Frank Palmer, the gentleman whom we saw descend from the coach, was the eldest son of a wholesale and manufacturing chemist in London. He was now about five-and-twenty, and having just been admitted as a partner, he had begun, as the custom was in those days, to travel for his firm. The elder Mr Palmer was a man of refinement, something more than a Whig in politics, and an enthusiastic member of the Broad Church party, which was then becoming a power in the country. He was well-to-do, living in a fine old red-brick house at Stoke Newington, with half-a-dozen acres of ground round it, and, if Frank had been born thirty years later, he would probably have gone to Cambridge or Oxford. In those days, however, it was not the custom to send boys to the Universities unless they were intended for the law, divinity or idleness, and Frank’s training, which was begun at St Paul’s school, was completed there. He lived at home, going to school in the morning and returning in the evening. He was surrounded by every influence which was pure and noble. Mr Maurice and Mr Sterling were his father’s guests, and hence it may be inferred that there was an altar in the house, and that the sacred flame burnt thereon. Mr Palmer almost worshipped Mr Maurice, and his admiration was not blind, for Maurice connected the Bible with what was rational in his friend. ‘What! still believable: no need then to pitch it overboard: here after all is the Eternal Word!’ It can be imagined how those who dared not close their eyes to the light, and yet clung to that book which had been so much to their forefathers and themselves, rejoiced when they were able to declare that it belonged to them more than to those who misjudged them and could deny that they were heretics. The boy’s education was entirely classical and athletic, and as he was quick at learning and loved his games, he took a high position amongst his school-fellows. He was not particularly reflective, but he was generous and courageous, perfectly straightforward, a fair specimen of thousands of English public-school boys. As he grew up, he somewhat disappointed his father by a lack of any real interest in the subjects in which his father was interested. He accepted willingly, and even enthusiastically, the household conclusions on religion and politics, but they were not properly his, for he accepted them merely as conclusions and without the premisses, and it was often even a little annoying to hear him express some free opinion on religious questions in a way which showed that it was not a growth but something picked up. Mr Palmer, senior, sometimes recoiled into intolerance and orthodoxy, and bewildered his son who, to use one of his own phrases, ‘hardly knew where his father was.’ Partly the reaction was due to the oscillation which accompanies serious and independent thought, but mainly it was caused by Mr Palmer’s discontent with Frank’s appropriation of a sentiment or doctrine of which he was not the lawful owner. Frank, however, was so hearty, so affectionate, and so cheerful, that it was impossible not to love him dearly.

In his visits to Fenmarket, Frank had often noticed Madge, for the ‘Crown and Sceptre’ was his headquarters, and Madge was well enough aware that she had been noticed. He had inquired casually who it was who lived next door, and when the waiter told him the name, and that Mr Hopgood was formerly the bank manager, Frank remembered that he had often heard his father speak of a Mr Hopgood, a clerk in a bank in London, as one of his best friends. He did not fail to ask his father about this friend, and to obtain an introduction to the widow. He had now brought it to Fenmarket, and within half an hour after he had alighted, he had presented it.

Mrs Hopgood, of course, recollected Mr Palmer perfectly, and the welcome to Frank was naturally very warm. It was delightful to connect earlier and happier days with the present, and she was proud in the possession of a relationship which had lasted so long. Clara and Madge, too, were both excited and pleased. To say nothing of Frank’s appearance, of his unsnobbish, deferential behaviour which showed that he understood who they were and that the little house made no difference to him, the girls and the mother could not resist a side glance at Fenmarket and the indulgence of a secret satisfaction that it would soon hear that the son of Mr Palmer, so well known in every town round about, was on intimate terms with them.

Madge was particularly gay that evening. The presence of sympathetic people was always a powerful stimulus to her, and she was often astonished at the witty things and even the wise things she said in such company, although, when she was alone, so few things wise or witty occurred to her. Like all persons who, in conversation, do not so much express the results of previous conviction obtained in silence as the inspiration of the moment, Madge dazzled everybody by a brilliancy which would have been impossible if she had communicated that which had been slowly acquired, but what she left with those who listened to her, did not always seem, on reflection, to be so much as it appeared to be while she was talking. Still she was very charming, and it must be confessed that sometimes her spontaneity was truer than the limitations of speech more carefully weighed.

‘What makes you stay in Fenmarket, Mrs Hopgood? How I wish you would come to London!’

‘I do not wish to leave it now; I have become attached to it; I have very few friends in London, and lastly, perhaps the most convincing reason, I could not afford it. Rent and living are cheaper here than in town.’

‘Would you not like to live in London, Miss Hopgood?’

Clara hesitated for a few seconds.

‘I am not sure—certainly not by myself. I was in London once for six months as a governess in a very pleasant family, where I saw much society; but I was glad to return to Fenmarket.’

‘To the scenery round Fenmarket,’ interrupted Madge; ‘it is so romantic, so mountainous, so interesting in every way.’

‘I was thinking of people, strange as it may appear. In London nobody really cares for anybody, at least, not in the sense in which I should use the words. Men and women in London stand for certain talents, and are valued often very highly for them, but they are valued merely as representing these talents. Now, if I had a talent, I should not be satisfied with admiration or respect because of it. No matter what admiration, or respect, or even enthusiasm I might evoke, even if I were told that my services had been immense and that life had been changed through my instrumentality, I should feel the lack of quiet, personal affection, and that, I believe, is not common in London. If I were famous, I would sacrifice all the adoration of the world for the love of a brother—if I had one—or a sister, who perhaps had never heard what it was which had made me renowned.’

‘Certainly,’ said Madge, laughing, ‘for the love of such a sister. But, Mr Palmer, I like London. I like the people, just the people, although I do not know a soul, and not a soul cares a brass farthing about me. I am not half so stupid in London as in the country. I never have a thought of my own down here. How should I? But in London there is plenty of talk about all kinds of things, and I find I too have something in me. It is true, as Clara says, that nobody is anything particular to anybody, but that to me is rather pleasant. I do not want too much of profound and eternal attachments. They are rather a burden. They involve profound and eternal attachment on my part; and I have always to be at my best; such watchfulness and such jealousy! I prefer a dressing-gown and slippers and bonds which are not so tight.’

‘Madge, Madge, I wish you would sometimes save me the trouble of laboriously striving to discover what you really mean.’

Mrs Hopgood bethought herself that her daughters were talking too much to one another, as they often did, even when guests were present, and she therefore interrupted them.

‘Mr Palmer, you see both town and country—which do you prefer?’

‘Oh! I hardly know; the country in summer-time, perhaps, and town in the winter.’

This was a safe answer, and one which was not very original; that is to say, it expressed no very distinct belief; but there was one valid reason why he liked being in London in the winter.

‘Your father, I remember, loves music. I suppose you inherit his taste, and it is impossible to hear good music in the country.’

‘I am very fond of music. Have you heard “St Paul?” I was at Birmingham when it was first performed in this country. Oh! it is lovely,’ and he began humming ‘Be thou faithful unto death.’

Frank did really care for music. He went wherever good music was to be had; he belonged to a choral society and was in great request amongst his father’s friends at evening entertainments. He could also play the piano, so far as to be able to accompany himself thereon. He sang to himself when he was travelling, and often murmured favourite airs when people around him were talking. He had lessons from an old Italian, a little, withered, shabby creature, who was not very proud of his pupil. ‘He is a talent,’ said the Signor, ‘and he will amuse himself; good for a ballad at a party, but a musician? no!’ and like all mere ‘talents’ Frank failed in his songs to give them just what is of most value—just that which separates an artistic performance from the vast region of well-meaning, respectable, but uninteresting commonplace. There was a curious lack in him also of correspondence between his music and the rest of himself. As music is expression, it might be supposed that something which it serves to express would always lie behind it; but this was not the case with him, although he was so attractive and delightful in many ways. There could be no doubt that his love for Beethoven was genuine, but that which was in Frank Palmer was not that of which the sonatas and symphonies of the master are the voice. He went into raptures over the slow movement in the C minor Symphony, but no C minor slow movement was discernible in his character.

‘What on earth can be found in “St Paul” which can be put to music?’ said Madge. ‘Fancy a chapter in the Epistle to the Romans turned into a duet!’

‘Madge! Madge! I am ashamed of you,’ said her mother.

‘Well, mother,’ said Clara, ‘I am sure that some of the settings by your divinity, Handel, are absurd. “For as in Adam all die” may be true enough, and the harmonies are magnificent, but I am always tempted to laugh when I hear it.’

Frank hummed the familiar apostrophe ‘Be not afraid.’

‘Is that a bit of “St Paul”?’ said Mrs Hopgood.

‘Yes, it goes like this,’ and Frank went up to the little piano and sang the song through.

‘There is no fault to be found with that,’ said Madge, ‘so far as the coincidence of sense and melody is concerned, but I do not care much for oratorios. Better subjects can be obtained outside the Bible, and the main reason for selecting the Bible is that what is called religious music may be provided for good people. An oratorio, to me, is never quite natural. Jewish history is not a musical subject, and, besides, you cannot have proper love songs in an oratorio, and in them music is at its best.’

Mrs Hopgood was accustomed to her daughter’s extravagance, but she was, nevertheless, a little uncomfortable.

‘Ah!’ said Frank, who had not moved from the piano, and he struck the first two bars of ‘Adelaide.’

‘Oh, please,’ said Madge, ‘go on, go on,’ but Frank could not quite finish it.

She was sitting on the little sofa, and she put her feet up, lay and listened with her eyes shut. There was a vibration in Mr Palmer’s voice not perceptible during his vision of the crown of life and of fidelity to death.

‘Are you going to stay over Sunday?’ inquired Mrs Hopgood.

‘I am not quite sure; I ought to be back on Sunday evening. My father likes me to be at home on that day.’

‘Is there not a Mr Maurice who is a friend of your father?’

‘Oh, yes, a great friend.’

‘He is not High Church nor Low Church?’

‘No, not exactly.’

‘What is he, then? What does he believe?’

‘Well, I can hardly say; he does not believe that anybody will be burnt in a brimstone lake for ever.’

‘That is what he does not believe,’ interposed Clara.

‘He believes that Socrates and the great Greeks and Romans who acted up to the light that was within them were not sent to hell. I think that is glorious, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but that also is something he does not believe. What is there in him which is positive? What has he distinctly won from the unknown?’

‘Ah, Miss Hopgood, you ought to hear him yourself; he is wonderful. I do admire him so much; I am sure you would like him.’

‘If you do not go home on Saturday,’ said Mrs Hopgood, ‘we shall be pleased if you will have dinner with us on Sunday; we generally go for a walk in the afternoon.’

Frank hesitated, but at that moment Madge rose from the sofa. Her hair was disarranged, and she pushed its thick folds backward. It grew rather low down on her forehead and stood up a little on her temples, a mystery of shadow and dark recess. If it had been electrical with the force of a strong battery and had touched him, he could not have been more completely paralysed, and his half-erect resolution to go back on Saturday was instantly laid flat.

‘Thank you, Mrs Hopgood,’ looking at Madge and meeting her eyes, ‘I think it very likely I shall stay, and if I do I will most certainly accept your kind invitation.’