MRS. READE'S ADVICE.

R RACHEL was not a heroine. She was simply a sweet and interesting girl; except that she was unusually pretty, by no means above the ordinary level of nice girls. She was better than a great many that we are acquainted with, no doubt, but she was not so good as some.

And she had, as has been already indicated, that fault which, of all faults, perhaps, is most common to girls, whether nice or otherwise—that amiable weakness that is more disastrous in its consequences than many a downright vice—she was, if not quite a coward, cowardly.

She was afraid to meet difficulties in the open, as it were—to attack the main body and scatter them, and have done with it; she sheltered herself in ambush, and made desultory attacks on flank and rear with temporary compromises, hating the thought of duplicity and longing to do right, yet most of all dreading the violent, harsh hurt to tender sensibilities (whether her own or other people's) that was inevitable in the shock of a pitched battle.

It is a defect in a woman's character very much to be deplored, of course, and it is one that seems unpardonable to a strong-minded person.

Nevertheless, it is much more of a misfortune than a fault (and we may as well say the same, while we are about it, of all our constitutional defects, from red hair to kleptomania, since we did not choose our parents nor the social conditions to which we were born); and to Rachel, whose instinctive truthfulness and high sense of moral rectitude prompted her to struggle hard, if vainly, against it, it was purely a misfortune, and at no time in her life more so than now.

For, after turning the question over and over in her mind through all that feverish and wakeful night, she finally decided that in breaking off her engagement with Mr. Kingston she would not mention, either to him or to anyone else, the place that Mr. Dalrymple now occupied in her affections and affairs.

As no one was aware of their having met, and as he was coming back himself so soon to clear up everything much better than she could, she persuaded herself that it would be not only unnecessary, but in the highest degree inexpedient, to aggravate the inevitable pain and difficulty that was before her and all of them.

Hating his very name as they did, would she not expose her lover to insult, and his motives and actions to misconception, and probably prejudice their chances of happiness irrevocably?

And at the same time do no good whatever, but only add an element of unspeakable bitterness to the disappointment of her aunt, and to the mortification of her already ill-used and much-wronged fiancÉ, and, as a matter of detail, an incalculable amount of difficulty to her own sufficiently formidable task? She was certain that she would, and she felt that she could not, and need not do it.

It took her all night to mature her course of action, but having finally brought herself to believe that it was not only so much the easiest to herself, but in every way the best for all concerned, to ignore Mr. Dalrymple for the present, she committed herself to it by writing a long letter to Mr. Kingston—a tender, penitent, self-accusing letter, in which she begged him to forgive her for having discovered so much too late that they were unsuited to one another, and prayed that he might some day be happier with a better woman than it was in her power to make him, and that he would ever believe her his attached and grateful friend, without suggesting the existence or possibility of any other lover, present or to be.

The natural results followed. Mr. Kingston, seeing no sufficient reason for these sudden strong measures, refused to treat them seriously.

He was quite aware, and it troubled him deeply, that she was not happy in her engagement, and he was very jealous and suspicious of Mr. Dalrymple, whom he had seen once or twice about town; but he had set his heart upon her, as we say, with the perverse obstinacy of a fickle man who had been spoiled by women's flattery, and the more she seemed to shrink from him the more he wanted to have her, and the more he was determined not to let her go if he could possibly help it.

His love not only lacked reciprocity—without which love is never worthy to be spelt with a capital L—but it was so diluted with all sorts of vanities and egotisms that, though its flavour was there, the potent spirit was absent, and he was incapable of making a sacrifice for her happiness at the expense of his own.

When he solemnly assured himself that he loved her as he had never loved anyone before, and that he could not and would not give her up—when he declared, moreover, that he was ready to spend his future life in her service, and would take his chance of making her care for him—he not only told the truth, as far as he understood it, but perhaps he touched the highest point of heroism of which his selfish nature was capable.

All the same, the strong necessities of the case were the carrying out of the great enterprise which was symbolised by the half-built house, and the realisation of his schemes for his own enjoyment; the possession (and the securing from other men) of the most attractive, the most admired, and to him most loveable woman of his set, who had so to speak given him a legal lien upon her person; the maintenance of his social position and dignity, and the avoidance of ridicule and embarrassment.

So when he had read Rachel's letter, with a great expense of bad language in the first place, and of wise reflection subsequently, he made up his mind that it was merely the result of their Adelonga differences, which had been rankling in her sensitive heart, and not the formal resignation that he would be required to accept.

"No, no, young lady," he said to himself, as he made a careful toilet before setting forth to see her, "I have not sacrificed my liberty and all my comfortable habits, at your instigation and for your sake, to take my congÉ at the eleventh hour in this way."

And then he cast about in his mind anxiously for ways and means whereby he might meet and overcome this strange reluctance, which not only seemed to him a cruel injury and injustice after all he had done for her, but really distressed him acutely, and made him extremely unhappy.

Was there anything amongst Kilpatrick's glittering treasures that would tempt her to smile and kiss him, and be sorry that she had given him this heartless blow?

He felt to-day that he would spend a thousand pounds cheerfully for anything that would please her.

But at the same time he was uneasily conscious that even the largest and purest diamonds would not appreciably affect the situation.

She was no longer open to these fascinations, as she used to be; several little circumstances had convinced him of that.

It was a bad sign, he feared; but he hoped it indicated nothing more serious than that the novelty of wealth and luxury had worn off.

He recognised its existence so far that he went on his delicate mission to Toorak, trusting to his own merits and eloquence, with no bribes of any sort in his pocket.

After all, he did not see Rachel that day. She was weeping hysterically in her bedroom at the top of the house, and therefore was not presentable.

Mrs. Hardy, much excited and discomposed by the shock she had just received (on being told by Rachel that she had not only written a letter to her fiancÉ, to break off her engagement, but had sent it), received him in the drawing-room, and did the best that wisdom, at such short notice, suggested to repair the catastrophe which she had been powerless to prevent.

She tried to smile and joke, in a considerate and well-bred manner; she rallied him upon his misconduct in the matter of Miss Hale, which had evidently been at the bottom of all the mischief, gently pointing out to him that a sensitive nature like Rachel's, and a tender heart that loved and trusted him, could not be played with, even in the conventional fashion, with impunity.

And then she hastened to explain the suddenness and unexpectedness of this "freak;" how sure she was that it had been perpetrated under the influence of a fit of temper or dejection, or some other unhealthy condition of mind; how equally sure she was that it was already repented of—though, of course, it was not for her to give an opinion or to interfere. All of which would have been very proper and sensible, but that the effect was marred by a bubbling under-current of angry excitement that her utmost efforts could not hide.

Mr. Kingston watched and listened, with smiling self-possession. Finding that he was not to see Rachel, nor to get any fresh information, he did not prolong the interview. He had no confidence in Mrs. Hardy—few men had, in matters of this kind. He received her communications in a friendly manner, as one receives an embassy under a flag of truce; he never thought of allowing himself to be influenced by them one way or the other, or of asking her assistance and advice.

As soon as courtesy permitted, he bowed himself out of her presence, with magnanimous expressions of good-will and a request that nothing might be be said or done to distress or embarrass Rachel. And then he got into his cab thoughtfully, and went to South Yarra to call on Mrs. Reade.

It was not one of this young lady's reception days, as no one knew better than himself; nor had she left her house in pursuit of tea and gossip at other people's "afternoons," as he half expected would be the case.

The sprightly maid-servant (all Mrs. Reade's servants were maids, and all of them sprightly), who opened the door to his thundering knock, recognising a privileged friend of the family, admitted him with alacrity; and he walked into the drawing-room and found his hostess sitting there alone, nestling in one of her seductive low chairs with an open letter on her knee.

She, too, had just received the news of Rachel's escapade; the letter, full of dashing and incoherent sentences, was in Mrs. Hardy's handwriting, and had arrived half an hour ago from Toorak. But there were no signs of excitement and discomposure about this little person, who rose to meet him, looking cool and bright, with even the suspicion of a twinkle in her eyes.

"Have you come for a gossip?" she asked, looking up at him with friendly frankness. "Because if you have you had better send your cab away. I am going out at five o'clock, and I'll drive you into town."

The cab was sent away; and Mr. Kingston, with a feeling of comfort and safety about him, sat down in a bow-windowed recess, in his favourite of all the cunningly-devised chairs, and with his elbows on his knees, began to fiddle with the top of a silk sock, at the toe of which his companion was now knitting industriously.

"Is this for Ned?" he inquired, after a pause.

"Now, isn't that a superfluous question?" she replied, holding it up. "Look at the size of it. Could any foot but his fill out that enormous bag? Of course it is for Ned. Don't you know it is the new fashion for wives to knit their husband's socks? One must be in the fashion, even if one's husband is a giant."

"Very nice for one's husband. It seems beautifully soft; pretty colour, too." Then, after a pause, "Does Rachel know how to knit?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Reade, calmly; "we both learned together while she was staying with me, and she does it much quicker than I do. I suppose you are thinking you would like to participate in the benefits of the fashion too?" she added, lifting her face suddenly, with a quick look in her bright eyes that was like the opening of a masked battery.

"If I thought that Rachel would ever knit socks for me, for the pleasure of it——" He paused with a change and break in his voice, regarding her wistfully.

Mrs. Reade immediately made a sheaf of her needles, wound them up in the sock, and impaled her ball of silk upon them. "Tell me," she said, folding her hands on her knees in a business-like manner, "tell me, what has Rachel been doing?"

"Don't you know? She has written to me to break off our engagement."

"What for?"

"I can't imagine—she doesn't say. I thought you might be able to help me to find that out."

Mrs. Reade looked at him in silence for a few seconds, kindly and gravely. Even she felt herself a little at a loss as to what course to pursue.

"What have you done?" she asked abruptly.

"Nothing. I went up to see her just now, but I was disappointed. She could not, or would not, come in. I rather fancy your mother had been scolding her."

"I have no doubt she had. She doesn't approve of independence on the part of young people."

"I won't have her scolded," Mr. Kingston broke out, with sudden vehemence. "If I like to blame her, that is another matter. I won't have her set against me by other people. Nothing would make her hate me more than that kind of thing."

Mrs. Reade felt the justice of this protest, but she did not see fit to discuss her mother's little mistakes. "What are you going to do?" she inquired.

"Do you mean am I going to take my dismissal in this off-hand way? No, certainly not. After all the time we have been engaged—after all that has come and gone between us—after all the preparations that have been made—it would be too preposterous! I should be the laughing-stock of the colony."

"That would be very sad," said Mrs. Reade, with her head on one side.

"Now be a good little woman, and don't jeer at me—I didn't come to you for that. You know—or you ought to know—that I am horribly upset and miserable about all this business, and that I want you to help me."

"I don't see how I can help you," she said.

"Tell me about Rachel. What is the matter with her? What does she mean?"

"Well, evidently she means that she doesn't want to marry you," sighed Mrs. Reade. "Tiresome child, why didn't she think of it before?"

"Why should she think of it now? Oh, yes, I know she has not been keen about it for some time, as she should have been. But she has not seemed to dislike it; she has looked forward to it as much a matter of course as—as it has been to all the rest of us. And I felt so sure it would be all right—that I could make her as happy as possible—when we were once married and she had settled down!"

It was not often that Mrs. Reade was perplexed, but now—between her duty to her family, her strong affection for Rachel, and her desire to assist her friend—she really did not know what to do. While she was silent, struggling with the dilemma in her active mind, Mr. Kingston went on.

"It is since she went to Adelonga that she has changed so much. Haven't you noticed?"

"You did not behave very well to her at Adelonga, you know."

"Who told you that? Did she?"

"Never mind who told me. There is never any secrecy about your proceedings—I will give you that credit. You treated her very badly at Lucilla's ball."

"Not worse than she treated me," he began, impetuously; and then he paused and looked at his hostess. He was gentleman enough to shrink from discussing Rachel's misdeeds in connection with "that Dalrymple fellow," but he longed to find out how much her wise cousin and late companion knew. Mrs. Reade fingered her knitting with a placid and impenetrable face.

"Tell me—you know Rachel so intimately—do you think——"

"Do I think what?"

"That there is anyone she cares for—more than she cares for me?"

He was impelled, against his better judgment, to ask this awkward question. Mrs. Reade gathered herself together, so to speak; it was one of those sudden emergencies that inspire a brave woman.

"If I thought she cared for anyone who was a better man, and could make her happier than you," she said deliberately, looking him straight in the face, "she should have him, or it would not be my fault."

"But she does not?"

"So far as I know she does not. But," she was an honest little woman, and it gave her a pang to mislead him, even though she did it for what seemed to her a good end, "but, at the same time, no doubt she does not care for you as she ought to do."

"I hope that will come," he said cheerfully.

If only Mr. Dalrymple did not stand in his way, he felt all difficulties manageable.

"It is a great risk; you ought to think well before you take it."

"I have thought well."

"And I will be no party to making her take it against her will."

"But I think she will be willing if she is treated properly. Of course I don't want to marry her by force. I want to bring her round to like it as she used to like it. If there is nobody else, why not? And you will help me, won't you?"

Mrs. Reade looked at him with bright and friendly eyes. He was really taking it very well considering how badly he had been treated, and how extremely susceptible he was to indignities of this, or indeed any description. He certainly must be strangely in love with that perverse child, she thought—much more in love than she had ever expected to see him—to be able to put his wrongs in the background like this. He deserved to be helped.

And as far as human judgment was to be trusted, to help him would be to play Providence to Rachel.

"I will do what I can," she said kindly. "That is to say, I won't interfere, but I'll give you good advice whenever you do me the honour to ask for it."

"Thank you; I ask for it now. What do you advise me to do?"

She pondered a few moments, watching him thoughtfully.

"You are quite sure, once for all, that you think it worth while to throw yourself away on an ungrateful little monkey who doesn't appreciate you?"

"I'm quite sure I want to marry Rachel. I hope she will appreciate me, but if she doesn't—well, I want to marry her all the same."

"And are willing to take the consequences?"

"Oh, yes; I'm not afraid of consequences—once the wedding is over."

He smiled as he made this almost sacrilegious assertion, which implied a marital control of consequences that was offensive in the ears of the little woman, who liked to see husbands kept in their proper places.

"Don't boast," she said sharply, "you might find yourself in a very unpleasant position when the wedding was over. And you will, too, if you don't mind."

The dialogue was interrupted at this point. A little brougham rattled past the window on its way from the stable-yard to the front-door, and a servant came in with tea.

Mrs. Reade looked at her watch, and her guest's face fell.

"Is it five o'clock?" he exclaimed testily; "and you have not given me any advice!"

"Will you have a cup of tea?" she inquired, coolly.

"No, thank you. Must you go out this afternoon?"

"Well, I could hardly countermand the carriage now, because you are here, could I? We'll have a drive somewhere before we go in to town, and I'll give you advice as we go along."

She drank her tea standing in the middle of the room, and then leaving him to fret and fume by himself, went away to dress, and in the retirement of her own apartment to concoct a definite scheme of action.

In a few minutes she came back alert and bright, in a very charming French bonnet, and with yards of silken train behind her. She was ready for him in every sense of the word.

As soon as they were out upon the road, and she had finished buttoning a refractory glove, she said gravely, with an air of having solved all doubts,

"Now I will tell you what you must do."

"Yes?"

"You must accept Rachel's dismissal."

"What! I'm sure I shall not do anything of the kind."

Mrs. Reade laid herself back in the carriage and folded her hands.

"Very well," she said, calmly.

"No, but really—I beg your pardon—I don't understand you. Do you mean I must just give her up and have done with it? Because you know it is just that that I can't do."

"Not at all. But don't ask my opinion——"

"Oh, yes, do tell me what you mean."

"Well, I was going to suggest that you see or write to Rachel and tell her you will do what she wishes rather than distress her; but that, while leaving her free, you will consider yourself still as much bound to her as ever, and wait in hope that she will come back to you someday. That kind of thing, you know."

"Oh, yes, that is all very well. And in the meantime I shall be getting old—that is to say, I shall be losing time—and she will be sure to be run after by other men the moment my back is turned."

"It will be better to lose a little time than to worry her now," said Mrs. Reade. "If you draw off from her a little, she will miss you, and then probably she will want you, and provided you left her assured of your faithfulness, and didn't go flirting with Miss Hale and people, it would be just the kind of delicate and chivalrous consideration for her that she would appreciate. Yes, I know Rachel; it would touch her heart deeply."

"But some other fellow might get hold of her—finding she was free, you know."

"I think," said Mrs. Reade, smiling slightly, "that we may safely leave my mother to look after that."

Upon consideration Mr. Kingston thought so too. He began to see glimmerings of wisdom and reason in this proposed course.

"But your mother will have to be looked after herself," he said, breaking a little pause abruptly. "If I am not to worry Rachel, nobody else shall."

"Of course. I will look after my mother."

"And suppose," he continued presently, deep in troubled thoughts, "suppose she never renews the engagement after all?"

"Oh, well—suppose the world comes to an end to-morrow—we can't help it!"

"Do you think she will?"

"I do think she will—honestly, I do—if you are patient and gentle, and do as I tell you. She will be dull and lonely; she will miss you about her, and not only you, but many pleasant things that are associated with you; she will bethink herself that she has treated you badly—as indeed she has—and she is so tender-hearted that it will fret her. And if she sees you occasionally, not in season and out of season, but now and then, at opportune times, and you do her little voluntary services in a delicate and unobtrusive way—then some of these days, seeing you still, she will suddenly think that she loves you, and—well, then it will be all right, you know."

"Oh, I hope so!" he broke out, with a deep, impatient sigh—though it was not a great deal to hope for when it came to be reckoned up. "But how long will she be reaching that point?"

"It depends."

"And we were to have been married in a couple of months—three at the most. Upon my honour, it is too bad!"

"I shouldn't be surprised if you were married quite as soon as you arranged to be," Mrs. Reade proceeded calmly, building this comfortable theory upon the conviction that Mr. Dalrymple, in spite of his persistence in calling at Toorak, was not the kind of man to remain faithful to a ball-room fancy, nor to undertake anything so expensive and so respectable as matrimony under the most favourable conjunction of circumstances; and feeling sure that Rachel, with her clinging, impulsive nature, finding her desires frustrated in this direction, would be under an imperious necessity to seek—or, at any rate, to accept—support elsewhere. "If I had her with me for six weeks, I think I would not mind risking a small bet——"

"Can't you have her with you?" Mr. Kingston interposed eagerly.

"No, I fear not. My mother would not consent to let her go from home just now. The situation is too grave. But even as things are, if you manage the child properly, I don't at all despair of seeing you married—or, at any rate, engaged again—before the year is out. Very far from it."

"I would give a thousand pounds at this moment if I could be certain that that would be," sighed Mr. Kingston, plaintively.

"Only you must do what I tell you. I assure you, if you want to succeed, that is your best, if not your only chance. Will you do what I tell you?"

"I will see Rachel first."

"Of course. See her and give her plainly to understand what a pain and disappointment it is to you to give her up, and that you only do it for her sake. Perhaps, if you talk it over with her, she will cancel her letter, and it will be all right at once; in which case you had better arrange for your marriage as quickly as possible. But if it should be otherwise—if she should still press for a dissolution of her engagement—let her go for a little while. It need not be for long."

"I think I will," said Mr. Kingston, thoughtfully. And he did.