THE year 1919 was, for Miss Verinder, quiet and uneventful. Magnificently equipped by that country which even peace had not robbed of its power to hustle, with such a splendid command as he had never till now enjoyed, Dyke reached Australian waters some time in the autumn. He called his ship The Follower, and in it he sailed away towards the darkness and the silence. About March, 1920, he must have taken up his winter quarters; and his southern advance would begin, “according to plan,” with the opening of the Antarctic summer.

Early in September of 1920 the relief ship, named the Heather Bell, was to sail from Hobart; and thence onward Miss Verinder might begin to count the months. She could scarcely expect to receive any news till the end of January or the beginning of February, 1921; and until then there should be no real grounds for anxiety. Or, in other and more accurate words, the fate of the new expedition could not possibly be known until the new year.

Now, in this month of September of 1920, Miss Verinder received a cablegram from Hobart, saying that the Heather Bell and Twining had duly departed.

The message arrived in the morning, and after luncheon she amused herself by taking out and rearranging the contents of some of the little drawers in her bureau. She grew slower and more dreamy as the tidying process continued, because the sight and touch of these small treasured odds and ends carried her further and further backward into the past. Here, for instance, in a drawer by themselves, lay some pressed flowers. They had been picked in that courtyard garden behind the hotel at Buenos Ayres. Here was a photograph of the Mendoza valley. Here were a long white glove that she had worn at Mrs. Clutton’s party on the night of their first meeting, the Hurlingham polo programme, one of her tiny lace handkerchiefs—things that Dyke had stolen from her, kissed a thousand times, and then after many years given back to her for safe keeping. She was lost in a gentle meditation when Louisa opened the door and announced an expected visitor.

“It’s so kind of you to let me come,” said Mildred Parker.

“I won’t be a minute,” said Miss Verinder putting the things away.

“I am not in the least hurry,” said Mildred, with a nervous gasp.

Mildred was that pretty child to whom Miss Verinder had spoken kindly years ago, when the little thing was sitting on a pony outside her father’s front door in Ennismore Gardens. Now she had become a glowing young woman. Daintily dressed in the prevailing gossamer style, with mauve-coloured stockings and grey suÈde shoes, with bare neck and looping curls, she had such brightness of attire and such a youthful bloom of complexion that, as she settled herself on Miss Verinder’s sofa, she made the whole room and everything in it seem dull and faded.

“A place for everything and everything in its place,” murmured Miss Verinder, flicking some dust from the treasures that had set her dreaming. “These are souvenirs—with only a sentimental value.”

Then, after some conversation about the flat, she shut the last drawer and brought a chair to the sofa near Mildred.

“Now,” she said, “I am all attention.”

Mildred appeared to be overcome by shyness.

Emmie had divined that the girl had some small trouble of which she wanted to speak. But she was entirely unprepared for the actual fact. Knowing that the young Parkers were rather too fond of cards, even games of chance, she had guessed that Mildred had burned her fingers at poker and needed a small loan to tide over an awkward blank till her dress allowance became due. Seeing Mildred’s confusion, she patted and caressed her, and further to encourage her firmly promised help.

But it was far more than a game of cards. It was love. Love, as Mildred confessed, had come upon her “like a thunder-clap.”

Emmie drew in her breath, and sighed.

Mildred told the tale of how she had fallen desperately in love with a man; how her parents forbade her to love him, forbade her to meet him, forbade her to think of him; how Mr. Parker threatened her, bullied her, vowing he would take steps to separate her irrevocably from her beloved; and how, in consequence, that once comfortable house in Ennismore Gardens had become a place of torment and pain.

Listening, Emmie was stirred profoundly. As though the accident of those retrospective thoughts in which she had just been indulging had rendered her abnormally sensitive to emotion, she thrilled and quivered to the shock of Mildred’s words. It seemed to her that she was hearing her own story from the lips of this innocent girl. It seemed to her that these obdurate parents who threatened and ordered and could not understand were Mr. and Mrs. Verinder, not Mr. and Mrs. Parker; that it was all in the past, not in the present; that the end of the story had been reached ages and ages ago, when the daughter walked out of the home that had become a prison-house and never came back again.

But Mildred was going on; assuring Emmie that she was very much in earnest. “It’s no silliness—or infatuation, as mother says.... It’s the real thing.”

Then soon she said words so startling that they almost took Emmie’s breath away.

“I would have you to know also that the man I’ve fallen in love with is very famous.”

Emmie sat staring at her intently. The thing had become fantastic, like a dream.

“But it’s nothing to do with his fame that has made me love him. Of course I don’t mean to say that I wasn’t influenced by all that. You know what I mean?”

Miss Verinder was breathing fast and moving her hands restlessly.

Then her whole heart melted in tenderness as the girl, analysing sensations, hopes, and fears, described the love itself. Yes, this was the real thing. This was the first wonder and glory of sudden overpowering love, of the love that takes possession and for ever changes its victim, and yet itself will never change. Miss Verinder recognized it and acknowledged it. All the bliss and torture that Mildred told of had been felt by herself a quarter of a century ago. And she was feeling it now while she listened; the years had gone; she and Mildred were both of them love-sick girls.

“You are so kind,” said Mildred presently, conscious of the flood of sympathy that was pouring forth to sustain and float her onward in her romantic narration.

After a little while Miss Verinder asked who the famous man was.

“But who is he, Mildred? You haven’t told me yet.”

Mildred, smiling proudly, said he was Alwyn Beckett, the actor. At the moment he was not actually before the public, but he was understudying the two big parts in a play called Five Old Men and a Dog.

“Ah, yes.”

An actor; a young actor! Miss Verinder at once became inwardly calm again. The young man was not of course truly famous; but some sort of unsubstantial fame he hoped to attain one day. Even the opposition of the parents was not solidly founded; they merely objected to the young man because they did not like his shadowy precarious profession, and because, further, they doubted if he would do any good in it. All her sympathy remained, but while Mildred went on talking about the attitude of Mr. and Mrs. Parker she ceased to listen with attention. This was a trifling commonplace little business when compared with the real romances, the big romances of life.

But then Mildred banged out something that gave her a violent shock; indeed it shook her to her very foundations. She gasped, and uttered a faint cry.

Mildred had been saying that she felt desperate, and inclined to run away.

“And marry him without your parents’ consent?” Emmie had said dreamily.

“Or not marry him,” said Mildred.

“Mildred!” said Emmie, uttering that little cry. “What do you mean?”

“Well, what I mean is that if they’re so damned old-fashioned, I don’t see why they shouldn’t stew in their own gravy—at least for a bit. Don’t you see? When they find I’m gone in that way, if they’re really genuine in their feelings, it will be the regular mid-Victorian business. The lost child—our daughter gone to perdition. Get her married now to the scoundrel that has lured her away. Make her an honest woman at any price”; and Mildred laughed.

Although still preserving an aspect of calmness, Miss Verinder was greatly agitated by this monstrous suggestion. Again for a moment or two it seemed as if all this was a dream—or as if the innocent modern girl was mocking her with a travesty of her own ancient experience. How could she really contemplate taking so disastrous a step? With no insurmountable obstacle between her and her lover, with no irremovable cause to prevent their being eventually united, how could the child speak thus of throwing away her good name and bringing disgrace on all her family? It was fantastic.

“You and I must talk very seriously,” said Miss Verinder, with firmness.

Louisa brought in tea, and throughout the meal Emmie was thinking. She watched little flashing palpitating Mildred with critical eyes but affectionate purpose. Mildred was only a child still, a child who must be prevented from doing idiotic things in a fit of childish impatience.

She thought of the thousand reasons why, even when driven inexorably, one should not do what she herself had done—the remorse for the pain one has caused to others, the crushing sense of being outlawed and proscribed, the slights, the humiliations, the meek submissions that one is called upon to suffer. Every year of her life, every day of it, had shown her another valid reason why any ordinary person should regret an act such as hers. She herself had never regretted. She had not been able to regret—because the thing had been done for Anthony Dyke. She had neither flinched nor faltered. But a pretty little flower like this would wither under the first frosty breath of disgrace. She would soon be sorry that passion had whirled her into a reckless deed. “She is not like me,” thought Emmie, with a faint smile. “She is not by nature the sort of desperate character that sticks at nothing.”

Besides, for Mildred to make a hash of her reputation would be a quite meaningless disaster. There was not the slightest necessity for heroic measures. If, as Emmie hoped and was inclined to believe, the young man proved worthy of such a nice girl, then those silly Parkers must be made to consent. And again Emmie felt a melting tenderness and sympathy for this pretty innocent little soul and her love-dream. It must, and it should end prettily; with music, marriage bells, and sunshine; with the bride all in white coming up the aisle upon her father’s arm, to be given to her sweetheart amidst blessings and rejoicings.So she offered Mildred—as has been already related—some very old-fashioned advice; and finally made her promise to abandon any idea of acting rashly and improperly. Mildred tore at her gloves, pouted, and shed tears beneath the chilling wisdom. But she in her turn was startled by one or two things that Miss Verinder said to her. Especially something quite inexplicable about no women ever ceasing to wait and to hope, moved her and made her wonder.

Miss Verinder was very severe about running away with people before you married them, no matter for what motive the unsanctified bolt might be undertaken.

“Believe me,” she said, sitting beside Mildred on the sofa, and with an arm round her waist, “it is only the very strongest characters that can brave public opinion.... Yes, I am sure—to go right through with anything of that kind immense self-control, really almost an iron nerve is required. And,” she added, “you musn’t think I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

She said much more, but one reflection touched her young friend with greater strength than all the rest. “You have to think of your Alwyn and the effect it might produce on him.” While she said it her voice grew soft and her eyes had an unexpected radiance. She was thinking of Anthony Dyke. “Perhaps,” she went on, “it is only the very finest natures that can accept—ah—this particular kind of surrender or self-sacrifice from a woman, and still hold her quite as high in their minds as they did before—ah—the surrender occurred.

“There, Mildred dear,” she concluded cheerfully, “I am going to help you for all I’m worth. And you are going to be wise. And don’t—I beg you—forget this. I have my reasons for all I have said.”

Mildred went away wondering what on earth could be Miss Verinder’s reasons for one or two of the things said.

Emmie had promised to give help in this simple love affair, but truly it helped her. It charmed her and absorbed her, filling several of those months which had to be counted before definite news could come.

In accordance with her unfailing habit, she was writing every fortnight to Dyke, although all her letters must lie waiting at Hobart unseen by him for a long time; and she told him now about Mildred and Alwyn.

Hubert Parker, Mildred’s brother, had been at Cambridge with Alwyn Beckett; and he assured Miss Verinder that there was not a better fellow alive. He thoroughly approved of him as a husband for his sister. Alwyn, to his mind, was good enough for a royal princess. “I agree with Mildrings,” he said, smiling. “I think the governor has been bitten by a mad dog.”

Then Miss Verinder had Alwyn before her again. He sat in the middle of the sofa, facing her, while “Mildrings” stood behind him, put her hand on his shoulder, and told him not to interrupt but to listen, when he burst out with vows and protestations.

He was protesting because Miss Verinder said that there must be no more of these clandestine meetings. They were not fair to Mildred.

“Yes, but whose fault is that? If her people won’t allow me to the house, if they treat me like a pick-pocket, if they—”

“Alwyn,” said Mildred, with severity, “Miss Verinder is speaking.”

Miss Verinder insisted on an assurance that the unlicensed interviews should cease forthwith, and it was given to her by both of them. She said it was necessary that she should feel on this firm ground before she approached Mr. Parker. She for her part promised to begin the attack at once.

“Mildred, could you get me asked to dinner informally?”

“Rather,” said Mildred. “They’ll jump for joy. They’re getting rather stuffy because you always refuse.”

“Then the sooner the better, dear”; and Miss Verinder smiled. “Don’t be surprised if I seem a little artful—or even disingenuous. I think, just at first, I’ll not say I know anything of your partiality for Mr. Beckett—or for Alwyn, if I may take the liberty of calling him by his Christian name.”

“I should adore it,” said Alwyn.

“It is all Christian names nowadays, isn’t it?” and Emmie smiled again. “Then, as I say, I’ll open a masked gambit for Mr. Parker to play to. You see, the great thing is to get him accustomed to the idea.”

“What a dear funny old bird she is,” said Alwyn, when he and Mildred were outside the door in Oratory Gardens.

“She’s divinely kind,” said Mildred with enthusiasm.

As she had predicted, there was no difficulty in regard to Miss Verinder’s invitation.

“But are you sure she won’t expect a regular party?” asked Mr. Parker.

“No,” said Mildred, “she hates a crowd.”

Only the family and two very old friends were present therefore, so that the conversation was general. Mr. Parker, who had recently flown to Paris and back in the day, just for fun, gave an account of his interesting experience, to which Miss Verinder listened with great attention.

Then, towards the end of dinner, she herself talking freely, told them about a very nice young man that she had met. She praised him for his modesty as well as his niceness. Quite the best type of the clever and yet not conceited youth of the present day! She understood that he had done very well in the war; and he was now on the stage—Mr. Alwyn Beckett. “By the way—I believe he said he knew you all, or some of you.”

Only Hubert Parker spoke. “One of my best pals,” said Hubert.

Mildred was staring at the tablecloth and crumbling the remains of a small roll; Mrs. Parker seemed to have been troubled with a twinge of toothache or rheumatism; Mr. Parker, suddenly red in the face, opened his mouth and, shutting it, breathed hard through his nose. It was one of those brief silences that appear to be long. Then Mr. Parker, recovering himself, asked Miss Verinder if she had read Mr. Locke’s delightful new novel.

Following the modern fashion, the ladies and the men left the dinner-table together. Upstairs, in the double drawing-room, Hubert and Mildred soon set in action a monstrous gramophone of the latest model and most expensive style, both of them giggling hysterically while they assisted each other with the record and the mechanism.

“How can you be so ridiculous?” asked Mrs. Parker, speaking to them from the front room. “What is the joke?”

Mildred chokingly replied that there was no joke. It was only the gramophone that made them laugh. In fact, they had been overcome by the calm unscrupulousness of Miss Verinder’s dinner gambit.

The two old friends liked the gramophone; and directly its crackling music began to fill both rooms, Mr. Parker seated himself beside Miss Verinder and explained to her that she had unwittingly touched on a very sore spot when she mentioned the name of “that young man.” Mrs. Parker came and sat on the other side of her, and both together told her all about Mildred’s absurd infatuation. Then they begged her aid in bringing Mildred to her senses.

“That is really why I have put you au courong,” said Mr. Parker. “You have influence with her. A word in season from you may have great effect.”

“Not if her affections are really engaged,” said Miss Verinder, with one of her deprecating smiles.

“Oh, no, nonsense,” said Mr. Parker, in a tone more irritable than any that he had ever employed when addressing this honoured guest. “Don’t let’s have any idiotic sentimentality, which would merely encourage her. We have never fostered anything of that sort, and Mildred, up to now, has seemed to have her head screwed on all right. I regard this as a passing craze—due, in great measure, to all this preposterous exaltation of the stage. Upon my word, the illustrated papers make me positively sick nowadays—nothing but photographs of actors and actresses. Miss So-and-So at play. Mr. What’s-his-name on the golf links. Theatrical stars on the Riviera!”

A few days later Miss Verinder called upon the Parkers, and reported that, having sounded Mildred, she had no doubt that the young lady’s feelings for the young gentleman were of a deep and serious character.

Mr. Parker immediately said that if he accepted even half the substance of this report, the time had come to put his foot down, and he would either send or take Mildred into exile on the continent.

“I’ll keep her out of his way, until she has got over it.”

An absorbingly interesting discussion ensued on the ethics of parental authority. Miss Verinder advised them not to attempt strong measures with Mildred; above all, not to put restrictions on her liberty here in London or to banish her from her native land.

“I really don’t think,” she said meekly, “that parents have the right to act in so violent a manner. And I am quite sure, Mr. Parker, that it never pays. As to banishment—well, you know, absence is apt to make the heart grow fonder; and if it comes to giving a young girl peremptory orders to stop being in love with somebody that she is in love with, I do really think it must always strengthen her resolve. She feels then that she is being unjustly dealt with. After all, it is her destiny that is at stake. She may love and respect her parents, she may regret—oh, yes, she may most bitterly regret giving them pain”—Miss Verinder’s voice faltered, and she showed other signs of slight emotion—“but she cannot renounce the whole happiness of her life, because other people—even her father and mother—order her to do so. She herself must decide. Believe me, Mr. Parker, it isn’t right to use more than argument and persuasion. Force is quite out of the question.”

Mr. Parker walked about the room fuming; and it must be confessed that as Miss Verinder observed his frowning brows, his heightened colour, and the querulous lines at each side of his mouth, she felt for a moment an almost mischievous amusement in recognizing how little human nature had changed in the last quarter of a century. This room was very different from any room of that old house in Prince’s Gate, and yet the atmosphere was the same. Emmie glanced round at the very modern decorations chosen by Mrs. Parker with so much pride and pleasure. This was the boudoir of Mrs. Parker, and she called it the Chinese parlour. The ceiling was red; the walls were black, with panels filled not by pale-limbed nymphs of Leighton or Burne-Jones, but by golden sprawling dragons, iridescent fishes, and impossible silver trees; the furniture, instead of being heavy and splendid, was light and fantastic. Mrs. Parker had no comfortable pouf to sit upon. But here was Mr. Parker, who believed himself to be full of liberal-mindedness and advanced up-to-date philosophy, who belonged to the Automobile Club and went by aeroplane to Paris, holding in all essentials the views that fathers held twenty-five years ago, or a hundred years before that. He believed not only that he had the right to dispose of his daughter’s heart, but that if he showed firmness he would vindicate this right. He was more old-fashioned, further behind his times, than poor Mr. Verinder had been. He walked to and fro and gloured at Emmie.

“I hope,” she said, “that you will not think me impertinent in venturing to give my advice.”

“Oh, no. Oh, certainly not. I am very much obliged.” Mr. Parker stopped walking, made some swallowing movements in his throat, and then spoke impressively but urbanely. “There are very few people for whose judgment I have so much respect as for yours, Miss Verinder. The position and the influence that you have rightly secured among all who have the honour of your acquaintance is, if I may say so, principally due to the very high standard of, ah, manners as well as morals that you rightly stand out for. I know that you do not tolerate subversive ideas. Otherwise, frankly, I could not have listened to you with the patience that I hope I have shown. But I cannot, I will not agree that it is my duty to allow a child of mine to make a fool of herself if I can prevent it. And what staggers me, what beats me altogether”—and he looked from Miss Verinder to his wife, with a suddenly helpless, baffled expression—“what utterly amazes me is the change in Mildred. I ask myself what has happened to her. Is she bewitched? It is not like her to oppose any headstrong wish of hers to the considered opinion of those older and presumably wiser. Up till now she has seemed to lean on one’s advice, to crave for it. It is not as if she had ever been a disobedient girl. Why, good gracious, no. We used to say from the very beginning, even when she was quite a tiny little thing, ‘There is never any trouble with Mildred.’ One just told her what to do, and she seemed to take a positive pleasure in doing it. Is not that so?”

Miss Verinder said no more then; but before many days had passed she returned to the attack. Endeavouring to accustom Mr. Parker’s mind to the idea, she extracted a statement of his objections to Alwyn as a possible son-in-law.

Mr. Parker said emphatically that Alwyn was not good enough for Mildred, and when gently invited to consider if in saying this he did not mean that Alwyn was not good enough for him, Mr. Parker, he owned that, beyond his distaste for the young man’s profession—which he did not admit really to be a profession—Alwyn was a nobody in it. He had not “arrived.”

“Oh, but he will arrive,” said Miss Verinder. “You know, he had now been put on to play one of the principal parts in that delightful comedy Five Old Men and a Dog. I went to see it, and I was much struck by his performance. I really think, Mr. Parker, that you and Mrs. Parker ought to go yourselves.”

“We shall do nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Parker.

Then, very soon after this, Miss Verinder attacked in real earnest. She said that the result of arbitrarily closing the house doors against Mr. Beckett had been that these young people met each other in a furtive undignified fashion outside the doors; that they had promised Miss Verinder to discontinue the practice, and that they had discontinued it; but that she thought they would certainly withdraw the promise unless Mr. Parker adopted a more conciliatory attitude towards them.

“And then, Mr. Parker, who can say what may follow? At Mildred’s age one is naturally impulsive, fearless, disinclined to attach importance to what is said or thought. She might so easily get herself talked about. And we don’t want that, do we?”

Mr. Parker did not want it. The thought of gossip about his family life made him pale and grave.

The embargo on Alwyn Beckett was raised, and he was given entry to the house and access to Miss Parker in the capacity of her brother’s friend and an ordinary visitor. But it was to be strictly understood by both of them that the possibility of an engagement was neither contemplated nor countenanced. This settlement was reached late one evening, and early next morning Mildred ran across the Brompton Road to thank and hug her dearest Emmeline.

And now Miss Verinder tackled Alwyn. One afternoon when Mildred had brought him to tea at the flat, she told him plainly that in her opinion he ought to bestir himself, and snatch success rather than wait for it.

“If I may say so, Alwyn, I think it is up to you to prove what you’re made of.”

Alwyn looked rather blank beneath this assault.

“Oh, but he has proved it already,” said Mildred, at once defending the beloved object. “He tries so hard; he never spares himself. You forget how he played Mercutio at that charity matinÉe and what splendid notices he had.”

“Yes,” said Miss Verinder, “but he must go on doing it. He must strike while the iron’s hot. He must impress himself upon the public.”

Alwyn, interposing, dolefully said that this was just what he would do if he got a chance.

“What would give you chance?”

“A play and a backer.”

“Well then, find them,” said Miss Verinder.

“My dear good lady,” said Alwyn, in a tone of distinct fretfulness. “That’s easily said. But if you knew a little more about the theatrical—”

“Ally,” said Mildred reprovingly.

“I mean to say, don’t you know—”

“Ally,” said Mildred again. “That’s enough.”

His classical features assumed a haughty expression, that olive complexion which Mildred thought the most beautiful thing in the universe perceptibly darkened; and he passed a hand backward from the brow, over his sleek, well-brushed hair, with a grand gesture.

“It’s all mighty fine,” he said to Mildred afterwards; “but I’m not accustomed to be talked to like that. And I don’t like it.”

Mildred was severe with him. “How can you be so abjectly ungrateful—after all she has done for us?”

But Miss Verinder intended to do much more for them yet.

Alwyn was a really good fellow, but, as is not infrequently the case with young actors who have not quite realised their full ambition, he was just a little touchy. Perhaps the slight prick given to him by Miss Verinder was really a valuable stimulus. At any rate, Mildred found that he had begun to bustle about with a new activity.

Next time he saw Miss Verinder he told her, rather grandly, that he had found a play. It was a very remarkable piece of work by that well-known author Mr. Sherwood—real literature, with psychology in it as well as characterisation, and, what was more to the point, a thumping fine part for Alwyn.

“Been the rounds for the last three years, but I don’t mind that,” said Alwyn, even more grandly. “That doesn’t frighten me. It was too good for them to spot it. The same thing happened to Ring a Ring o’ Roses”; and he named several other plays that, after being rejected by everybody, had made huge successes. “Of course, it’s high-brow. But I want high-brow.”

“Yes,” said Mildred. “He must have high-brow stuff. I always tell him so.”

Then, quite magnificently, he said he intended to approach Leahurst about it. He thought he might very likely be able to make an arrangement with Leahurst, who was always on the lookout for a really good thing. And he looked hard at Miss Verinder, to observe the effect produced upon her by this august name.

Unfortunately, she had never till now heard the name. Alwyn was compelled to tell her all about Mr. Leahurst; and, doing so, he abandoned his magnificent air and spoke with profound reverence of this Napoleon of the theatrical world. Mr. Leahurst owned or controlled half a dozen theatres, he sometimes had nine or ten shows going at the same time, his interests were so wide that you never got to the end of them. Wherever you saw a real success you might ask if he wasn’t somehow in it. He had a marvellous flair. It was said, too, that why he scarcely ever went wrong, was because by his own business talent he could make a success of anything.

“Oh, then do approach him without delay,” said Miss Verinder eagerly. “See Mr. Leahurst at once; and come straight here and tell me the result. I shall be longing to hear.”

“Darling Emmeline,” said Mildred, “you are so kind. It is such a support to both of us.”

Not next day, but a few days later, she returned with an unusually excited Alwyn. The great Mr. Leahurst had considered his proposals in a most favourable spirit. He had, indeed, said that he might be inclined to do something with Sherwood’s play if Alwyn had behind him somebody willing to come into it with a few thousand pounds.

“Tell him you have somebody,” said Miss Verinder.

At first they did not understand what she meant, and then they said they could not possibly trade upon her kindness and generosity. Oh, no, it would be too mean and selfish to risk her money just for their advancement in life! But she was determined; and after yielding to her persuasion, Mildred fell into a sort of ecstasy of gratitude during which she uttered anything but compliments with regard to Mr. Parker.

“When I compare you with my own father, Oh, darling Emmeline, I do feel such contempt for him. It is he not you, who should be doing this for Ally. But would he have risked one penny-piece? No, not if we had crawled round Ennismore Gardens on our knees. If you only heard him grunting and grousing about the super-tax, when we all know he doesn’t spend half his income. Oh, how I hate misers!”

“Mildred dear, don’t. It is wrong to speak of your father like that. He only wishes you good.”

For the young people there ensued a time of wild excitement; and Miss Verinder took her share in it, allowing herself to throb or shiver sympathetically with all their hopes and fears. Mr. Leahurst, like other potentates, proved difficult; one day, Alwyn said, he was shilly-shallying, another day blowing hot and cold, another day coldly doubtful. Then Alwyn gave a Sunday dinner-party at a restaurant, in order to clinch matters with Mr. Leahurst.

He implored Emmie to make herself very agreeable to Mr. Leahurst, and afterwards Mildred thanked her for her agreeableness.

Alwyn gave her many warnings and cautions. He said that Mr. Leahurst was not the kind of person that she had been accustomed to meet socially. How should he put it? “Not Eton and Christ Church and all that.” He also said that she would certainly, sooner or later, hear tales about Mr. Leahurst. He added that Mr. Leahurst was fifty years of age or more. This, he concluded, was merely “preparing” her for Mr. Leahurst.

But no preparation could really prepare one for Mr. Leahurst. He was the most melancholy man that she had ever seen; in comparison, the sadness of her late partner, Mr. Gann, was gaiety. He did not speak to her or anybody else. He ate his food in profound silence and did not even appear to observe that there was a band playing. He smoked cigarettes, and had a dreadful trick with his lips, to get rid of bits of paper or tobacco—a perfectly dry manoeuvre, but it sounded as if he was spitting. His cigarette case, Emmie noticed, seemed as big as a small dressing-bag; but he had no matches.

“Waiter,” he said; and they all jumped because his speaking suddenly was such a surprise. “Waiter, ’blige me with match. Forgot my box. Thanks”; and he lit a cigarette. This was in the middle of the meal.

They talked of the play, and still he said nothing.

Then when the party broke up and he was going, Alwyn spoke to him about it.

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Mr. Leahurst. “Yes, I’ll tell ’em to get on with it to-morrer.”

“How can I thank you?” said Alwyn, humbly yet exultantly.

Mr. Leahurst made that ugly sound and lit another cigarette.

“You’d better come down to the theater to-morrer mornin’.”

“Which theatre, Mr. Leahurst?”

“Duke o’ Kent’s. I’ve got it on my hands till Feb. eight”; and going, he turned. “If your thing should catch on, I’d have to shift yer.”

The venture was fairly started now, and the excitement grew more febrile. There was difficulty in finding a good title for the play. The author’s title had at once been condemned as “tripe.” He had called his work The Secret Disaster of Mr. Eadenwell; meaning to convey thereby the main point of the fable—the disaster being that the imagined Eadenwell’s private code of ethics would not work and was abandoned by him without anyone else knowing what had happened. Alwyn was in favour of calling it The Danger Signal; but somebody reported that Mr. Leahurst said the sort of titles he preferred were Love Wins, For Two Bright Eyes, and The Tempting Sex. Of course they might not use these, since they were titles of existing plays.

Miss Verinder and Mildred were present at the rehearsals. They could not keep away. This new strange aspect of a playhouse fascinated them—the darkness of the house itself, the seats all shrouded in white wrappers, with somewhere high up near the invisible roof a slanting beam of real daylight; and the stage brilliantly lit yet not like the stage, with odd bits of scenery, and the players unpainted, in commonplace every-day costume.

Miss Verinder sat in a stall next the central gangway, well back from the empty orchestra, and Mildred sat with her, except when for a few minutes Alwyn was unoccupied and could come down through the pass-door from the stage.

Mildred said, “We mustn’t expect it to shape all at once.”

That of course was what they were doing with the play, shaping it. Everyone was busy—the producer, Alwyn himself, Mr. Russell the stage-manager, a Mr. Holmdale with vaguely defined interests in Leahurst productions, and some one else who appeared spasmodically; so many that it seemed as if anybody who came in from the street took a hand at it. They chopped and changed little bits of dialogue, they transposed scenes, they worked hard.

People playing minor characters came down and clustered watching, and there were a few hangers-on in stalls at ends of rows; amongst them a rather miserable-looking man, very nervous and shy, who bowed and smiled at everybody. No one took any notice of him. A silly affected young woman playing the lady’s-maid did not know her words, and with a shrill giggle said they were not worth learning. Miss Millbank, who played the principal female part, complained bitterly of the things she was made to say—“things that I simply don’t feel.”

“As if she could feel anything,” said Alwyn scornfully to his backer. “She is made of wood.”

At last Mr. Leahurst appeared. One morning he came mysteriously from the refreshment bar beyond the pit, walked down the central gangway to the orchestra, and returned again, with his hands clasped behind his back. Everyone fell silent, no one moved; it was as if waves of awe had begun to flow through stagnant air. One had a paralysing sensation of expectancy, one’s heart gave heavy beats.

“Don’t take any notice of me,” he said, walking backwards and forwards.

The rehearsal proceeded.

Then almost at once he recognized Miss Verinder in her stall next the gangway. He stopped short in his walk and nodded to her.

“Well, how goes it?”

“I really think it is shaping all right,” said Emmie.

“No, I don’t mean the play. Yourself.”

“Oh, very well, thank you.”

“Move up one, will yer?”

And sitting down beside her, he remained silent, tapping himself on the chest and sides, and feeling in overcoat pockets. Then he called loudly.

Mr. Russell, the stage-manager, came down the stage at a run. The rehearsal stopped and there was dead silence. Mr. Russell leaned forward over the footlights, his face all lit up and a hand shading his eyes, as he peered into the dark auditorium and spoke anxiously.

“Was that you calling me, Mr. Leahurst?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Leahurst. “Much ablige if you’ll give me box o’ matches. Somehow seem to have forgot mine.” And he told the people on the stage to go on. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean t’interrupt you. Very sorry, I’m sure”; and the rehearsal was resumed. “Ta, Mr. Russell.”

He lit his cigarette, and turning a shoulder to the stage, talked to Emmie; while Mildred and Alwyn, spellbound, watched them from the corner by the pass-door.

“We shall lose our money over this,” he said.

“Oh, I hope not, Mr. Leahurst.”

“I wonder what made a lady like you take up such a game as this. Ever done it before?”

“No.”

“No, so I thought. I was suprise when Beckett made me known to you. You follow what I mean? Nothing of the theatre about you. Just lending him a helping hand? Well, you’re rich, I s’pose—so it won’t hurt you either way.”“Oh, but my wish is that it’ll be a great success.”

“You won’t get your wish,” He nodded his head mournfully, and, removing his cigarette from his made that trumpeting sound with his lips.

“Don’t you like the play, Mr. Leahurst?”

“I dunno anything about the play. It’s Greek to me. But I know this: wrong season to produce anything important—stop-gap—no names in the cast”; and he made a movement with his thumb, as of Romans at a gladiatorial arena. “Right down—unless by a fluke Beckett draws the women.”

Emmie pleaded against his dismal prognostications.

“Oh, please don’t make me down-hearted.”

“All right,” said Mr. Leahurst, suddenly smiling at her. “I don’t want to crab it. Cert’nly not—since you’re so keen on it.”

It was quite extraordinary, the effect of that first smile. Emmie, who had been afraid of him because everybody else was afraid of him, had now the weak instinctive gratification that even the best people feel when the ogre unbends to them. But it was more than that. She had a swift convincing impression of innate simplicity and good nature. Whatever the tales about him, there was something in this common illiterate man that you could not dismiss lightly. She asked herself what. Power, strength of purpose, or the concealed kindliness?

And without prelude he began to talk of himself—with a candour so astounding that Emmie was rendered breathless. He talked about himself as if there was no possible question that it was a subject of entrancing interest to all the world; also as if he had detected in Emmie complete sympathy, together with burning curiosity, and it would not be fair to keep back any detail from her. “Plays are all the same to me. The best of ’em—I mean what the critics call the best—give me an headache. I never went inside a theatre till I was thirty-seven—an’ never wanted to. It was my late wife dragged me into the business. That’s all it is to me—a business. She was an actress by profession—and a cat domestically. I gave way for peace and quiet. A lot o’ money I spent on her, giving her shows in this and that, ramming her down the public’s throat, and o’ny makin’ ’em sick, all said and done. But I was loyal. I went on with it—till they came and told me I’d lost her. I don’t want to say anything unkind about her. But that’s why you see me here. I’ve learnt it now—and I wash one hand with the other. The people bred up in the business are like a pack o’ children. Natchrally, any real business man does what he likes with ’em. Miss Verinder, tell me if you can: What is the charm of the theatre?” He did not wait for an answer. “Vanity, I suppose, at the bottom of it. Same with your friend Beckett! I dunno. I like Beckett because he’s a manly young feller; not like these long-haired—” And to indicate the class of actors to whom he objected, he used a technical term that Emmie did not understand.

Then the producer spoke to him from the stage.

“Mr. Leahurst, a point has arisen.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Hope,” he said. “I leave it to you”; and turning his shoulder a little more, he went on talking to Miss Verinder.

“Take to-day—fine bright winter day. Fancy us coming stuffing in here, all in the dark. I don’t play outdoor games myself. But surely to goodness one might take a ’bus and have a walk up Highgate way; or run down to Brighton in the Southern Belle and take a toddle on the pier. You like open air, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Yes, I thought so. And cold water too, unless I’m mistaken. I mean, a tub every morning.”

Emmie was embarrassed.

“So do I,” said Mr. Leahurst, quite heartily. “Keeps one fresh—and young. I mean, young for one’s age”; and he looked at her with another friendly smile. Then he became very confidential again. “But since I lost my wife I feel myself in a precarious situation. No proper home. Then, of course, these girls take advantage of me.”

“What girls?” asked Miss Verinder innocently.

“Oh, I s’pose they’ve told you. I’m too easy. I dropped a lot o’ money in putting up that revue—bother the name—for Mamie Cockayne. First one, then another”; and he made a gesture, waving the stump of his cigarette comprehensively.

While he brought out a fresh cigarette Mildred came sidling along their row of stalls, and whispered to Emmie.

“Tell him how bad we think Miss Millbank.”

“Who’s she?” asked Mr. Leahurst, when Mildred had sidled away again. “Understudy?”

“No, a friend of mine. Miss Parker.”

“Nice ladylike person! S’pose she is a lady, if it comes to that—being a friend of yours.”

Emmie presently conveyed to him the damaging opinion about Miss Millbank. “She doesn’t seem to understand anything, and she is so hard—really as hard as nails.”

“Is that so?” said Mr. Leahurst, glancing round at the stage.

“Of course, it’s a Marian D’Arcy part; and Mr. Beckett says if you imagine Miss D’Arcy doing it, you see at once how dreadfully Miss Millbank falls short.”

But just then a wrangle had broken out upon the stage and people were calling for Mr. Leahurst.

Miss Millbank declared that again she could not say such stuff.

“Well, cut it out,” said somebody. “Or let her speak that line of Mrs. Harcourt’s,” said somebody else. “What’s that bit of Beckett’s?” said the producer. “‘I wonder if women ever think that’—How does it go on? Give Miss Millbank the whole of that bit, Beckett. You can spare it. No, that won’t do either. She can’t say your line about poverty and her trouser pockets.” And they all of them talked at the same time.

Then all at once they appealed to the unhappy-looking man in the corner of the stalls. “Is Mr. Sherwood there? I say. Can’t you help us with a suggestion? Can’t you write in some lines here? You must have some opinion. Sherwood!”

And Emmie with a shock of surprise understood that he was the author.

He said, “I think you’re spoiling it.”

They all turned against him in furious indignation. “Did you hear what he said? Mr. Leahurst, did you hear him? Here are we toiling for him—grinding our hearts out for him—and he says—Oh, great Scott, that puts the lid on everything.”

Mr. Leahurst went down to the orchestra, and said, “There’s no need for us to lose our tempers.”

“Certainly not,” said the producer, crimson with passionate wrath.

Miss Millbank, stepping forward, said she had never been asked to speak such tommy-rot. Stuff that she could not feel!

“My dear,” said Mr. Leahurst, mildly and forlornly, “you are doing your best. It’s not your fault if you don’t quite hit it off.”

This made Miss Millbank exceedingly angry. “What?” she said. “Don’t you like my reading?”

“So far as I have been able to ascertain,” said Mr. Leahurst, “it’s a Marian D’Arcy part. Well, you aren’t Marian, are you?”

The rehearsal went on again, and as Mr. Leahurst presently returned to his seat beside Emmie, she took the opportunity of telling him that, in the opinion of herself and Alwyn, the girl engaged for the lady’s-maid was even worse than Miss Millbank.

Mr. Leahurst blinked his eyelids and very slowly lit a cigarette.

“Think so?” he said, after a pause.

“I do really.”

“I dessay you’re right.”

This Miss Yates, the incompetent and affected lady’s-maid, came into the stalls after a little while and talked to him in a friendly chaffing manner. But he did not stay; he got up and went off to some sacred managerial room. The young lady flopped down in a row of stalls at a little distance from Emmie, and occupied herself with a tiny gold-framed mirror and a lip-stick. She had brought with her also a large cardboard hat-box. Holding the box on high, she called to a pallid young man.

“Bertie! Be a dear, and put this in Mr. Leahurst’s car will you? And ask some one to let me know as soon as he’s ready.”

Both Mildred and Alwyn had been as much amazed as rejoiced on observing Emmie’s success with Mr. Leahurst. When the rehearsal was over, each of them in turn thanked her and congratulated her; and Emmie, pleased with herself without being vainglorious, told Alwyn how she had plainly said that Miss Millbank was no good.

“Splendid!” cried Alwyn.

“And I told him, too, that the other girl, Miss Yates, was no good either.”

Alwyn nearly fainted.

“Oh, ye gods! Never mind. It can’t be helped. Come along. Let’s get some food.”

Soon now people in this theatre and other theatres were asking a question. What was the matter with Mr. Leahurst? Unheard of things were happening. He regularly attended rehearsals, and telephoned for news when he was prevented from attending. He was showing the most active interest in what was, after all, merely a stop-gap or fill-in show.

He used to occupy the same stall, smoking, and talking to Miss Verinder. He told her that it rested him to sit like this and not be bothered for an hour or so. He said, too, in this connection, that she herself was “reposeful.”

“Have you ever been told that? I s’pose you have, often.”

At Emmie’s suggestion he got the author to sit with them and explain the drift of the play.

“Very clever, I’m sure,” said Mr. Leahurst, not in the least understanding.

Then one day, smiling, he asked her: “Have you set your heart on this being a success?”

“Yes, I have, Mr. Leahurst,” said Emmie earnestly. “You don’t know how much hangs on it.”

“Well, we must see what can be done.”

He tilted his hat to the back of his head, walked down to the orchestra, and clapped his hands loudly. Everything stopped, everybody was turned to stone.

“Mr. Hope,” he said, addressing the producer, “I’m not satisfied.”

“I am very sorry, Mr. Leahurst,” said the producer, in a dreadfully crestfallen way. “I have done my best.”

“The thing’s not going to be ready by the tenth,” said Mr. Leahurst. “We’ll postpone production for a fortnight. Tell ’em there’ll be no call to-morrer.”

Then, in the most autocratic, Napoleonic style, he scrapped the company. Miss Millbank was whirled away in tears to join a tour at Scarborough. Marian D’Arcy, ruthlessly torn out of another play, replaced her. Two of the best-known and highest-priced character actors of Europe came in, and excellent trustworthy veterans were engaged to support them in minutely small rÔles.

He had turned it into a star cast, and the word went round that no expense counted. Mr. Leahurst had set his heart on a success. He came every day “to put ginger” into the fresh producer; he consulted Alwyn about his press campaign; and already the advance paragraphing was tremendous. The new scenery, lighting, and dresses were described as likely to touch a high water mark of combined taste and costliness.

Everything was new, then—even the lady’s-maid.

“I acted on your hint,” he said to Emmie. “I gave her her marching papers—in all directions, I mean. Does that satisfy you?”

The excitement grew painful as the date of the postponed first night drew near. Now the bills were up, outside the theatre. The morning that they arrived, Mr. Leahurst invited Emmie into a little office near the stage door and showed her one of them pinned to the wall. She and Mildred studied it with rapture.

“Sole Lessee, Mr. Crauford. By arrangement with Mr. Somebody-else, Mr. Leahurst presents”—then came the gigantic lettering—“Marian D’Arcy and Alwyn Beckett in The Danger Signal.”

“That’s more like it, eh?” said Mr. Leahurst.

On the night itself Emmie and Mildred sat hidden in the recesses of a private box and trembled for forty-seven minutes—that is to say, till the end of the first act. After that they glowed and squeezed each other’s hands ecstatically. The act-drop had been raised about thirteen times, of which the first four raisings were certainly in accord with the desire of the audience. After the second act there could not linger even a faint doubt. The thing was unquestionably a triumphant success.

During this interval Mr. Leahurst came into the box and trumpeted. Dressed in his ordinary costume of dark grey frock-coat and trousers, he kept well at the back of the box so as not to be seen by the public, and he carefully concealed a lighted cigarette with the palm of his hand in order that nobody should detect that he was breaking the Lord Chamberlain’s regulations.

The ladies rose and went to welcome him with radiant faces.

“Oh, isn’t it glorious?” cried Mildred, going close to him, and in her joy seeming as if she wished to throw her arms round his neck and embrace him. “But we owe it all to you, Mr. Leahurst—every little bit of it. Alwyn knows that well. And Miss Verinder knows.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Leahurst, turning to go. “Bother. Burnt my hand!”

Next morning the entire press confirmed the triumph. “Acclaimed, without one dissentient note—” as the advertisements said.

Once again, then, a venture of the hardened gambler had turned up trumps. The money of Miss Verinder was not only safe, she had made the fortune of Mr. Alwyn Beckett. There were interviews with him; his photograph was everywhere—Mr. Beckett on the links, Mr. Beckett snapped in entering the stage door, Mr. Beckett hailing a taxi-cab. Full-page portraits of him enriched the illustrated weeklies. And he was nice in his new eminence, not swollen-headed, but modest and gay, just a manly young fellow, who, although so ambitious, valued success most of all because it brought him nearer to the lady of his love.

Mr. Leahurst, celebrating the affair in a manner quite alien to his custom, gave a magnificent supper-party at one of the most fashionable hotels, and Miss Verinder was placed at his side, in the place of honour. There were speeches, but he himself made none.

“Funny thing,” he said to Emmie, during supper, “how things falls out. To-day I finally got rid of my late wife.”Emmie started, and looked at him in astonishment.

“What do you mean? Hasn’t Mrs. Leahurst been dead a long time?”

“No, she’s still alive. O’ny decree nisi. Made absolute to-day.”

After supper he asked her if she was satisfied, and he added that he had given the supper on her account. “I have done everything that I have done for the purpose of pleasing you.”

Emmie murmured a very faint acknowledgment; and, driving home, she felt grievously worried in the midst of her elation. Like others, she asked herself what was the matter with Mr. Leahurst.

But unlike the case of all the others, it was reserved to her to find out. He came to the flat next day and asked her to marry him.

She noticed how very smart he was directly he came in, also that he was not smoking; and she was at once fluttered by the complimentary things he said about the flat.

“Refinement—good taste”; and he glanced sadly here and there. “That’s what you can’t buy with money. This is a home, Miss Verinder.”

Then he went straight ahead. “As things go, I’m a rich man. I don’t ask you what you’ve got, and I don’t want to know. You can keep yerself in clothes, p’raps? Leave it at that. I’m not after your money, Miss Verinder. It’s you I want—and the refined comfortable home you can give me. Inferior by birth and education, granted. But if I can anyways rise to your level, I mean to try.”

She stopped him as soon as she could, and said the dreadful conventional things that used to be said on such occasions during the middle period of Queen Victoria’s reign—to the effect that she was honoured by his wish, although she could not respond to it, that she esteemed and respected him, and hoped he might later on be willing to accept her friendship in lieu of what he had asked for. But, curiously enough, the things were true. As Miss Millbank would have put it, she felt them. Through it all there was shining forth at her the unmistakable fact. This Mr. Leahurst was in truth a simple kindly creature—a good sort.

“Well, it’s a hideous disappointment. I don’t mind saying I thought the sympathy was mutual. There, it’s my own fault. I told you, not accustomed to the ways of ladies—I mean, real ladies—and I mistook your polite manners.”

“I am so sorry,” said Emmie, in the same mid-Victorian style.

“Well, there’s an end of it.” He picked up his silk hat and malacca cane, which he had brought into the room just as he had always seen done by people on the stage. “I bear no malice,” and he moved towards the door. Then he turned. “Would you mind telling me if there’s anybody else.”

“Mr. Leahurst,” said Emmie, blushing hotly, “I don’t think you ought to ask me that.”

“Then one question. You’re not hankering after that young Beckett?”

Emmie was indignant. “Mr. Leahurst! He is going to marry Miss Parker.”

“That wouldn’t need to make any difference. There’s such funny arrangements nowadays.”

“Mr. Leahurst!”

“All right.” He spoke in a tone of invincible melancholy. “I’m very helpless. I s’pose I shall fall back into the clutches of those girls.”

“Oh, no!” Emmie, scarcely knowing what she said, implored him not to do that. As in a dream, she heard herself assuring him that he was meant for a better fate; urging him to be true to himself, to keep his eyes on the heights, to climb upward from the slough.

He went out dolefully; giving Louisa a couple of one-pound notes, in order to prove that he bore no malice.

These excitements and interludes had helped her through some of the months that she had been counting. The pretty little love story was going to have a happy ending. Mildred, bouncing in and out of the flat, brimmed over with joy as she described the changed attitude of her parents. Indeed, if the dear child could have heard Mr. Parker talking at his club, she might have been able to report a more rapid progress in the desired direction. For certainly Mr. Parker showed at the club that he was at least accustoming himself to the idea of theatrical connections.

“That young man Alwyn Beckett,” said Mr. Parker, “has been offered two hundred pounds a week to go to America. Till recently I had no notion that actors’ salaries ever reached such a figure.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” said a well-informed member of the club; “nothing at all, compared with what they get for film-acting.”

“Is that so? Well, Beckett is on the films too. It seems he has become a universal favourite. We know him personally. He and my son, Hubert, were up at Cambridge together, and they have never lost sight of each other.”

Then one day towards the end of February, Mildred danced into the flat drawing-room and shouted that her father had nearly consented to recognize an engagement. A word to him from her angelic Emmeline might now make him surrender altogether.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I am disturbing you.”

Miss Verinder was kneeling on the floor surrounded by maps and open books. One large map was spread out across the seat of a chair, and in her hand she held the magnifying glass with which she had studied its thin lines and minute signs. That dark hair of hers, still without a touch of grey, flopped loose and untidy; her face was haggard; her teeth showed strangely as she made a piteous effort that resulted in a wry, distorted sort of smile. Mildred drew back frightened, and then came forward with outstretched hands. This was a Miss Verinder that she had never seen before.

“I am glad, dear. He—he’ll consent. But you mustn’t count on me any more, Mildred. Yes, yes, yes, I have been upset. But you must leave me alone, please—you must leave me out of everything.” And although the girl could see all the old affection in her eyes, her voice was almost harsh and forbidding. “I—I have no place among happy people.”