George Grafton got up one morning in August at six o'clock, as was his now almost invariable custom, and went to the window. The rain, which had begun on the evening before, was coming down steadily. It looked as if it had rained all night and would continue to rain all day. Pools had already collected in depressions of the road, the slightly sunken lawn under his window was like a marsh, and the trees dripped heavily and dismally.

He was greatly disappointed. For nearly a month now he had been hard at work on the rock-garden and the stream that had been led into it. It had been a fascinating occupation, planning and contriving and doing the work himself with no professional guidance, and only occasional extra labour to lift or move very heavy stones. He had worked at it nearly every morning before breakfast, with Caroline and Barbara, Bunting, and Beatrix when she had been at home, and Maurice Bradby, Worthing's pupil, as an ardent and constant helper both with brain and with hands. They had all enjoyed it immensely. Those early hours had been the best in the day. The hard work had made him as fit as he had ever been in his life, and he felt like a young man again.

As he stood at the window, Bradby came splashing up the road in mackintosh and heavy boots. He was as keen as the rest, and generally first in the field.

"Hallo!" Grafton called out to him. "I'm afraid there's nothing doing this morning. I don't mind getting a little wet, but this is a bit too much."

Bradby looked round him at the leaden sky, which showed no signs of a break anywhere. "Perhaps it will clear up," he said. "I didn't suppose you'd be out, but I thought I might as well come up. I want to see what happens with the pipes, and where the water gets to with heavy rain."

"Well, you go up and have a look, my boy," said Grafton, "and if you're not drowned beforehand come to breakfast. We might be able to get out afterwards. I'm going back to bed now."

He went back to bed and dozed intermittently until his servant came in to call him. The idle thoughts that filled his brain, waking and half-sleeping, were concerned with the rock-garden, with the roses he and Caroline had planted, with other plantings of flowers and shrubs, and the satisfaction that he had already gained or expected to gain from them. The garden came first. In the summer it provided the chief interest of the country, and the pleasure it had brought was at least as great as that to be gained from the sports of autumn and winter. But it was not only the garden as giving these pleasures of contrivance, expectation and satisfaction, that coloured his thoughts as he lay drowsily letting them wander over the aspects of the life he was so much enjoying. It was the great playground, in these rich summer months, when he had usually shunned the English country as lying in its state of quiescence, and affording none of the distractions to be found elsewhere. Lawn tennis and other garden games, with the feeling of fitness they induced, the companionship they brought in the long afternoons when people came to play and talk and enjoy themselves, and the consequent heightening of the physical satisfaction of meals, cool drinks, baths, changing of clothes; the lazy hours in the heat of the day, with a book, or family chat in the shade of a tree, with the bees droning among the flowers in the soaking sunshine, and few other sounds to disturb the peace and the security; the intermittent wanderings to look at this or that which had been looked at a score of times before, but was always worth looking at again—those garden hours impressed themselves upon the memory, sliding into one another, until the times of rain and storm were forgotten, and life seemed to be lived in the garden, in the yellow sunshine or the cool green shade.

The influence of the garden extended itself to the house in these summer days. This room in which he was lying—it was a joy to wake up in it in the morning—to be awakened by the sun pouring in beams of welcome and invitation; it was a satisfaction to lie down in it at night, flooded with the fragrant air that had picked up sweetness and freshness from the trees and the grass. The stone hall was cool and gratefully dim, when one came in out of the heat and glare of the hottest hours of the day. The long low library between the sunk lawn and the cloister court, whose calf-bound treasures, which he never looked into, gave it a mellow retired air, was a pleasant room in which to write the few letters that had to be written or do the small amount of business that had to be done; or, when there were men in the house, to give them their refreshments or their tobacco in. The long gallery was a still pleasanter room, facing the setting sun and the garden and the trees, with a glimpse of the park, and nothing to be seen from its deep-recessed windows but those surrounding cultivated spaces. All the rooms of the house were pleasant rooms, and pervaded with that sense of retired and gracious beauty which came from their outlook, into garden or park or ancient court.

The rain showed signs of decreasing at breakfast-time, and there were some ragged fringes to be seen in the grey curtain of cloud that had overhung the dripping world. Bradby had not put in his appearance. Although he was now made as welcome as anybody when he came to the Abbey, and had proved himself of the utmost assistance in many of the pursuits that were carried on there with such keenness, his diffidence still hung to him. Perhaps the invitation had not been clear enough; he would not come, except at times when it was clearly expected of him, or to meals, without a clearly understood invitation.

Young George clamoured for him during breakfast. His father had announced a morning with letters and papers, too long postponed. Young George wanted somebody to play with, and Bradby, after his father, and now even before Barbara, was his chosen companion.

"He has work to do, you know, Bunting," said Caroline. "He can't always be coming here."

"He may be going about the estate," said Young George. "I shall go down to the office after breakfast."

"Why don't you go over and see Jimmy Beckley?" asked Barbara. "You could ride. I'll come with you, if you like, and the Dragon will let me. I should like to see Vera and the others."

Bunting thought he would. It would be rather fun to see old Jimmy, and it would be certain to clear up by the time they got to Feltham.

"I believe it is going to clear up," said Grafton, looking out of the window. "Shall you and I ride too, Cara? I must write a few letters. They're getting on my mind now; but we could start about eleven."

So it was agreed. They stood at the hall door after breakfast and looked at the rain. Then Grafton went into the library, and was soon immersed in his writing. Even that was rather agreeable, for a change. It was so quiet and secluded in this old book-lined room. And there was the ride to come, pleasant to look forward to even if it continued to rain, trotting along the muddy roads, between the hedges and trees and fields, and coming back with the two girls and the boy to a lunch that would have been earned by exercise. Everything was pleasant in this quiet easy life, of which the present hour's letter-writing and going through of papers was the only thing needed to keep the machinery going, at least by him. It was only a pity that B wasn't there. He missed B, with her loving merry ways, and she did love Abington, and the life there, as much as any of them. He would write a line to his little B, up in Scotland, before he went out, and tell her that he wanted her back, and she'd better come quickly. She couldn't be enjoying herself as much as she would if she came home, to her ever loving old Daddy.

The second post came in just as he had finished. Caroline had already looked in to say that she was going up to change. He took the envelopes and the papers from old Jarvis, and looked at certain financial quotations before going through the letters. There was only one he wanted to open before going upstairs. It was from Beatrix—a large square envelope addressed in an uneven rather sprawling hand, not yet fully formed.

Caroline waited for him in the hall. The horses were being led up and down outside. He was usually a model of punctuality, but she was already considering going up to see what had happened to him when he came down the shallow stairs, in his breeches and gaiters.

"What a time you've been!" she said.

He did not reply, and had his back to her as old Jarvis helped him on with his raincoat and handed him his gloves and crop. She did not notice that there was anything wrong with him until they were mounted and had set off. Then she saw his face and exclaimed in quick alarm: "What's the matter, darling? Aren't you well?"

His voice was not like his as he replied: "I've had a letter from B. She says she's engaged to Lassigny."

Caroline had to use her brain quickly to divine how such a piece of news would affect him. But for his view of it, it would have been only rather exciting. She knew Lassigny, and liked him. "I didn't know he was there," she said lamely.

"She hadn't told me that he was," he said. "I suppose he went up there after her—got himself an invitation. He's staying in the house."

"I don't think he'd do anything underhand, Dad."

"I don't say it would be underhand. If he hasn't done that he must have been invited with all the rest, and she must have known it. But she never said so."

Caroline was disturbed at the bitterness with which he spoke, and did not quite understand it. He had made no objections to Lassigny as a friend of hers, nor to her having asked him to Abington at Whitsuntide. He seemed to have liked him himself. What was it that he was so upset about? Was it with Beatrix?

"Do you think she ought not to have accepted him without asking you first, darling?" she said. "I suppose she does ask your permission."

"No, she doesn't. She takes it for granted. She's engaged to him, and hopes I shall be as happy about it as she is. He's going to write to me. But there's no letter from him yet."

"I think she ought to have asked your permission. But I suppose when that sort of thing comes to you suddenly——"

"He ought certainly to have asked my permission," he interrupted her.

"Oh, but darling! You hardly expect that in these days, do you? He's seen her everywhere; he's been invited here. It would be enough, wouldn't it?—if he writes to you at once. Francis didn't ask you before he asked me; and you didn't mind."

"Francis is an Englishman. This fellow's a Frenchman. Things aren't done in that way in France."

'This fellow!' She didn't understand his obvious hostility. Did he know anything against Lassigny. If so, surely he must have found it out quite lately.

"Why do you object to the idea so much, darling? I think he's nice."

"Oh, nice!" he echoed. "I told you the other day that I should hate the idea of one of you marrying a foreigner."

He had told her that, and she had replied that Lassigny hardly seemed like a foreigner. It was no good saying it again. She wanted to soothe him, and to help him if she could.

"What shall you do?" she asked.

"I'm going to wire to her to come home at once—send a wire now."

He turned aside on to the grass, and then cantered down to the gate. Caroline would have wished to discuss it further before he took the step he had announced, but, although she was on terms of such equality with him, she had never yet questioned a decision of his when he had announced one. His authority, so loosely exercised over his children, was yet paramount.

They rode into the village without exchanging more words, and he dismounted at the Post-Office, while she held his horse.

Worthing came out of the Estate Office, which was nearly opposite, to speak to her. She found it difficult to chat to him about nothing, and to keep a bright face, but he relieved her of much of the difficulty, for he never had any himself in finding words to pass the time with.

"And how's Beatrix getting on?" he asked. "Heard from her since she's been up on the moors?"

"Father had a letter from her this morning," she said. "He wants her home." This, at least, would prepare the way for the unexpected appearance of Beatrix.

"Oh, we all want her home," he said.

Grafton came out of the office, still with the dark look on his face, which was usually so smiling and contented. It cleared for a moment as he greeted Worthing, who had a word or two to say to him about estate matters. Suddenly Grafton said: "I should like to talk to you about something. Give me some lunch, will you? We shall be back about one. Send young Bradby down to us. I'll eat what's prepared for him."

When he had mounted again he said to Caroline, "I'm going to talk it over with Worthing. One wants a man's opinion on these matters, and his is sound enough."

She felt a trifle hurt, without quite knowing why. "If you find it's all right, you're not going to stop it, are you?" she asked.

"How can it be all right?" he asked with some impatience, which hurt her still more, for he never used that tone with her.

"I mean, if they love each other."

"Oh, love each other!" he exclaimed. "She's hardly out of the nursery. A fellow like that—years older than she is, but young enough to make himself attractive—he knows how to make love to a young girl, if he wants to. Had plenty of practice, I dare say."

It was an unhappy ride for Caroline. His mood was one of bitterness, chiefly against Lassigny, but also against Beatrix—though with regard to her it was shot with streaks of tenderness. At one time, he ought not to have let her go away without seeing that there was somebody to look after her and prevent her from getting into mischief—but he had trusted her, and never thought she'd do this sort of thing; at another, she was so young and so pretty that she couldn't be expected to know what men were like. Poor little B! If only he'd kept her at home a bit longer! She was always happy enough at home.

To Caroline, with her orderly mind, it seemed that there were only two questions worth discussing at all—whether there was any tangible objection to Lassigny as a husband for Beatrix, and, if her father's objections to her marrying him were so strong, what he proposed to do. She had inherited this orderliness of mind from him. As a general rule he went straight to the heart of a subject, and all subsidiary considerations fell into their proper place. But she could not get an answer to either of these questions, though with regard to the latter he seemed to consider it of great importance to get Beatrix home and talk to her. This would have been very well if it had simply meant that he wanted to find out whether she had pledged herself lightly, and, if he thought she had, do all he could to dissuade her. Or if there had been anything he could have brought up against Lassigny, which might have affected her, other than his being a foreigner, which certainly wouldn't. He never said that he would forbid the marriage, nor even that he would postpone it for a certain period, both of which he could have done until Beatrix should come of age.

Longing as she did to put herself in line with him whenever she could, she allowed his feelings against Lassigny to affect her. There was nothing tangible. He knew nothing against him—hardly anything about him, indeed, except what all the world of his friends knew. With an Englishman in the same position it would have been quite enough. From a worldly point of view the match would be unexceptionable. There was wealth as well as station, and the station was of the sort that would be recognised in England, under the circumstances of Lassigny's English tastes and English sojourns. But that side of it was never mentioned. She had the impression of Lassigny as something different from what she had ever known him—with something dark and secret in his background, something that would soil Beatrix, or at least bring her unhappiness in marriage. And yet it was nothing definite. When she asked him directly if he knew anything against him, he answered her impatiently again. Oh, no. The fellow was a Frenchman. That was all he needed to know.

They were no nearer to anything, and she was no nearer to him, when they arrived at Feltham Hall. When they had passed through the lodge gates he suddenly said that he would ride back alone. She would be all right with Barbara and Bunting.

He turned and rode off, with hardly a good-bye to her.

Worthing lived in comfortable style in an old-fashioned farmhouse, which had been adapted to the use of a gentleman of quality. The great kitchen had been converted into a sitting-room, the parlour made a convenient dining-room, and there were four or five oak-raftered lattice-windowed bedrooms, with a wider view over the surrounding country than was gained from any window of the Abbey, which lay rather in a hollow. As Grafton waited for his host, walking about his comfortable bachelor's room, or sitting dejectedly by the open window looking out on to the rain, which had again begun to come down heavily, he was half-inclined to envy Worthing his well-placed congenial existence. A bachelor—if he were a bachelor by temperament—lived a life free of care. Such troubles as this that had so suddenly come to disturb his own more elaborate life he was at least immune from.

He was glad to have Worthing to consult with. Among all his numerous friends there was none to whom he would have preferred to unburden himself. Sometimes a man of middle-age, whose friendships are for the most part founded on old associations, comes across another man with whom it is as easy to become intimate as it used to be with all and sundry in youth: and when that happens barriers fall even more easily than in youthful friendships. Grafton had found such a man in Worthing. He was impatient for his arrival. He was so unused to bearing mental burdens, and wanted to share this one. Caroline had brought him little comfort. He did not think of her, as he waited for Worthing to come in; while she, riding home with Barbara and Bunting, and exerting herself to keep them from suspecting that there was anything wrong with her, was thinking of nobody but him.

He told Worthing what he had come to tell him the moment he came in. He remembered that fellow Lassigny who had stayed with them at Whitsuntide. Well, he had had a letter from Beatrix to say that she was engaged to him. He was very much upset about it. He had wired to Beatrix to come home at once.

Worthing disposed his cheerful face to an expression of concern, and said, "Dear, dear!" in a tone of deep sympathy. But it was plain that he did not quite understand why his friend should be so upset.

"I never expected anything of the sort," said Grafton. "He ought to have come to me first; or at least she ought to have asked my permission before announcing that she'd engaged herself to him. I suppose she's told everybody up there. I'm going to have her home."

"She's very young," said Worthing tentatively.

"I wouldn't have minded that if he had been the right sort of fellow. How can I let a girl of mine marry a Frenchman, Worthing?"

Lunch was announced at that moment. Worthing took Grafton up to his room to wash his hands, and he expressed his disturbance of mind and the reasons for it still further until they came downstairs again, without Worthing saying much in reply, or indeed being given an opportunity of doing so. It was not until they were seated at lunch and the maid had left the room that Worthing spoke to any purpose.

"Well, of course, you'd rather she married an Englishman," he said. "And I suppose it's a bit of a shock to you to find that she wants to marry anybody, as young as she is. But do you know anything against this chap? He isn't a wrong 'un, is he? You rather talk as if he were. But you had him down here to stay. You let him be just as friendly with the girls as anybody else."

He spoke with some decision, as if he had offered enough sympathy with a vague grievance, and wanted it specified if he was to help or advise as to a course to be taken. It was what Caroline had been trying to get at, and had not been able to.

"Can't you understand?" asked Grafton, also with more decision in his speech than he had used before. "You don't go abroad much, I know. But I suppose you've read a few French novels."

Worthing looked genuinely puzzled. "I can't say I have," he said. "Jorrocks is more in my line. But what are you driving at?"

"Don't you know how men in France are brought up to look at women? They don't marry like we do, and they don't lead the same lives after they're married. At least men of Lassigny's sort don't."

Worthing considered this. "You mean you don't think he's fit for her?" he said judicially.

Grafton did not reply to his question in direct terms. "He's three or four and thirty," he said. "He's lived the life of his sort, in Paris, and elsewhere. It's been so natural to him that he wouldn't affect to hide it if I asked him about it. It wouldn't be any good if he did. If I liked to go over to Paris and get among the people who know him, there'd be all sorts of stories I could pick up for the asking. Nobody would think there was any disgrace in them—for him. What does a fellow like that—a fellow of that age, with all those experiences behind him—what does he want with my little B? Damn him!"

This was very different from the rather pointless complaints that had gone before. Worthing did not reply immediately. His honest simple mind inclined him towards speech that should not be a mere shirking of the question. But it was difficult. "I don't suppose there are many fellows, either French or English, you'd want to marry your daughters to, if you judged them in that way," he said quietly.

Grafton looked at him. "I shouldn't have thought you'd have taken that line," he said.

"I don't know much about the French," Worthing went on. "I've heard fellows say that they do openly what we do in the dark. Far as I'm concerned, it's outside my line of life altogether. I've had all I wanted with sport, and a country life, and being on friendly terms with a lot of people. Still, you don't get to forty-five without having looked about you a bit. I believe there are more fellows like me than you'd think to hear a lot of 'em talk; but you know there are plenty who aren't. They do marry nice girls, and make 'em good husbands too."

Grafton looked down on his plate, with a frown on his face. Then he looked up again. "That doesn't corner me," he said. "The right sort of man makes a new start when he marries—with us. Fellows like that don't pretend to, except just for a time perhaps—until—Oh, I can't talk about it. It's all too beastly—to think of her being looked upon in that way. I'm going to stop it. I've made up my mind. I won't consent; and she can't marry without my consent."