A Dedication—and a Desecration.

A few weeks later the Mayor stood at his door, one bright morning in January, holding a parley with Alderman Johnstone.

"I dessay, now," said the Mayor, "that you aint been in the way of seein' the Squire lately?"

"I see him last when he signed my lease," answered the Alderman, with a grim smile, "and that's a month come to-morrow."

"I had a conversation with him yesterday, and after touchin' on the matter of that last pavin' contract,—he'd heard o' your son-in-law gettin' it, Johnstone,—he got talkin' about Mr. Bannister."

"Aye? did he?"

"And about his noo book. 'It's a blessin',' he says, 'to see a young man of such promise shakin' himself free of that pestilential trash.' He meant your opinions by that, Johnstone."

"Supposing 'e did, what then? I don't label my opinions to please the customers like as some do their physic."

The Mayor was not in a fighting mood; his mind was busy with speculations, and he ignored the challenge.

"Queer start Mr. Bannister showin' up at the church bazaar, eh? Spent a heap o' money, too. I met Mr. Hume, and asked him about it, and he said——"

"It wan't no business o' yours, didn't he?"

"Mr. Hume—he's a gentleman, Johnstone," remarked the Mayor in grave rebuke.

"Well, what did 'e say?"

"That where the carcass was, the eagles 'ud be gathered together."

Mr. Johnstone smiled a smile of pity for the Mayor's density.

"Well, what do you suppose he meant?" asked the Mayor in reply to the smile.

"Where the gells is, the lads is," said the Alderman, with a wink, as he passed on his way.

This most natural, reasonable, and charitable explanation of Dale's conduct in identifying himself with the Vicar's pastoral labors had, oddly enough, suggested itself to no one else, unless it might be to Captain Gerard Ripley. His presence had been hailed on the one side, and anathematized on the other, as an outward sign of an inward conversion, and his lavish expenditure had been set down to a repentant spirit rather than a desire to gratify any particular stall-holder. The Vicar had just read "Amor PatriÆ," and he remarked to everyone he met that the transition from an appreciation of the national greatness to an adhesion to the national church was but a short step.

Unhappily, in a moment of absence, he chanced to say so to Colonel Smith, who was at the bazaar for the purpose of demonstrating his indifferent impartiality toward all religious sects.

"You might as well say," answered the Colonel in scorn, "that because a man stands by the regiment he's bound to be thick with the chaplain."

Captain Ripley alone, with the penetration born of jealousy, attributed Dale's presence simply and solely to the same motive as had produced his own, to wit, a desire to be where Miss Delane was. The Captain was a little sore; he had known Janet from childhood, they had exchanged many children's vows, and when he was sixteen and she thirteen she had accepted a Twelfth Night cake ring from him. The flirtation had always proceeded in its gentle, ambling course, and the Captain had returned on long leave with the idea that it was time to put the natural termination in the way of being reached. Janet disappointed him; she ridiculed his tender references to bygone days, characterizing what had passed as boy-and-girl nonsense, and perseveringly kept their intercourse on a dull level of friendliness. On the other hand, whatever might be the nature of her acquaintance with Dale Bannister, it was at least clear that it was marked by no such uneventful monotony. Sometimes she would hardly speak to him; at others she cared to speak to no one else. The Captain would have profited ill by the opportunities a residence in garrison towns offers if he had not recognized that these changeful relations were fraught with peril to his hopes.

At the bazaar, for example, he was so much moved by a long conversation between Janet and Dale, which took place over the handing of a cup of tea, that he unburdened himself to his friend Sir Harry Fulmer. Now Sir Harry was in a bad temper; he had his object in attending as the Captain had, and Colonel Smith had just told him that Tora was not coming.

"Who is the fellow?" demanded Captain Ripley.

"Writes poetry."

"I never heard of him."

"I dare say not. It's not much in your line, is it?"

"Well, he's a queer-looking beggar."

"Think so? Now I call him a good-looking chap."

"Why the deuce doesn't he get his hair cut?"

"Don't know. Perhaps Janet Delane likes it long."

"I hate that sort of fellow, Harry."

"He's not a bad chap."

"Does the Squire like him?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. How beastly hot this room is! I shall go."

"I say, Harry, I've only just come back, you know. Is there anything on?"

"Well, if you want to take a hand, I should cut in pretty sharp," said Sir Harry, elbowing his way to the door.

Captain Ripley, impatiently refusing to buy a negro doll which the Vicar's daughter pressed on his favorable notice, leaned against the wall and grimly regarded Dale Bannister.

The latter was just saying:

"Have you looked at the verses at all, Miss Delane?"

"I have read every one, over and over. They are splendid."

"Oh, I'm new to that sort of thing."

"Yes, but it's so—such a joy to me to see you doing what is really worthy of you."

"If there is any credit, it's yours."

"Now why do you say that? It isn't true, and it just spoils it."

"Spoils it?" said Dale, who thought girls liked compliments.

"Yes. If you had really only done it to please—an individual, it would be worth nothing. You couldn't help doing it. I knew you couldn't."

"At any rate, you must accept the responsibility of having put it into my head."

"Not even that, Mr. Bannister."

"Oh, but that's the meaning of the dedication."

No one is quite free from guile. Janet answered:

"The dedication is rather mysterious, Mr. Bannister."

"I meant it to be so to all the world."

"Oh, did you?"

"Except you."

Janet blushed and smiled.

"I wonder," pursued Dale, "if I shall ever be allowed to name that lady?"

"That will depend on whether she wishes it."

"Of course. Do you think she will—hereafter?"

"Won't you have another cup? It's only half a crown."

"Yes, two more, please. Do you think she will?"

"How thirsty you seem to be!"

"Will she?"

"Now, Mr. Bannister, I mustn't neglect all my customers. See, Mrs. Gilkison is selling nothing."

"But will she?"

"Certainly not—unless you go and buy something from Mrs. Gilkison."

Now whether Janet were really concerned for Mrs. Gilkison, or whether she had caught sight of Captain Ripley's lowering countenance, or whether she merely desired to avoid pledging herself to Dale, it is immaterial, and also impossible to say. Dale felt himself dismissed, with the consolation of perceiving that his dedication had not been unfavorably received in the quarter to which it was addressed.

Accordingly it was in a cheerful frame of mind that he set out for home, scattering most of his purchases among the children before he went.

He was in a kindly mood, and when he saw James Roberts coming up High Street, he did not, as he had once or twice lately, cross the road to avoid meeting him, but held on his path, determined to offer a friendly greeting.

When the Doctor came up, he stopped and took from his breast pocket the little green volume which contained Dale's latest poems. He held it up before the author's eyes.

"Ah, Roberts, I see you have the new work. How do you like it?"

He tried to speak easily, but the Doctor did not appear to be in a conciliatory temper.

"Are these things really yours?" he asked.

"Of course they are."

"This wretched jingo doggerel yours?"

Dale felt this unjust. The verses might not express the Doctor's views, but an immortal poet's works are not lightly to be called doggerel.

"What a narrow-minded beggar you are!" he exclaimed.

The Doctor answered nothing. Buttoning up his threadbare coat, so as to leave his arms free, with an effort he tore the leaves from their cover, rent them across, flung them on the road, and trod them into the mud. Then, without a word, he passed on his way, while Dale stood and stared at the dishonored wreck.

"He's mad—stark mad!" he declared at last. "How ill the poor chap looks, too!"

The Doctor hurried down the street, with a strange malicious smile on his face. Every now and then his hand sought his breast pocket again, and hugged a check for a hundred pounds which lay there. It was his last money in the world; when that was gone, his banking account was exhausted, and nothing remained but his wife's pittance—and nothing more was coming. Yet he had devoted that sum to a purpose, and now he stopped at Alderman Johnstone's door, and asked for the master of the house, still grimly smiling at the thought of what he was preparing for Dale Bannister, if only Johnstone would help him. Johnstone had a lease now, he was independent—if only he would help him!

The Alderman listened to the plan.

"It's a new trade for me," said he, with a grin.

"I find the stock—I have it ready. And——" He held up the check.

The Alderman's eyes glistened.

"They can't touch me," he said, "and I should like to 'ave a shy at the Squire. 'Ere's my 'and upon it."

A day or two afterward Dale heard that the sale of "Sluggards" was increasing by leaps and bounds. A single house had taken five hundred copies. "Amor PatriÆ" had evidently given a fresh impetus to the earlier work, in spite of the remarkable difference of tone which existed between them.

"It shows," said Dale complacently to Philip Hume, "that most people are not such intolerant idiots as that fellow Roberts."

But what it really did show will appear in due season. Dale did not know; nor did Philip, for he said, with a fine sneer:

"It shows that immorality doesn't matter if it's combined with sound political principles, old man."