Belfield rubbed his hands against one another with a rueful smile. "Yes, yes, he's a hard fellow. He's hard on us; hard in taking a course that makes scandal inevitable. Meriton High Street will be breast-high in gossip about the midnight expulsion in a few hours. And hard in this—I suppose I'm not entitled to call it persecution—this punishment with which he threatens Harry. Still, if a man had treated my daughter in that way, and that daughter Vivien—" He spread out his hands, and added, "But then he's always been as hard as nails to the poor girl herself. You think there's that other motive? If you're right there, I put my foot in it once." He was thinking of certain hints he had given Wellgood at dinner one evening.

"There's no doubt about it, I think, sir, but it doesn't help us much. It may show that Wellgood's motives aren't purely paternal, but it doesn't make matters better for Harry."

"It's terribly awkward—with us at one end of the town and Nutley at the other. Most things blow over, but"—he screwed up his face wryly—"meeting's awkward! And there's the politics! Wellgood's chairman of his Association. Oh, Harry, Harry, you have made a mess of it! I think I'll go and talk it over with Meriton—make a clean breast of it and see what he says. He might be able to keep Wellgood quiet. You don't look as if you thought there was much chance of it."

"I don't know whether Harry would come back and face it, even if Wellgood were managed. A tough morsel for his pride to swallow! And if he did, could he bring her—at all events so long as Miss Wellgood's at Nutley? Yet if they marry—and I suppose they will—"

"I think we may take it that he'll marry her. The boy's ungoverned and untrustworthy, but he's not shabby, Andy." A note of pleading for his son crept into his voice.

"It's the right thing for him to do, but it'll make it still more difficult to go on as if nothing had happened. However I hope you will see Lord Meriton and get his opinion."

"I should like you to talk to Wellgood and find out what his terms really are. I can't ask favours of him, but I want to know exactly where we stand. And Vivien—no, I must write to her myself, poor dear girl. Not a pleasant letter to write." He paused a moment and asked, with an air of being rather ashamed of the question, "Is the sinner himself very desperate?"

"Last night he was, I think; at any rate terribly angry with himself, and—I'm afraid I must add—with his bad luck. When I saw him off this morning he was in one of his defiant moods, saying he could get on without Meriton's approval, and wishing the whole place at the devil."

"Yes, yes, that's Harry! Because he's made a fool—and worse—of himself, you and I and Meriton are to go to the devil! Well, I suppose it's not peculiar to poor Harry. And you saw him off? I can't thank you for all your kindness, Andy."

"Well, sir, if a man can feel that way, I'd almost rather have done the thing myself! I've got to ask her to see me on his behalf."

Belfield shook his head. "Not much to be said there. And I've got to tell my wife. Not much there either."

"I'm afraid Mrs. Belfield will be terribly distressed."

"Yes, yes; but mothers wear special spectacles, you know. She'll think it very deplorable, but it's quite likely that she'll find out it's somebody else's fault. Wellgood's, probably, because she never much liked him. If it helps her, let her think so."

"It was partly his fault. Why didn't he own up about Miss Vintry?"

"Not much excuse, even if you'd been the trespasser. With Harry engaged to Vivien, no excuse at all. How could it be in any legitimate way Harry's business what Wellgood wanted of Isobel Vintry? Still it may be that the argument'll be good enough for his mother."

"Well, sir, I'll see Wellgood to-day, and let you know the result. And Miss Wellgood too, if she'll see me. I positively must go to London to-morrow."

"Yes, yes. You go back to work, Andy. You've your own life. And that pretty girl, Miss Flower—does she go back too?"

"She goes this afternoon. And Billy Foot with them, I think."

"Yes, so he does. I forgot. Give her my love. I'd come and give her a nosegay at the station, only I don't feel like facing people to-day." He sighed wearily. "A man's pride is easily hit through his children. And I suppose we've cracked Harry up to the skies! Nemesis, Andy, Nemesis! There, good-bye. You're a thorough good fellow."

Billy Foot waylaid Andy as he left Halton. Billy's view of the matter was not ideal or exalted, but it went to a practical point.

"Did you ever know such a fool?" cried Billy. "What does he want to do it down here for? He's got all London to play the fool in, if he must play the fool! Nobody knows there, or if they do they don't care. Or if A cares B doesn't, and B's just as amusing to dine with—probably more so. But in this little hen-roost of a place! All the fowls'll cackle, and all to the same tune. I'll lay you six to four he's dished himself for good in Meriton. Where are you off to?"

"I've got to see Miss Vintry off, then I'm going to Nutley. By-the-bye, how did you hear about it?"

"It wasn't hard to guess, last night, was it? However, to inform my mind better, Andy, I took occasion to call at the Lion. I didn't see Miss Vintry, but I did see Miss Flower. Also I saw old Dove, and young Dove, and Miss Miles, all with faces as long as your arm—and enjoying themselves immensely! You can no more keep it dark in a place like this than you can hide the parish church under your pocket-handkerchief. They'll all know there was a row at Nutley; they'll all know Miss Vintry was turned out and slept at the Lion; they'll all know that Harry and she have gone to London, and, of course, they'll know the engagement's broken. They're not clever, I admit—I've made speeches to them—but I suppose they're not born idiots! They must have a rudimentary inductive faculty."

The truth of these words was clearly shown to Andy's mind when he called at the Lion to pick up Isobel. She was alone in the Nun's sitting-room; the two girls had already said good-bye to her and gone out for a last walk in Meriton. When she came into the hall to meet him she was confronted by a phalanx of hostile eyes—Miss Miles', old Dove's, the Bird's, two chambermaids', the very "Boots" who had officiated at the door on the previous night. Nobody spoke to her. Her luggage, sent down from Nutley in answer to Andy's messenger, was already on the cab. Andy was left himself to open the door. Nobody even wanted a tip from her. Could unpopularity go further or take any form more glaring?

Before the hostile eyes (she included Andy's among them) Isobel was herself again—calm, haughty, unabashed, her feelings under full control. There were no signs of the tempest she had passed through; she was again the Miss Vintry who had given lessons in courage and the other manly virtues. Andy was unfeignedly glad that this was her condition; his practical equipment included small aptitude for dealing with hysterics.

For the better part of the way to the station she said nothing. At last she looked across at Andy, who sat opposite to her, and remarked, "Well, Mr. Hayes, you saw the beginning; now you see the end."

"Since it has happened, I can only hope the end will be happy—for you and for him."

"I'm getting what I wanted. If you want a thing and get it, you can hardly complain, whatever happens."

"That sounds very reasonable, but—"

"The best thing to hope about reason is to hope you won't need it? Yes!"

It seemed that the news had not yet spread so far afield as to reach the station. The old stationmaster was friendly and loquacious.

"Quite a break-up of you all to-day, sir," he said. "Mr. 'Arry gone by the first train, the stout gentleman by the next, now Miss Vintry, and a carriage engaged for Miss Flower's party and Mr. Foot this afternoon! A real break-up, I call it!"

"That's about what it comes to, Mr. Parsons," said Andy, as he handed Isobel into the train. "Well, 'olidays must 'ave an end. A pleasant journey and a safe return, miss."

Isobel smiled at Andy. "You'd stop at the first part of the wish, Mr. Hayes?"

Andy put out his hand to her. With the slightest air of surprise she took it. "We must make the best of it. Do what you can for him."

"I'll do all he'll let me." Her eyes met his; she smiled. "I know all that as well as you do. Surely I, if anybody, ought to know it?" It seemed to Andy as if that were what her eyes and her smile said. "I want you to deliver one message for me," she went on. "Don't be alarmed, I'm not daring to send a message to anybody who belongs to Meriton. But when you next see Miss Dutton, will you tell her I shan't forget her kindness? I've already thanked Miss Flower for the use of her sitting-room. Ah, we're moving! Good-bye!"

She was smiling as she went. Andy was smiling too; the degree of her gratitude to Sally Dutton and to the Nun respectively had been admirably defined.

The fire of Wellgood's wrath was still smouldering hotly, ready to break out at any moment if the slightest breath of passion fanned it. He received Andy civilly enough, but at the first hint that he came in some sort as an ambassador from Harry's father, his back stiffened. His position was perfectly clear, and seemed unalterable. So far as it lay in his power he would banish Harry Belfield from Meriton and put an end to any career he might have there. He repeated to Andy more calmly, but not less forcibly, what he had shouted in his fury the evening before.

"Of course I want it kept as quiet as possible; but I don't want it kept quiet at the cost of that fellow's going unpunished—getting off scot-free! We've nothing to be ashamed of. Publicity won't hurt us, little as we may like it. But it'll hurt him, and he shall have it in full measure—straight in the face. Is it a possible state of things that he should be here, living in the place, taking part in our public affairs, being our Member, while my daughter is at Nutley? I say no, and I think Belfield—his father, I mean—ought to be able to see it for himself. What then? Are we to be driven out of our home?"

"That would be absurd, of course," Andy had to admit.

"It seems to me the only alternative." He rose from his chair, and walked up and down like an angry tiger. He faced round on Andy. "For a beginning, the first step he takes in regard to the seat, I shall resign from the committee of the Association, and state my reasons for my action in plain language—and I think you know I can speak plainly. I shall do the same about any other public work which involves meeting him. I shall do the same about the hunt, the same about everything. And I'll ask my friends—I'll ask decent people—to choose between Harry Belfield and me. To please my daughter, I didn't break his head, as I should have liked to, but, by heaven, I'll spoil his game in Meriton! I'm afraid that's the only message I can give you to take to Halton."

"In fact you'll do your best to get him boycotted?" Andy liked compendious statements.

"That's exactly what I mean to do, Hayes. A man going to be married to my daughter in a fortnight—parted from her the moment before on the footing of her lover—found making violent love to another inmate of my house, her companion, almost within my very house itself—sounds well, doesn't it? Calculated to recommend him to his friends, and to the constituency?"

Andy tried a last shot. "Is this action of yours really best for Miss Wellgood, or what she would wish?"

Wellgood flushed in anger, conscious of his secret motives, by no means sure that he was not suspected of them. "I judge for my daughter. And it's not what she may wish, but what is proper in regard to her that I consider. On the other hand, if he lets Meriton alone, he may do what he likes. That's not my affair. I'm not going to hunt him over the whole country."

"Well, that's something," said Andy with a patient smile. "I'll communicate your terms to Mr. Belfield." He paused, glancing doubtfully at his most unconciliatory companion. "Do you think it would be painful to Miss Wellgood to see me?"

He stopped suddenly in his prowling up and down the room. "That's funny! She was just saying she would like to see you."

"I'm glad to hear that. I want to be quite frank. Harry has asked me to express to her his bitter regret."

"Nothing more than that?"

"Nothing more, on my honour."

"She wants to say something to you." He frowned in hesitation. "If I thought there was the smallest chance of her being induced to enter into direct communication with him, I'd say no at once. But there's no chance of that. And she wants to see you. Yes, you can see her, if you like. She's in the garden, by the lake, I think. She's taken this well, Hayes; she's showing a thousand times more pluck than I ever thought she had." His voice grew gentle. "Poor little girl! Yes, go! She wants to see you." Andy had taken nothing by his first mission; he felt quite hopelessly unfit for his second. To offer the apologies of a faithless swain was no more in his line than to be a faithless swain himself; the fleeting relics of Harry's authority had imposed a last uncongenial task. Perhaps his very mum-chanceness was his saving. Glib protestations would have smacked too strongly of the principal to commend the agent. Vivien heard his stammering words in silence, seeming wrapped in an aloofness that she took for her sole remaining protection. She bowed her head gravely at the "bitter regret," at the "unguarded moment," at the "fatal irresolution"—Andy's memory held fast to the phrases, but refused to weld them into one of Harry's shapely periods. On "fatal irresolution" he came to a full stop. He dared not look at her—it would seem an intrusion, a brutality; he stared steadily over the lake.

"I knew he had moods like that," she said after a long silence. "I never realized what they could do to a man. I daresay it would be hard for me to realize. I'm glad he wanted to—to say a word of regret. There's one thing I should like you to tell him; that's why I wanted to see you."

Now Andy turned to her, for her voice commanded his attention. "How fagged-out you look, Miss Wellgood!" he exclaimed impulsively.

"Things aren't easy," she said in a low steady voice. "If I could have silence! But I have to listen to denunciation. You'll understand. Did he tell you what—what passed?"

"The gist of it, I think."

"Then you'll understand that I mayn't have the power to stop the denunciations, or—or the other steps that may be threatened or taken. I should like him to know that they're not my doing. And I should like him to know too that I would a thousand times sooner this had happened than that other thing which I believe he meant to happen—honestly meant to happen—but for—this accident."

"I'm with you in that, Miss Wellgood. It's far better."

"I accept what he says—an unguarded moment. But I—I thought he had a guard." She sat silent again for a minute. "There's one other thing I should like to say to him, through you. But you'll know best whether to say it or not, I think. I should like to tell him that he can't make me forget—almost that he can't make me ungrateful. He gave me, in our early days together, the first real joy I'd ever had—I expect the only perfect joy I ever shall have. What he gave then, he can't wholly take away." She looked at Andy with a faint melancholy smile. "Shall you tell him that?"

"If you leave it to me, I shan't tell him that."

"Why not?"

"You want it all over, don't you?" he asked bluntly.

"Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!"

"Then don't tell Harry Belfield that. Think it, if you like. Don't tell him."

A look of sheer wonder came into her eyes. "He's like that?" she murmured.

"Yes, like that. That's the trouble. He'd better think you're—hopelessly disgusted."

"I'm hopelessly at sea, anyhow," she said, turning her eyes to the lake again. But she turned back to him quickly, still with her faint smile. "Disgusted? Oh, you're thinking of the fastidiousness? Ah, that seems a long time ago! You were very kind then; you're very kind now." She laid her hand lightly on his arm; for the first time her voice shook. "You and I can sometimes talk about him as he used to be—just we two together!"

"Or as we thought he was?" Andy's tones were blunt still, and now rather bitter.

"Or as we thought he was—and, by thinking it, were so happy! Yes, we'd better not talk about him at all. I don't think I really could. You'll be seeing Mr. Belfield soon? Give him my dear love, and say I'll come and see him and Mrs. Belfield as soon as they want me. He sent me a note this morning. I can't answer it just yet."

"I'll tell him." Andy rose to go.

"Oh, but must you go just yet? I don't want you to." She glanced up at him, with a sad humour. "Curly's out, you know, and terribly big and rampageous!"

"But you're not running away now, any more than you did then."

"I'm trying to stand still, and—and look at it—at what it means about life."

"You mustn't think all life's like that—or all men either."

"That's the temptation—to think that."

"Men are tempted to think it about women too, sometimes."

She nodded. "Yes, of course, that's true. I'm glad you said that. You are good against Curly!"

They had Wellgood in their minds. It was grievance against grievance at Nutley; the charge of inconstancy is eternally bandied to and fro between the sexes—Varium et mutabile semper Femina against "Men were deceivers ever"—Souvent femme varie against the sorrowfully ridiculous chronicles of breach of promise of marriage cases. Plenty of matter for both sides! Probably both sides would be wise to say as little as possible about it. If misogyny is bad, is misandry any better? At all events the knowledge of Wellgood's grievance might help to prevent Vivien's from warping her mind. Hers was the greater, but his was of the same order.

The world incarnated itself to her in the image of the big retriever dog, being so alarming, meaning no harm consciously, meaning indeed affection—with its likelihood of paws soiling white raiment. Andy again stood dressed as the guardian, the policeman. He was to be "good against Curly."

"And Isobel?" she asked.

"I saw her off all right by the twelve-fifteen, Miss Wellgood—to London, you know."

"Yes, to London." To both of them London might have been spelt "Harry."

"She was never really unkind to me," said Vivien thoughtfully. "I expect it did me good."

"Never a favourite of mine—even before this," Andy pronounced, rather ponderously.

She shot a side glance at him. "I believe you thought she beat me!"

"I think I thought that sometimes you'd sooner she had done that than stand there smiling."

"Oh, you're prejudiced! She wasn't unkind; and in this thing, you see, I know her temptation. Surely that ought to bring sympathy? Tell me—you saw her off—well—how?" She spoke in jerks, now seeming agitated.

"Very calm—quite her own mistress—seeming to know what her job was. Confound it, Miss Wellgood, I'd sooner not talk about her any more!"

"Shall you see Harry?"

"I don't want to till—till things have settled down a bit. I shall write about what you've said."

"About part of what I've said," she reminded him. "You've convinced me about that."

Andy rose again, and this time she did not seek to hinder him.

"I'm off to town to-morrow; back to work." He paused a moment, then added, "If I get down for a week-end, may I come and see you?"

"Do—always, if you can. And remember me to Miss Flower and to Billy Foot; and tell them that I am"—she seemed to seek a word, but ended lamely—"very well, please."

Andy nodded. She wanted them to know that her courage was not broken.

On his way out he met Wellgood again, moodily sauntering in the drive by the lake. "Well, what do you think of her?" Wellgood asked abruptly.

"She's feels it terribly, but she's taking it splendidly."

Wellgood nodded emphatically, saying again, "I never thought she had such pluck."

"I should think, you know," said Andy, in his candid way, "that you could help her a bit, Mr. Wellgood. It does her no good to be taken over it again and again. Least said, soonest mended."

Wellgood looked at him suspiciously. "I'm not going back on my terms."

"Wait and see if they are accepted. Let him alone till then. She'd thank you for that."

"I want to help her," said Wellgood. His tone was rather surly, rather ashamed, but it seemed to carry a confession that he had not helped his daughter much in the past. "You're right, Hayes. Let's be done with the fellow for good, if we can!"

From all sides came the same sentiment: from Wellgood as a hope, from Vivien as a sorrowful but steadfast resolution, from Billy Foot as a considered verdict on the facts of the case. Andy's own reflections had even anticipated these other voices. An end of Harry Belfield, so far as regarded the circle of which he had been the centre and the ornament! Would Harry accept the conclusion? He might tell Meriton to "go to the devil" in a moment of irritated defiance; but to abandon Meriton would be a great rooting-up, a sore break with all his life past, and with his life in the future as he had planned it and his friends had pictured it for him. Must he accept it whether he would or not? Wellgood's pistol was at his head. Would he brave the shot, or what hand would turn away the threatening barrel?

Not Lord Meriton's. When Belfield, possessed of Wellgood's terms, laid them before him, together with an adequate statement of the facts, the great man disclaimed the power. Though he softened his opinion for Harry's father, it was very doubtful if he had the wish.

"I'm sorry, Belfield, uncommon sorry—well, you know that—both for you and for Mrs. Belfield. I hope she's not too much cut up?"

"She's distressed; but she blames Wellgood and the other woman most. I'm glad she does."

Meriton nodded. "But it's most infernally awkward; there's no disguising it. You may say that any man—at any rate, many a man—is liable to come a mucker like this. But happening just now—and with Wellgood's daughter! Wellgood's our right hand man, in this part of the Division at all events. And he's as stubborn a dog as lives! Said he'd resign from the hunt if your boy showed up, did he? By Jove, he'd do it, you know! That's the deuce of it! I suppose the question is how much opinion he'd carry with him. He's not popular—that's something; but a father fighting in his daughter's cause! They won't know the other side of it you've told me about; and if Harry marries the woman, he can't very well tell them. Then is she to come with him? Awkward again if Wellgood, or somebody put up by him, interrupts! If she doesn't come, that's at once admitting something fishy."

"The woman's certainly a serious added difficulty. Meriton, we're old friends. Tell me your own opinion."

"I don't give an opinion for all time. The affair will die down, as all affairs do. The girl'll marry somebody else in time, I suppose. Wellgood will get over his feelings. I'm not saying your son can't succeed you at Halton in due course. That would be making altogether too much of it. But now, if the moment comes anywhere, say, in the next twelve months—well, I question if a change of air—and another constituency—wouldn't be wiser."

"I think so too—in his own interest. And I rather think that I, at least, owe it to Vivien to throw my weight on the side that will save her from annoyance."

"That was in my mind too, Belfield; but I knew you'd think of it without my saying it."

"I believe—I do really believe—that he will look at it in that light himself. Any gentleman would; and he's that, outside his plaguy love affairs."

"I know he is; I know it. They bring such a lot of good fellows to grief—and pretty women too."

"Well, I must write to him; and you must look out for another candidate."

"By Jove, we must, and in quick time too! Apart from a General Election, I hear old Millington's sadly shaky. Well, good-bye, Belfield. My regards to your wife." He shook hands warmly. "This is hard luck on you; but he's got lots of time to pick up again. He'll end in the first flight yet. Cheer up. Better have a Prodigal than no son at all, like me!"

"I imagine a good deal might be said on both sides in that debate."

"Oh, stuff and nonsense! You wouldn't dare to say that to his mother!"

"No; and I don't suppose I really think it myself. But this sort of thing does make a man a bit nervous, Meriton." "If the lady's attractions have led him astray, perhaps they'll be able now to keep him straight."

"They won't be so great in one particular. They won't be forbidden fruit."

"Aye, the best fox is always in the covert you mayn't draw. Human nature!"

"At all events, my boy Harry's."

And for that nature Harry had to pay. The present price was an end of his career in Meriton. One more voice joined the chorus, a powerful voice. Belfield bowed his head to the decision. It was final for the moment; in his depression of spirit he felt as though it were final for all time, as though his native town would know Harry no more. At any rate, now his place was vacant—the place from which he by transgression fell. It must be given to another. Only in Vivien's memory had he still his niche.