vintage. Lady Engleton sparkled, glowed, nipped even at times, was of excellent dry quality, but she never frothed over. She always knew where to stop; she had the genius of moderation. She stood to Hadria as a correct rendering of a cherished idea stands to a faulty one. She made Hubert acutely feel his misfortune, and shewed him his lost hope, his shattered ideal.

“Is the picture finished?” he enquired, as he handed Lady Engleton her tea.

“What, the view from your field? Not quite. I was working at it when Claude Moreton and Mrs. Jordan and Marion arrived, and I have been rather interrupted. That’s the worst of visitors. One’s little immortal works do get put aside, poor things.”

Lady Engleton broke into the light laugh that had become almost mechanical with her.

“Your friends grudge the hours you spend in your studio,” said Temperley.

“Oh, they don’t mind, so long as I give them as much time as they want,” she said. “I have to apologise and compromise, don’t you know, but, with a little management, one can get on. Of course, society does ask a good deal of attention, doesn’t it? and one has to be so careful.”

“Just a little tact and thought,” said Temperley with a sigh.

Lady Engleton admired Algitha, who was standing with Ernest a little apart from the group.

“She is like your wife, and yet there is a singular difference in the expression.”

Lady Engleton was too discreet to say that Mrs. Temperley lacked the look of contentment and serenity that was so marked in her sister’s face.

“Algitha is a thoroughly sensible girl,” said the brother-in-law.

“I hear you have not long returned from a visit to Mr. Fullerton’s place in Scotland, Mr. Temperley,” observed the vicar’s wife when her host turned to address her.

“Yes,” he said, “we have been there half the summer. The boys thoroughly enjoyed the freedom and the novelty. The river, of course, was a source of great joy to them, and of hideous anxiety to the rest of us.”

“Of course, of course,” assented Mrs. Walker. “Ah, there are the dear little boys. Won’t you come and give me a kiss, darling?”

“Darling” did what was required in a business-like manner, and stood by, while the lady discovered in him a speaking likeness to his parents, to his Aunt Algitha and his Uncle Fred, not to mention the portrait of his great-grandfather, the Solicitor-General, that hung in the dining-room. The child seemed thoroughly accustomed to be thought the living image of various relations, and he waited indifferently till the list was ended.

“Do you know, we are half hoping that Professor Fortescue may be able to come to us for a week or ten days?” said Lady Engleton. “We are so looking forward to it.”

“Professor Fortescue is always a favourite,” remarked Mrs. Walker. “It is such a pity he does not return to the Priory, is it not?—a great house like that standing empty. Of course it is very natural after the dreadful event that happened there”—Mrs. Walker lowered her voice discreetly—“but it seems a sin to leave the place untenanted.”

Lady Engleton explained that there was some prospect of the house being let at last to a friend and colleague of the Professor. Mrs. Walker doubtless would remember Professor Theobald, who used to come and stay at Craddock Place rather frequently some years ago, a big man with beard and moustache, very learned and very amusing.

Mrs. Walker remembered him perfectly. Her husband had been so much interested in his descriptions of a tour in Palestine, all through the scenes of the New Testament. He was a great archÆologist. Was he really coming to the Priory? How very delightful. John would be so glad to hear it.

“Oh, it is not settled yet, but the two Professors are coming to us some time soon, I believe, and Professor Theobald will look over the house and see if he thinks it would be too unmanageably big for himself and his old mother and sister. I hope he will take the place. He would bring a new and interesting element into the village. What do you think of it, Mrs. Temperley?”

“Oh, I hope the learned and amusing Professor will come,” she said. “The worst of it is, from my point of view, that I shall have to give up my practices there. Professor Fortescue allows me to wake the old piano from its long slumbers in the drawing-room.”

“Oh, of course. Marion Jordan was telling me that she was quite startled the other day, in crossing the Priory garden, to hear music stealing out of the apparently deserted house. She had heard the country people say that the ghost of poor Mrs. Fortescue walks along the terrace in the twilight, and Marion looked quite scared when she came in, for the music seemed to come from the drawing-room, where its mistress used to play so much after she was first married. I almost wonder you can sit alone there in the dusk, considering the dreadful associations of the place.”

“I am used to it now,” Mrs. Temperley replied, “and it is so nice and quiet in the empty house. One knows one can’t be interrupted—unless by ghosts.”

“Well, that is certainly a blessing,” cried Lady Engleton. “I think I shall ask Professor Fortescue to allow me also to go to the Priory to pursue my art in peace and quietness; a truly hyperborean state, beyond the region of visitors!”

“There would be plenty of room for a dozen unsociable monomaniacs like ourselves,” said Mrs. Temperley.

“I imagine you are a God-send to poor Mrs. Williams, the caretaker,” said Joseph Fleming. “She is my gamekeeper’s sister, and I hear that she finds the solitude in that vast house almost more than she can stand.”

“Poor woman!” said Lady Engleton. “Well, Mr. Fleming, what are the sporting prospects this autumn?”

He pulled himself together, and his face lighted up. On that subject he could speak for hours.

Of Joseph Fleming his friends all said: The best fellow in the world. A kinder heart had no man. He lived on his little property from year’s end to year’s end, for the sole and single end of depriving the pheasants and partridges which he bred upon the estate, of their existence. He was a confirmed bachelor, living quietly, and taking the world as he found it (seeing that there was a sufficiency of partridges in good seasons); trusting that there was a God above who would not let the supply run short, if one honestly tried to do one’s duty and lived an upright life, harming no man, and women only so much as was strictly honourable and necessary. He spoke ill of no one. He was diffident of his own powers, except about sport, wherein he knew himself princely, and cherished that sort of respect for woman, thoroughly sincere, which assigns to her a pedestal in a sheltered niche, and offers her homage on condition of her staying where she is put, even though she starve there, solitary and esteemed.

“Do tell me, Mr. Fleming, if you know, who is that very handsome woman with the white hair?” said Lady Engleton. “She is talking to Mrs. Walker. I seem to know the face.”

“Oh, that is Miss Valeria Du Prel, the authoress of those books that Mrs. Walker is so shocked at.”

“Oh, of course; how stupid of me. I should like to have some conversation with her.”

“That’s easily managed. I don’t think she and Mrs. Walker quite appreciate each other.”

Lady Engleton laughed.

Mrs. Walker was anxiously watching her daughters, and endeavouring to keep them at a distance from Miss Du Prel, who looked tragically bored.

Joseph Fleming found means to release her, and Lady Engleton’s desire was gratified. “I admire your books so much, Miss Du Prel, and I have so often wished to see more of you; but you have been abroad for the last two years, I hear.”

Lady Engleton, after asking the authoress to explain exactly what she meant by her last book, enquired if she had the latest news of Professor Fortescue. Lady Engleton had heard, with regret, that he had been greatly worried about that troublesome nephew whom he had educated and sent to Oxford.

“The young fellow had been behaving very badly,” Miss Du Prel said.

“Ungrateful creature,” cried Lady Engleton. “Running into debt I suppose.”

Miss Du Prel feared that the Professor was suffering in health. He had been working very hard.

“Oh, yes; what was that about some method of killing animals instantaneously to avoid the horrors of the slaughter-house? Professor Theobald has been saying what a pity it is that a man so able should waste his time over these fads. It would never bring him fame or profit, only ridicule. Every man had his little weakness, but this idea of saving pain to animals, Professor Theobald said, was becoming a sort of mania with poor Fortescue, and one feared that it might injure his career. He was greatly looked up to in the scientific world, but this sort of thing of course——

“Though it is nice of him in a way,” added Lady Engleton.

“His weaknesses are nobler than most people’s virtues,” said Miss Du Prel.

“Then you number this among his weaknesses?”

Algitha, who had joined the group, put this question.

“I would rather see him working in the cause of humanity,” Miss Du Prel answered.

Ernest surprised everyone by suggesting that possibly humanity was well served, in the long run, by reminding it of the responsibility that goes with power, and by giving it an object lesson in the decent treatment of those who can’t defend themselves.

“You must have sat at the Professor’s feet,” cried Miss Du Prel, raising her eyebrows.

“I have,” said Ernest, with a little gesture of pride.

Lady Engleton shook her head. “I fear he flies too high for ordinary mortals,” she said; “and I doubt if even he can be quite consistent at that altitude.”

“Better perhaps fly fairly high, and come down now and again to rest, if one must, than grovel consistently and always,” observed Ernest.

Lady Engleton gave a little scream. “Mrs. Temperley, come to the rescue. Your brother is calling us names. He says we grovel consistently and always.”

Ernest laughed, and protested. Lady Engleton pretended to be mortally offended. Mrs. Temperley was sorry she could give no redress. She had suffered from Ernest’s painful frankness from her youth upwards.

The conversation grew discursive. Lady Engleton enjoyed the pastime of lightly touching the edges of what she called “advanced” thought. She sought the society of people like the two Professors and Miss Du Prel in order to hear what dreadful and delightful things they really would say. She read all the new books, and went to the courageous plays that Mrs. Walker wouldn’t mention.

“Your last book, Caterina, is a mine of suggestion, Miss Du Prel,” she said. “It raises one most interesting point that has puzzled me greatly. I don’t know if you have all read the book? The heroine finds herself differing in her view of life from everyone round her. She is married, but she has made no secret of her scorn for the old ideals, and has announced that she has no intention of being bound by them.”

Mrs. Temperley glanced uneasily at Miss Du Prel.

“Accordingly she does even as she had said,” continued Lady Engleton. “She will not brook that interference with her liberty which marriage among us old-fashioned people generally implies. She refuses to submit to the attempt that is of course made (in spite of a pre-nuptial understanding) to bring her under the yoke, and so off she goes and lives independently, leaving husband and relatives lamenting.”

The vicar’s wife said she thought she must be going home. Her husband would be expecting her.

“Oh, won’t you wait a little, Mrs. Walker? Your daughters would perhaps like a game of tennis with my brothers presently.”

Mrs. Walker yielded uneasily.

“But before Caterina takes the law into her own hands, in this way,” Lady Engleton continued, “she is troubled with doubts. She sometimes wonders whether she ought not, after all, to respect the popular standards (notwithstanding the compact), instead of disturbing everybody by clinging to her own. Now was it strength of character or obstinate egotism that induced her to stick to her original colours, come what might? That is the question which the book has stated but left unanswered.”

Miss Du Prel said that the book showed, if it showed anything, that one must be true to one’s own standard, and not attempt to respect an ideal in practice that one despises in theory. We are bound, she asserted, to produce that which is most individual within us; to be ourselves, and not a poor imitation of someone else; to dare even apparent wrong-doing, rather than submit to live a life of devotion to that which we cannot believe.

Mrs. Walker suggested to her daughters that they might go and have a look at the rose-garden, but the daughters preferred to listen to the conversation.

“In real life,” said the practical Algitha, “Caterina would not have been able to follow her idea so simply. Supposing she had had children and complicated circumstances, what could she have done?”

Miss Du Prel thought that a compromise might have been made.

“A compromise by which she could act according to two opposite standards?”

Valeria was impatient of difficulties. It was not necessary that a woman should leave her home in order to be true to her conscience. It was the best method in Caterina’s case, but not in all.

Miss Du Prel did not explain very clearly what she meant. Women made too much of difficulties, she thought. Somehow people had managed to overcome obstacles. Look at—and then followed a list of shining examples.

“I believe you would blame a modern woman who imitated them,” said Mrs. Temperley. “These women have the inestimable advantage of being dead.”

“Ah, yes,” Lady Engleton agreed, with a laugh, “we women may be anything we like—in the last century.”

“The tides of a hundred years or so sweeping over one’s audacious deed, soften the raw edges. Then it is tolerated in the landscape; indeed, it grows mossy and picturesque.” Mrs. Temperley made this comparison.

“And then think how useful it becomes to prove that a daring deed can be done, given only the necessary stuff in brain and heart.”

Mrs. Walker looked at Algitha in dismay.

“One can throw it in the teeth of one’s contemporaries,” added Algitha, “if they fail to produce a dramatic climax of the same kind.”

“Only,” said Mrs. Temperley, “if they do venture upon their own dreadful deed—the deed demanded by their particular modern predicament—then we all shriek vigorously.”

“Oh, we shriek less than we used to,” said Lady Engleton. “It is quite a relief to be able to retain one’s respectability on easier terms.”

“In such a case as Miss Du Prel depicts? I doubt it. Caterina, in real life, would have a lively story to tell. How selfish we should think her! How we should point to the festoons of bleeding hearts that she had wounded—a dripping cordon round the deserted home! No; I believe Miss Du Prel herself would be horrified at her own Caterina if she came upon her unexpectedly in somebody’s drawing-room.”

There was a laugh.

“Of course, a great deal is to be said for the popular way of looking at the matter,” Lady Engleton observed. “This fascinating heroine must have caused a great deal of real sorrow, or at least she would have caused it, were it not that her creator had considerably removed all relatives, except a devoted couple of unorthodox parents, who are charmed at her decision to scandalize society, and wonder why she doesn’t do it sooner. Parents like that don’t grow on every bush.”

Mrs. Walker glanced nervously at her astonished girls.

Lady Engleton pointed out that had Caterina been situated in a more ordinary manner, she would have certainly broken her parents’ hearts and embittered their last years, to say nothing of the husband and perhaps the children, who would have suffered for want of a mother’s care.

“But why should the husband suffer?” asked Algitha. “Caterina’s husband cordially detested her.”

“It is customary to regard the occasion as one proper for suffering,” said Mrs. Temperley, “and every well-regulated husband would suffer accordingly.”

“Clearly,” assented Lady Engleton. “When the world congratulates us we rejoice, when it condoles with us we weep.”

“That at least, would not affect the children,” said Algitha. “I don’t see why of necessity they should suffer.”

“Their share of the woe would be least of all, I think,” Mrs. Temperley observed. “What ogre is going to ill-treat them? And since few of us know how to bring up so much as an earth-worm reasonably, I can’t see that it matters so very much which particular woman looks after the children. Any average fool would do.”

Mrs. Walker was stiffening in every limb.

“The children would have the usual chances of their class; neither more nor less, as it seems to me, for lack of a maternal burnt-offering.”

Mrs. Walker rose, gathered her daughters about her, and came forward to say good-bye. She was sure her husband would be annoyed if she did not return. She retired with nervous precipitation.

“Really you will depopulate this village, Mrs. Temperley,” cried Lady Engleton with a laugh; “it is quite dangerous to bring up a family within your reach. There will be a general exodus. I must be going myself, or I shan’t have an orthodox sentiment left.”