“SIR,—I hear from Miss Baker that you were in Brighton last week, and, drawing the inference from the fact that she came to my studio to sit for her portrait, you accuse her of very grievous impropriety. I beg to assure you that this is not so. At my urgent request, Miss Baker, whom I had better say I have known for some years, consented to give me a sitting. My intentions were purely artistic; hers were confined to a wish to oblige an old friend, and I deeply regret that they should have been misinterpreted, and I fear much unhappiness caused thereby.”

“Do you think that will do?”

“Yes, it is a beautiful letter.”

“Do you think so—do you really think so? Do you think I have said all?”

“You might say something—that I never even kissed you; and that you respected me too much.”

“I will if you like, but don't you think that is implied?”

“Perhaps so; but you see he does not read many books. He hasn't time for much reading, and you put things in a difficult way. They sound beautiful, but I—”

“Show me.”

“Well, this 'grievous impropriety.' I know what you mean, but I couldn't explain it.”

“Shall I say 'serious impropriety'? but grievous is the right word. You say a grievous sin for a mortal sin. If we had done any wrong it would have been a grievous sin; but I'll change the word if you like.”

“No, don't change it on my account; but I think he would understand an easier word better.”

“A 'heinous impropriety'? No, that won't do. A 'serious impropriety.' That will do. Is there anything else you would like me to alter?”

“No, I don't think there is.”

“You think this letter will convince him that there was nothing wrong?”

“I hope so; but he is a very suspicious man.”

“I will post it when I go out.” Then after a long silence: “Do you know what time it is? It must be getting late.”

“It must be getting on for nine.”

“Then I must say good-bye; but I forgot, I want to ask you—you must be hard up, and want some money—do you? If you do, I assure you I shall be only too glad.”

“Well, I am rather hard up, for you know that this illness has prevented my doing anything; and I am afraid I have lost my place at the 'Tivoli.'”

“What do you intend to do?”

“I should like to go back to London. I shall see him there, and if the letter makes it right we may be married. I will write to you.”

“You will?—Do. Here is five pounds. I have no more about me, but if anything should occur, you know where to write to.”

“You are very good; I don't deserve it. I don't know why you take so much trouble about me. If he doesn't marry me I'll try to get another place; I shall go back to the firm.”

“When do you intend to leave?”

“As soon as I am well enough, in a day or two; but you will not come here again.”

“I had thought that I might.”

“I know; but if he were to hear that you had been here, it would be worse than ever. You don't mind, do you? You aren't angry, are you?”

“No; good-bye, Lizzie. Write to me when you are married.” Frank walked into the street. There was neither rage nor will in him. He was a sorrowing creature in a bitter world. The sea was cruelly blue in the coming night; the sky was also blue, only deeper, a red streak like a red bar of iron stretched across the embaying land, relieving into picturesque detail the outlines of coast-towns and villages. His eyes rested on and drew grief from this dim distance so illusive; and for jarring contrast, the pier hung with gaudy and gross decoration in the blue night, and a brass band replied to the waves.

Then the clouds lifted, and when he returned to Southwick the moon was shining and some boys pursued the resounding ball through the shadows. He undressed with an effort, and he lay down hoping never to rise again. Next morning he went to his studio full of resolve. His picture must be finished for one of the winter exhibitions. He did not take up his palette, nor did he sit at his piano for more than a few minutes; and when he met Willy he raged against Lizzie, jeered at her vulgarity, heaped ridicule upon her lover, the waiter; he spoke of writing a novel on the subject; he set out her character at length; and was alarmed when told that Maggie was ill. He must win her. She must be his wife. So he told Willy, so he assured himself that she would. He knew that Lizzie was nothing to him. She had left Brighton, thank God! He went to sleep, certain he had torn this page out of his life, and he awoke to find it still there; and day after day he continued to brood upon, and still unable to understand its meaning, he longed to turn it over and read, for there were other pages; but they were sealed, and he might only read this one page.

“I'm afraid that our old friend Brookes is having a hard time of it,” said the General, taking the spectacles from his nose, and laying down the St James's, “they are all at him tooth and nail,” and the General laughed gleefully. “You are the young man who has upset them. The young lady won't dress herself.”

“My dear Reggie, you shouldn't talk like that. I do hate to hear scandal; you'll repent it,” said Mrs. Horlock, and she adroitly smoothed the wax on the horse's quarters.

“I assure you, Mrs. Horlock, I never repeat what I hear; the guiding principle of my life is not to repeat conversations. Particularly in a village like Southwick, it is most essential that none of us should repeat conversations; I have always said that.”

“Do tell me about Maggie; I hear she is very ill. What is the matter with her? What did you say—the young lady won't dress herself?”

“My dear Reggie, I will not stay here and listen to scandal. Not a word of it is true, Mr. Escott.”

“What is not true, Mrs. Horlock?”

“What he told you about her walking about the house with her hair down.”

“I don't think the General said anything about walking about the house with her hair down; he said some one wouldn't dress herself. I suppose he meant Maggie. I am sure I am sorry—I am most sorry—to hear she is ill, but it is unjust to assume that I had anything to do with her illness. We can speak freely among ourselves, you know. You know the circumstances; no one is more capable of understanding the case than you, for you are an artist. Maggie heard that I had had a model, that's what it amounts to, and she broke off the engagement; nothing could be more unjust, nothing could be more unwarranted.”

“It could be brought on again, I know that,” said Mrs. Horlock, and she turned the shoulders of her horse to the light.

“We will not go into that question, Mrs. Horlock. I confine myself to what has happened, and I say I was treated unjustly, most shamefully; and when I have been cast aside like an old hat, I hear indirectly that it can be made up again. I have borne quite enough, and will bear no more. Old Brookes came down to my studio with that cad Berkins, and forced his way in, and then forbade me the house because my dog bit Berkins's thigh. I couldn't help it. What did he attack me for? He didn't suppose a bull-dog would be still while his master was being knocked on the head.”

“What should a common City man know about dogs? He wouldn't sign the petition when I asked him, to Sir Charles Warren, to cancel the regulations about muzzling.”

“And then they set a report going that I had set the dog on, and if I hadn't set it on, that I hadn't called him off. As if I could! You know what a bull-dog is, Mrs. Horlock? Is a highly-bred dog likely to let go when he has fixed his teeth in the fleshy part of a thigh? The Brookes are old friends of mine, and I wouldn't say a word against them for the world; but of course it is as obvious to you as it is to me that they are not quite the thing. I mean—you know—I would not think of comparing them with the Southdown Road; but there is a little something. City people are not the Peerage; there's no use saying they are. Mount Rorke was upset; but I would not give in, and I think I should have won his consent in the long run. After all I have borne for her sake I think I might expect better treatment than to be thrown over, as I have said, like an old hat; and I don't mind telling you that I do not intend to be made a fool of in this matter; I shall turn a very deaf ear to stories of a broken heart and failing health. I shall not cease to think of Maggie. I loved her once very deeply, and I should have loved her always if—But tell me, General. You know I will not repeat anything.”

“I advise you to say no more, Reggie. I will not be mixed up in any scandal. I shall leave the room. Sally is dining here to-night; she is only too anxious to talk of her sister. If Mr. Escott will stay and take pot-luck with us, he will no doubt hear everything there is to hear in the course of the evening.”

“What have we got for dinner, Ethel? I know we have got a leg of mutton, and there is some curry.”

“Your dinners are always excellent, Mrs. Horlock. I shall be delighted to stay. Here is Sally. Oh, how do you do, Sally? We were talking of you.”

“I'm afraid every one is talking of me, now,” she whispered, and the big girl passed over to Mrs. Horlock and kissed her. “How is it that no one has seen anything of you lately?” she said, taking the seat next him. “What have you been doing?”

“Nothing in particular. But I want to ask you about Maggie. I hear she is very ill.”

Perceiving that his tone did not bespeak a loving mood, Sally's face brightened, and she became at once voluble and confidential.

“Oh, we have been having no end of a time at home. Father has been speaking of selling the place and leaving Southwick.”

“Speaking of selling the place and leaving Southwick! And where does he think of going to live, and what is the reason of this?”

“Oh, the reason! I suppose he would say I was the reason; and where heis going to live, that is not settled yet—probably one of the big London hotels. He says everybody is laughing at him, and that when he meets the young men at the station he can see them laughing at him over their newspapers, for, according to father, they have all flirted with us. Maggie has been saying all kinds of things against me, and I am afraid that the Southdown Road people have been writing him anonymous letters again. Some one—I don't know who it is—I wish I did—has been telling him the most shocking things about Jimmy Meason and me; things in which I assure you there is not a word of truth. You know yourself that we have hardly spoken for nearly two years; last year, it is true, we made it up a bit in your studio, but it didn't last long. I don't think I saw him twice afterwards, and never alone—and now to have everything that happened two years ago raked up and thrown in my face! I don't say I haven't—I don't know what you'd call it, I suppose you'd call it spooning. I admit I infinitely preferred walking about the garden with a young man to sitting in the drawing-room and doing woolwork. I was a silly little fool then, but I do think it hard that all this should be raked up now. I don't know what will happen. Maggie pretends to be frightened at me; 'tis only her nonsense to set father against me. She won't dress herself, and she walks about with her hair down her back, wringing her hands.”

“But what does she say? This is very bewildering. I don't understand—I am quite lost.”

“The fact is that Maggie doesn't know what she is saying, so I suppose I oughtn't to blame her. She is a little off her head, that's the truth of it; but you mustn't say I said so, it will get me into worse trouble than I am already in. She was like that once before, and had to be put in the charge of a lady who was in the habit of dealing with excitable people. I don't mean lunatics, don't run away with that notion. I don't know what would happen if it got about that I was putting that about. Maggie is very excitable, and she has been exciting herself a great deal lately—you were the principal cause. She did all she could to get you to make it up when you met her here at dinner—the dinner was given for that—but you said nothing about it, and she came home in an awful state, accusing every one of combining to ruin her. She said I was jealous of her, that I was wild with fear that she would one day be Lady Mount Rorke. She said father had done everything to break off her marriage, because he did not like parting with his money. She had set her heart on being married, and it was a terrible disappointment. She has been disappointed two or three times. Father doesn't know what to do. Her thoughts seem to run on that one subject. She walks about the garden saying the most extraordinary things.”

“But tell me about the illness.”

“I don't know if I ought to tell you.”

“Oh, do!”

“I don't know how to say it. She used to say she longed to become a mother.”

“Longed to become a mother? Well, that is the last thing—”

“You know what I mean.”

“But tell me about the illness.”

“I should call it more than being a little excited, but of course she isn't mad. She has, however, the most curious notions. She is always a little too imaginative at the best of times; at least, I find her so, but now her delusions are really too absurd, and, as I have said, the worst of it is that her thoughts run on that one thing; it really is most unfortunate. Poor father.”

“But what are her delusions?”

“Well, I scarcely know how to tell you.”

“Try; anything can be told. It depends how it is told.”

“She thinks that the coachman has spread it all over Southwick—how shall I say it? I don't know that I ought to tell you. Well, that she has gone wrong with you and Berkins. I thought I should die of laughing—the idea of Berkins was too funny for words.”

“But your father doesn't believe it?”

“Of course not.”

“He doesn't suspect me, I hope?”

“No; I am sure he doesn't. He knows Maggie doesn't know what she is saying. But he was dreadfully put out about Berkins; he is frightened out of his wits lest he should hear of it. But for goodness' sake don't mention that I said anything to you about it; I am in trouble enough as it is. Father says he can stand it no longer. I am very much afraid that he will leave Southwick. It depends on what Aunt Mary says. He has sent for her; she will be here to-morrow.”

These family councils were held in the billiard-room, and when Aunt Mary and Aunt Hester had had their tea they came along the passage, Aunt Mary of course in front, Aunt Hester timid and freckled and with her usual air of tracts. Uncle James stood with his back to the fire waiting for them. Willy caught at his hair, but an expression of resignation overspread his face, he packed his diary and accounts in brown paper and lit a pipe.

“Now, James, let us hear about these new troubles. Something must be done, that is clear.”

“Yes, something must be done, Mary, and I can think of nothing for it but to leave this place. It is no longer a place for me to live in. The Southdown Road has proved too strong for me, it has conquered me.”

“Don't speak like that, James. We must try to bear our burdens, if not for our own sakes, for the sake of Him who died for us. He bore a very heavy cross for us.”

“There's no use in talking to me like that, Hester, you only provoke me. You forget what a cross two daughters are, and the Southdown Road has become intolerable. It is more than any man can bear; I will bear it no longer. I have borne it long enough, and am determined to get rid of it. I am afraid there's nothing for it but to sell the place and go and live in London.”

Aunt Hester cast her eyes into her satchel, afraid even to think that her brother had intentionally misinterpreted her words; but Aunt Mary laughed at the idea of the slonk-hill, as a latter-day Golgotha, with poor Uncle James staggering beneath the weight of the Southdown Road, young men and all, upon him. It was very irreverent. He burst into tears, Hester moved to leave the room, but was restrained by her sister.

“My position is a most unfortunate one; since the death of poor Julia I have had no one to turn to, there has been no restraining influence in this house. Here am I working all day long in the City for those girls, and when I come home in the evening I find my house full of people I don't know. I assure you, Mary, I don't know any of the people who come to my house. I am consulted in nothing. It is not fair—I say it is not fair; and at my death those girls will have thirty thousand pounds a-piece.”

“I knew you had the money, James, I knew you had,” exclaimed Aunt Mary, and even Aunt Hester could not help casting a look of admiration on her weeping brother.

“I say it is not fair; a man of my money should have a comfortable home to return to. Even the Southdown Road people have that; but no consideration is shown to me. My dinner is put back so that Sally may continue her flirtation with Meason in the slonk. Did any one ever hear of such a thing? A man's dinner put back so that—that—that—”

“Yes, we know all about the dinner being put back; that was three years ago.”

“Why,” Mr. Brookes asked himself, “had he invited his sisters to his help?” He was only adding bitterness to his bitter cup. “You have no sympathy, Mary,” he went on; “you cannot understand the difficulties of my position—these two girls are for ever quarrelling and fighting; sometimes they are not even on speaking terms, but I think I prefer their sullen looks to their violence. Sally threatened to knock her sister down if she interfered with her young men.”

“What, again?”

“Oh, I don't know if she has threatened to beat her lately. I don't remember when was the last time. Their various rows are all jumbled up in my head. All I know is that Maggie says she cannot live in the house with Sally. Maggie is very ill, she is in a very excited state, as she was once before, when I would not consent to her marriage with—I have forgotten his name, but it doesn't matter. Now she won't dress herself, and she walks about the house with her hair hanging down. I know there is nothing for it but to send her away under the charge of some lady who has had experience in such matters. She can't remain here. She has the strangest delusions. Among other things, she fancies the coachman has spread it all over Southwick that she has gone wrong with Berkins and that fellow Escott. Just fancy if Berkins—a ten thousand a year man—should hear of it! I don't know what he would say. He would peg into me; he is at times very hard indeed upon me. I don't say he is not a first-rate man of business, I know he has made several excellent investments; but for all that I do not and cannot think him competent to advise me on all my affairs, and that's what he is always doing. He talks of putting down that Southdown Road. I should like to see how he would set about doing it.”

“James, Maggie must go away; she is very highly organised, very sensitive, and if she were to remain here, Sally might have a real effect on her mind. It is clear the sisters don't get on together; have you had medical advice? I told you before that you should have medical advice about those girls; I told you to spare no expense, but to go to a first-rate London physician and take his opinion. I said before, and I say it again, that no girls in good health could carry on as dear Sally, and I will include dear Maggie; for although she does not defy you to the same extent, there is no doubt that she is too fast, too fond of young men; her thoughts run too much in that way, and now she is ill, of course she has delusions. You ought to have medical advice.”

“Mary, dear, the body is not everything; to cure the flesh you must first cure the soul. I believe our dear nieces rarely, if ever, attend church, rarely, if ever, remember that this life is not eternal and that there is a hereafter.”

The conversation came to a pause. Presently Aunt Mary asked Willy, who sat resigned to his fate, calm and solemn as a Buddha, his hands clasped over his rotund stomach, if he thought that Maggie's state was one to cause immediate anxiety, to which he replied: “My sisters think of nothing but pleasure. The trouble girls are in a house is more than any one would believe. Here I am, I can do nothing; every night it is the same thing, over and over again.” And the lean man lapsed into contemplation.

“But to come to the point, James, I want to hear about Sally. You said in your letter that a great deal had come to light, and that you now find that her conduct has been worse than you had ever imagined it, even in your moments of deepest dejection. Now, I want to hear about all this. What has she done? Let's have it in plain English. What has she done?”

“To put it plainly, Mary,” said Mr. Brookes, wiping his tears away, and turning his back upon his Goodall, “I don't know what she hasn't done—everything. She is at the present moment the talk of Southwick. The doctor here has seen her in the field at the back here with Meason at nine o'clock at night.”

“Why did you allow her to leave the house at that hour? No young girl—”

“She always takes her dogs out in the evening; I cannot prevent her doing that. It appears, too, that she has had Meason up in her bedroom.”

“O James, you do not mean to say that my dear niece had a man in her bedroom!”

“Hester, dear, you have lived in a rectory and know nothing of the world. She says it isn't a bedroom. She pushes the bed away in the daytime, and covers it up to make it look like a couch. Besides, she keeps birds in her room, and Flossy had her puppies there. I am not excusing her conduct, pray do not think that, I am only telling you what she says.”

“This is very serious. Are you quite sure? Perhaps she only meant to show the young man her birds or puppies. Her spirit must be broken, I can clearly see that.”

“I allow them, as you know, one hundred pounds a year apiece. Maggie keeps none, but Sally always keeps accurate accounts of what she spends. I asked to see those accounts, for I had heard she had been giving her money to Meason, and she refused to let me see them. There is a sum of twenty pounds for which she can give no explanation. Then it is well known she gave a set of diamond studs to that fellow, and that he pledged them for five pounds in Brighton. He boasted he had done so, and said he intended to get plenty of money out of me before he had done with me. After that I ask you, how can I live in this place? When I go to the station in the morning I see these young fellows laughing at me over the tops of their newspapers. When I come home of an evening after a hard day's work, I find that my dinner—”

“Her spirit must be broken,” said Aunt Mary, drawing her shawl about her, and crossing her hands. “Her spirit must be broken; she cannot be allowed to remain here to drive dear Maggie into a lunatic asylum. I am with you in that, James, but I cannot think you did well to let Frank Escott slip through your fingers. Had you not talked so much about money your daughter might have been Lady Mount Rorke.”

“Talked too much about my money? Who would talk about it, I should like to know, if I didn't? I made it all myself. What do I care for that lot—a stuck-up lot, pooh, pooh! twist them all round my finger. I am not going to give my daughter to a man who cannot make a settlement upon her.”

Seeing he was not to be moved in anything that concerned his pocket, Aunt Mary returned to the consideration of what was to be done with Sally. “From what you tell me it is clear that Sally must not remain in Southwick a day longer than can be helped. I will take her with me to Woburn; and I think she had better go abroad as soon as we can hear of some one in whose charge we can place her. But it must not be a sea voyage—there is nothing more dangerous than to be on board a ship for a young girl who is at all inclined to be fast. All are thrown so much together. The cabins open out one into the other, and there is always a looking for something—a handkerchief, a bunch of keys, a lot of stooping and playing, twiddling of moustaches,” said Aunt Mary, with a peal of laughter.

“Mary, dear, we should not speak lightly of wickedness.”

“It was so that all the mischief was done when Emily Evans was sent out to the Cape—it was all done on board a ship. You remember the Evanses, James?—you ought to, you used to flirt pretty desperately with Lucy, the younger sister.” And then Aunt Mary rattled off into interminable tales concerning the attachment contracted on board a ship in particular, its unfortunate consequences, how it brought about a divorce later on by sowing the seeds of passion (Aunt Mary always pronounced the word “passion” in her narratives with strong emphasis), in the young girl's heart; and at various stages of her discourse she introduced fragments of the family history of the Evanses; she followed the wanderings of the different sisters from Homburg to Paris, from Paris to Scotland, from Scotland to the Punjab, explaining their different temperaments by heredity, which led her back into the obscure and remote times of grandfathers and grandmothers, and, having finally lost herself, she said: “What was I talking about? You have been listening to me, James, what was I talking about?”

Till the end of a week the discussion was continued. Aunt Mary tried hard to reconcile all parties to their different lots, and, as is usual in such cases, without attaining any result. And yet Aunt Mary went with her sister to see Frank in his studio. Willy accompanied them, and when they left he complained bitterly of how his time was wasted. “Regularly every evening, just as I am sitting down to work, I hear them coming along the passage. First of all they go to get their grog—squeak, squeak, pop. I know it all so well. Then they come in with their tumblers, and they sit down on the sofa, and they begin.—I don't know what is to be done with dear Sally, unless we can send her abroad in the care of some relation. How is dear Maggie to-day? I hope I shall be able to induce her to put on her frock to-morrow, and come for a drive with me in the carriage. What a trouble young girls are in the house, to be sure. Then father begins to groan, and pulls out his handkerchief; he is quite alone, he has no one he can depend upon, then he laughs, 'Well, well, I suppose it will be all the same a hundred years hence.' So it goes on night after night. Here am I starting a big business, and I haven't a room to work in. Just as I am adding up a long column of figures, perhaps when I am within three of the top, Aunt Mary asks me a question, and it has to be gone over again. It is most provoking, there's no denying that it is most provoking.” Frank agreed that nothing could be more provoking than to be interrupted when you were within three of the top of a long column of figures. On the following day he heard that the aunts had left, taking Sally with them. They had promised their brother to find a lady who would take dear Maggie under her care—one who would soon wean her from dressing-gowns and delusions, and restore her to staid remarks and stays; and hopes were entertained that the Manor House would not have to be sold after all.

But many days had not sped when an event occurred that precipitated the five acres into the jaws of the builders. Meason had sailed for Melbourne, and his sister, thinking that some of Sally's letters might be of use to Mr. Brookes, offered to surrender them upon the receipt of a cheque for one hundred pounds—a very modest sum, she urged, considering the character of the letters, most of which concerned artfully laid plans to meet in the train going or coming from London. Mr. Brookes called on the shade of dear Julia, but he was not a man to be blackmailed—he had made all his money himself, and on that point was immovable. He prepared to leave Southwick. He looked fondly on his glass-houses, and despairingly on his Friths, Goodalls, and Bouguereaus, and he wondered if they would look as well in the new rooms as in the old, and what sum they would realise if he were to include them in the auction; for an auction was necessary. Mr. Brookes did not thus decide to abandon his acres without many a sob, nor is it certain that the final step would have been taken if the gentle builder had not gilded his insidious hand, and if certain rumours were not about that the villas in the Southdown Road were not letting, and that Southwick would never be anything but what it was, a dirty little village—half suburb, half village.

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