Against her Better Judgment.

It is never well to vie with experts in their own subjects; humiliation surely attends the audacious attempt, and a humiliation which receives and deserves no softening sympathy. Moreover, even if the technical difficulties could be overcome, the description of a wedding must be either florid or cynical, assuming impossible happiness, or insinuating improbable catastrophe. Wherefore this narrative, which abhors either of these extremes, takes leave to resume its course at the moment when Sir Harry and Lady Fulmer have been driven away for their honeymoon, and the guests at Mount Pleasant are engaged in looking at one another's presents, one another's clothes, and their own watches, while a group of men have sought retirement and cigars in the garden. The Lord Lieutenant was paying compliments of alarming elaboration and stateliness to Nellie Fane; and Janet Delane, having discharged her duty in that line with generous graciousness, was looking with despair at Captain Ripley's puzzled face and betugged mustache, and wondering why men could not or would not understand plain English, and why—why above all—they had no more sense of dignity or of timeliness than to renew useless entreaties in a roomful of people, and—to descend to the particular case—with Dale Bannister only a few yards away, paying obvious inattention to a rhapsodic bridesmaid.

"Wasn't it a pretty wedding?" asked the bridesmaid. "You know I'm a stranger to Denborough, and I never knew you had so many beautiful girls. It might have been St. Peter's."

"Might it?" said Dale, with an absent smile, entirely unappreciative of the compliment. He did not know what or where St. Peter's was.

"Oh, it was lovely. Well, dear Tora herself is very pretty. And then, Miss Delane! I do love that severe, statuesque style, don't you? How pale she is, though! she doesn't look very happy, does she? Oh, and Miss Fane! Isn't she lovely? She sings, doesn't she? I think people of that kind are so nice. Oh, and I've heard all about her. How nice it was of her to be so brave, wasn't it?"

"Naturally, I think so."

"Oh, of course, I forgot. It's so nice when people are good and pretty too, isn't it? After all, good looks do go for something, don't they?" and she fixed a pair of large and unnaturally innocent eyes on Dale.

"You must tell me about that," he said with labored politeness. "How do you find it?"

"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Bannister! But, seriously, did you ever see anything so lovely as the way Sir Harry looked at Tora when they were——"

Dale had gone—without a word of excuse. He had seen Janet rise abruptly, with an impatient wave of her hand, and Captain Ripley turn on his heel and disappear into the eddying throng that was circling round the wedding presents. He darted across to Janet, and held out his hand.

"I must see you here," he said, "since you will not see me at the Grange."

The bridesmaid marked their greeting. She rose with offended dignity and returned to her mother. She says to this day that she has only known one poet, and he was not at all nice, and concludes, after the manner of a certain part of humanity, that none of the rest are nice either.

Janet looked at Dale doubtfully, then she led the way to a little room which was free from the crowd. Then she sat down. "I'm very tired," she said, "and I want to stay here and rest. Will you let me?"

"I know what you mean, Jan. How can I, when I never have a chance of saying what I want to say to you? You talk to Ripley——"

"I don't comfort Gerard Ripley much."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Dale heartlessly.

"I'm not much troubled about him. I'm only a habit to him."

"I don't care twopence about him. Jan, when is this sort of thing to end? Don't you like seeing me?"

Janet had made up her mind to treat Dale at first with simple friendliness; if this recipe failed, it was to be followed by distant civility. She answered collectedly enough, in spite of a quiver in her voice:

"I thought I had better not see you just now."

"Why, in Heaven's name?"

"I can't go through it all again. Indeed I can't, Dale."

"Do you seriously expect me to be content with what you said then—to go away and never come near you again?"

Dale spoke vehemently. It was obvious that the distant civility would be called into play. Perhaps silence was Janet's idea of it, for she said nothing.

"Because that's what it comes to," pursued Dale. "Do you imagine, Jan, I could see you now—after it all—except as your lover? What do you want me to do?"

"Miss Fane——" began Janet in a very small voice.

"I'll never see Nellie Fane again if she robs me of you," Dale declared with great energy, and probably perfect, though unintentional, untruth.

Janet looked up and met his eyes. Then she dropped hers, and said, in tones quite unlike those of distant civility:

"I wonder how you care for such a mean-spirited creature as I am. If I told you I loved you still—how could you believe me? I told you before, and then I——"

"Behaved like a sensible girl."

"Oh, no, no. It was a lie when I said——"

"Tell me another, then," said Dale. "I like them."

Janet's resistance, like Bob Acres' courage, was oozing out of her finger tips.

"I know what it will be," she faltered plaintively. "You'll always be thinking about her, and so shall I—and it will be horrible. No, I won't do it. I have some resolution, Dale; it wasn't mere nonsense. I did mean it."

"Oh, no," said Dale persuasively; "you never did, Jan. You had no idea how bored you would be without me. Now, had you?"

"I can never respect myself again."

"It's quite unnecessary, dear; I'll do all that."

"Are you really quite—quite sure, Dale, that you will never——"

"Oh, hang it all!" said Dale, and he kissed her.

"Dale! the door's open."

Dale shut it, and the rest of the conversation became inaudible, and remains unknown.

The guests had gone. Mrs. Hodge and Nellie, who were to keep the Colonel company for a little while, had walked down to Denborough to tell Mrs. Roberts all about the event of the day; and the Colonel was bustling about, getting the presents packed up, and counting, with some surprise, the empty champagne bottles. He was thus engaged when the door of the little room opened, to let Janet and Dale out.

"Dear me! I thought you'd gone. Nellie asked me, and I told her so."

"I am just going, Colonel Smith," said Janet.

"So am I," said Dale.

The Colonel watched them go together.

"There's another man going to lose his daughter," he said. "By Jove, I thought it was to be Nellie Fane!"

When Janet left Dale at the Grange gates, she went to her father's study.

"Lord, child," said the Squire, "are you only just back?"

"I stayed to see them off."

"Your mother did that, and she's been back two hours. She couldn't find you."

"Papa," said Janet, sitting on the arm of his chair, "I'm very much ashamed of myself."

"What have you been, doing now? Ill treating that poor young man again?"

"No."

"He's not a bad fellow, you know, after all—honest and good—not brilliant, of course."

"Not brilliant, papa?"

"I don't mean he's a fool; I believe he's an efficient officer——"

"Officer? Why, you're talking of Gerard!"

"Of course I am."

"How can you imagine I was thinking of Gerard? I meant Mr. Bannister."

"Bannister? Why, you told me only the other day——"

"Yes. That's why."

"Why what, child?"

"Why I'm ashamed."

The Squire raised himself and looked severely at his daughter.

"A precious fuss you've made about nothing."

"I can't help it, papa. I don't want to, but he insists."

"He seems to know how to manage you, which is more than I do. There, go and tell your mother. And, Jan!"

"Yes."

"If ever you say you won't have him again——"

"Yes, papa."

"By Jove, you shan't!" said the Squire with emphasis, and he added, as his daughter fled after a hasty kiss, "Perhaps that'll keep her quiet."

Dale found nobody but Philip Hume to congratulate him, and Philip was, as usual now, busy over his little plan.

"Oh, she's come round, has she?" he asked, with no sign of surprise.

Dale said she had, and Philip meditatively took up his little plan.

"Have you told Nellie?" he asked.

"No. I haven't seen her."

"She never knew you had asked Miss Delane before?"

"No. Nobody knew but her people and you. I think she had an idea I liked Jan."

"Yes, but not more?"

"No. I don't think so."

Philip whistled gently, and twisted the little plan in his fingers. Dale, in his good humor, said:

"Why the deuce, Phil, do you go on fidgeting with that thing? You're like an old hen over an egg."

"Yes; I don't know that it is any good. I think I'll destroy it."

And he tore it slowly in two, and threw it in the fire.

"The vindictive theory of punishment," he remarked, with apparent irrelevance, "does not commend itself to me. If no evil consequences exist to be averted, why should we punish?" and he pushed the plan farther into the blaze with the poker.

"If you want to argue that sort of thing, old fellow, you must ring for Wilson. I'm going to have a try at some verses."

"Going to write your own epitaph, like Swift?"

Dale shook his head and smiled, with the impenetrable, hopeless happiness of successful love.