ETHEL REMONSTRATES.

The house in which the Kenyons resided was built on the same pattern as Mr. Brooke's, but it was in some respects very unlike Mr. Brooke's place of residence. Maurice's consulting-room and dining-room corresponded, perhaps, to Mr. Brooke's dining-room and study: it was upstairs where the difference showed itself. Ethel's drawing-room was like herself—a little whimsical, a little bizarre; pretty, withal, and original, and somewhat unlike anything one had ever seen before. She was fond of novelties, and introduced the latest fashions in draperies or china or screens as soon as she could get hold of them; and the result was occasionally incongruous, though always bright and cheerful-looking.

It was the incongruity of the ornaments and arrangements which chiefly struck the mind of Oliver Trent as he entered Ethel's drawing-room one afternoon, and stumbled over a footstool placed where no footstool ought to be.

"I wish," he began, somewhat irritably, as he touched Ethel's forehead with his lips, "that you would not make your room quite so much like a fancy fair, Ethel."

Ethel raised her eyebrows. "Why, Oliver, only the other day you said how pretty it was!"

"Pretty! I hate the word. As if 'prettiness' could be taken as a test of what was best in art."

"My room isn't 'art,'" pouted Ethel; "it's me."

The sentence might be ungrammatical, but it was strictly true. The room represented Ethel's character exactly. It was odd, quaint, striking, and attractive. But Oliver was not in the mood to see its attractiveness.

"It is certainly a medley," he replied, with some incisiveness. "How many styles do you think are represented in the place? Japanese, Egyptian, Renaissance, Louis Quinze, Queen Anne, Early Georgian——"

"Oh, no! please don't go on!" cried Ethel, with mock earnestness. "Not Early Georgian, please! Anything but that!"

"It is all incongruous and out of taste," said Oliver, in an ill-tempered tone, and then he threw himself into a deep, comfortable lounging chair, and closed his eyes as if the sight of the room were too much for his nerves.

Ethel remained standing: her pretty mignonne figure was motionless; her bright face was thoughtful and overcast.

"Do you mean," she said, quietly, "that I am incongruous and out of taste too!"

There was a new note in her voice. Usually it was light and bird-like: now there was something a little more weighty, a little more serious, than had been heard in it before. Oliver noted the change, and moved his head restlessly; he did not want to quarrel with Ethel, but he was ill at ease in her presence, and therefore apt to be exceedingly irritable with her.

"You wrest my words, of course," he answered. "You always do. There's no arguing with—with—a woman."

"With me you were about to say. Don't spare me. What other accusations have you to bring!"

"Accusations! Nonsense!"

"It is not nonsense, Oliver." Her voice trembled. "I have felt for some time that all was not right between us. I can't shut my eyes. I must believe what I see, and what I feel. We must understand one another."

Oliver's eyes were wide open now. He began to see that he had gone a little too far. It would not do to snub Ethel too much—at least before the marriage. Afterwards—he said to himself—he should treat her as he felt inclined. But now——

"You are mistaken, Ethel," he said, in a tone of half appeased vexation which he thought very effective. "What on earth should there be wrong between us! Open your eyes and your ears as much as you like, my dear child, but don't be misled by what you feel. The wind is in the East,—remember. You feel a chill, most probably, and you put your malaise down to me."

His tone grew more affectionate as he spoke. He wanted her to believe that he had been suffering from a mere passing cloud of ill-temper, and that he was already ashamed of it.

"I feel the effects of the weather myself," he said. "I have been horribly depressed all day, and I have a headache. Perhaps that is why the brightness of your room seemed to hurt my eyes. You know that I always like it when I am well."

He looked at her keenly, hoping that this reference to possible-ill-health might bring the girl to his feet, as it had often done before in the case of other women; but it did not seem to produce the least effect. She stood silent, immobile, with her eyes still fixed upon the floor. Silence and stillness were so unusual in one of Ethel's vivacious temperament, that Oliver began to feel alarmed.

"Ethel," he said, advancing to her, and laying his hand upon hers, "what is wrong? What have I done?"

She shook her head hastily, but made no other reply.

"Look at me," he said, softly.

And then she lifted her eyes. But they wore a questioning and not a trustful look.

"Ethel, dearest, what have I done to offend you? It cannot be my silly comment on your room that makes you look so grave? Believe me, dear, it came only from my headache and my bad temper. I am deeply sorry to have hurt you. Only speak—scold me if you like—but do not keep me in this suspense."

He was skilled in the art of pleading. His pale face, usually so expressionless, took on the look of almost passionate entreaty.

Ethel was an actress by profession—perhaps a little by nature also—but she was too essentially simple-hearted to suspect her friends of acting parts in private life, and indeed trusted them rather more implicitly than most people trust their friends. It had been a grief to her to doubt Oliver's faith for a moment, and her eyes filled with tears, while they flashed also with indignation, as she replied,

"You must know what I mean. I have felt it for a very long time. You do not care for me as you used to do."

"Upon my soul, I do!" cried Oliver, very sincerely.

"Then you never cared for me very much."

This was getting serious. Oliver had no mind to break off his engagement. He reserved the right to snub Ethel without giving offence. If this was an impracticable course to pursue, it was evident that he must abandon it and eat humble pie. Anything rather than part from her just now. He had lost the woman he loved: it would not do to lose also his only chance of winning a competency for himself and immunity from fear of want in the future.

"Ethel," he said, softly, "you grieve me very much. I acknowledge my faults of temper—I did not think you mistook then for a want of love."

"I do not think I do. It is something more real, more tangible than that."

"What is it, dear?"

She paused, then looked keenly into his face. "It seems to me, Oliver, that Lesley Brooke has won your heart away from me."

He threw back his head and laughed—a singularly jarring and unpleasant laugh, as it seemed to her. "What will you imagine next?" he said.

"Imagine? Have I imagined it? Isn't it true that you have been at her house almost every day for the last three or four weeks? Do you come here as often? Is it not Lesley that attracts you?—not me!"

"Oh, so you are jealous!"

"Yes, I suppose I am. It is only natural, I think."

They faced each other for a moment, defiantly, almost fiercely. There was a proud light in Ethel's eyes, a compression of the lips which told that she was not to be trifled with. Oliver stood pale, with frowning brows, and eyes that seemed to question both the reality of her feeling and the answer that he should make to her demand. It was by a great effort of self-control that at last he answered her with calmness—

"I assure you, Ethel, you are utterly mistaken. What have I in common with a girl like Miss Brooke—one of the most curiously ignorant and wrong-headed persons I ever came across? Can you think for a moment that I should compare her with you?—you, beautiful and gifted and cultured above most women?"

"That is nothing to the point," said Ethel, quickly. "Men don't love women because of their gifts and their culture."

"No," he rejoined, "but because of some subtle likeness or attractiveness which draws one to the other. I find it in you, without knowing why. You—I hoped—found it——"

His voice became troubled; he dropped his eyes. Ethel trembled—she loved him, poor girl, and she thought that he suffered as she had suffered, and she was sorry for him. But her outraged pride would not let her make any advance as yet.

"I may be a fatuous fool," said Oliver, after an agitated pause, "but I thought you loved me."

"I do love you," cried Ethel, passionately.

"And yet you suspect me of being false to you."

"Not suspect—not suspect"—she said, incoherently, and then, was suddenly folded in Oliver's arms, and felt that the time for reproach or inquiry had gone by.

She was not sorry that matters had ended in this way, although she felt it to be illogical. With his kisses upon her mouth, with the pressure of his arm enfolding her, it was almost impossible for her to maintain, in his presence, a doubt of him. It was when he had gone that all the facts which he had ignored came back to her with torturing insistence, and that she blamed herself for not having refused to be reconciled to him until she had ascertained the truth or untruth of a report that had reached her ears.

With a truer lover she might have gone unsatisfied to her dying day. A faithful-hearted man might never have perceived where she was hurt; he would not have been astute enough to discover that he might heal the wound by a few timely words of explanation. Oliver, keenly alive to his own interests, reopened the subject a few days later of his own accord.

They had completely made up their quarrel—to all outward appearance, at any rate—and were sitting together one afternoon in Ethel's obnoxious drawing-room. They had been laughing together at some funny story of Ethel's associates at the theatre, and to the laughter had succeeded a silence, during which Oliver possessed himself of the girl's hand and carried it gently to his lips.

"Ethel," he said, softly, "what made you so angry with me the other day?"

"Your bad behavior, I suppose!" she said, trying to treat the matter in her usual lively fashion.

"But what was my misbehavior? Did it consist in going so often to the Brookes'?"

"Oh, what does it matter?" exclaimed Ethel, petulantly. "Didn't we agree to forgive and forget? If we didn't, we ought to have done. I don't want to look back."

"But you are doing an injustice to me. Ethel, I dare not say to you that I insist on knowing what it was. But I very strongly wish that you would tell me—so that I might at least try to set your mind at rest."

"Well," said Ethel, quickly, "if you must know—it was only a bit of gossip—servants gossip. I know all that can be said respecting the foolishness of listening to gossip from such a source—but I can't help it. One of the maids at Mr. Brooke's——"

"Sarah?" asked Oliver, with interest. "Sarah never liked me."

"Who, it was not Sarah.—it was that maid of Lesley's—Kingston her name is, I believe—who said to one of our servants one day that you went there a great deal oftener than she would like, if she were in my place. There! I have made a full confession. It was a petty spiteful bit of gossip, of course, and I ought not to have listened to it—but then it seemed so natural—and I thought it might be true!"

"What seemed natural?" said Oliver, who, against his will, was looking very black.

"Why, that you should like Lesley; she is the sweetest girl I ever came across."

In his heart Oliver echoed that opinion, but he felt morally bound to deny it.

"You say so only because you have never seen yourself! My darling, how could you accuse me merely on servants' evidence!"

"Is there no truth in it, Oliver?"

"None in the least."

"But you do go there very often!"

Then Oliver achieved a masterpiece of diplomacy. "My dear Ethel," he said, "I will go there no more until you go with me. I will not set foot in the house again."

He knew very well that Mr. Brooke would not admit him. It was clever to make a virtue of necessity.

"No, no, please don't do that! Go as often as you please."

"It was simply out of kindness to a lonely girl. I played her accompaniments for her sometimes, and listened to her singing. But as you dislike it, Ethel, I promise you that I will go there no more."

"Oh, Oliver, forgive me! I don't doubt you a bit. Do go to see Lesley as often as you can. I should like you to do it. Go for my sake."

But Oliver was quite obdurate. No, he would not go to the Brookes' again, since Ethel had once objected to his going. And on this pinnacle of austere virtue he remained, thereby reducing Ethel to a state of self-abasement, which spoke well for his chances of mastery in the married life which loomed before him.