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A Prince of Sinners

by E. Phillips Oppenheim · English · Gutenberg #16971 · 533,953 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Prince of Sinners

Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim


        
Release date: October 30, 2005 [eBook #16971]
                Most recently updated: December 12, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16971

Credits: E-text prepared by MRK


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A PRINCE OF SINNERS ***


E-text prepared by MRK



A PRINCE OF SINNERS

by

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM







Contents

   PART I.

          I. Mr. Kingston Brooks, Political Agent
         II. The Bullsom Family at Home
        III. Kingston Brooks has a Visitor
         IV. A Question for the Country
          V. The Marquis of Arranmore
         VI. The Man who went to Hell
        VII. A Thousand Pounds
       VIII. Kingston Brooks makes Inquiries
         IX. Henslow speaks out
          X. A Tempting Offer
         XI. Who the Devil is Brooks?
        XII. Mr. Bullsom gives a Dinner-party
       XIII. Charity the "Crime"
        XIV. An Awkward Question
         XV. A Supper-party at the "Queen's"
        XVI. Uncle and Niece
       XVII. Fifteen Years in Hell
      XVIII. Mary Scott pays an Unexpected Call
        XIX. The Marquis Mephistopheles
         XX. The Confidence of Lord Arranmore

   PART II.

          I. Lord Arranmore's Amusements
         II. The Heckling of Henslow
        III. Mary Scott's Two Visitors
         IV. A Marquis on Matrimony
          V. Brooks enlists a Recruit
         VI. Kingston Brooks, Philanthropist
        VII. Brooks and his Missions
       VIII. Mr. Bullsom is Staggered
         IX. Ghosts
          X. A New Don Quixote

   PART III.

          I. An Aristocratic Recruit
         II. Mr. Lavilette interferes
        III. The Singular Behaviour of Mary Scott
         IV. Lord Arranmore in a New Role
          V. Lady Sybil lends a Hand
         VI. The Reservation of Mary Scott
        VII. Father and Son
       VIII. The Advice of Mr. Bullsom
         IX. A Question and an Answer
          X. Lady Sybil says "Yes"
         XI. Brooks hears the News
        XII. The Prince of Sinners speaks out





A Prince of Sinners

PART I

CHAPTER I

MR. KINGSTON BROOKS, POLITICAL AGENT

Already the sweepers were busy in the deserted hall, and the lights
burned low. Of the great audience who had filled the place only
half-an-hour ago not one remained. The echoes of their tumultuous
cheering seemed still to linger amongst the rafters, the dust which
their feet had raised hung about in a little cloud. But the long rows
of benches were empty, the sweepers moved ghostlike amongst the shadows,
and an old woman was throwing tealeaves here and there about the
platform. In the committee-room behind a little group of men were busy
with their leave-takings. The candidate, a tall, somewhat burly man,
with hard, shrewd face and loosely knit figure, was shaking hands with
every one. His tone and manner savoured still of the rostrum.

"Good-night, sir! Good-night, Mr. Bullsom! A most excellent
introduction, yours, sir! You made my task positively easy.
Good-night, Mr. Brooks. A capital meeting, and everything very well
arranged. Personally I feel very much obliged to you, sir. If you
carry everything through as smoothly as this affair to-night, I can see
that we shall lose nothing by poor Morrison's breakdown. Good-night,
gentlemen, to all of you. We will meet at the club at eleven o'clock
to-morrow morning. Eleven o'clock precisely, if you please."

The candidate went out to his carriage, and the others followed in twos
and threes. A young man, pale, with nervous mouth, strongly-marked
features and clear dark eyes, looked up from a sheaf of letters which he
was busy sorting.

"Don't wait for me, Mr. Bullsom," he said. "Reynolds will let me out,
and I had better run through these letters before I leave."

Mr. Bullsom was emphatic to the verge of gruffness.

"You'll do nothing of the sort," he declared. "I tell you what it is,
Brooks. We're not going to let you knock yourself up. You're tackling
this job in rare style. I can tell you that Henslow is delighted."

"I'm much obliged to you for saying so, Mr. Bullsom," the young man
answered. "Of course the work is strange to me, but it is very
interesting, and I don't mean to make a mess of it."

"There is only one chance of your doing that," Mr. Bullsom rejoined,
"and that is if you overwork yourself. You need a bit of looking after.
You've got a rare head on your shoulders, and I'm proud to think that I
was the one to bring your name before the committee. But I'm jolly well
certain of one thing. You've done all the work a man ought to do in one
day. Now listen to me. Here's my carriage waiting, and you're going
straight home with me to have a bite and a glass of wine. We can't
afford to lose our second agent, and I can see what's the matter with
you. You're as pale as a ghost, and no wonder. You've been at it all
day and never a break."

The young man called Brooks had not the energy to frame a refusal, which
he knew would be resented. He took down his overcoat, and stuffed the
letters into his pocket.

"You're very good," he said. "I'll come up for an hour with pleasure."

They passed out together into the street, and Mr. Bullsom opened the
door of his carriage.

"In with you, young man," he exclaimed. "Home, George!"

Kingston Brooks leaned back amongst the cushions with a little sigh of
relief.

"This is very restful," he remarked. "We have certainly had a very busy
day. The inside of electioneering may be disenchanting, but it's jolly
hard work."

Mr. Bullsom sat with clasped hands in front of him resting upon that
slight protuberance which denoted the advent of a stomach. He had
thrown away the cigar which he had lit in the committee-room. Mrs.
Bullsom did not approve of smoking in the covered wagonette, which she
frequently honoured with her presence.

"There's nothing in the world worth having that hasn't to be worked for,
my boy," he declared, good-humoredly.

"By other people!" Brooks remarked, smiling.

"That's as it may be," Mr. Bullsom admitted. "To my mind that's where
the art of the thing comes in. Any fool can work, but it takes a shrewd
man to keep a lot of others working hard for him while he pockets the
oof himself."

"I suppose," the younger man remarked, thoughtfully, "that you would
consider Mr. Henslow a shrewd man?"

"Shrewd! Oh, Henslow's shrewd enough. There's no question about that!"

"And honest?"

Mr. Bullsom hesitated. He drew his hand down his stubbly grey beard.

"Honest! Oh, yes, he's honest! You've no fault to find with him, eh?"

"None whatever," Brooks hastened to say. "You see," he continued more
slowly, "I have never been really behind the scenes in this sort of
thing before, and Henslow has such a very earnest manner in speaking.
He talked to the working men last night as though his one desire in life
was to further the different radical schemes which we have on the
programme. Why, the tears were actually in his eyes when he spoke of
the Old Age Pension Bill. He told them over and over again that the
passing of that Bill was the one object of his political career. Then,
you know, there was the luncheon to-day--and I fancied that he was a
little flippant about the labour vote. It was perhaps only his way of
speaking."

Mr. Bullsom smiled and rubbed the carriage window with the cuff of his
coat. He was very hungry.

"Oh, well, a politician has to trim a little, you know," he remarked.
"Votes he must have, and Henslow has a very good idea how to get them.
Here we are, thank goodness." The carriage had turned up a short drive,
and deposited them before the door of a highly ornate villa. Mr.
Bullsom led the way indoors, and himself took charge of his guest's coat
and hat. Then he opened the door of the drawing-room.

"Mrs. Bullsom and the girls," he remarked, urbanely, "will be delighted
to see you. Come in!"



CHAPTER II

THE BULLSOM FAMILY AT HOME

There were fans upon the wall, and much bric-a-brac of Oriental shape
but Brummagem finish, a complete suite of drawing-room furniture,
incandescent lights of fierce brilliancy, and a pianola. Mrs. Peter
Bullsom, stout and shiny in black silk and a chatelaine, was dozing
peacefully in a chair, with the latest novel from the circulating
library in her lap; whilst her two daughters, in evening blouses, which
were somehow suggestive of the odd elevenpence, were engrossed in more
serious occupation. Louise, the elder, whose budding resemblance to her
mother was already a protection against the over-amorous youths of the
town, was reading a political speech in the Times. Selina, who had
sandy hair, a slight figure, and was considered by her family the
essence of refinement, was struggling with a volume of Cowper, who had
been recommended to her by a librarian with a sense of humour, as a poet
unlikely to bring a blush into her virginal cheeks. Mr. Bullsom
looked in upon his domestic circle with pardonable pride, and with a
little flourish introduced his guest.

"Mrs. Bullsom," he said, "this is my young friend, Kingston Brooks. My
two daughters, sir, Louise and Selina." The ladies were gracious, but
had the air of being taken by surprise, which, considering Mr.
Bullsom's parting words a few hours ago, seemed strange.

"We've had a great meeting," Mr. Bullsom remarked, sidling towards the
hearthrug, and with his thumbs already stealing towards the armholes of
his waistcoat, "a great meeting, my dears. Not that I am surprised!
Oh, no! As I said to Padgett, when he insisted that I should take the
chair, 'Padgett,' I said, 'mark my words, we're going to surprise the
town. Mr. Henslow may not be the most popular candidate we've ever
had, but he's on the right side, and those who think Radicalism has had
its day in Medchester will be amazed.' And so they have been. I've
dropped a few hints during my speeches at the ward meetings lately, and
Mr. Brooks, though he's new at the work, did his best, and I can tell
you the result was a marvel. The hall was packed--simply packed. When
I rose to speak there wasn't an empty place or chair to be seen."

"Dear me!" Mrs. Bullsom remarked, affably. "Supper is quite ready, my
love."

Mr. Bullsom abandoned his position precipitately, and his face
expressed his lively satisfaction.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "I was hoping that you would have a bite for me.
As I said to Mr. Brooks when I asked him to drop in with me, there's
sure to be something to eat. And I can tell you I'm about ready for
it."

Brooks found an opportunity to speak almost for the first time. He was
standing between the two Misses Bullsom, and already they had approved
of him. He was distinctly of a different class from the casual visitors
whom their father was in the habit of introducing into the family
circle.

"Mr. Bullsom was kind enough to take pity on an unfortunate bachelor,"
he said, with a pleasant smile. "My landlady has few faults, but an
over-love of punctuality is one of them. By this time she and her
household are probably in bed. Our meeting lasted a long time."

"If you will touch the bell, Peter," Mrs. Bullsom remarked, "Ann shall
dish up the supper."

The young ladies exchanged shocked glances. "Dish up." What an
abominable phrase! They looked covertly at their guest, but his face
was imperturbable.

"We think that we have been very considerate, Mr. Brooks," Selina
remarked, with an engaging smile. "We gave up our usual dinner this
evening as papa had to leave so early."

Mr. Brooks smiled as he offered his arm to Mrs. Bullsom--a courtesy
which much embarrassed her.

"I think," he said, "that we shall be able to show you some practical
appreciation of your thoughtfulness. I know nothing so stimulating to
the appetite as politics, and to-day we have been so busy that I missed
even my afternoon tea."

"I'm sure that we are quite repaid for giving up our dinner," Selina
remarked, with a backward glance at the young man. "Oh, here you are at
last, Mary. I didn't hear you come in."

"My niece, Miss Scott," Mr. Bullsom announced. "Now you know all the
family."

A plainly-dressed girl with dark eyes and unusually pale cheeks returned
his greeting quietly, and followed them into the dining-room. Mrs.
Bullsom spread herself over her seat with a little sigh of relief.
Brooks gazed in silent wonder at the gilt-framed oleographs which hung
thick upon the walls, and Mr. Bullsom stood up to carve a joint of
beef.

"Plain fare, Mr. Brooks, for plain people," he remarked, gently
elevating the sirloin on his fork, and determining upon a point of
attack. "We don't understand frills here, but we've a welcome for our
friends, and a hearty one."

"If there is anything in the world better than roast beef," Brooks
remarked, unfolding his serviette, "I haven't found it."

"There's one thing," Mr. Bullsom remarked, pausing for a moment in his
labours, "I can give you a good glass of wine. Ann, I think that if you
look in the right-hand drawer of the sideboard you will find a bottle of
champagne. If not I'll have to go down into the cellar."

Ann, however, produced it--which, considering that Mr. Bullsom had
carefully placed it there a few hours ago, was not extraordinary--and
Brooks sipped the wine with inward tremors, justified by the result.

"I suppose, Mr. Brooks," Selina remarked, turning towards him in an
engaging fashion, "that you are a great politician. I see your name so
much in the papers."

Brooks smiled.

"My political career," he answered, "dates from yesterday morning. I am
taking Mr. Morrison's place, you know, as agent for Mr. Henslow. I
have never done anything of the sort before, and I have scarcely any
claims to be considered a politician at all."

"A very lucky change for us, Brooks," Mr. Bullsom declared, with the
burly familiarity which he considered justified by his position as
chairman of the Radical committee. "Poor Morrison was past the job. It
was partly through his muddling that we lost the seat at the last
election. I'd made up my mind to have a change this time, and so I told
'em."

Brooks was tired of politics, and he looked across the table. This
pale girl with the tired eyes and self-contained manner interested him.
The difference, too, between her and the rest of the family was
puzzling.

"I believe, Miss Scott," he said, "that I met you at the Stuarts'
dance."

"I was there," she admitted. "I don't think I danced with you, but we
had supper at the same table."

"I remember it perfectly," he said. "Wasn't it supposed to be a very
good dance?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I believe so," she answered. "There was the usual fault--too many
girls. But it was very pretty to watch."

"You do not care for dancing, yourself, perhaps?" he hazarded.

"Indeed I do," she declared. "But I knew scarcely any one there. I see
a good deal of Kate sometimes, but the others I scarcely know at all."

"You were in the same position as I was, then," he answered, smiling.

"Oh, you--you are different," she remarked. "I mean that you are a man,
and at a dance that means everything. That is why I rather dislike
dances. We are too dependent upon you. If you would only let us dance
alone."

Selina smiled in a superior manner. She would have given a good deal to
have been invited to the dance in question, but that was a matter which
she did not think it worth while to mention.

"My dear Mary!" she said, "what an idea. I am quite sure that when you
go out with us you need never have any difficulty about partners."

"Our programmes for the Liberal Club Dance and the County Cricket Ball
were full before we had been in the room five minutes," Louise
interposed.

Mary smiled inwardly, but said nothing, and Brooks was quite sure then
that she was different. He realized too that her teeth were perfect,
and her complexion, notwithstanding its pallor, was faultless. She
would have been strikingly good-looking but for her mouth, and that--was
it a discontented or a supercilious curl? At any rate it disappeared
when she smiled.

"May I ask whether you have been attending a political meeting this
evening, Miss Scott?" he asked. "You came in after us, I think."

She shook her head.

"No, I have a class on Wednesday evening."

"A class!" he repeated, doubtfully.

Mr. Bullsom, who thought he had been out of the conversation long
enough, interposed.

"Mary calls herself a bit of a philanthropist, you see, Mr. Brooks," he
explained. "Goes down into Medchester and teaches factory girls to play
the piano on Wednesday evenings. Much good may it do them."

There was a curious gleam in the girl's eyes for a moment which checked
the words on Brooks' lips, and led him to precipitately abandon the
conversation. But afterwards, while Selina was pedalling at the pianola
and playing havoc with the expression-stops, he crossed the room and
stood for a moment by her chair.

"I should like you to tell me about your class," he said. "I have
several myself--of different sorts."

She closed her magazine, but left her finger in the place.

"Oh, mine is a very unambitious undertaking," she said. "Kate Stuart
and I started it for the girls in her father's factory, and we aim at
nothing higher than an attempt to direct their taste in fiction. They
bring their Free Library lists to us, and we mark them together. Then
we all read one more serious book at the same time--history or
biography--and talk about it when we meet."

"It is an excellent idea," he said, earnestly. "By the bye, something
occurs to me. You know, or rather you don't know, that I give free
lectures on certain books or any simple literary subject on Wednesday
evenings at the Secular Hall when this electioneering isn't on.
Couldn't you bring your girls one evening? I would be guided in my
choice of a subject by you."

"Yes, I should like that," she answered, "and I think the girls would.
It is very good of you to suggest it."

Louise, with a great book under her arm, deposited her dumpy person in a
seat by his side, and looked up at him with a smile of engaging candour.

"Mr. Brooks," she said, "I am going to do a terrible thing. I am going
to show you some of my sketches and ask your opinion."

Brooks turned towards her without undue enthusiasm.

"It is very good of you, Miss Bullsom," he said, doubtfully; "but I
never drew a straight line in my life, and I know nothing whatever about
perspective. My opinion would be worse than worthless."

Louise giggled artlessly, and turned over the first few pages.

"You men all say that at first," she declared, "and then you turn out
such terrible critics. I declare I'm afraid to show them to you, after
all."

Brooks scarcely showed that desire to overcome her new resolution which
politeness demanded. But Selina came tripping across the room, and took
up her position on the other side of him.

"You must show them now you've brought them out, Louise," she declared.
"I am sure that Mr. Brooks' advice will be most valuable. But mind, if
you dare to show mine, I'll tear them into pieces."

"I wasn't going to, dear," Louise declared, a little tartly. "Shall I
begin at the beginning, Mr. Brooks, or--"

"Oh, don't show those first few, dear," Selina exclaimed. "You know
they're not nearly so good as some of the others. That mill is all out
of drawing."

Mary, who had been elbowed into the background, rose quietly and crossed
to the other end of the room. Brooks followed her for a moment with
regretful eyes. Her simple gown, with the little piece of ribbon around
her graceful neck, seemed almost distinguished by comparison with the
loud-patterned and dressier blouses of the two girls who had now hemmed
him in. For a moment he ignored the waiting pages.

"Your cousin," he remarked, "is quite unlike any of you. Has she been
with you long?"

Louise looked up a little tartly.

"Oh, about three years. You are quite right when you say that she is
unlike any of us. It doesn't seem nice to complain about her exactly,
but she really is terribly trying, isn't she, Selina?"

Selina nodded, and dropped her voice.

"She is getting worse," she declared. "She is becoming a positive
trouble to us."

Brooks endeavoured to look properly sympathetic, and considered himself
justified in pursuing the conversation. "Indeed! May I ask in what
way?"

"Oh, she has such old-fashioned ideas," Louise said, confidentially.
"I've quite lost patience with her, and so has Selina; haven't you,
dear? She never goes to parties if she can help it, she is positively
rude to all our friends, and the sarcastic things she says sometimes are
most unpleasant. You know, papa is very, very good to her."

"Yes, indeed," Selina interrupted. "You know, Mr. Brooks, she has no
father and mother, and she was living quite alone in London when papa
found her out and brought her here--and in the most abject poverty. I
believe he found her in a garret. Fancy that!"

"And now," Louise continued, "he allows her for her clothes exactly the
same as he does us--and look at her. Would you believe it, now? She is
like that nearly every evening, although we have friends dropping in
continually. Of course I don't believe in extravagance, but if a girl
has relations who are generous enough to give her the means, I do think
that, for their sake, she ought to dress properly. I think that she
owes it to them, as well as to herself."

"And out of doors it is positively worse," Selina whispered,
impressively. "I declare," she added, with a simper, "that although
nobody can say that I am proud, there are times when I am positively
ashamed to be seen out with her. What she does with her money I can't
imagine."

Brooks, who was something of a critic in such matters, and had
recognized the art of her severely simple gown, smiled to himself. He
was wise enough, however, not to commit himself.

"Perhaps," he suggested, "she thinks that absolute simplicity suits her
best. She has a nice figure."

Selina tossed her much-beaded slipper impatiently.

"Heaven only knows what Mary does think," she exclaimed, impatiently.

"And Heaven only knows what I am to say about these," Brooks groaned
inwardly, as the sketch-book fell open before him at last, and its
contents were revealed to his astonished eyes.



CHAPTER III

KINGSTON BROOKS HAS A VISITOR

Kingston Brooks was twenty-five years old, strong, nervous, and with a
strenuous desire to make his way so far as was humanly possible into the
heart of life. He was a young solicitor recently established in
Medchester, without friends save those he was now making, and absolutely
without interest of any sort. He had a small capital, and already the
beginnings of a practice. He had some sort of a reputation as a
speaker, and was well spoken of by those who had entrusted business to
him. Yet he was still fighting for a living when this piece of luck had
befallen him. Mr. Bullsom had entrusted a small case to him, and found
him capable and cheap. Amongst that worthy gentleman's chief
characteristics was a decided weakness for patronizing younger and less
successful men, and he went everywhere with Kingston Brooks' name on his
lips. Then came the election, and the sudden illness of Mr. Morrison,
who had always acted as agent for the Radical candidates for the
borough. Another agent had to be found. Several who would have been
suitable were unavailable. An urgent committee meeting was held, and
Mr. Bullsom at once called attention to an excellent little speech of
Kingston Brooks' at a ward meeting on the previous night. In an hour he
was closeted with the young lawyer, and the affair was settled. Brooks
knew that henceforth the material side of his career would be
comparatively easy sailing.

He had accepted his good fortune with something of the same cheerful
philosophy with which he had seen difficulty loom up in his path a few
months ago. But to-night, on his way home from Mr. Bullsom's suburban
residence, a different mood possessed him. Usually a self-contained and
somewhat gravely minded person, to-night the blood went tingling through
his veins with a new and unaccustomed warmth. He carried himself
blithely, the cool night air was so grateful and sweet to him that he
had no mind even to smoke. There seemed to be no tangible reason for
the change. The political excitement, which a few weeks ago he had
begun to feel exhilarating, had for him decreased now that his share in
it lay behind the scenes, and he found himself wholly occupied with the
purely routine work of the election. Nor was there any sufficient
explanation to be found in the entertainment which he had felt himself
bound to accept at Mr. Bullsom's hands. Of the wine, which had been
only tolerable, he had drunk, as was his custom, sparingly, and of Mary
Scott, who had certainly interested him in a manner which the rest of
the family had not, he had after all seen but very little. He found
himself thinking with fervor of the desirable things in life, never had
the various tasks which he had set himself seemed so easy an
accomplishment, his own powers more real and alive. And beneath it all
he was conscious of a vague sense of excitement, a nervous dancing of
the blood, as though even now the time were at hand when he might find
himself in touch with some of the greater forces of life, all of which
he intended some day to realize. It was delightful after all to be
young and strong, to be stripped for the race in the morning of life,
when every indrawn breath seems sweet with the perfume of beautiful
things, and the heart is tuned to music.

The fatigue of the day was wholly forgotten. He was surprised indeed
when he found himself in the little street where his rooms were. A
small brougham was standing at the corner, the liveries and horse of
which, though quiet enough, caused him a moment's surprise as being
superior to the ordinary equipages of the neighborhood. He passed on
to the sober-fronted house where he lived, and entering with his
latch-key made his way to his study. Immediately he entered he was
conscious of a man comfortably seated in his easy-chair, and apparently
engrossed in a magazine.

He advanced towards him inquiringly, and his visitor, carefully setting
down the magazine, rose slowly to his feet. The young man's surprise at
finding his rooms occupied was increased by the appearance of his
visitor. He was apparently of more than middle age, with deeply-lined
face, tall, and with an expression the coldness of which was only
slightly mitigated by a sensitive mouth that seemed at once cynical and
humorous. He was of more than ordinary height, and dressed in the
plainest dinner garb of the day, but his dinner jacket, his black tie
and the set of his shirt were revelations to Brooks, who dealt only
with the Medchester tradespeople. He did not hold out his hand, but he
eyed Brooks with a sort of critical survey, which the latter found a
little disconcerting.

"You wished to see me, sir?" Brooks asked. "My name is Kingston Brooks,
and these are my rooms."

"So I understood," the new-comer replied imperturbably. "I called about
an hour ago, and took the liberty of awaiting your return."

Brooks sat down. His vis-a-vis was calmly selecting a cigarette from a
capacious case. Brooks found himself offering a light and accepting a
cigarette himself, the flavour of which he at once appreciated.

"Can I offer you a whisky-and-soda?" he inquired.

"I thank you, no," was the quiet reply.

There was a short pause.

"You wished to see me on some business connected with the election, no
doubt?" Brooks suggested.

His visitor shook his head slowly. He knocked the ash from his
cigarette and smiled whimsically.

"My dear fellow," he said, "I haven't the least idea why I came to see
you this evening."

Brooks felt that he had a right to be puzzled, and he looked it. But
his visitor was so evidently a gentleman and a person of account, that
the obvious rejoinder did not occur to him. He merely waited with
uplifted eyebrows.

"Not the least idea," his visitor repeated, still smiling. "But at the
same time I fancy that before I leave you I shall find myself
explaining, or endeavouring to explain, not why I am here, but why I
have not visited you before. What do you think of that?"

"I find it," Brooks answered, "enigmatic but interesting."

"Exactly. Well, I hate talking, so my explanation will not be a tedious
one. Your name is Kingston Brooks."

"Yes."

"Your mother's name was Dorothy Kenneir. She was, before her marriage,
the matron of a home in the East End of London, and a lady devoted to
philanthropic work. Your father was a police-court missionary."

Brooks was leaning a little forward in his chair. These things were
true enough. Who was his visitor?

"Your father, through over-devotion to the philanthropic works in which
he was engaged, lost his reason temporarily, and on his partial recovery
I understand that the doctors considered him still to be mentally in a
very weak state. They ordered him a sea voyage. He left England on the
Corinthia fifteen years ago, and I believe that you heard nothing more
of him until you received the news of his death--probably ten years
back."

"Yes! Ten years ago.

"Your mother, I think, lived for only a few months after your father
left England. You found a guardian in Mr. Ascough of Lincoln's Inn
Fields. There my knowledge of your history ceases.

"How do you know these things?" Brooks asked.

"I was with your father when he died. It was I who wrote to you and
sent his effects to England."

"You were there--in Canada?"

"Yes. I had a dwelling within a dozen miles of where your father had
built his hut by the side of the great lake. He was the only other
Englishman within a hundred miles. So I was with him often."

"It is wonderful--after all these years," Brooks exclaimed. "You were
there for sport, of course?"

"For sport!" his visitor repeated in a colourless tone.

"But my father--what led him there? Why did he cut himself off from
every one, send no word home, creep away into that lone country to die
by himself? It is horrible to think of."

"Your father was not a communicative man. He spoke of his illness. I
always considered him as a person mentally shattered. He spent his days
alone, looking out across the lake or wandering in the woods. He had no
companions, of course, but there were always animals around him. He had
the look of a man who had suffered."

"He was to have gone to Australia," Brooks said. "It was from there
that we expected news from him. I cannot see what possible reason he
had for changing his plans. There was no mystery about his life in
London. It was one splendid record of self-denial and devotion to what
he thought his duty."

"From what he told me," his vis-a-vis continued, handing again his
cigarette-case, and looking steadily into the fire, "he seems to have
left England with the secret determination never to return. But why I
do not know. One thing is certain. His mental state was not altogether
healthy. His desire for solitude was almost a passion. Towards the
end, however, his mind was clear enough. He told me about your mother
and you, and he handed me all the papers, which I subsequently sent to
London. He spoke of no trouble, and his transition was quite peaceful."

"It was a cruel ending," Brooks said, quietly. "There were people in
London whom he had befriended who would have worked their passage out
and faced any hardships to be with him. And my mother, notwithstanding
his desertion, believed in him to the last."

There was a moment's intense silence. This visitor who had come so
strangely was to all appearance a man not easily to be moved. Yet
Brooks fancied that the long white fingers were trembling, and that the
strange quiet of his features was one of intense self-repression. His
tone when he spoke again, however, was clear, and almost indifferent.

"I feel," he said, "that it would have been only decently courteous of
me to have sought you out before, although I have, as you see, nothing
whatever to add to the communications I sent you. But I have not been a
very long time in England, and I have a very evil habit of putting off
things concerning which there is no urgency. I called at Ascough's, and
learned that you were in practice in Medchester. I am now living for a
short time not far from here, and reading of the election, I drove in
to-night to attend one of the meetings--I scarcely cared which. I heard
your name, saw you on the platform, and called here, hoping to find
you."

"It was very kind," Brooks said.

He felt curiously tongue-tied. This sudden upheaval of a past which he
had never properly understood affected him strangely.

"I gathered from Mr. Ascough that you were left sufficient means to pay
for your education, and also to start you in life," his visitor
continued. "Yours is considered to be an overcrowded profession, but I
am glad to understand that you seem likely to make your way."

Brooks thanked him absently.

"From your position on the platform to-night I gather that you are a
politician?"

"Scarcely that," Brooks answered. "I was fortunate enough to be
appointed agent to Mr. Henslow owing to the illness of another man. It
will help me in my profession."

The visitor rose to his feet. He stood with his hands behind him,
looking at the younger man. And Brooks suddenly remembered that he did
not even know his name.

"You will forgive me," he said, also rising, "if I have seemed a little
dazed. I am very grateful to you for coming. I have always wanted more
than anything in the world to meet some one who saw my father after he
left England. There is so much which even now seems mysterious with
regard to his disappearance from the world."

"I fear that you will never discover more than you have done from me,"
was the quiet reply. "Your father had been living for years in profound
solitude when I found him. Frankly, I considered from the first that
his mind was unhinged. Therein I fancy lies the whole explanation of
his silence and his voluntary disappearance. I am assuming, of course,
that there was nothing in England to make his absence desirable."

"There was nothing," Brooks declared with conviction. "That I can
personally vouch for. His life as a police-court missionary was the
life of a militant martyr's, the life of a saint. The urgent advice of
his physicians alone led him to embark upon that voyage; I see now that
it was a mistake. He left before he had sufficiently recovered to be
safely trusted alone. By the bye," Brooks continued, after a moment's
hesitation, "you have not told me your name, whom I have to thank for
this kindness. Your letters from Canada were not signed."

There was a short silence. From outside came the sound of the pawing
of horses' feet and the jingling of harness.

"I was a fellow-traveller in that great unpeopled world," the visitor
said, "and there was nothing but common humanity in anything I did. I
lived out there as Philip Ferringshaw, here I have to add my title, the
Marquis of Arranmore. I was a younger son in those days. If there is
anything which I have forgotten, I am at Enton for a month or so. It is
an easy walk from Medchester, if your clients can spare you for an
afternoon. Good-night, Mr. Brooks."

He held out his hand. He was sleepy apparently, for his voice had
become almost a drawl, and he stifled a yawn as he passed along the
little passage. Kingston Brooks returned to his little room, and threw
himself back into his easy-chair. Truly this had been a wonderful day.



CHAPTER IV

A QUESTION FOR THE COUNTRY

For the first time in many years it seemed certain that the
Conservatives had lost their hold upon the country. The times were ripe
for a change of any sort. An ill-conducted and ruinous war had drained
the empire of its surplus wealth, and every known industry was suffering
from an almost paralyzing depression--Medchester, perhaps, as severely
as any town in the United Kingdom. Its staple manufactures were being
imported from the States and elsewhere at prices which the local
manufacturers declared to be ruinous. Many of the largest factories
were standing idle, a great majority of the remainder were being worked
at half or three-quarters time. Thoughtful men, looking ten years
ahead, saw the cloud, which even now was threatening enough, grow
blacker and blacker, and shuddered at the thought of the tempest which
before long must break over the land. Meanwhile, the streets were
filled with unemployed, whose demeanour day by day grew less and less
pacific. People asked one another helplessly what was being done to
avert the threatened crisis. The manufacturers, openly threatened by
their discharged employees, and cajoled by others higher in authority and
by public opinion, still pronounced themselves helpless to move without
the aid of legislation. For the first time for years Protection was
openly spoken of from a political platform.

Henslow, a shrewd man and a politician of some years' standing, was one
of the first to read the signs of the times, and rightly to appreciate
them. He had just returned from a lengthened visit to the United
States, and what he had seen there he kept at first very much to
himself. But at a small committee meeting held when his election was
still a matter of doubt, he unbosomed himself at last to some effect.

"The vote we want," he said, "is the vote of those people who are losing
their bread, and who see ruin and starvation coming in upon them. I
mean the middle-class manufacturers and the operatives who are dependent
upon them. I tell you where I think that as a nation we are going
wrong. We fixed once upon a great principle, and we nailed it to our
mast--for all time. That is a mistake. Absolute Free Trade, such as is
at present our national policy, was a magnificent principle in the days
of Cobden--but the times have changed. We must change with them. That
is where the typical Englishman fails. It is a matter of temperament.
He is too slow to adapt himself to changing circumstances."

There was a moment's silence. These were ominous words. Every one felt
that they were not lightly spoken. Henslow had more behind. A
prominent manufacturer, Harrison by name, interposed from his place.

"You are aware, Mr. Henslow," he said, "that many a man has lost an
assured seat for a more guarded speech than that. For generations even
a whisper of the sort has been counted heresy--especially from our
party."

"Maybe," Henslow answered, "but I am reminded of this, Mr. Harrison.
The pioneers of every great social change have suffered throughout the
whole of history, but the man who has selected the proper moment and
struck hard, has never failed to win his reward. Now I am no novice in
politics, and I am going to make a prophecy. Years ago the two
political parties were readjusted on the Irish question. Every election
which was fought was simply on these lines--it was upon the principle of
Home Rule for Ireland, and the severance of that country from the United
Kingdom, or the maintenance of the Union. Good! Now, in more recent
times, the South African war and the realization of what our Colonies
could do for us has introduced a new factor. Those who have believed in
a doctrine of expansion have called themselves 'Imperialists,' and those
who have favoured less wide-reaching ideals, and perhaps more attention
to home matters, have been christened 'Little Englanders.' Many
elections have been fought out on these lines, if not between two men
absolutely at variance with one another on this question, still on the
matter of degree. Now, I am going to prophesy. I say that the next
readjustment of Parties, and the time is not far ahead, will be on the
tariff question, and I believe that the controversy on this matter, when
once the country has laid hold of it, will be the greatest political
event of this century. Listen, gentlemen. I do not speak without
having given this question careful and anxious thought, and I tell you
that I can see it coming."

The committee meeting broke up at a late hour in the afternoon amidst
some excitement, and Mr. Bullsom walked back to his office with Brooks.
A fine rain was falling, and the two men were close together under one
umbrella.

"What do you think of it, Brooks?" Bullsom asked anxiously.

"To tell you the truth, I scarcely know," the younger answered. "Ten
years ago there could have been but one answer--to-day--well, look
there."

The two men stood still for a moment. They were in the centre of the
town, at a spot from which the main thoroughfares radiated into the
suburbs and manufacturing centres. Everywhere the pavements and the
open space where a memorial tower stood were crowded with loiterers.
Men in long lines stood upon the kerbstones, their hands in their
pockets, watching, waiting--God knows for what. There were all sorts,
of course, the professional idlers and the drunkard were there, but the
others--there was no lack of them. There was no lack of men,
white-faced, dull-eyed, dejected, some of them actually with the brand of
starvation to be seen in their sunken cheeks and wasted limbs. No
wonder that the swing-doors of the public-houses, where there was light
and warmth inside, opened and shut continually.

"Look," Brooks repeated, with a tremor in his tone. "There are
thousands and thousands of them--and all of them must have some sort of
a home to go to. Fancy it--one's womankind, perhaps children--and
nothing to take home to them. It's such an old story, that it sounds
hackneyed and commonplace. But God knows there's no other tragedy on
His earth like it."

Mr. Bullsom was uncomfortable.

"I've given a hundred pounds to the Unemployed Fund," he said.

"It's money well spent if it had been a thousand," Brooks answered.
"Some day they may learn their strength, and they will not suffer then,
like brute animals, in silence. Look here. I'm going to speak to one
of them."

He touched a tall youth on the shoulder. "Out of work, my lad?" he
asked. The youth turned surlily round. "Yes. Looks like it, don't
it?"

"What are you?" Brooks asked.

"Clicker."

"Why did you leave your last place?"

"Gaffer said he's no more orders--couldn't keep us on. The shop's shut
up. Know of a job, guv'nor?" he asked, with a momentary eagerness.
"I've two characters in my pocket--good 'uns."

"You've tried to get a place elsewhere?" Brooks asked.

"Tried? D'ye suppose I'm standing here for fun? I've tramped the
blessed town. I went to thirty factories yesterday, and forty to-day.
Know of a job, guv'nor? I'm not particular."

"I wish I did," Brooks answered, simply. "Here's half-a-crown. Go to
that coffee-palace over there and get a meal. It's all I can do for
you."

"Good for you, guv'nor," was the prompt answer. "I can treat my brother
on that. Here, Ned," he caught hold of a younger boy by the shoulder,
"hot coffee and eggs, you sinner. Come on."

The two scurried off together. Brooks and his companion passed on.

"It is just this," Brooks said, in a low tone, "just the thought of
these people makes me afraid, positively afraid to argue with Henslow.
You see--he may be right. I tell you that in a healthily-governed
country there should be work for every man who is able and willing to
work. And in England there isn't. Free Trade works out all right
logically, but it's one thing to see it all on paper, and it's another
to see this--here around us--and Medchester isn't the worst off by any
means."

Bullsom was silent for several moments.

"I tell you what it is, Brooks," he said. "I'll send another hundred to
the Unemployed Fund to-night."

"It's generous of you, Mr. Bullsom," the young lawyer answered.
"You'll never regret it. But look here. There's a greater
responsibility even than feeding these poor fellows resting upon us
to-day. They don't want our charity. They've an equal right to live
with us. What they want, and what they have a right to, is just
legislation. That's where we come in. Politics isn't a huge joke, or
the vehicle for any one man's personal ambition. We who interest
ourselves, however remotely, in them, impose upon ourselves a great
obligation. We've got to find the truth. That's why I hesitate to say
anything against Henslow's new departure. We're off the track now. I
want to hear all that Henslow has to say. We must not neglect a single
chance whilst that terrible cry is ever in our ears."

They parted at the tram terminus, Mr. Bullsom taking a car for his
suburban paradise. As usual, he was the centre of a little group of
acquaintances.

"And how goes the election, Bullsom?" some one asked him.

Mr. Bullsom was in no hurry to answer the question. He glanced round
the car, collecting the attention of those who might be supposed
interested.

"I will answer that question better," he said, "after the mass meeting
on Saturday night. I think that Henslow's success or failure will
depend on that."

"Got something up your sleeve, eh?" his first questioner remarked.

"Maybe," Mr. Bullsom answered. "Maybe not. But apart from the
immediate matter of this election, I can tell you one thing, gentlemen,
which may interest you."

He paused. One thumb stole towards the armhole of his waistcoat. He
liked to see these nightly companions of his hang upon his words. It
was a proper and gratifying tribute to his success as a man of affairs.

"I have just left," he said, "our future Member."

The significance of his speech was not immediately apparent.

"Henslow! Oh, yes. Committee meeting this afternoon, wasn't it?" some
one remarked.

"I do not mean Henslow," Mr. Bullsom replied. "I mean Kingston
Brooks."

The desired sensation was apparent.

"Why, he's your new agent, isn't he?"

"Young fellow who plays cricket rather well."

"Great golfer, they say!"

"Makes a good speech, some one was saying."

"Gives free lectures at the Secular Hall." "Rather a smart young
solicitor, they say!"

Mr. Bullsom looked around him.

"He is all these things, and he does all these things. He is one of
these youngsters who has the knack of doing everything well. Mark my
words, all of you. I gave him his first case of any importance, and I
got him this job as agent for Henslow. He's bound to rise. He's
ambitious, and he's got the brains. He'll be M.P. for this borough
before we know where we are."

Half-a-dozen men of more or less importance made a mental note to nod to
Kingston Brooks next time they saw him, and Mr. Bullsom trudged up his
avenue with fresh schemes maturing in his mind. In the domestic circle
he further unburdened himself.

"Mrs. Bullsom," he said, "I am thinking of giving a dinner-party. How
many people do we know better than ourselves?"

Mrs. Bullsom was aghast, and the young ladies, Selina and Louise, who
were in the room, were indignant.

"Really, papa," Selina exclaimed, "what do you mean?"

"What I say," he answered, gruffly. "We're plain people, your mother
and I, at any rate, and when you come to reckon things up, I suppose
you'll admit that we're not much in the social way. There's plenty of
people living round us in a sight smaller houses who don't know us, and
wouldn't if they could--and I'm not so sure that it's altogether the
fault of your father and mother either, Selina," he added, breaking
ruthlessly in upon a sotto-voce remark of that young lady's.

"Well, I never!" Selina exclaimed, tossing her head.

"Come, come, I don't want no sauce from you girls," he added, drifting
towards the fireplace, and adopting a more assured tone as he reached
his favourite position. "I've reasons for wishing to have Mr. Kingston
Brooks here, and I'd like him to meet gentlefolk. Now, there's the
Vicar and his wife. Do you suppose they'd come?"

"Well, I should like to know why not," Mrs. Bullsom remarked, laying
down her knitting, "when it's only three weeks ago you sent him ten
guineas for the curates' fund. Come indeed! They'd better."

"Then there's Dr. Seventon," Mr. Bullsom continued, "and his wife.
Better drop him a line and tell him to look in and see me at the office.
I can invent something the matter with me, and I'd best drop him a hint.
They say Mrs. Seventon is exclusive. But I'll just let him know she's
got to come. Now, who else, girls?"

"The Huntingdons might come--if they knew that it was this sort of an
affair," Selina remarked, thoughtfully.

"And Mr. Seaton," Louise added. "I'm sure he's most gentlemanly."

"I don't want gentlemanly people this time," Mr. Bullsom declared, "I
want gentle-people. That's all there is about it. I let you ask who
you like to the house, and give you what you want for subscriptions and
clothes and such-like. You've had a free 'and. Now let's see something
for it. Half-a-dozen couples'll be enough if you can't get more, but I
Won't have the Nortons, or the Marvises, or any of that podgy set. You
understand that? And, first of all, you, Selina, had better write to
Mr. Brooks and ask him to dine with us in a friendly way one night the
week after next, when the election is over and done with."

"In a friendly way, pa?" Selina repeated, doubtfully. "But we can't ask
these other people whom we know so slightly like that--and, besides, Mr.
Brooks might not dress if we put it like that."

"A nice lot you know about gentle-people and their ways," Mr. Bullsom
remarked, with scorn. "A young fellow like Brooks would tog himself out
for dinner all right even if we were alone, as long as there were ladies
there. And as for the dinner, you don't suppose I'm such a mug as to
leave that to Ann. I shall go to the Queen's Hotel, and have 'em send a
cook and waiters, and run the whole show. Don't know that I shan't send
to London. You get the people! I'll feed 'em!"

"Do as your father says, Selina," Mrs. Bullsom said, mildly. "I'm sure
he's very considerate."

"Where's Mary?" Mr. Bullsom inquired. "This is a bit in her line."

Selina tossed her head.

"I'm sure I don't know why you should say that, papa," she declared.
"Mary knows nothing about society, and she has no friends who would be
the least use to us."

"Where is she, anyway?" Mr. Bullsom demanded. No one knew. As a matter
of fact she was having tea with Kingston Brooks.



CHAPTER V

THE MARQUIS OF ARRANMORE

They had met almost on the steps of his office, and only a few minutes
after he had left Mr. Bullsom. Brooks was attracted first by a certain
sense of familiarity with the trim, well-balanced figure, and
immediately afterwards she raised her eyes to his in passing. He
wheeled sharply round, and held out his hand.

"Miss Scott, isn't it? Do you know I have just left your uncle?"

She smiled a little absently. She looked tired, and her boots and skirt
were splashed as though with much walking.

"Indeed! I suppose you see a good deal of him just now while the
election is on?"

"I must make myself a perfect nuisance to him," Brooks admitted. "You
see the work is all new to me, and he has been through it many times
before. Are you just going home?"

She nodded.

"I have been out since two o'clock," she said.

"And you are almost wet through, and quite tired out," he said. "Look
here. Come across to Mellor's and have some tea with me, and I will put
you in a car afterwards."

She hesitated--and he led the way across the Street, giving her no
opportunity to frame a refusal. The little tea-place was warm and cosy.
He found a comfortable corner, and took her wet umbrella and cape away.

"I believe," he said, sitting down opposite her, "that I have saved your
life."

"Then I am not sure," she answered, "that I feel grateful to you. I
ought to have warned you that I am not in the least likely to be a
cheerful companion. I have had a most depressing afternoon."

"You have been to your tailor's," he suggested, "and your new gown is a
failure--or is it even worse than that?"

She laughed dubiously. Then the tea was brought, and for a moment their
conversation was interrupted. He thought her very graceful as she bent
forward and busied herself attending to his wants. Her affinity to
Selina and Louise was undistinguishable. It was true that she was pale,
but it was the pallor of refinement, the student's absence of colour
rather than the pallor of ill-health.

"Mr. Brooks," she said, presently, "you are busy with this election,
and you are brought constantly into touch with all classes of people.
Can you tell me why it is that it is so hard just now for poor people to
get work? Is it true, what they tell me, that many of the factories in
Medchester are closed, and many of those that are open are only working
half and three-quarter time?"

"I am afraid that it is quite true, Miss Scott," he answered. "As for
the first part of your question, it is very hard to answer. There seem
to be so many causes at work just now.

"But it is the work of the politician surely to analyze these causes.

"It should be," he answered. "Tell me what has brought this into your
mind."

"Some of the girls in our class," she said, "are out of work, and those
who have anything to do seem to be working themselves almost to death to
keep their parents or somebody dependent upon them. Two of them I am
anxious about. I have been trying to find them this afternoon. I have
heard things, Mr. Brooks, which have made me ashamed--sick at
heart--ashamed to go home and think how we live, while they die. And
these girls--they have known so much misery. I am afraid of what may
happen to them."

"These girls are mostly boot and shoe machinists, are they not?"

"Yes. But even Mr. Stuart says that he cannot find them work."

"It is only this afternoon that we have all been discussing this
matter," he said, gravely. "It is serious enough, God knows. The
manufacturer tells us that he is suffering from American
competition--here and in the Colonies. He tells us that the workpeople
themselves are largely to blame, that their trades unions restrict them
to such an extent that he is hopelessly handicapped from the start. But
there are other causes. There is a terrible wave of depression all
through the country. The working classes have no money to spend. Every
industry is flagging, and every industry seems threatened with
competition from abroad. Do you understand the principles of Free Trade
at all?"

"Not in the least. I wish I did."

"Some day we must have a talk about it. Henslow has made a very daring
suggestion to-day. He has given us all plenty to think about. We are
all agreed upon one thing. The crisis is fast approaching, and it must
be faced. These people have the right to live, and they have the right
to demand that legislation should interfere on their behalf."

She sighed.

"It is a comfort to hear you talk like this," she said. "To me it seems
almost maddening to see so much suffering, so many people suffering, not
only physically, but being dragged down into a lower moral state by
sheer force of circumstances and their surroundings, and all the time we
educated people go on our way and live our lives, as though nothing were
happening--as though we had no responsibility whatever for the holocaust
of misery at our doors. So few people stop to think. They won't
understand. It is so easy to put things behind one."

"Come," he said, cheerfully, "you and I, at least, are not amongst
those. And there is a certain duty which we owe to ourselves, too, as
well as to others--to look upon the brighter side of things. Let us
talk about something less depressing."

"You shall tell me," she suggested, "who is going to win the election."

"Henslow!" he answered, promptly.

"Owing, I suppose--"

"To his agent, of course. You may laugh, Miss Scott, but I can assure
you that my duties are no sinecure. I never knew what work was before."

"Too much work," she said, "is better than too little. After all, more
people die of the latter than the former."

"Nature meant me," he said, "for a hazy man. I have all the
qualifications for a first-class idler. And circumstances and the
misfortune of my opinions are going to keep me going at express speed
all my life. I can see it coming. Sometimes it makes me shudder."

"You are too young," she remarked, "to shrink from work. I have no
sympathy to offer you."

"I begin to fear, Miss Scott," he said, "that you are not what is called
sympathetic."

She smiled--and the smile broke into a laugh, as though some transient
idea rather than his words had pleased her.

"You should apply to my cousin Selina for that," she said. "Every one
calls her most delightfully sympathetic."

"Sympathy," he remarked, "is either a heaven-sent joy--or a bore. It
depends upon the individual."

"That is either enigmatical or rude," she answered. "But, after all,
you don't know Selina."

"Why not?" he asked. "I have talked with her as long as with you--and I
feel that I know you quite well."

"I can't be responsible for your feelings," she said, a little
brusquely, "but I'm quite sure that I don't know you well enough to be
sitting here at tea with you even."

"I won't admit that," he answered, "but it was very nice of you to come.

"The fact of it was," she admitted, "my headache and appetite were
stronger than my sense of the conventions. Now that the former are
dissipated the latter are beginning to assert themselves. And so--"

She began to draw on her gloves. Just then a carriage with postilions
and ladies with luggage came clattering up the street. She watched it
with darkening face.

"That is the sort of man I detest," she said, motioning her head towards
the window. "You know whose carriage it is, don't you?"

He shook his head.

"No, I did not know that any one round here drove with positions."

"It is the Marquis of Arranmore. He has a place at Enton, I believe,
but he is only here for a few months in the year."

Brooks started and leaned eagerly forward.

"Why do you hate him?" he asked. "What has he done?"

"Didn't you hear how he treated the Mayor when he went out for a
subscription to the Unemployed Fund?"

Brooks shook his head.

"No! I have heard nothing."

"Poor old Mr. Wensome went out all that way purposely to see him. He
was kept waiting an hour, and then when he explained his errand the
Marquis laughed at him. 'My dear fellow,' he said, 'the poor people of
Medchester do not interest me in the least. I do not go to the people
who are better off than I am and ask them to help support me, nor do I
see the least reason why those who are worse off than I am should expect
me to support them.' Mr. Wensome tried to appeal to his humanity, and
the brute only continued to laugh in a cynical way. He declared that
poor people did not interest him. His tenants he was prepared to look
after--outside his own property he didn't care a snap of the fingers
whether people lived or died. Mr. Wensome said it was perfectly awful
to hear him talk, and he came away without a penny. Yet his property in
this country alone is worth fifty thousand a year.

"It is very surprising," Brooks said, thoughtfully. "The more
surprising because I know of a kind action which he once did."

"Sh! they're coming here!" she exclaimed. "That is the Marquis."

The omnibus had pulled up outside. A tall footman threw open the door,
and held an umbrella over the two ladies who had descended. The Marquis
and two other men followed. They trooped into the little place,
bringing with them a strange flavour of another world. The women wore
wonderful furs, and one who had ermine around her neck wore a great
bunch of Neapolitan violets, whose perfume seemed to fill the room.

"This is a delightful idea," the taller one said, turning towards her
host. "An eight-mile drive before tea sounded appalling. Where shall
we sit, and may we have muffins?"

"There is nothing about your youth, Lady Sybil, which I envy more than
your digestion," he answered, motioning them towards a table. "To be
able to eat muffins with plenty of butter would be unalloyed bliss.
Nevertheless, you shall have them. No one has ever called me selfish.
Let us have tea, and toast, and bread-and-butter and cakes, and a great
many muffins, please, young lady," he ordered. "And will you send out
some tea to my servants, please? It will save them from trying to
obtain drinks from the hotel next door, and ensure us a safe drive
home."

"And don't forget to send out for that pack of cards, Arranmore," the
elder lady said. "We are going to play bridge driving home with that
wonderful little electric lamp of yours.

"I will not forget," he promised. "We are to be partners, you know."

He was on the point of sitting down when he saw Brooks at the next
table. He held out his hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Brooks?" he said. "I am glad to see that you are
going to get your man in.

"Thank you," Brooks answered, rising and waiting for his companion, who
was buttoning her gloves. "I was afraid that your sympathies would be
on the other side."

"Dear me, no," the Marquis answered. "My enemies would tell you that I
have neither sympathy nor politics, but I assure you that at heart I am
a most devout Radical. I have a vote, too, and you may count upon me.

"I am very glad to hear it," Brooks answered. "Shall I put you down on
the list 'to be fetched'?"

The Marquis laughed.

"I'll come without," he declared. "I promise. Just remind me of the
day."

He glanced towards Mary Scott, and for a moment seemed about to include
her in some forthcoming remark. But whatever it might have been--it was
never made. She kept her eyes averted, and though her self-possession
was absolutely unruffled she hastened her departure. "I am not hurrying
you, Mr. Brooks?" she asked. "Not in the least," he assured her.

He raised his hat to the Marquis and his party, and the former nodded
good-humouredly. There was silence until the two were in the street.
Then one of the men who had been looking after them dropped his
eye-glass.

"I tell you what," he said to his vis-a-vis. "There's some chance for
us in Medchester after all. I don't believe Arranmore is popular
amongst the ladies of his own neighbourhood."

The Marquis laughed softly.

"She has a nice face," he remarked, "and I should imagine excellent
perceptions. Curiously enough, too, she reminded me of some one who has
every reason to hate me. But to the best of my belief I never saw her
before in my life. Lady Caroom, that weird-looking object in front of
you is a teapot--and those are teacups. May I suggest a use for them?"



CHAPTER VI

THE MAN WHO WENT TO HELL

The Hon. Sydney Chester Molyneux stood with his cue in one hand, and an
open telegram in the other, in the billiard-room at Enton. He was
visibly annoyed.

"Beastly hard luck," he declared. "Parliament is a shocking grind
anyway. It isn't that one ever does anything, you know, but one wastes
such a lot of time when one might have been doing something worth
while."

"Do repeat that, Sydney," Lady Caroom begged, laying down her novel for
a moment. "It really sounds as though it ought to mean something."

"I couldn't!" he admitted. "I wish to cultivate a reputation for
originality, and my first object is to forget everything I have said
directly I have said it, in case I should repeat myself."

"A short memory," Arranmore remarked, "is a politician's most valuable
possession, isn't it?"

"No memory at all is better," Molyneux answered.

"And your telegram?" Lady Caroom asked.

"Is from my indefatigable uncle," Molyneux groaned. "He insists upon it
that I interest myself in the election here, which means that I must go
in to-morrow and call upon Rochester."

The younger girl looked up from her chair, and laughed softly.

"You will have to speak for him," she said. "How interesting! We will
all come in and hear you."

Molyneux missed an easy cannon, and laid down his cue with an aggrieved
air.

"It is all very well for you," he remarked, dismally, "but it is a
horrible grind for me. I have just succeeded in forgetting all that we
did last session, and our programme for next. Now I've got to wade
through it all. I wonder why on earth Providence selected for me an
uncle who thinks it worth while to be a Cabinet Minister?"

Sybil Caroom shrugged her shoulders.

"I wonder why on earth," she remarked, "any constituency thinks it worth
while to be represented by such a politician as you. How did you get
in, Sydney?"

"Don't know," he answered. "I was on the right side, and I talked the
usual rot."

"For myself," she said, "I like a politician who is in earnest. They
are more amusing, and more impressive in every way. Who was the young
man you spoke to in that little place where we had tea?" she asked her
host.

"His name is Kingston Brooks," Arranmore answered. "He is the agent for
Henslow, the Radical candidate."

"Well, I liked him," she said. "If I had a vote I would let him convert
me to Radicalism. I am sure that he could do it."

"He shall try--if you like," Arranmore remarked.

I am going to ask him to shoot one day."

"I am delighted to hear it," the girl answered. "I think he would be a
wholesome change. You are all too flippant here."

The door opened. Mr. Hennibul, K.C., inserted his head and shoulders.

"I have been to look at Arranmore's golf-links," he remarked. "They are
quite decent. Will some one come and play a round?"

"I will come," Sybil declared, putting down her book.

"And I," Molyneux joined in. "Hennibul can play our best ball."

Lady Caroom and her host were left alone. He came over to her side.

"What can I do to entertain your ladyship?" he asked, lightly. "Will
you play billiards, walk or drive? There is an hour before lunch which
must be charmed away."

"I am not energetic," she declared. "I ought to walk for the sake of my
figure. I'm getting shockingly stout. Marie made me promise to walk a
mile to-day. But I'm feeling deliciously lazy."

"/Embonpoint/ is the fashion," he remarked, "and you are inches short of
even that yet. Come and sit in the study while I write some letters."
She held out her hands.

"Pull me up, then! I am much too comfortable to move unaided."

She sprang to her feet lightly enough, and for a moment he kept her
hands, which rested willingly enough in his. They looked at one another
in silence. Then she laughed.

"My dear Arranmore," she protested, "I am not made up half carefully
enough to stand such a critical survey by daylight. Your north windows
are too terrible."

"Not to you, dear lady," he answered, smiling. "I was wondering whether
it was possible that you could be forty-one."

"You brute," she exclaimed, with uplifted eyebrows. "How dare you?
Forty if you like--for as long as you like. Forty is the fashionable
age, but one year over that is fatal. Don't you know that now-a-days a
woman goes straight from forty to sixty? It is such a delicious long
rest. And besides, it gives a woman an object in life which she has
probably been groping about for all her days. One is never bored after
forty."

"And the object?"

"To keep young, of course. There's scope for any amount of ingenuity.
Since that dear man in Paris has hit upon the real secret of enamelling,
we are thinking of extending the limit to sixty-five. Lily Cestigan is
seventy-one, you know, and she told me only last week that Mat
Harlowe--you know Harlowe, he's rather a nice boy, in the Guards had
asked her to run away with him. She's known him three months, and he's
seen her at least three times by daylight. She's delighted about it."

"And is she going?" Arranmore asked.

"Well, I'm not sure that she'd care to risk that," Lady Caroom answered,
thoughtfully. "She told him she'd think about it, and, meanwhile, he's
just as devoted as ever."

They crossed the great stone hall together--the hall which, with its
wonderful pillars and carved dome, made Enton the show-house of the
county. Arranmore's study was a small octagonal room leading out from
the library. A fire of cedar logs was burning in an open grate, and he
wheeled up an easy-chair for her close to his writing-table.

"I wonder," she remarked, thoughtfully, "what you think of Syd
Molyneux?"

"Is there anything--to be thought about him?" he answered, lighting a
cigarette.

"He's rather that way, isn't he?" she assented. "I mean for Sybil, you
know."

"I should let Sybil decide," he answered.

"She probably will," Lady Caroom said. "Still, she's horribly bored at
having to be dragged about to places, you know, and that sort of thing,
just because she isn't married, and she likes Syd all right. He's no
fool!"

"I suppose not," Arranmore answered. "He's of a type, you know, which
has sprung up during my--absence from civilization. You want to grow up
with it to appreciate it properly. I don't think he's good enough for
Sybil."

Lady Caroom sighed.

"Sybil's a dear girl," she said, "although she's a terrible nuisance to
me. I shouldn't be at all surprised either if she developed views. I
wish you were a marrying man, Arranmore. I used to think of you myself
once, but you would be too old for me now. You're exactly the right age
for Sybil."

Arranmore smiled. He had quite forgotten his letters. Lady Caroom
always amused him so well.

"She is very like what you were at her age," he remarked. "What a pity
it was that I was such a poverty-stricken beggar in those days. I am
sure that I should have married you."

"Now I am beginning to like you," she declared, settling down more
comfortably in her chair. "If you can keep up like that we shall be
getting positively sentimental presently, and if there's anything I
adore in this world--especially before luncheon--it is sentiment. Do
you remember we used to waltz together, Arranmore?"

"You gave me a glove one night," he said. "I have it still."

"And you pressed my hand--and--it was in the Setons' conservatory--how
bold you were."

"And the next day," he declared, in an aggrieved tone, "I heard that you
were engaged to Caroom. You treated me shamefully."

"These reminiscences," she declared, "are really sweet, but you are most
ungrateful. I was really almost too kind to you. They were all
fearfully anxious to get me married, because Dumesnil always used to say
that my complexion would give out in a year or two, and I wasted no end
of time upon you, who were perfectly hopeless as a husband. After all,
though, I believe it paid. It used to annoy Caroom so much, and I
believe he proposed to me long before he meant to so as to get rid of
you."

"I," Arranmore remarked, "was the victim."

She sat up with eyes suddenly bright.

"Upon my word," she declared, "I have an idea. It is the most charming
and flattering thing, and it never occurred to me before. After all, it
was not eccentricity which caused you to throw up your work at the
Bar--and disappear. It was your hopeless devotion to me. Don't
disappoint me now by denying it. Please don't! It was the announcement
of my engagement, wasn't it?"

"And it has taken you all these years to find it out?

"I was shockingly obtuse," she murmured. "The thing came to me just now
as a revelation. Poor, dear man, how you must have suffered. This puts
us on a different footing altogether, doesn't it?" "Altogether," he
admitted.

"And," she continued, eyeing him now with a sudden nervousness,
"emboldens me to ask you a question which I have been dying to ask you
for the last few years. I wonder whether you will answer it."

"I wonder!" he repeated.

A change in him, too, was noticeable. That wonderful impassivity of
feature which never even in his lighter moments passed altogether away,
seemed to deepen every line in his hard, clear-cut face. His mouth was
close drawn, his eyes were suddenly colder and expressionless. There
was about him at such times as--these an almost repellent hardness. His
emotions, and the man himself, seemed frozen. Lady Caroom had seen him
look like it once before, and she sighed. Nevertheless, she persevered.

"For nearly twenty years," she said, "you disappeared. You were
reported at different times to be in every quarter of the earth, from
Zambesia to Pekin. But no one knew, and, of course, in a season or two
you were forgotten. I always wondered, I am wondering now, where were
you? What did you do with yourself?

"I went down into Hell," he answered. "Can't you see the marks of it in
my face? For many years I lived in Hell--for many years."

"You puzzle me," she said, in a low tone. "You had no taste for
dissipation. You look as though life had scorched you up at some time
or other. But how? where? You were found in Canada, I know, when your
brother died. But you had only been there for a few years. Before
then?"

"Ay! Before then?"

There was a short silence. Then Arranmore, who had been gazing steadily
into the fire, looked up. She fancied that his eyes were softer.

"Dear friend," he said, "of those days I have nothing to tell--even you.
But there are more awful things even than moral degeneration. You do me
justice when you impute that I never ate from the trough. But what I
did, and where I lived, I do not think that I shall ever willingly tell
any one."

A piece of burning wood fell upon the hearthstone. He stooped and
picked it up, placed it carefully in its place, and busied himself for a
moment or two with the little brass poker. Then he straightened
himself.

"Catherine," he said, "I think if I were you that I would not marry
Sybil to Molyneux. It struck me to-day that his eyeglass-chain was of
last year's pattern, and I am not sure that he is sound on the subject
of collars. You know how important these things are to a young man who
has to make his own way in the world. Perhaps, I am not sure, but I
think it is very likely I might be able to find a husband for her."

"You dear man," Lady Caroom murmured. "I should rely upon your taste
and judgment so thoroughly."

There was a discreet knock at the door. A servant entered with a card.

Arranmore took it up, and retained it in his fingers.

"Tell Mr. Brooks," he said, "that I will be with him in a moment. If
he has ridden over, ask him to take some refreshment."

"You have a visitor," Lady Caroom said, rising. "If you will excuse me
I will go and lie down until luncheon-time, and let my maid touch me up.
These sentimental conversations are so harrowing. I feel a perfect
wreck."

She glided from the room, graceful, brisk and charming, the most
wonderful woman in England, as the Society papers were never tired of
calling her. Arranmore glanced once more at the card between his
fingers.

"Mr. Kingston Brooks."

He stood for a few seconds, motionless. Then he rang the bell.

"Show Mr. Brooks in here," he directed.



CHAPTER VII

A THOUSAND POUNDS

Brooks had ridden a bicycle from Medchester, and his trousers and boots
were splashed with mud. His presence at Enton was due to an impulse,
the inspiration of which he had already begun seriously to doubt.
Arranmore's kindly reception of him was more than ordinarily welcome.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Brooks," he said, holding out his hand.
"How comes it that you are able to take even so short a holiday as this?
I pictured you surrounded by canvassers and bill-posters and
journalists, all clamouring for your ear."

Brooks laughed, completely at his ease now, thanks to the unspoken
cordiality of the other man. He took the easy-chair which the servant
had noiselessly wheeled up to him.

"I am afraid that you exaggerate my importance,--Lord Arranmore," he
said. "I was very busy early this morning, and I shall be again after
four. But I am allowed a little respite now and then."

"You spend it very sensibly out of doors," Arranmore remarked. "How did
you get here?"

"I cycled," Brooks answered. "It was very pleasant, but muddy."

"What will you have?" Lord Arranmore asked. "Some wine and biscuits, or
something of that sort?"

His hand was upon the bell, but Brooks stopped him.

"Nothing at all, thank you, just now."


"Luncheon will be served in half-an-hour," the Marquis said. "You will
prefer to wait until then?"

"I am much obliged to you," Brooks answered, "but I must be getting back
to Medchester as soon as possible. Besides," he added, with a smile, "I
am afraid when I have spoken of the object of my visit you may feel
inclined to kick me out."

"I hope not," Arranmore replied, lightly. "I was hoping that your visit
had no object at all, and that you had been good enough just to look me
up.

"I should not have intruded without a purpose," Brooks said, quietly,
"but you will be almost justified in treating my visit as an
impertinence when I have disclosed my errand. Lord Arranmore, I am the
secretary for the fund which is being raised in Medchester for the
relief of the Unemployed."

Arranmore nodded.

"Oh, yes," he said. "I had a visit a few days ago from a worthy
Medchester gentleman connected with it."

"It is concerning that visit, Lord Arranmore, that I have come to see
you," Brooks continued, quietly. "I only heard of it yesterday
afternoon, but this morning it seems to me that every one whom I have
met has alluded to it."

The Marquis was lounging against the broad mantelpiece. Some part of
the cordiality of his manner had vanished.

"Well?"

"Lord Arranmore, I wondered whether it was not possible that some
mistake had been made," Brooks said. "I wondered whether Mr. Wensome
had altogether understood you properly--"

"I did my best to be explicit," the Marquis murmured.

"Or whether you had misunderstood him," Brooks continued, doggedly.
"This fund has become absolutely necessary unless we wish to see the
people starve in the streets. There are between six and seven thousand
operatives and artisans in Medchester to-day who are without work
through no fault of their own. It is our duty as citizens to do our
best for them. Nearly every one in Medchester has contributed according
to their means. You are a large property-owner in the town. Cannot you
consider this appeal as an unenforced rate? It comes to that in the
long run."

The Marquis shrugged his shoulders.

"I think," he said, "that on the subject of charity Englishmen generally
wholly misapprehend the situation. You say that between six and seven
thousand men are out of work in Medchester. Very well, I affirm that
there must be a cause for that. If you are a philanthropist it is your
duty to at once investigate the economic and political reasons for such
a state of things, and alter them. By going about and collecting money
for these people you commit what is little short of a crime. You must
know the demoralizing effect of charity. No man who has ever received a
dole is ever again an independent person. Besides that, you are
diverting the public mind from the real point of issue, which is not
that so many thousand people are hungry, but that a flaw exists in the
administration of the laws of the country so grave that a certain number
of thousands of people who have a God-sent right to productive labour
haven't got it. Do you follow me?"

"Perfectly," Brooks answered. "You did not talk like this to Mr.
Wensome."

"I admit it. He was an ignorant man in whom I felt no interest
whatever, and I did not take the trouble. Besides, I will frankly admit
that I am in no sense of the word a sentimentalist. The distresses of
other people do not interest me particularly. I have been poor myself,
and I never asked for, nor was offered, any sort of help. Consequently
I feel very little responsibility concerning these unfortunate people,
whose cause you have espoused."

"May I revert to your first argument?" Brooks said. "If you saw a man
drowning then, instead of trying to save him you would subscribe towards
a fund to teach people to swim?"

"That is ingenious," Lord Arranmore replied, smiling grimly, "but it
doesn't interest me. If I saw a man drowning I shouldn't think of
interfering unless the loss of that man brought inconvenience or loss to
myself. If it did I should endeavour to save him--not unless. As for
the fund you speak of, I should not think of subscribing to it. It
would not interest me to know that other people were provided with a
safeguard against drowning. I should probably spend the money in
perfecting myself in the art of swimming. Don't you see that no man who
has ever received help from another is exactly in the same position
again? As an individual he is a weaker creature. That is where I
disagree with nearly every existing form of charity. They are wrong in
principle. They are a debauchment."

"Your views, Lord Arranmore," Brooks said, "are excellent for a model
world. For practical purposes I think they are a little pedantic. You
are quite right in your idea that charity is a great danger. I can
assure you that we are trying to realize that in Medchester. We ask for
money, and we dispense it unwillingly, but as a necessary evil. And we
are trying to earnestly see where our social system is at fault, and to
readjust it. But meanwhile, men and women and children even are
starving. We must help them."

"That is where you are wholly wrong, and where you retard all progress,"
Arranmore remarked. "Can't you see that you are continually plugging up
dangerous leaks with putty instead of lead? You muffle the cry which
but for you must ring through the land, and make itself heard to every
one. Let the people starve who are without means. Legislation would
stir itself fast enough then. It is the only way. Charity to
individuals is poison to the multitude. You create the criminal classes
with your charities, you blindfold statesmen and mislead political
economists. I tell you that the more you give away the more distress
you create."

Brooks rose from his seat.

"Charity is older than nations or history, Lord Arranmore," he said,
"and I am foolish enough to think that the world is a better place for
it. Your reasoning is very excellent, but life has not yet become an
exact science. The weaknesses of men and women have to be considered.
You have probably never seen a starving person."

Lord Arranmore laughed, and Brooks looked across the room at him in
amazement. The Marquis was always pale, but his pallor just then was as
unnatural as the laugh itself.

"My dear young man," he said, "if I could show you what I have seen your
hair would turn grey, and your wits go wandering. Do you think that I
know nothing of life save its crust? I tell you that I have been down
in the depths, aye, single-handed, there in the devil's own cauldron,
where creatures in the shape of men and women, the very sight of whom
would turn you sick with horror, creep like spawn through life,
brainless and soulless, foul things who would murder one another for the
sake of a crust, or--Bah! What horrible memories."

He broke off abruptly. When he spoke again his tone was as usual.

"Come," he said, "I mustn't let you have this journey for nothing.
After all, the only luxury in having principles is in the departing from
them. I will give you a cheque, Mr. Brooks, only I beg you to think
over what I have said. Abandon this doling principle as soon as it is
possible. Give your serious attention to the social questions and
imperfect laws which are at the back of all this distress."

Brooks felt as though he had been awakened from a nightmare. He never
forgot that single moment of revelation on the part of the man who sat
now smiling and debonair before his writing-table.

"You are very kind indeed, Lord Arranmore," he said. "I can assure you
that the money will be most carefully used, and amongst my party, at any
rate, we do really appreciate the necessity for going to the root of the
matter."

Arranmore's pen went scratching across the paper. He tore out a cheque,
and placing it in an envelope, handed it to Brooks.

"I noticed," he remarked, thoughtfully, "that a good many people coming
out of the factories hissed my carriage in Medchester last time I was
there. I hope they will not consider my cheque as a sign of weakness.
But after all," he added, with a smile, "what does it matter? Let us go
in to luncheon, Brooks."

Brooks glanced down at his mud-splashed clothes and boots.

"I must really ask you to excuse me," he began, but Arranmore only rang
the bell.

"My valet will smarten you up," he said. "Here, Fritz, take Mr. Brooks
into my room and look after him, will you. I shall be in the hall when
you come down."

As he passed from the dressing-room a few minutes later, Brooks paused
for a moment to look up at the wonderful ceiling above the hall. Below,
Lord Arranmore was idly knocking about the billiard balls, and all
around him was the murmur of pleasant conversation. Brooks drew the
envelope from his pocket and glanced at the cheque. He gave a little
gasp of astonishment. It was for a thousand pounds.



CHAPTER VIII

KINGSTON BROOKS MAKES INQUIRIES

At luncheon Brooks found himself between Sybil Caroom and Mr. Hennibul.
She began to talk to him at once.

"I want to know all about your candidate, Mr. Brooks," she declared.
"You can't imagine how pleased I am to have you here. I have had the
feeling ever since I came of being shut up in a hostile camp. I am a
Radical, you know, and these good people, even my mother, are rabid
Conservatives."

Brooks smiled as he unfolded his serviette.

"Well, Henslow isn't exactly an ornamental candidate," he said, "but he
is particularly sound and a man with any amount of common-sense. You
should come and hear him speak."

"I'd love to," she answered, "but no one would bring me from here. They
are all hopeless. Mr. Molyneux there is going to support Mr.
Rochester. If I wasn't sure that he'd do more harm than good, I
wouldn't let him go. But I don't suppose they'll let you speak,
Sydney," she added. "They won't if they've ever heard you."

Molyneux smiled an imperturbable smile.

"Personally," he said, "I should prefer to lend my moral support only,
but my fame as an orator is too well known. There is not the least
chance that they will let me off."

Sybil looked at Brooks.

"Did you ever hear such conceit?" she remarked, in a pitying tone. "And
I don't believe he's ever opened his mouth in the House, except to shout
'Hear, hear'! Besides, he's as nervous as a kitten. Tell me, are you
going to return Mr. Henslow?"

"I think so," Brooks answered. "It is certain to be a very close
contest, but I believe we shall get a small majority. The Jingo element
are our greatest trouble. They are all the time trying to make people
believe that Conservatives have the monopoly of the Imperial sentiment.
As a matter of fact, I think that Henslow is almost rabid on the war
question."

"Still, your platform--to use an Americanism," Mr. Hennibul interposed,
"must be founded upon domestic questions. Medchester is a manufacturing
town, and I am given to understand is suffering severely. Has your man
any original views on the present depression in trade?"

Brooks glanced towards the speaker with a smile.

"You have been reading the Medchester Post!" he remarked.

The barrister nodded.

"Yes. It hinted at some rather surprising revelation."

"You must read Henslow's speech at the mass meeting to-morrow night,"
Brooks said. "At present I mustn't discuss these matters too much,
especially before a political opponent," he remarked, smiling at Mr.
Molyneux. "You might induce Mr. Rochester to play our trump card."

"If your trump card is what I suspect it to be," Mr. Hennibul said, "I
don't think you need fear that. Rochester would be ready enough to try
it, but some of his supporters wouldn't listen to it."

The conversation drifted away from politics. Brooks found himself
enjoying his luncheon amazingly. Sybil Caroom devoted herself to him,
and he found himself somehow drawn with marvellous facility into the
little circle of intimate friends. Afterwards they all strolled into
the hall together for coffee, and Arranmore laid his hand upon his arm.

"I am sorry that you will not have time to look round the place," he
said. "You must come over again before long."

"You are very kind," Brooks said, dropping his voice a little. "There
are one or two more things which I should like to ask you about Canada."

"I shall always be at your service," Lord Arranmore answered.

"And I cannot go," Brooks continued, "without thanking you--"

"We will take that for granted," Arranmore interrupted. "You know the
spirit in which I gave it. It is not, I fear, one of sympathy, but it
may at any rate save me from having my carriage windows broken one dark
night. By the bye, I have ordered a brougham for you in half-an-hour.
As you see, it is raining. Your bicycle shall be sent in to-morrow."

"It is very kind of you indeed," Brooks declared.

"Molyneux has to go in, so you may just as well drive together,"
Arranmore remarked. "By the bye, do you shoot?"

"A little," Brooks admitted.

"You must have a day with us. My head keeper is coming up this
afternoon, and I will try and arrange something. The election is next
week, of course. We must plan a day after then."

"I am afraid that my performance would scarcely be up to your standard,"
Brooks said, "although it is very kind of you to ask me. I might come
and look on."

Arranmore laughed.

"Hennibul is all right," he said, "but Molyneux is a shocking duffer.
We'll give you an easy place. We have some early callers, I see."

The butler was moving towards them, followed by two men in
hunting-clothes.

"Sir George Marson and Mr. Lacroix, your lordship," he announced.

For a second Arranmore stood motionless. His eyes seemed to pass
through the man in pink, who was approaching with outstretched hand, and
to be fastened upon the face of his companion. It chanced that Brooks,
who had stepped a little on one side, was watching his host, and for the
second time in one day he saw things which amazed him. His expression
seemed frozen on to his face--something underneath seemed struggling for
expression. In a second it had all passed away. Brooks could almost
have persuaded himself that it was fancy.

"Come for something to eat, Arranmore," Sir George declared, hungrily.
"My second man's gone off with the sandwich-case--hunting on his own, I
believe. I'll sack him to-morrow. Here's my friend Lacroix, who says
you saved him from starvation once before out in the wilds somewhere.
Awfully sorry to take you by storm like this, but we're twelve miles
from home, and it's a God-forsaken country for inns."

"Luncheon for two at once, Groves," Lord Arranmore answered. "Delighted
to meet you again, Mr. Lacroix. Last time we were both of us in very
different trim."

Lady Caroom came gliding up to them, and shook hands with Sir George.

"This sounds so interesting," she murmured. "Did you say that you met
Lord Arranmore in his exploring days?" she asked, turning to Mr.
Lacroix.

"I found Lord Arranmore in a log hut which he had built himself on the
shores of Lake Ono," Lacroix said, smiling. "And when I tell you that I
had lost all my stores, and that his was the only dwelling-place for
fifty miles around, you can imagine that his hospitality was more
welcome to me then even than to-day."

Brooks, who was standing near, could not repress a start. He fancied
that Lord Arranmore glanced in his direction.

Lady Caroom shuddered.

"The only dwelling-house for fifty miles," she repeated. "What hideous
misanthropy."

"There was no doubt about it," Lacroix declared, smiling. "My Indian
guide, who knew every inch of the country, told me so many times. I can
assure you that Lord Arranmore, whom I am very pleased to meet again,
was a very different person in those days."

The butler glided up from the background.

"Luncheon is served in the small dining-room, Sir George," he announced.

              *     *     *     *     *

Molyneux and Brooks drove in together to Medchester, and the former was
disposed--for him to be talkative.

"Queer thing about Lacroix turning up," he remarked. "I fancy our host
looked a bit staggered."

"It was enough to surprise him," Brooks answered. "From Lake Ono to
Medchester is a long way."

Molyneux nodded.

"By Jove, it is," he affirmed. "Queer stick our host. Close as wax.
I've known him ever since he dropped in for the title and estates, and
I've never yet heard him open his mouth on the subject of his travels."

"Was he away from England for very long?" Brooks asked.

"No one knows where he was," Molyneux replied. "Twenty years ago he was
reading for the Bar in London, and he suddenly disappeared. Well, I
have never met a soul except Lacroix to-day who has seen anything of him
in the interval between his disappearance and his coming to claim the
estates. That means that for pretty well half a lifetime he passed
completely out of the world. Poor beggar! I fancy that he was hard up,
for one thing." To Brooks the subject was fascinating, but he had an
idea that it was scarcely the best of form to be discussing their late
host with a man who was comparatively a stranger to him. So he remained
silent, and Molyneux, with a yawn, abandoned the subject.

"Where does Rochester hang out, do you know?" he asked Brooks. "I don't
suppose for a moment I shall be able to find him."

"His headquarters are at the Bell Hotel," Brooks replied. "You will
easily be able to come across him, for he has a series of ward meetings
to-night. I am sorry that we are to be opponents."

"We shan't quarrel about that," Molyneux answered. "Here we are, at
Medchester, then. Better let him put you down, and then he can go on
with me. You're coming out to shoot at Enton, aren't you?"

"Lord Arranmore was good enough to ask me," Brooks answered, dubiously,
"but I scarcely know whether I ought to accept. I am such a wretched
shot."

Molyneux laughed.

"Well, I couldn't hit a haystack," he said, "so you needn't mind that.
Besides, Arranmore isn't keen about his bag, like some chaps. Are these
your offices? See you again, then."

Brooks found a dozen matters waiting for his attention. But before he
settled down to work he wrote two letters. One was to the man who was
doing his work as Secretary to the Unemployed Fund during the election,
and with a brief mention of a large subscription, instructed him to open
several relief stations which they had been obliged to chose a few days
ago. And the other letter was to Victor Lacroix, whom he addressed at
Westbury Park, Sir George Marson's seat.

"DEAR SIR,

"I should be exceedingly obliged if you would accord me a few minutes'
interview on a purely personal matter. I will wait upon you anywhere,
according to your convenience.

"Yours faithfully,

"KINGSTON BROOKS."



CHAPTER IX

HENSLOW SPEAKS OUT

The bomb was thrown. Some ten thousand people crowded together in the
market-place at Medchester, under what seemed to be one huge canopy of
dripping umbrellas, heard for the first time for many years a bold and
vigorous attack upon the principles which had come to be considered a
part of the commercial ritual of the country. Henslow made the best of
a great opportunity. He spoke temperately, but without hesitation, and
concluded with a biting and powerful onslaught upon that class of
Englishmen who wilfully closed their eyes to the prevailing industrial
depression, and endeavoured to lure themselves and others into a sense
of false security as to the well-being of the country by means of
illusive statistics. In his appreciation of dramatic effect, and the
small means by which an audience can be touched, Henslow was a past
master. Early in his speech he had waved aside the umbrella which a
supporter was holding over him, and regardless of the rain, he stood out
in the full glare of the reflected gaslight, a ponderous, powerful
figure.

"No one can accuse me," he cried, "of being a pessimist. Throughout my
life I have striven personally, and politically, to look upon the
brightest side of things. But I count it a crime to shut one's eyes to
the cloud in the sky, even though it be no larger than a man's hand.
Years ago that cloud was there for those who would to see. To-day it
looms over us, a black and threatening peril, and those who,
ostrich-like, still hide their heads in the sand, are the men upon whose
consciences must rest in the future the responsibility for those evil
things which are even now upon us. Theories are evil things, but when
theory and fact are at variance, give me fact. Theoretically Free Trade
should--I admit it--make us the most prosperous nation in the world. As
a matter of fact, never since this country commenced to make history has
our commercial supremacy been in so rotten and insecure a position.
There isn't a flourishing industry in the country, save those which
provide the munitions of war, and their prosperity is a spasmodic, and I
might almost add, an undesirable thing. Now, I am dealing with facts
to-night, not theories, and I am going to quote certain unassailable
truths, and I am going to give you the immediate causes for them. The
furniture and joinery trade of England is bad. There are thousands of
good hands out of employment. They are out of work because the
manufacturer has few or no orders. I want the immediate cause for that,
and I go to the manufacturer. I ask him why he has no orders. He tells
me, because every steamer from America is bringing huge consignments of
ready-made office and general furniture, at such prices or such quality
that the English shopkeepers prefer to stock them. Consequently trade
is bad with him, and he cannot find employment for his men. I find
here in Medchester the boot and shoe trade in which you are concerned
bad. There are thousands of you who are willing to work who are out of
employment. I go to the manufacturer, and I say to him, 'Why don't you
find employment for your hands?' 'For two reasons,' he answers. 'First,
because I have lost my Colonial and some of my home trade through
American competition, and secondly, because of the universally depressed
condition of every kindred trade throughout the country, which keeps
people poor and prevents their having money to spend.' Just now I am not
considering the question of why the American can send salable boots and
shoes into this country, although the reasons are fairly obvious. They
have nothing to do with my point, however. We are dealing to-night with
immediate causes!

"And now as to that depression throughout the country which keeps people
poor, as the boot manufacturer puts it, and prevents their having money
to spend. I am going to take several trades one by one, and ascertain
the immediate cause of their depression--"

He had hold of his audience, and he made good use of his advantage. He
quoted statistics, showing the decrease of exports and relative increase
of imports. How could we hope to retain our accumulated wealth under
such conditions?--and finally he abandoned theorizing and argument, and
boldly declared his position.

"I will tell you," he concluded, "what practical means I intend to bring
to bear upon the situation. I base my projected action upon this
truism, which is indeed the very kernel of my creed. I say that every
man willing and able to work should have work, and I say that it is the
duty of legislators to see that he has it. To-day there are one hundred
thousand men and women hanging about our streets deteriorating morally
and physically through the impossibility of following their trade. I
say that it is time for legislators to inquire into the cause of this,
and to remedy it. So I propose to move in the House of Commons, should
your votes enable me to find myself there, that a Royal Commission be
immediately appointed to deal with this matter. And I propose,
further, to insist that this Commission be composed of manufacturers and
business men, and that we dispense with all figure-heads, and I can
promise you this, that the first question which shall engage the
attention of these men shall be an immediate revision of our tariffs.
We won't have men with theories which work out beautifully on paper, and
bring a great country into the throes of commercial ruin. We won't have
men who think that the laws their fathers made are good enough for them,
and that all change is dangerous, because Englishmen are sure to fight
their way through in the long run--a form of commercial Jingoism to
which I fear we are peculiarly prone. We don't want scholars or
statisticians. We want a commission of plain business men, and I
promise you that if we get them, there shall be presented to Parliament
before I meet you again practical measures which I honestly and firmly
believe will start a wave of commercial prosperity throughout the
country such as the oldest amongst you cannot remember. We have the
craftsmen, the capital, and the brains--all that we need is legislation
adapted to the hour and not the last century, and we can hold our own
yet in the face of the world."

              *     *     *     *     *

Afterwards, at the political club and at the committee-room, there was
much excited conversation concerning the effect of Henslow's bold
declaration. The general impression was, this election was now assured.
A shouting multitude followed him to his hotel, popular Sentiment was
touched, and even those who had been facing the difficulty of life with
a sort of dogged despair for years were raised into enthusiasm. His
words begat hope.

In the committee-room there was much excitement and a good deal of
speculation. Every one realized that the full effect of this daring
plunge could not be properly gauged until after it had stood the test of
print. But on the whole comment was strikingly optimistic. Brooks for
some time was absent. In the corridor he had come face to face with
Mary Scott. Her eyes flashed with pleasure at the sight of him, and she
held out her hand frankly.

"You heard it all?" he asked, eagerly.

"Yes--every word. Tell me, you understand these things so much better
than I do. Is this an election dodge, or--is he in earnest? Was he
speaking the truth?

"The honest truth, I believe," he answered, leading her a little away
from the crowd of people. "He is of course pressing this matter home
for votes, but he is very much in earnest himself about it."

"And you think that he is on the right track?"

"I really believe so," he answered. "In fact I am strongly in favour of
making experiments in the direction he spoke of. By the bye, Miss
Scott, I have something to tell you. You remember telling me about Lord
Arranmore and his refusal to subscribe to the Unemployed Fund?"

"Yes!"

"He has been approached again--the facts have been more fully made
known to him, and he has sent a cheque for one thousand pounds."

She received the news with a coldness which he found surprising.

"I think I can guess," she said, quietly, "who the second applicant was."

"I went to see him myself," he admitted.

"You must be very eloquent," she remarked, with a smile which he could
not quite understand. "A thousand pounds is a great deal of money."

"It is nothing to Lord Arranmore," he answered.

"Less than nothing," she admitted, readily. "I would rather that he had
stopped in the street and given half-a-crown to a hungry child."

"Still--it is a magnificent gift," he declared. "We can open all our
relief stations again. I believe that you are a little prejudiced
against Lord Arranmore."

"I?" She shrugged her shoulders. "How should I be? I have never spoken
a word to him in my life. But I think that he has a hard, cynical face,
and a hateful expression."

Brooks disagreed with her frankly.

"He seems to me," he declared, "like a man who has had a pretty rough
time, and I believe he had in his younger days, but I do not believe
that he is really either hard or cynical. He has some odd views as
regards charity, but upon my word they are logical enough."

She smiled.

"Well, we'll not disagree about him," she declared. "I wonder how long
my uncle means to be."

"Shall I find out?" he asked.

"Would it be troubling you? He is so excited that I dare say he has
forgotten all about me."

Which was precisely what he had done. Brooks found him the centre of
an animated little group, with a freshly-lit cigar in his mouth, and
every appearance of having settled down to spend the night. He was
almost annoyed when Brooks reminded him of his niece.

"God bless my soul, I forgot all about Mary," he exclaimed with
vexation. "She must go and sit somewhere. I shan't be ready yet.
Henslow wants us to go down to the Bell, and have a bit of supper."

"In that case," Brooks said, "you had better allow me to take Miss Scott
home, and I will come then to you."

"Capital, if you really don't mind," Mr. Bullsom declared. "Put her in
a cab. Don't let her be a bother to you."

Brooks found her reluctant to take him away, but he pleaded a headache,
and assured her that his work for the night was over. Outside he led
her away from the centre of the town to a quiet walk heading to the
suburb where she lived. Here the streets seemed strangely silent, and
Brooks walked hat in hand, heedless of the rain which was still
sprinkling. "Oh, this is good," he murmured. "How one wearies of these
crowds."

"All the same," she answered, smiling, "I think that your place just now
is amongst them, and I shall not let you take me further than the top of
the hill."

Brooks looked down at her and laughed.

"What a very determined person you are," he said. "I will take you to
the top of the hill--and then we will see."



CHAPTER X

A TEMPTING OFFER

The small boy brought in the card and laid it on Brooks' desk with a
flourish.

"He's outside, sir--in Mr. Barton's room. Shall I show him in?"

Brooks for a moment hesitated. He glanced at a letter which lay open
upon the desk before him, and which he had read and re-read many times.
The boy repeated his inquiry.

"Yes, of course," he answered. "Show him in at once."

Lord Arranmore, more than usually immaculate, strolled in, hat in hand,
and carefully selecting the most comfortable chair, seated himself on
the other side of the open table at which Brooks was working.

"How are you, Brooks?" he inquired, tersely. "Busy, of course. An
aftermath of work, I suppose."

"A few months ago," Brooks answered, "I should have considered myself
desperately busy. But after last week anything ordinary in the shape of
work seems restful."

Lord Arranmore nodded.

"I must congratulate you, I suppose," he remarked. "You got your man
in."

"We got him in all right," Brooks assented. "Our majority was less than
we had hoped for, though."

Lord Arranmore shrugged his shoulders.

"It was large enough," he answered, "and after all it was a clear gain
of a seat to your party, wasn't it?"

"It was a seat which we Radicals had a right to," Brooks declared. "Now
that the storm of Imperialism is quieting down and people are beginning
to realize that matters nearer home need a little attention, I cannot
see how the manufacturing centres can do anything save return Radicals.
We are the only party with a definite home policy."

Lord Arranmore nodded.

"Just so," he remarked, indifferently. "I needn't say that I didn't
come here to talk politics. There was a little matter of business which
I wished to put before you."

Brooks looked up in some surprise.

"Business!" he repeated, a little vaguely.

"Yes. As you are aware, Mr. Morrison has had the control of the Enton
estates for many years. He was a very estimable man, and he performed
his duties so far as I know quite satisfactorily. Now that he is dead,
however, I intend to make a change. The remaining partners in his firm
are unknown to me, and I at once gave them notice of my intention.
Would you care to undertake the legal management of my estates in this
part of the world?"

Brooks felt the little colour he had leave his cheeks. For a moment he
was quite speechless.

"I scarcely know how to answer, or to thank you, Lord Arranmore," he
said at last. "This is such a surprising offer. I scarcely see how you
can be in earnest. You know so little of me."

Lord Arranmore shrugged his shoulders.

"Really," he said, "I don't see anything very surprising in it.
Morrisons have a large practice, and without the old man I scarcely see
how they could continue to give my affairs the attention they require.
You, on the other hand, are only just starting, and you would be able to
watch over my interests more closely. Then--although I cannot pretend
that I am much influenced by sentimental reasons--still, I knew your
father, and the strangeness of our few years of life as neighbours
inclines me to be of service to you provided I myself am not the
sufferer. As to that I am prepared to take the risk. You see mine is
only the usual sort of generosity--the sort which provides for an
adequate quid pro quo. Of course, if you think that the undertaking of
my affairs would block you in other directions do not hesitate to say
so. This is a matter of business between us, pure and simple."

Brooks had recovered himself. The length of Lord Arranmore's speech and
his slow drawl had given him an opportunity to do so. He glanced for a
moment at the letter which lay upon his desk, and hated it.

"In an ordinary way, Lord Arranmore," he answered, "there could be only
one possible reply to such an offer as you have made me--an immediate
and prompt acceptance. If I seem to hesitate, it is because, first--I
must tell you something. I must make something--in the nature of a
confession."

Lord Arranmore raised his eyebrows, but his face remained as the face of
a Sphinx. He sat still, and waited.

"On the occasion of my visit to you," Brooks continued, "you may
remember the presence of a certain Mr. Lacroix? He is the author, I
believe, of several books of travel in Western Canada, and has the
reputation of knowing that part of the country exceedingly well."

Brooks paused, but his visitor helped him in no way. His face wore
still its passive expression of languid inquiry.

"He spoke of his visit to you," Brooks went on "in Canada, and he twice
reiterated the fact that there was no other dwelling within fifty miles
of you. He said this upon his own authority, and upon the authority of
his Indian guide. Now it is only a few days ago since you spoke of my
father as living for years within a few miles of you."

Lord Arranmore nodded his head thoughtfully.

"Ah! And you found the two statements, of course, irreconcilable.
Well, go on!"

Brooks found it difficult. He was grasping a paperweight tightly in one
hand, and he felt the rising colour burn his cheeks.

"I wrote to Mr. Lacroix," he said.

"A perfectly natural thing to do," Lord Arranmore remarked, smoothly.

And his answer is here!

"Suppose you read it to me," Lord Arranmore suggested.

Brooks took up the letter and read it.

"TRAVELLERS' CLUB, December 10.

"DEAR SIR,

"Replying to your recent letter, I have not the slightest hesitation in
reaffirming the statement to which you refer. I am perfectly convinced
that at the time of my visit to Lord Arranmore on the bank of Lake Quo,
there was no Englishman or dwelling-place of any sort within a radius of
fifty miles. The information which you have received is palpably
erroneous.

"Why not refer to Lord Arranmore himself? He would certainly confirm
what I say, and finally dispose of the matter.

"Yours sincerely,

"VICTOR LACROIX."

"A very interesting letter," Lord Arranmore remarked. "Well?"

Brooks crumpled the letter up and flung it into the waste-paper basket.

"Lord Arranmore," he said, "I made this inquiry behind your back, and in
a sense I am ashamed of having done so. Yet I beg you to put yourself
in my position. You must admit that my father's disappearance from the
world was a little extraordinary. He was a man whose life was more than
exemplary--it was saintly. For year after year he worked in the
police-courts amongst the criminal classes. His whole life was one long
record of splendid devotion. His health at last breaks down, and he is
sent by his friends for a voyage to Australia. He never returns. Years
afterwards his papers and particulars of his death are sent home from
one of the loneliest spots in the Empire. A few weeks ago you found me
out and told me of his last days. You see what I must believe. That he
wilfully deserted his wife and son--myself. That he went into lonely
and inexplicable solitude for no apparent or possible reason. That he
misused the money subscribed by his friends in order that he might take
this trip to Australia. Was ever anything more irreconcilable?"

"From your point of view--perhaps not," Lord Arranmore answered. "You
must enlarge it."

"Will you tell me how?" Brooks demanded.

Lord Arranmore stifled a yawn. He had the air of one wearied by a
profitless discussion.

"Well," he said, "I might certainly suggest a few things. Who was your
trustee or guardian, or your father's man of business?

"Mr. Ascough, of Lincoln's Inn Fields."

"Exactly. Your father saw him, of course, prior to his departure from
England."

"Yes."

"Well, is it not a fact that instead of making a will your father made
over by deed of gift the whole of his small income to your mother in
trust for you?"

"Yes, he did that," Brooks admitted.

Lord Arranmore shrugged his shoulders.

"Think that over," he remarked. "Doesn't that suggest his already
half-formed intention never to return?"

"It never struck me in that way," Brooks answered. "Yet it is obvious,"
Lord Arranmore said. "Now, I happen to know from your father himself
that he never intended to go to Australia, and he never intended to
return to England. He sailed instead by an Allan liner from Liverpool
to Quebec under the name of Francis. He went straight to Montreal, and
he stayed there until he had spent the greater part of his money. Then
he drifted out west. There is his history for you in a few words."

A sudden light flashed in Brooks' eyes.

"He told you that he left England meaning never to return? Then you
have the key to the whole thing. Why not? That is what I want to know.
Why not?"

"I do not know," Lord Arranmore answered, coolly. "He never told me."

Brooks felt a sudden chill of disappointment. Lord Arranmore rose
slowly to his feet.

"Mr. Brooks," he said, "I have told you all that I know. You have
asked me a question which I have not been able to answer. I can,
however, give you some advice which I will guarantee to be
excellent--some advice which you will do well to follow. Shall I go
on?"

"If you please!"

"Do not seek to unravel any further what may seem to you to be the
mystery of your father's disappearance from the world. Depend upon it,
his action was of his own free will, and he had excellent reasons for
it. If he had wished you to know them he would have communicated with
you. Remember, I was with your father during his last days--and this is
my advice to you."

Brooks pointed downward to the crumpled ball of paper.

"That letter!" he exclaimed.

Lord Arranmore shrugged his shoulders.

"I scarcely see its significance," he said. "It is not even my word
against Lacroix'. I sent you all your father's papers, I brought back
photographs and keepsakes known to belong to him. In what possible way
could it benefit me to mislead you?"

The telephone on Brooks' table rang, and for a moment or two he found
himself, with mechanical self-possession, attending to some unimportant
question. When he replaced the receiver Lord Arranmore had resumed his
seat, but was drawing on his gloves.

"Come," he said, "let us resume our business talk. I have made you an
offer. What have you to say?"

Brooks pointed to the waste-paper basket.

"I did a mean action," he said. "I am ashamed of it. Do you mean that
your offer remains open?"

"Certainly," Lord Arranmore answered. "That little affair is not worth
mentioning. I should probably have done the same."

"Well, I am not altogether a madman," Brooks declared, smiling, "so I
will only say that I accept your offer gratefully--and I will do my very
best to deserve your confidence."

Lord Arranmore rose and stood with his hands behind him, looking out of
the window.

"Very good," he said. "I will send for Ascough to come down from town,
and we must meet one day next week at Morrisons' office, and go into
matters thoroughly. That reminds me. Busher, my head bailiff, will be
in to see you this afternoon. There are half-a-dozen leases to be seen
to at once, and everything had better come here until the arrangements
are concluded."

"I shall be in all the afternoon," Brooks answered, still a little
dazed.

"And Thursday," Lord Arranmore concluded, "you dine and sleep at Enton.
I hope we shall have a good day's sport. The carriage will fetch you at
6:30. Good-morning."

Lord Arranmore walked out with a little nod, but on the threshold he
paused and looked back.

"By the bye, Brooks," he said, "do you remember my meeting you in a
little tea-shop almost the day after I first called upon you?"

"Quite well," Brooks answered.

"You had a young lady with you."

"Yes. I was with Miss Scott."

Lord Arranmore's hand fell from the handle. His eyes seemed suddenly
full of fierce questioning. He moved a step forward into the room.

"Miss Scott? Who is she?"

Brooks was hopelessly bewildered, and showed it.

"She lives with her uncle in Medchester. He is a builder and timber
merchant."

Lord Arranmore was silent for a moment.

"Her father, then, is dead?" he asked.

"He died abroad, I think," Brooks answered, "but I really am not sure.
I know very little of any of them."

Lord Arranmore turned away.

"She is the image of a man I once knew," he remarked, "but after all,
the type is not an uncommon one. You won't forget that Busher will be
in this afternoon. He is a very intelligent fellow for his class, and
you may find it worth your while to ask him a few questions. Until
Thursday, then."

"Until Thursday," Brooks repeated, mechanically.



CHAPTER XI

WHO THE DEVIL IS BROOKS?

"To be tired," declared Sydney Molyneux, sinking into a low couch, "to
be downright dead dog-tired is the most delightful thing in the world.
Will some one give me some tea?"

Brooks laughed softly from his place in front of the open fire. A long
day in the fresh north wind had driven the cobwebs from his brain, and
brought the burning colour to his cheeks. His eyes were bright, and his
laughter was like music.

"And you," he exclaimed, "are fresh from electioneering. Why, fatigue
like this is a luxury."

Molyneux lit a cigarette and looked longingly at the tea-tray set out in
the middle of the hall.

"That is all very well," he said, "but there is a wide difference
between the two forms of exercise. In electioneering one can use one's
brain, and my brain is never weary. It is capable of the most
stupendous exertions. It is my legs that fail me sometimes. Here comes
Lady Caroom at last. Why does she look as though she had seen a ghost?"

That great staircase at Enton came right into the hall. A few steps
from the bottom Lady Caroom had halted, and her appearance was certainly
a little unusual. Every vestige of colour had left her cheeks. Her
right hand was clutching the oak banisters, her eyes were fixed upon
Brooks. He was for a moment embarrassed, but he stepped forward to meet
her.

"How do you do, Lady Caroom?" he said. "We are all in the shadows here,
and Mr. Molyneux is crying out for his tea."

She resumed her progress and greeted Brooks graciously. Almost at the
same moment a footman brought lamps, and the tea was served. Lady
Caroom glanced again with a sort of curious nervousness at the young man
who stood by her side.

"You are a little earlier than we expected," she remarked, seating
herself before the tea-tray. "Here comes Sybil. She is dying to
congratulate you, Mr. Brooks. Is Arranmore here?"

"We left him in the gun-room," Molyneux answered. "He is coming
directly."

Sybil Caroom, in a short skirt and a jaunty hat, came towards Brooks
with outstretched hand.

"Delightful!" she exclaimed. "I only wish that it had been nine
thousand instead of nine hundred. You deserved it."

Brooks laughed heartily.

"Well, we were satisfied to win the seat," he declared.

Molyneux leaned forward tea-cup in hand.

"Well, you deserved it," he remarked. "Our old man opened his mouth a
bit, but yours knocked him silly. Upon my word, I didn't think that any
one man had cheek stupendous enough to humbug a constituency like
Henslow did. It took my breath away to read his speeches."

"Do you really mean that?" asked Brooks.

"Mean it? Of course I do. What I can't understand is how people can
swallow such stuff, election after election. Doesn't every Radical
candidate get up and talk in the same maudlin way--hasn't he done so
for the last fifty years? And when he gets into Parliament is there a
more Conservative person on the face of the earth than the Radical
member pledged to social reform? It's the same with your man Henslow.
He'll do nothing! He'll attempt nothing! Silly farce, politics, I
think."

Lady Caroom laughed softly.

"I have never heard you so eloquent in my life, Sydney," she exclaimed.
"Do go on. It is most entertaining. When you have quite finished I can
see that Mr. Brooks is getting ready to pulverize you."

Brooks shook his head.

"Lady Sybil tells me that Mr. Molyneux is not to be taken seriously,"
he answered.

Molyneux brought up his cup for some more tea.

"Don't you listen to Lady Sybil, Brooks," he retorted. "She is annoyed
with me because I have been spoken of as a future Prime Minister, and
she rather fancies her cousin for the post. Two knobs, please, and
plenty of cream. As a matter of fact I am in serious and downright
earnest. I say that Henslow won his seat by kidding the working
classes. He promised them a sort of political Arabian Nights. He'll go
up to Westminster, and I'm open to bet what you like that he makes not
one serious practical effort to push forward one of the startling
measures he talked about so glibly. I will trouble you for the toast,
Brooks. Thanks!"

"He is always cynical like this," Sybil murmured, "when his party have
lost a seat. Don't take any notice of him, Mr. Brooks. I have great
faith in Mr. Henslow, and I believe that he will do his best."

Molyneux smiled.

"Henslow is a politician," he remarked, "a professional politician.
What you Radicals want is Englishmen who are interested in politics.
Henslow knows how to get votes. He's got his seat, and he'll keep
it--till the next election."

Brooks shook his head.

"Henslow has rather a platform manner," he said, "but he is sound
enough. I believe that we are on the eve of important changes in our
social legislation, and I believe that Henslow will have much to say
about them. At any rate, he is not a rank hypocrite. We have shown him
things in Medchester which he can scarcely forget in a hurry. He will
go to Westminster with the memory of these things before him, with such
a cry in his ears as no man can stifle. He might forget if he
would--but he never will. We have shown him things which men may not
forget."

Lord Arranmore, who had now joined the party, leaned forward with his
arm resting lightly upon Lady Caroom's shoulder. An uneasy light
flashed in his eyes.

"There are men," he said, "whom you can never reach, genial men with a
ready smile and a prompt cheque-book, whose selfishness is an armour
more potent than the armour of my forefather there, Sir Ronald Kingston
of Arranmore. And, after all, why not? The thoroughly selfish man is
the only person logically who has the slightest chance of happiness."

"It is true," Molyneux murmured. "Delightfully true."

"Lord Arranmore is always either cynical or paradoxical," Sybil Caroom
declared. "He really says the most unpleasant things with the greatest
appearance of truth of any man I know."

"This company," Lord Arranmore remarked lightly, "is hostile to me. Let
us go and play pool."

Lady Caroom rose up promptly. Molyneux groaned audibly.

"You shall play me at billiards instead," she declared. "I used to give
you a good game once, and I have played a great deal lately. Ring for
Annette, will you, Sybil? She has my cue."

Sybil Caroom made room for Brooks by her side.

"Do sit down and tell me more about the election," she said. "Sydney is
sure to go to sleep. He always does after shooting."

"You shall ask me questions," he suggested. "I scarcely know what part
of it would interest you."

They talked together lightly at first, then more seriously. From the
other end of the hall came the occasional click of billiard balls. Lady
Caroom and her host were playing a leisurely game interspersed with
conversation.

"Who is this young Mr. Brooks?" she asked, pausing to chalk her cue.

"A solicitor from Medchester," he answered. "He was Parliamentary agent
for Henslow, and I am going to give him a management of my estates."

"He is quite a boy," she remarked.

"Twenty-six or seven," he answered. "How well you play those cannons.

"I ought to. I had lessons for years. Is he a native of Medchester?"

Lord Arranmore was blandly puzzled. She finished her stroke and turned
towards him.

"Mr. Brooks, you know. We were talking of him."

"Of course we were," he answered. "I do not think so. He is an orphan.
I met his father in Canada."

"He reminds me of some one," she remarked, in a puzzled tone. "Just now
as I was coming downstairs it was almost startling. He is a
good-looking boy."

"Be careful not to foul," he admonished her. "You should have the
spider-rest."

Lady Caroom made a delicate cannon from an awkward place, and concluded
her break in silence. Then she leaned with her back against the table,
chalking her cue. Her figure was still the figure of a girl she was a
remarkably pretty woman. She laid her slim white fingers upon his
coat-sleeve.

"I wonder," she said, softly, "whether you will ever tell me."

"If you look at me like that," he answered, smiling, "I shall tell
you--a great many things."

Her eyes fell. It was too absurd at her age, but her cheeks were
burning.

"You don't improve a bit," she declared. "You were always too apt with
your tongue."

"I practiced in a good school," he answered.

"Dear me," she sighed. "For elderly people what a lot of rubbish we
talk."

He shivered.

"What a hideous word," he remarked. "You make me feel that my chest is
padded and my hair dyed. If to talk sense is a sign of youth, let us do
it."

"By all means. When are you going to find me a husband for Sybil?"

"Well--is there any hurry?" he asked.

"Lots! We are going to Fernshire next week, and the place is always
full of young men. If you have anything really good in your mind I
don't want to miss it."

He took up his cue and scored an excellent break. She followed suit,
and he broke down at an easy cannon. Then he came over to her side.

"How do you like Mr. Brooks?" he asked, quietly.

"He seems a nice boy," she answered, lightly. He remained silent.
Suddenly she looked up into his face, and clutched the sides of the
table.

"You--you don't mean that?" she murmured, suddenly pale to the lips.

He led her to a chair. The game was over.

"Some day," he whispered, "I will tell you the whole story."

              *     *     *     *     *

"Even to think of these things," Sybil said, softly, "makes us feel very
selfish."

"No one is ever hopelessly selfish who is conscious of it," he answered,
smiling. "And, after all, it would not do for every one to be always
brooding upon the darker side of life."

"In another minute," Molyneux exclaimed, waking up with a start, "I
should have been asleep. Whatever have you two been talking about? It
was the most soothing hum I ever heard in my life."

"Mr. Brooks was telling me of some new phases of life," she answered.
"It is very interesting, even if it is a little sad."

Molyneux eyed them both for a moment in thoughtful silence.

"H'm!" he remarked. "Dinner is the next phase of life which will
interest me. Has the dressing-bell gone yet?"

"You gross person," she exclaimed. "You ate so much tea you had to go
to sleep."

"It was the exercise, he insisted.

"You have been standing about all day. I heard you ask for a place
without any walking, and where as few people as possible could see you
miss your birds."

"Your ears are a great deal too sharp," he said. "It was the wind,
then."

"Never mind what it was," she answered, laughing. "You can go to sleep
again if you like."

Molyneux put up his eyeglass and looked from one to the other. He saw
that Sybil's interest in her companion's conversation was not assumed,
and for the first time he appreciated Brooks' good looks. He shook off
his sleepiness at once and stood by Sybil's side.

"Have you been trying to convert Lady Sybil?" he asked.

"It is unnecessary," she answered, quickly. "Mr. Brooks and I are on
the same side."

He laughed softly and strolled away. Lord Arranmore was standing
thoughtfully before the marking-board. He laid his hand upon his arm.

"I say, Arranmore," he asked, "who the devil is Brooks?"



CHAPTER XII

MR. BULLSOM GIVES A DINNER-PARTY

"God bless my soul!" Mr. Bullsom exclaimed. "Listen to this." Mrs.
Bullsom, in a resplendent new dress, looking shinier and fatter than
ever, was prepared to listen to anything which might relieve the tension
of the moment. For it was the evening of the dinner-party, and within
ten minutes of the appointed time. Mr. Bullsom stood under the
incandescent light and read aloud "The shooting-party at Enton yesterday
consisted of the Marquis of Arranmore, the Hon. Sydney Molyneux, Mr.
Hennibul, K.C., and Mr. Kingston Brooks. Notwithstanding the high wind
an excellent bag was obtained."

"What! Our Mr. Kingston Brooks?" Selina exclaimed.

"It's Brooks, right enough," Mr. Bullsom exclaimed. "I called at his
office yesterday, and they told me that he was out for the day. Well,
that licks me."

Mary, who was reading a magazine in a secluded corner, looked up.

"I saw Mr. Brooks in the morning," she remarked. "He told me that he
was going to Enton to dine and sleep."

Selina looked at her cousin sharply.

"You saw Mr. Brooks?" she repeated. "Where?"

"I met him," Mary answered, coolly. "He told me that Lord Arranmore had
been very kind to him."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Louise asked.

"I really didn't think of it," Mary answered. "It didn't strike me as
being anything extraordinary."

"Not when he's coming here to dine to-night," Selina repeated, "and is a
friend of papa's! Why, Mary, what nonsense."

"I really don't see anything to make a fuss about," Mary said, going
back to her magazine.

Mr. Bullsom drew himself up, and laid down the paper with the paragraph
uppermost.

"Well, it is most gratifying to think that I gave that young man his
first start," he remarked. "I believe, too, that he is not likely to
forget it."

"The bell!" Mrs. Bullsom exclaimed, with a little gasp. "Some one has
come."

"Well, if they have, there's nothing to be frightened about," Mr.
Bullsom retorted. "Ain't we expecting them to come? Don't look so
scared, Sarah! Take up a book, or something. Why, bless my soul,
you're all of a tremble."

"I can't help it, Peter," Mrs. Bullsom replied, nervously. "I don't
know these people scarcely a bit, and I'm sure I shall do something
foolish. Selina, be sure you look at me when I'm to come away, and--"

"Mr. Kingston Brooks."

Brooks, ushered in by a neighbouring greengrocer, entered upon a scene
of unexpected splendour. Selina and her sister were gorgeous in green
and pink respectively. Mr. Bullsom's shirt-front was a thing to wonder
at. There was an air of repressed excitement about everybody, except
Mary, who welcomed him with a quiet smile.

"I am not much too early, I hope," Brooks remarked.

"You're in the nick of time," Mr. Bullsom assured him.

Brooks endeavoured to secure a chair near Mary, which attempt Selina
adroitly foiled.

"We've been reading all about your grandeur, Mr. Brooks," she
exclaimed. "What a beautiful day you must have had at Enton."

Brooks looked puzzled.

"It was very enjoyable," he declared. "I wanted to see you, Miss
Scott," he added, turning to Mary. "I think that we can arrange that
date for the lecture now. How would Wednesday week do?"

"Admirably!" Mary answered.

"Do you know whom you take in, Mr. Brooks?" Selina interrupted.

Brooks glanced at the card in his hand.

"Mrs. Seventon," he said. "Yes, thanks."

Selina looked up at him with an arch smile.

"Mrs. Seventon is most dreadfully proper," she said. "You will have to
be on your best behaviour. Oh, here comes some one. What a bother!"

There was an influx of guests. Mrs. Bullsom, reduced to a state of
chaotic nervousness, was pushed as far into the background as possible
by her daughters, and Mr. Bullsom, banished from the hearth where he
felt surest of himself, plunged into a conversation with Mr. Seventon
on the weather. Brooks leaned over towards Mary.

"Wednesday week at eight o'clock, then," he said. "I want to have a
chat with you about the subject."

"Not now," she interposed. "You know these people, don't you, and the
Huntingdons? Go and talk to them, please."

Brooks laughed, and went to the rescue. He won Mrs. Bullsom's eternal
gratitude by diverting Mrs. Seventon's attention from her, and thereby
allowing her a moment or two to recover herself. Somehow or other a
buzz of conversation was kept up until the solemn announcement of
dinner. And when she was finally seated in her place, and saw a couple
of nimble waiters, with the greengrocer in the back, looking cool and
capable, she felt that the worst was over.

The solemn process of sampling doubtful-looking entries and eating
saddle of mutton to the tune of a forced conversation was got through
without disaster. Mrs. Bullsom felt her fat face break out into
smiles. Mr. Bullsom, though he would like to have seen everybody go
twice for everything, began to expand. He had already recited the story
of Kingston Brooks' greatness to both of his immediate neighbours, and
in a casual way mentioned his early patronage of that remarkable young
man. And once meeting his eye he raised his glass.

"Not quite up to the Enton vintage, Brooks, eh? but all right, I hope."

Brooks nodded back, and resumed his conversation. Selina took the
opportunity to mention casually to her neighbour, Mr. Huntingdon, that
Mr. Brooks was a great friend of Lord Arranmore's, and Louise, on her
side of the table, took care also to disseminate the same information.
Everybody was properly impressed. Mr. Bullsom decided to give a
dinner-party every month, and to double the greengrocer's tip, and by
the time Selina's third stage whisper had reached her mother and the
ladies finally departed, he was in a state of geniality bordering upon
beatitude. There was a general move to his end of the table. Mr.
Bullsom started the port, and his shirt-front grew wider and wider. He
lit a cigar, and his thumb found its way to the armhole of his
waistcoat. At that moment Mr. Bullsom would not have changed places
with any man on earth.

"What sort of a place is Enton to stay at, Brooks, eh?" he inquired, in
a friendly manner. "Keeps it up very well, don't he, the present
Marquis?"

Brooks sighed.

"I really don't know much about it," he answered, "I was only there one
night."

"Good day's sport?"

"Very good indeed," Brooks answered. "Lord Arranmore is a wonderful
shot."

"A remarkable man in a great many ways, Lord Arranmore," Dr. Seventon
remarked. "He disappeared from London when he was an impecunious young
barrister with apparently no earthly chance of succeeding to the
Arranmore estates, and from that time till a few years ago, when he was
advertised for, not a soul knew his whereabouts. Even now I am told
that he keeps the story of all these years absolutely to himself. No
one knew where he was, or how he supported himself."

"I can tell you where he was for some time, at any rate," Brooks said.
"He was in Canada, for he met my father there, and was with him when he
died."

"Indeed," Dr. Seventon remarked. "Then I should say that you are one
of the only men in England to whom he has opened his lips on the
subject. Do you know what he was doing there?"

"Fishing and shooting, I think." Brooks answered. "It was near Lake
Ono, right out west, and there would be nothing else to take one there."

"It was always supposed too that he had spent most of the time in a
situation in New York," Mr. Huntingdon said.

"I know a man," Mr. Seaton put in, "who can swear that he met him as a
sergeant in the first Australian contingent of mounted infantry sent to
the Cape."

"There are no end of stories about him," Dr. Seventon remarked. "If I
were the man I would put a stop to them by telling everybody exactly
where I was during those twenty years or so. It is a big slice of one's
life to seal up."

"Still, there is not the slightest reason why he should take the whole
world into his confidence, is there?" Brooks expostulated. "He is not a
public man."

"A peer of England with a seat in the House of Lords must always be a
public man to some extent," Mr. Huntingdon remarked.

"I am not sure," Brooks remarked, "that the lives of all our hereditary
legislators would bear the most searching inquiry."

"That's right, Brooks," Mr. Bullsom declared.  "Stick up for your pals."

Brooks looked a little annoyed.

"The only claim I have upon Lord Arranmore's acquaintance," he remarked,
"is his kindness to my father. I hope, Dr. Seventon, that you are
going to press the matter of that fever hospital home. I have a little
information which I think you might make use of."

Brooks changed his place, wine-glass in hand, and the conversation
drifted away. But he found the position of social star one which the
Bullsoms were determined to force upon him, for they had no sooner
entered the drawing-room than Selina came rushing across the room to him
and drew him confidentially on one side.

"Mr. Brooks," she said, "do go and talk to Mrs. Huntingdon. She is so
anxious to hear about the Lady Caroom who is staying at Enton."

"I know nothing about Lady Caroom," Brooks replied, without any overplus
of graciousness.

Selina looked at him in some dismay.

"But you met her at Enton, didn't you?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, I met her there," Brooks answered, impatiently. "But I
certainly don't know enough of her to discuss her with Mrs. Huntingdon.
I rather wanted to speak to your cousin."

Selina's thin little lips became compressed, and for a moment she forgot
to smile. Her cousin indeed! Mary, who was sitting there in a plain
black gown without a single ornament, and not even a flower, looking for
all the world like the poor relation she was! Selina glanced downwards
at the great bunch of roses and maidenhair fern in her bosom, at the
fancy and beaded trimming which ran like a nightmare all over her new
gown, and which she was absolutely certain had come from Paris; at the
heavy gold bracelets which concealed some part of her thin arms; she
remembered suddenly the aigrette in her hair, such a finish to her
costume, and her self-confidence returned.

"Oh, don't bother about Mary now. Mrs. Huntingdon is dying to have you
talk to her. Please do and if you like--I will give you one of my roses
for your button-hole."

Brooks stood the shock gallantly, and bowed his thanks. He had met Mrs.
Huntingdon before, and they talked together for a quarter of an hour or
so.

"I wish I knew why you were here," was almost her first question.
"Isn't it all funny?

"Mr. Bullsom has always been very decent to me," he answered. "It is
through him I was appointed agent to Mr. Henslow."

"Oh, business! I see," she answered, shrugging her shoulders. "Same
here. I'm a doctor's wife, you know. Did you ever see such awful
girls! and who in the name of all that's marvellous can be their
dressmaker?"

"Bullsom is a very good sort indeed," Brooks answered. "I have a great
respect for him."

She made a little face.

"Who's the nice-looking girl in black with her hair parted in the
middle?" she asked. "Mr. Bullsom's niece. She is quite charming, and
most intelligent."

"Dear me!" Mrs. Huntingdon remarked. "I had no idea she had anything
to do with the family. Sort of a Cinderella look about her now you
mention it. Couldn't you get her to come over and talk to me? I'm
horribly afraid of Mrs. Bullsom. She'll come out of that dress if
she tries to talk, and I know I shall laugh."

"I'm sure I can," Brooks answered, rising with alacrity. "I'll bring
her over in a minute."

Mary had just finished arranging a card-table when Brooks drew her on
one side.

"About that subject!" he began.

"We shall scarcely have time to talk about it now, shall we?" she
answered. "You will be wanted to play cards or something. We shall be
quite content to leave it to you."

"I should like to talk it over with you," he said. "Do tell me when I
may see you."

She sat down, and he stood by her chair. "Really, I don't know," she
answered. "Perhaps I shall be at home when you pay your duty call."

"Come and have some tea at Mellor's with me to-morrow."

She seemed not to hear him. She had caught Mrs. Seventon's eye across
the room, and rose to her feet.

"You have left Mrs. Seventon alone all the evening," she said. "I must
go and talk to her."

He stood before her--a little insistent.

"I shall expect you at half-past four," he said.

She shook her head.

Oh, no. I have an engagement."

"The next day, then."

"Thank you! I would rather you did not ask me. I have a great deal to
do just now. I will bring the girls to the lecture."

"Wednesday week," he protested, "is a long way off."

"You can go over to Enton," she laughed, "and get some more cheques from
your wonderful friend."

"I wonder," he remarked, "why you dislike Lord Arranmore so much."

"Instinct perhaps--or caprice," she answered, lightly.

"The latter for choice," he answered. "I don't think that he is a man
to dislike instinctively. He rather affected me the other way."

She was suddenly graver.

"It is foolish of me," she remarked. "You will think so too, when I
tell you that my only reason is because of a likeness."

"A likeness!" he repeated.

She nodded.

"He is exactly like a man who was once a friend of my father's, and who
did him a great deal of harm. My father was much to blame, I know, but
this man had a great influence over him, and a most unfortunate one.
Now don't you think I'm absurd?"

"I think it is a little rough on Lord Arranmore," he answered, "don't
you?"

"It would be if my likes or dislikes made the slightest difference to
him," she answered. "As it is, I don't suppose it matters."

"Was this in England?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"No, it was abroad--in Montreal. I really must go to Mrs. Seventon.
She looks terribly bored."

Brooks made no effort to detain her. He was looking intently at a
certain spot in the carpet. The coincidence--it was nothing more, of
course--was curious.



CHAPTER XIII

CHARITY THE "CRIME"

There followed a busy time for Brooks, the result of which was a very
marked improvement in his prospects. For the younger Morrison and his
partner, loth to lose altogether the valuable Enton connection, offered
Brooks a partnership in their firm. Mr. Ascough, who was Lord
Arranmore's London solicitor, and had been Brooks' guardian, after
careful consideration advised his acceptance, and there being nothing in
the way, the arrangements were pushed through almost at once. Mr.
Ascough, on the morning of his return to London, took the opportunity
warmly to congratulate Brooks.

"Lord Arranmore has been marvellously kind to me," Brooks agreed. "To
tell you the truth, Mr. Ascough, I feel almost inclined to add
incomprehensibly kind."

The older man stroked his grey moustache thoughtfully.

"Lord Arranmore is eccentric," he remarked. "Has always been eccentric,
and will remain so, I suppose, to the end of the chapter. You are the
one who profits, however, and I am very glad of it."

"Eccentricity," Brooks remarked, "is, of course, the only obvious
explanation of his generosity so far as I am concerned. But it has
occurred to me, Mr. Ascough, to wonder whether the friendship or
connection between him and my father was in any way a less slight thing
than I have been led to suppose."

Mr. Ascough shrugged his shoulders.

"Lord Arranmore," he said, "has told you, no doubt, all that there is to
be told."

Brooks sat at his desk, frowning slightly, and tapping the
blotting-paper with a pen-holder.

"All that Lord Arranmore has told me," he said, "is that my father
occupied a cabin not far from his on the banks of Lake Ono, that they
saw little of each other, and that he only found out his illness by
accident. That my father then disclosed his name, gave him his papers
and your address. There was merely the casual intercourse between two
Englishmen coming together in a strange country."

"That is what I have always understood," Mr. Ascough agreed. "Have
you any reason to think otherwise?

"No definite reason--except Lord Arranmore's unusual kindness to me,"
Brooks remarked. "Lord Arranmore is one of the most self-centred men I
ever knew--and the least impulsive. Why, therefore, he should go out of
his way to do me a kindness I cannot understand."

"If this is really an enigma to you," Mr. Ascough answered, "I cannot
help you to solve it. Lord Arranmore has been the reverse of
communicative to me. I am afraid you must fall back upon his lordship's
eccentricity."

Mr. Ascough rose, but Brooks detained him.

"You have plenty of time for your train," he said. "Will you forgive me
if I go over a little old ground with you--for the last time?"

The lawyer resumed his seat.

"I am in no hurry," he said, "if you think it worth while."

"My father came to you when he was living at Stepney--a stranger to
you."

"A complete stranger," Mr. Ascough agreed. "I had never seen him
before in my life. I did a little trifling business for him in
connection with his property."

"He told you nothing of his family or relatives?"

"He told me that he had not a relation in the world."

"You knew him slightly, then?" Brooks continued, "all the time he was in
London? And when he left for that voyage he came to you."

"Yes."

"He made over his small income then to my mother in trust for me. Did
it strike you as strange that he should do this instead of making a
will?"

"Not particularly," Mr. Ascough declared. "As you know, it is not an
unusual course."

"It did not suggest to you any determination on his part never to return
to England?"

"Certainly not."

"He left England on friendly terms with my mother?"

"Certainly. She and he were people for whom I and every one who knew
anything of their lives had the highest esteem and admiration."

"You can imagine no reason, then, for my father leaving England for
good?"

"Certainly not!"

"You know of no reason why he should have abandoned his trip to
Australia and gone to Canada?"

"None!"

"His doing so is as inexplicable to you as to me?"

"Entirely."

"You have never doubted Lord Arranmore's story of his death?"

"Never. Why should I?"

"One more question," Brooks said. "Do you know that lately I have met a
traveller--a man who visited Lord Arranmore in Canada, and who declared
to his certain knowledge there was no other human dwelling-house within
fifty miles of Lord Arranmore's cabin?"

"He was obviously mistaken."

You think so?

"It is certain."

Brooks hesitated.

"My question," he said, "will have given you some idea of the
uncertainty I have felt once or twice lately, owing to the report of the
traveller Lacroix, and Lord Arranmore's unaccountable kindness to me.
You see, he isn't an ordinary man. He is not a philanthropist by any
means, nor in any way a person likely to do kindly actions from the love
of them. Now, do you know of any facts, or can you suggest anything
which might make the situation clearer to me?"

"I cannot, Mr. Brooks," the older man answered, without hesitation.
"If you take my advice, you will not trouble yourself any more with
fancies which seem to me--pardon me--quite chimerical. Accept Lord
Arranmore's kindness as the offshoot of some sentimental feeling which
he might well have entertained towards a fellow-countryman by whose
death-bed he had stood in that far-away, lonely country. You may even
yourself be mistaken in Lord Arranmore's character, and you can
remember, too, that after all what means so much to you costs him
nothing--is probably for his own advantage."

Brooks rose and took up his hat.

"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Ascough," he said. "Yours, after
all, is the common-sense view of the affair. If you like I will walk up
to the station. I am going that way. . . ."

So Brooks, convinced of their folly, finally discarded certain
uncomfortable thoughts which once or twice lately had troubled him. He
dined at Enton that night, and improved his acquaintance with Lady
Caroom and her daughter, who were still staying there. Although this
was not a matter which he had mentioned to Mr. Ascough, there was
something which he found more inexplicable even than Lord Arranmore's
transference of the care of his estates to him, and that was the
apparent encouragement which both he and Lady Caroom gave to the
friendship between Sybil and himself. They had lunched with him twice
in Medchester, and more often still the Enton barouche had been kept
waiting at his office whilst Lady Caroom and Sybil descended upon him
with invitations from Lord Arranmore. After his talk with Mr. Ascough
he put the matter behind him, but it remained at times an inexplicable
puzzle.

On the evening of this particular visit he found Sybil alone in a recess
of the drawing-room with a newspaper in her hand. She greeted him with
obvious pleasure.

"Do come and tell me about things, Mr. Brooks," she begged. "I have
been reading the local paper. Is it true that there are actually people
starving in Medchester?"

"There is a great deal of distress," he admitted, gravely. "I am afraid
that it is true."

She looked at him with wide-open eyes.

"But I don't understand," she said. "I thought that there were
societies who dealt with all that sort of thing, and behind, the--the
workhouse."

"So there are, Lady Sybil," he answered, "but you must remember that
societies are no use unless people will subscribe to them, and that
there are a great many people who would sooner starve than enter the
workhouse."

"But surely," she exclaimed, "there is no difficulty about getting
money--if people only understand."

He watched her for a moment in silence--suddenly appreciating the
refinement, the costly elegance which seemed in itself to be a part of
the girl, and yet for which surely her toilette was in some way also
responsible. Her white satin dress was cut and fashioned in a style
which he was beginning to appreciate as evidence of skill and
costliness. A string of pearls around her throat gleamed softly in the
firelight. A chain of fine gold studded with opals and diamonds reached
almost to her knees. She wore few rings indeed, but they were such
rings as he had never seen before he had come as a guest to Enton. And
there were thousands like her. A momentary flash of thought carried him
back to the days of the French Revolution. There was a print hanging in
his room of a girl as fair and as proud as this one, surrounded by a
fierce rabble mad with hunger and the pent-up rage of generations,
tearing the jewels from her fingers, tearing even, he thought, the
trimming from her gown.

"You do not answer me, Mr. Brooks," she reminded him.

He recovered himself with a start.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Sybil. Your question set me thinking. We have
tried to make people understand, and many have given most generously,
but for all that we cannot cope with such distress as there is to-day in
Medchester. I am secretary for one of the distribution societies, and
I have seen things which are enough to sadden a man for life, only
during the last few days."

"You have seen people--really hungry?" she asked, with something like
timidity in her face.

He laughed bitterly.

"That we see every moment of the time we spend down amongst them," he
answered. "I have seen worse things. I have seen the sapping away of
character--men become thieves and women worse--to escape from
starvation. That, I think, is the greatest tragedy of all. It makes
one shudder when one thinks that on the shoulders of many people some
portion of the responsibility at any rate for these things must rest."

Her lips quivered. She emptied the contents of a gold chain purse into
her hands.

"It is we who are wicked, Mr. Brooks," she said, "who spend no end of
money and close our ears to all this. Do take this, will you; can it go
to some of the women you know, and the children? There are only five or
six pounds there, but I shall talk to mamma. We will send you a
cheque."

He took the money without hesitation.

"I am very glad," he said, earnestly, "that you have given me this, that
you have felt that you wanted to give it me. I hope you won't think too
badly of me for coming over here to help you spend a pleasant evening,
and talking at all of such miserable things."

"Badly!" she repeated. "No; I shall never be able to thank you enough
for telling me what you have done. It makes one feel almost wicked to
be sitting here, and wearing jewelry, and feeling well off, spending
money on whatever you want, and to think that there are people starving.
How they must hate us."

"It is the wonderful part of it," he answered. "I do not believe that
they do. I suppose it is a sort of fatalism--the same sort of thing,
only much less ignoble, as the indifference which keeps our rich people
contented and deaf to this terribly human cry."

"You are young," she said, looking at him, "to be so much interested in
such serious things."

"It is my blood, I suppose," he answered. "My father was a police-court
missionary, and my mother the matron of a pauper hospital."

"They are both dead, are they not?" she asked, softly.

"Many years ago," he answered.

Lady Caroom and Lord Arranmore came in together. A certain unusual
seriousness in Sybil's face was manifest.

"You two do not seem to have been amusing yourselves," Lady Caroom
remarked, giving her hand to Brooks.

"Mr. Brooks has been answering some of my questions about the poor
people," Sybil answered, "and it is not an amusing subject."

Lord Arranmore laughed lightly, and there was a touch of scorn in the
slight curve of his fine lips and his raised eyebrows. He stood away
from the shaded lamplight before a great open fire of cedar logs, and
the red glow falling fitfully upon his face seemed to Brooks, watching
him with more than usual closeness, to give him something of a
Mephistopheles aspect. His evening clothes hung with more than ordinary
precision about his long slim body, his black tie and black pearl stud
supplied the touch of sombreness so aptly in keeping with the mirthless,
bitter smile which still parted his lips.

"You must not take Mr. Brooks too seriously on the subject of the poor
people," he said, the mockery of his smile well matched in his tone.
"Brooks is an enthusiast--one, I am afraid, of those misguided people
who have barred the way to progress for centuries. If only they could
be converted!"

Lady Caroom sighed.

"Oh, dear, how enigmatic!" she exclaimed. "Do be a little more
explicit."

"Dear lady," he continued, turning to her, "it is not worth while. Yet
I sometimes wonder whether people realize how much harm this hysterical
philanthropy--this purely sentimental faddism, does; how it retards the
natural advance of civilization, throws dust in people's eyes, salves
the easy conscience of the rich man, who bargains for immortality with a
few strokes of the pen, and finds mischievous occupation for a good many
weak minds and parasitical females. Believe me, that all personal
charity is a mistake. It is a good deal worse than that. It is a
crime."

Sybil rose up, and a little unusual flush had stained her cheeks.

"I still do not understand you in the least, Lord Arranmore," she said.
"It seems to me that you are making paradoxical and ridiculous
statements, which only bewilder us. Why is charity a crime? That is
what I should like to hear you explain."

Lord Arranmore bowed slightly.

"I had no idea," he said, leaning his elbow upon the mantelpiece, "that
I was going to be inveigled into a controversy. But, my dear Sybil, I
will do my best to explain to you what I mean, especially as at your age
you are not likely to discover the truth for yourself. In the first
place, charity of any sort is the most insidious destroyer of moral
character which the world has ever known. The man who once accepts it,
even in extremes, imbibes a poison from which his system can never be
thoroughly cleansed. You let him loose upon society, and the evil which
you have sown in him spreads. He is like a man with an infectious
disease. He is a source of evil to the community. You have relieved a
physical want, and you have destroyed a moral quality. I do not need to
point out to you that the balance is on the wrong side."

Sybil glanced across at Brooks, and he smiled back at her.

"Lord Arranmore has not finished yet," he said. "Let us hear the
worst."

Their host smiled.

"After all," he said, "why do I waste my breath? From the teens to the
thirties sentiment smiles. It is only later on in life that reason has
any show at all. Yet you should ask yourselves, you eager self-denying
young people, who go about with a healthy moral glow inside because you
have fed the poor, or given an hour or so of your time to the
distribution of reckless charity-you should ask yourselves: What is the
actual good of ministering to the outward signs of an internal disease?
You are simply trying to renovate the outside when the inside is filthy.
Don't you see, my dear young people, that to give a meal to one starving
man may be to do him indeed good, but it does nothing towards
preventing another starving man from taking his place to-morrow. You
stimulate the disease, you help it to spread. Don't you see where
instead you should turn--to the social laws, the outcome of which is
that starving man? You let them remain unharmed, untouched, while you
fall over one another in frantic efforts to brush away to-day's effect
of an eternal cause. Let your starving man die, let the bones break
through his skin and carry him up--him and his wife and their children,
and their fellows--to your House of Commons. Tell them that there are
more to-morrow, more the next day, let the millions of the lower classes
look this thing in the face. I tell you that either by a revolution,
which no doubt some of us would find worse than inconvenient, or by less
drastic means, the thing would right itself. You, who work to relieve
the individual, only postpone and delay the millennium. People will
keep their eyes closed as long as they can. It is you who help them to
do so."

"Dinner is served, my lord," the butler announced.

Lord Arranmore extended his arm to Lady Caroom.

"Come," he said, "let us all be charitable to one another, for I too am
starving."



CHAPTER XIV

AN AWKWARD QUESTION

"You think they really liked it, then?"

"How could they help it? It was such a delightful idea of yours, and I
am sure all that you said was so simple and yet suggestive. Good-night,
Mr. Brooks."

They stood in the doorway of the Secular Hall, where Brooks had just
delivered his lecture. It seemed to him that her farewell was a little
abrupt.

"I was going to ask," he said, "whether I might not see you home."

She hesitated.

"Really," she said, "I wish you would not trouble. It is quite a long
way, and I have only to get into a car.

"The further the better," he answered, "and besides, if your uncle is at
home I should like to come in and see him."

She made no further objection, yet Brooks fancied that her acquiescence
was, to some extent, involuntary. He walked by her side in silence for
a moment or two, wondering whether there was indeed any way in which he
could have offended her.

"I have not seen you," he remarked, "since the evening of your
dinner-party."

"No!"

"You were out when I called."

"I have so many things to do--just now. We can get a car here."

He looked at it.

"It is too full," he said. "Let us walk on for a little way. I want to
talk to you."

The car was certainly full, so after a moment's hesitation she
acquiesced.


"You will bring your girls again, I hope?" he asked.

"They will come I have no doubt," she answered. "So will I if I am in
Medchester."

"You are going away?"

"I hope so," she answered. "I am not quite sure."

"Not for good?" Possibly."

"Won't you tell me about it?" he asked.

"Well--I don't know!"

She hesitated for a moment.

"I will tell you if you like," she said, doubtfully. "But I do not wish
anything said about it at present, as my arrangements are not complete."

"I will be most discreet," he promised.

"I have been doing a little work for a woman's magazine in London, and
they have half promised me a definite post on the staff. I am to hear
in a few days as to the conditions. If they are satisfactory--that is
to say, if I can keep myself on what they offer--I shall go and live in
London."

He was surprised, and also in a sense disappointed. It was astonishing
to find how unpleasant the thought of her leaving Medchester was to him.

"I had no idea of this," he said, thoughtfully. "I did not know that
you went in for anything of the sort."

"My literary ambitions are slight enough," she answered. "Yet you can
scarcely be surprised that I find the thought of a definite career and a
certain amount of independence attractive."

He stole a sidelong glance at her. In her plainly made clothes and quiet
hat she was scarcely, perhaps, a girl likely to attract attention, yet
he was conscious of certain personal qualities, which he had realized
and understood from the first. She carried herself well, she walked
with the free graceful movements of a well-bred and healthy girl. In
her face was an air of quiet thought, the self-possession of the woman
of culture and experience. Her claim to good looks was, after all,
slight enough, yet on studying her he came to the conclusion that she
could if she chose appear to much greater advantage. Her hair, soft and
naturally wavy, was brushed too resolutely back; her smile, which was
always charming, she suffered to appear only at the rarest intervals.
She suggested a life of repression, and with his knowledge of the
Bullsom menage he was able to surmise some glimmering of the truth.

"You are right," he declared. "I think that I can understand what your
feeling must be. I am sure I wish you luck."

The touch of sympathy helped her to unbend. She glanced towards him
kindly.

"Thank you," she said. "Of course there will be difficulties. My uncle
will not like it. He is very good-natured and very hospitable, and I am
afraid his limitations will not permit him to appreciate exactly how I
feel about it. And my aunt is, of course, merely his echo."

"He will not be unreasonable," Brooks said. "I am sure of that. For a
man who is naturally of an obstinate turn of mind I think your uncle is
wonderful. He makes great efforts to free himself from all prejudices."

"Unfortunately," she remarked, "he is very down on the independent
woman. He would make housekeepers and cooks of all of us."

"Surely," he protested, with a quiet smile, "your cousins are more
ambitious than that. I am sure Selina would never wear a cooking-apron,
unless it had ribbon and frilly things all over it."

She laughed.

"After all, they have been kind to me," she said. "My mother was the
black sheep of the family, and when she died Mr. Bullsom paid my
passage home, and insisted upon my coming to live here as one of the
family. I should hate them to think that I am discontented, only the
things which satisfy them do not satisfy me, so life sometimes becomes a
little difficult."

"Have you friends in London?" he asked.

"None! I tried living there when I first came back for a few weeks, but
it was impossible."

"You will be very lonely, surely. London is the loneliest of all great
cities."

"Why should I not make friends?"

"That is what I too asked myself years ago when I was articled there,"
he answered. "Yet it is not so easy as it sounds. Every one seems to
have their own little circle, and a solitary person remains so often
just outside. Yet if you have friends--and tastes--London is a
paradise. Oh, how fascinating I used to find it just at first--before
the chill came. You, too, will feel that. You will be content at first
to watch, to listen, to wonder! Every type of humanity passes before
you like the jumbled-up figures of a kaleidoscope. You are content even
to sit before a window in a back street--and listen. What a sound that
is--the roar of London, the voices of the street, the ceaseless hum, the
creaking of the great wheel of humanity as it goes round and round. And
then, perhaps, in a certain mood the undernote falls upon your ear, the
bitter, long-drawn-out cry of the hopeless and helpless. When you have
once heard it, life is never the same again. Then, if you do not find
friends, you will know what misery is."

They were both silent for a few minutes. A car passed them unnoticed.
Then she looked at him curiously.

"For a lawyer," she remarked, "you are a very imaginative person."

He laughed.

"Ah, well, I was talking just then of how I felt in those days. I was a
boy then, you know. I dare say I could go back now to my old rooms and
live there without a thrill."

She shook her head.

"What one has once felt," she murmured, "comes back always."

"Sometimes only the echo," he answered, "and that is weariness."

They walked for a little way in silence. Then she spoke to him in an
altered tone.

"I have heard a good deal about you during the last few weeks," she
said. "You are very much to be congratulated, they tell me. I am sure
I am very glad that you have been so fortunate."

"Thank you," he answered. "To tell you the truth, it all seems very
marvellous to me. Only a few months ago your uncle was almost my only
client of importance."

"Lord Arranmore was your father's friend though, was he not?"

"They came together abroad," he answered, "and Lord Arranmore was with
my father when he died in Canada."

She stopped short.

Where?

"In Canada, on the banks of Lake Ono, if you know where that is," he
answered, looking at her in surprise.

She resumed her usual pace, but he noticed that she was pale.

"So Lord Arranmore was in Canada?" she said. "Do you know how long
ago?"

"About ten years, I suppose," he answered. "How long before that I do
not know."

She was silent for several minutes, and they found themselves in the
drive leading to the Bullsom villa. Brooks was curious.

"I wonder," he asked, "whether you will tell me why you are interested
in Lord Arranmore--and Canada?"

"I was born in Montreal," she answered, "and I once saw some one very
much like Lord Arranmore there. But I am convinced that it could only
have been a resemblance."

"You mentioned it before--when we saw him in Mellor's," he remarked.

"Yes, it struck me then," she admitted. "But I am sure that Lord
Arranmore could not have been the person whom I am thinking about. It
is ridiculous of me to attach so much importance to a mere likeness."

They stood upon the doorstep, but she checked him as he reached out for
the bell.

"You have seen quite a good deal of him," she said. "Tell me what you
think of Lord Arranmore." His hand fell to his side. He stood under the
gas-bracket, and she could see his face distinctly. There was a slight
frown upon his forehead, a look of trouble in his grey eyes.

"You could not have asked me a more difficult question," he admitted.
"Lord Arranmore has been very kind to me, although my claim upon him has
been of the slightest. He is very clever, almost fantastic, in some of
his notions; he is very polished, and his manners are delightful. He
would call himself, I believe, a philosopher, and he is, although it
sounds brutal for me to say so, very selfish. And behind it all I
haven't the faintest idea what sort of a man he is. Sometimes he gives
one the impression of a strong man wilfully disguising his real
characteristics, for hidden reasons; at others, he is like one of those
brilliant Frenchmen of the last century, who toyed and juggled with
words and phrases, esteeming it a triumph to remain an unread letter
even to their intimates. So you see, after all," he wound up, "I cannot
tell you what I think of Lord Arranmore."

"You can ring the bell," she said. "You must come in for a few
minutes."

Their entrance together seemed to cause the little family party a
certain amount of disturbed surprise. The girls greeted Brooks with a
great show of pleasure, but they looked doubtfully at Mary.

"Did you meet at the front door?" Selina asked. "I thought I heard
voices." Brooks was a little surprised.

"Your cousin brought her class of factory girls to my lecture to-night
at the Secular Hall."

Selina's eyes narrowed a little, and she was silent for a moment. Then
she turned to her cousin.

"You might have told us, Mary," she exclaimed, reproachfully. "We
should so much have liked to come, shouldn't we, Louise?"

"Of course we should," Louise answered, snappishly. "I can't think why
Mary should go off without saying a word."

Mary looked at them both and laughed. "Well," she said, "I have left
the house at precisely the same time on 'Wednesday evenings all through
the winter, and neither of you have said anything about coming with me."

"This is quite different," Selina answered, cuttingly. "We should very
much have enjoyed Mr. Brooks' lecture. Do tell us what it was about."

"Don't you be bothered, Brooks," Mr. Bullsom exclaimed, hospitably.
"Sit down and try one of these cigars. We've had supper, but if you'd
like anything--"

"Nothing to eat, thanks," Brooks protested. "I'll have a cigar if I
may."

"And a whisky-and-soda, then," Mr. Bullsom insisted. "Say when!"

Brooks turned to Selina. Mary had left the room. "You were asking
about the lecture," he said. "Really, it was only a very unpretentious
affair, and to tell you the truth, only intended for people whose
opportunities for reading have not been great. I am quite sure it would
not have been worth your while to come down. We just read a chapter or
so from A Tale of Two Cities, and talked about it."

"We should have liked it very mulch," Selina declared. "Do tell us when
there is another one, will you?"

"With pleasure," he answered. "I warn you, though, that you will be
disappointed."

"We will risk that," Selina declared, with a smile. "Have you been to
Enton this week?"

"I was there on Sunday," he answered.

"And is that beautiful girl, Lady Sybil Caroom, still staying there?

"Yes," he answered. "Is she very beautiful, by the bye?"

"Well, I thought men would think so," Selina said, hastily. "I think
that she is just a little loud, don't you, Louise?"

Louise admitted that the idea had occurred to her.

"And her hair--isn't it badly dyed?" Selina remarked. "Such a pity.
It's all in patches."

"I think girls ought not to make up in the street, either," Louise
remarked, primly. "A little powder in the house is all very
well"--(Louise had a nose which gave her trouble)--"but I really don't
think it looks respectable in the street."

"I suppose," Selina remarked, "you men admire all that sort of thing,
don't you?

"I really hadn't noticed it with Lady Sybil," Brooks admitted.

Selina sighed.

"Men are so blind," she remarked. "You watch next time you are close to
her, Mr. Brooks."

"I will," he promised. "I'll get her between me and a window in a
strong north light."

Selina laughed.

"Don't be too unkind," she said. "That's the worst of you men. When
you do find anything out you are always so severe."

"After all, though," Louise remarked, with a sidelong glance, "it must
be very, very interesting to meet these sort of people, even if one
doesn't quite belong to their set. I should think you must find every
one else quite tame, Mr. Brooks."

"I can assure you I don't," he answered, coolly. "This evening has
provided me with quite as pleasant society as ever I should wish for."

Selina beamed upon him.

"Oh, Mr. Brooks, you are terrible. You do say such things!" she
declared, archly.

Louise laughed a little hardly.

"We mustn't take too much to ourselves, dear," she said. "Remember that
Mr. Brooks walked all the way up from the Secular Hall with Mary."

Mr. Bullsom threw down his paper with a little impatient exclamation.

"Come, come!" he said. "I want to have a few words with Brooks myself,
if you girls'll give me a chance. Heard anything from Henslow lately,
eh?"

Brooks leaned forward.

"Not a word!" he answered.

Mr. Bullsom grunted.

"H'm! He's taken his seat, and that's all he does seem to have done. To
have heard his last speech here before polling time you would have
imagined him with half-a-dozen questions down before now. He's letting
the estimates go by, too. There are half-a-dozen obstructors, all
faddists, but Henslow, with a real case behind him, is sitting tight.
'Pon my word, I'm not sure that I like the fellow."

"I ventured to write to him the other evening," Brooks said, "and I have
sent him all the statistics we promised, he seems to have regarded my
letter as an impertinence, though, for he has never answered it."

"You mark my words," Mr. Bullsom said, doubling the paper up and
bringing it down viciously upon his knee, "Henslow will never sit again
for Medchester. There was none too mulch push about him last session,
but he smoothed us all over somehow. He'll not do it again. I'm losing
faith in the man, Brooks."

Brooks was genuinely disturbed. His own suspicions had been gathering
strength during the last few weeks. Henslow had been pleasant enough,
but a little flippant after the election. From London he had promised
to write to Mr. Bullsom, as chairman of his election committee, mapping
out the course of action which, in pursuance of his somewhat daring
pledges, he proposed to embark upon. This was more than a month ago,
and there had come not a single word from him. All that vague distrust
which Brooks had sometimes felt in the man was rekindled and increased,
and with it came a flood of bitter thoughts. Another opportunity then
was to be lost. For seven years longer these thousands of pallid,
heart-weary men and women were to suffer, with no one to champion their
cause. He saw again that sea of eager faces in the market-place, lit
with a sudden gleam of hope as they listened to the bold words of the
man who was promising them life and hope and better things. Surely if
this was a betrayal it was an evil deed, not passively to be borne.

Mr. Bullsom had refreshed himself with whisky-and-water, and decided
that pessimism was not a healthy state of mind.

"I tell you what it is, Brooks," he said, more cheerfully. "We mustn't
be too previous in judging the fellow. Let's write him civilly, and if
nothing comes of it in a week or two, we will run up to London, you and
me, eh? and just haul him over the coals."

"You are right, Mr. Bullsom," Brooks said. "There is nothing we can do
for the present."

"Please don't talk any more horrid politics," Selina begged. "We want
Mr. Brooks to give us a lesson at billiards. Do you mind?"

Brooks rose at once.

"I shall be charmed!" he declared.

Mr. Bullsom rose also.

"Pooh, pooh!" he said. "Brooks and I will have a hundred up and you can
watch us. That'll be lesson enough for you."

Selina made a little grimace, but they all left the room together. In
the hall a housemaid was speaking at the telephone, and a moment
afterwards she laid the receiver down and came towards them.

"It is a message for Mr. Brooks, sir, from the Queen's Hotel. Lord
Arranmore's compliments, and the ladies from Enton are at the theatre
this evening, and would be glad if Mr. Brooks would join them at the
Queen's Hotel for supper at eleven o'clock."

Brooks hesitated, but Mr. Bullsom spoke up at once.

"Off you go, Brooks," he said, firmly. "Don't you go refusing an
invitation like that. Lord Arranmore is a bit eccentric, they say, and
he isn't the sort of man to like refusals. You've just got time."

"They had the message two hours ago, and have been trying everywhere to
find Mr. Brooks," the housemaid added.

Selina helped him on with his coat.

"Will you come another evening soon and play billiards with us?" she
asked, dropping her voice a little.

"With pleasure," Brooks answered. "Do you mind saying good-bye to your
cousin for me? I am sorry not to see her again."



CHAPTER XV

A SUPPER-PARTY AT THE "QUEEN'S"

Brooks was shown into a private room at the Queen's Hotel, and he
certainly had no cause to complain of the warmth of his welcome. Lady
Sybil, in fact, made room for him by her side, and he fancied that there
was a gleam of reproach in her eyes as she looked up at him.

"Is Medchester really so large a place that one can get lost in it?" she
asked. "Lord Arranmore has been sending messengers in every direction
ever since we decided upon our little excursion.

"I telephoned to your office, sent a groom to your rooms and to the
club, and at last we had given you up," Lord Arranmore remarked.

"And I," Sybil murmured, "was in a shocking bad temper."

"It is very good of you all," Brooks remarked, cheerfully. "I left the
office rather early, and have been giving a sort of lecture to-night at
the Secular Hall. Then I went up to have a game of billiards with Mr.
Bullsom. Your telephone message found me there. You must remember that
even if Medchester is not a very large place I am a very unimportant
person."

"Dear me, what modesty," Lady Caroom remarked, laughing. "To us,
however, you happened to be very important. I hate a party of three."

Brooks helped himself to a quail, and remembered that he was hungry.

"This is very unusual dissipation, isn't it?" he asked. "I never
dreamed that you would be likely to come into our little theatre."

"It was Sybil's doings," Lady Caroom answered. "She declared that she
was dull, and that she had never seen A /Message from Mars./ I think
that all that serious talk the other evening gave her the blues."

"I am always dull in the winter when there is no hunting," Sybil
remarked. "This frost is abominable. I have not forgotten our talk
either. I feel positively wicked every time I sip champagne."

"Our young philanthropist will reassure you," Arranmore remarked, drily.

Lady Caroom sighed.

"I wonder how it is," she murmured, "that one's conscience and one's
digestion both grow weaker as one grows old. You and I, Arranmore, are
content to accept the good things of the earth as they come to us."

"With me," he answered, "it is the philosophy of approaching old age,
but you have no such excuse. With you it must be sheer callousness.
You are in an evil way, Lady Caroom. Do have another of these quails."

"You are very rude," she answered, "and extremely unsympathetic. But I
will have another quail."

"I do not Want to destroy your appetite, Mr. Brooks," Lady Sybil said,
"but this is--if not a farewell feast, something like it."

He looked at her with sudden interest.

"You are going away?" he exclaimed.

"Very soon," she assented. "We were so comfortable at Enton, and the
hunting has been so good, that we cut out one of our visits. Mamma
developed a convenient attack of influenza. But the next one is very
near now, and our host is almost tired of us."

Lord Arranmore was for a moment silent.

"You have made Enton," he said, "intolerable for a solitary man. When
you go I go."

"I wish you could say whither instead of when," Lady Caroom answered.
"How bored you would be at Redcliffe. It is really the most outlandish
place we go to."

"Why ever do we accept, mamma?" Sybil asked. "Last year I nearly cried
my eyes out, I was so dull. Not a man fit to talk to, or a horse fit to
ride. The girls bicycle, and Lord Redcliffe breeds cattle and talks
turnips."

"And they all drink port after dinner," Lady Caroom moaned; "but we have
to go, dear. We must live rent free somewhere during these months to
get through the season."

Sybil looked at Brooks with laughter in her eyes.

"Aren't we terrible people?" she whispered. "You are by way of being
literary, aren't you? You should write an article on the shifts of the
aristocracy. Mamma and I could supply you with all the material. The
real trouble, of course, is that I don't marry."

"Fancy glorying in your failure," Lady Caroom said, complacently.
"Three seasons, Arranmore, have I had to drag that girl round. I've
washed my hands of her now. She must look after herself. A girl who
refuses one of the richest young men in England because she didn't like
his collars is incorrigible."

"It was not his collars, mother," Sybil objected. "It was his neck. He
was always called 'the Giraffe.' He had no head and all neck--the most
fatuous person, too. I hate fools."

"That is where you lack education, dear," Lady Caroom answered. "A fool
is the most useful person--for a husband."

Sybil glanced towards Brooks with a little sigh, and, catching a glimpse
of his expression, burst out laughing.

"Mother, you must really not let your tongue run away with you. Mr.
Brooks is believing every word you say. You needn't," she murmured in a
discreet undertone. "Mother and I chaff one another terribly, but we're
really very nicely-behaved persons--for our station in life."

"Lady Caroom has such a delightfully easy way of romancing," Brooks
said.

Sybil nodded.

"It's quite true," she answered. "She ought to write the prospectuses
for gold mines and things."

Arranmore smiled across the table at Brooks.

"This," he said, "is what I have had to endure for the last six weeks.
Do you wonder that I am getting balder, or that I set all my people to
work tonight to try and find some one to suffer with me?"

"He'll be so dull when we've gone," Lady Caroom sighed.

"You've no idea how we've improved him," Sybil murmured. "He used to
read Owen Meredith after dinner, and go to sleep. By the bye, where are
you going when we leave Enton?"

Lord Arranmore hesitated.

"Well, I really am not sure," he said. "You have alarmed me. Don't
go."

Lady Caroom laughed.

"My dear man," she said, "we must! I daren't offend the Redcliffes.
He's my trustee, and he'll never let me overdraw a penny unless I'm
civil to him. If I were you I should go to the Riviera. We'll lend
you our cottage at Lugiano. It has been empty for a year."

"Come and be hostess," he said. "I promise you that I will not hesitate
then."

She shook her head towards Sybil.

"How can I marry that down there?" she demanded. "No young men who are
really respectable go abroad at this time of the year. They are all
hunting or shooting. The Riviera is thronged with roues and invalids
and adventurers, and we don't want any of them. Dear me, what
sacrifices a grown-up daughter does entail. This coming season shall be
your last, Sybil. I won't drag on round again. I'm really getting
ashamed of it."

"Isn't she dreadful?" Sybil murmured to Brooks. "I hope you will come
to Enton before we leave."

"It is very kind of you, Lady Sybil," Brooks said, "but you must
remember that I am not like most of the men you meet. I have to work
hard, especially just now."

"And if I were you I would be thankful for it," she said, warmly. "From
our point of view, at any rate, there is nothing so becoming to a man as
the fact that he is a worker. Sport is an excellent thing, but I detest
young men who do nothing else but shoot and hunt and loaf about. It
seems to me to destroy character where work creates it. All the same, I
hope you will find an opportunity to come to Enton and say good-bye to
us."

Brooks was suddenly conscious that it would be no pleasant thing to say
good-bye to Lady Sybil. He had never known any one like her, so
perfectly frank and girlish, and yet with character enough underneath
in her rare moments of seriousness. More than ever he was struck with
the wonderful likeness between mother and daughter.

"I will come at any time I am asked," he answered, quietly, "but I am
sorry that you are going."

They had finished supper, and had drawn their chairs around the fire.
Arranmore was smoking a cigarette, and Brooks took one from his case.
The carriage was ordered in a quarter of an hour. Brooks found that he
and Sybil were a little apart from the others.

"Do you know, I am sorry too," she declared. "Of course it has been
much quieter at Enton than most of the houses we go to, and we only came
at first, I think, because many years ago my mother and Lord Arranmore
were great friends, and she fancied that he was shutting himself up
too much. But I have enjoyed it very much indeed."

He looked at her curiously. He was trying to appreciate what a life of
refined pleasure which she must live would really be like--how
satisfying--whether its limitations ever asserted themselves. Sybil was
a more than ordinarily pretty girl, but her face was as smooth as a
child's. The Joie de vivre seemed to be always in her eyes. Yet there
were times, as he knew, when she was capable of seriousness.

"I am glad," he said, "Lord Arranmore will miss you."

She laughed at him, her eyebrows raised, a challenge in her bright eyes.

"May I add that I also shall?" he whispered.

"You may," she answered. "In fact, I expected it. I am not sure that I
did not ask for it. And that reminds me. I want you to do me a favour,
if you will."

"Anything I can do for you," he answered, "you know will give me
pleasure."

She laughed softly.

"It is wonderful how you have improved," she murmured. "I want you to
go and see Lord Arranmore as often as you can. We are both very fond of
him really, mamma especially, and you know that he has a very strange
disposition. I am convinced that solitude is the very worst thing for
him. I saw him once after he had been alone for a month or two, and
really you would not have known him. He was as thin as a skeleton,
strange in his manner, and he had that sort of red light in his eyes
sometimes which always makes me think of mad people. He ought not to be
alone at all, but the usual sort of society only bores him. You will do
what you can, won't you?"

"I promise you that most heartily," Brooks declared. "But you must
remember, Lady Sybil, that after all it is entirely in his hands. He
has been most astonishingly kind to me, considering that I have no
manner of claim upon him. He has made me feel at home at Enton, too,
and been most thoughtful in every way. For, after all, you see I am
only his man of business. I have no friends much, and those whom I
have are Medchester people. You see I am scarcely in a position to
offer him my society. But all the same, I will take every opportunity I
can of going to Enton if he remains there."

She thanked him silently. Lady Caroom was on her feet, and Sybil and
she went out for their wraps. Lord Arranmore lit a fresh cigarette and
sent for his bill.

"By the bye, Brooks," he remarked, "one doesn't hear much of your man
Henslow."

"Mr. Bullsom and I were talking about it this evening," Brooks
answered. "We are getting a little anxious.

"You have had seven years of him. You ought to know what to expect."

"The war has blocked all legislation," Brooks said. "It has been the
usual excuse. Henslow was bound to wait. He would have done the
particular measures which we are anxious about more harm than good if he
had tried to force them upon the land. But now it is different. We are
writing to him. If nothing comes of it, Mr. Bullsom and I are going up
to see him."

Arranmore smiled.

"You are young to politics, Brooks," he remarked, "yet I should scarcely
have thought that you would have been imposed upon by such a man as
Henslow. He is an absolute fraud. I heard him speak once, and I read
two of his speeches. It was sufficient. The man is not in earnest. He
has some reason, I suppose, for wishing to write M.P. after his name,
but I am perfectly certain that he has not the slightest idea of
carrying out his pledges to you. You will have to take up politics,
Brooks."

He laughed--a little consciously.

"Some day," he said, "the opportunity may come. I will confess that
it is amongst my ambitions. But I have many years' work before me yet."

Lord Arranmore paid the bill, and they joined the women. As Brooks
stood bareheaded upon the pavement Arranmore turned towards him.

"We must have a farewell dinner," he said. "How would to-morrow suit
you--or Sunday?"

"I should like to walk over on Sunday, if I might," Brooks answered,
promptly.

"We shall expect you to lunch. Good-night."

The carriage drove off. Brooks walked thoughtfully through the silent
streets to his rooms.



CHAPTER XVI

UNCLE AND NIECE

Mr. Bullsom was an early riser, and it chanced that, as was frequently
the case, on the morning following Brooks' visit he and Mary sat down
to breakfast together. But when, after a cursory glance through his
letters, he unfolded the paper, she stopped him.

"Uncle," she said, "I want to talk to you for a few minutes, if I may."

"Go ahead," he answered. "No fear of our being interrupted. I shall
speak to those girls seriously about getting up. Now, what is it?

"I want to earn my own living, uncle," she said, quietly.

He looked over his spectacles at her.

"Eh?"

"I want to earn my own living," she repeated. "I have been looking
about for a means of doing so, and I think that I have succeeded."

Mr. Bullsom took off his spectacles and wiped them carefully.

"Earn your own living, eh!" he repeated. "Well! Go on!"

Mary leaned across the table towards him.

"Don't think that I am not grateful for all you have done for me,
uncle," she said. "I am, indeed. Only I have felt lately that it was
my duty to order my life a little differently. I am young and strong,
and able to work. There is no reason why I should be a burden upon any
one."

She found his quietness ominous, but she did not flinch.

"I am not accomplished enough for a governess, or good-tempered enough
for a companion," she continued, "but I believe I have found something
which I can do. I have written several short stories for a woman's
magazine, and they have made me a sort of offer to do some regular work
for them. What they offer would just keep me. I want to accept."

"Where should you live?" he asked.

"In London!"

"Alone?

"There is a girls' club in Chelsea somewhere. I should go there at
first, and then try and share rooms with another girl."

"How much a week will they give you?"

"Twenty-eight shillings, and I shall be allowed to contribute regularly
to the magazine at the usual rates. I ought to make at least forty
shillings a week."

Mr. Bullsom sighed.

"Is this owing to any disagreement between you and the girls?" he asked,
sharply.

"Certainly not," she answered.

"You ain't unhappy here? Is there anything we could do? I don't want
to lose you."

Mary was touched. She had expected ridicule or opposition. This was
more difficult.

"Of course I am not unhappy," she answered. "You and aunt have been
both of you most generous and kind to me. But I do feel that a busy
life--and I'm not a bit domestic, you know would be good for me. I
believe, uncle, if you were in my place you would feel just like me. If
you were able to, I expect you'd want to earn your own living."

"You shall go!" he said, decidedly. "I'll help you all I can. You
shall have a bit down to buy furniture, if you want it, or an allowance
till you feel your way. But, Mary, I'm downright sorry. No, I'm not
blaming you. You've a right to go. I--I don't believe I'd live here if
I were you.

"You are very good, uncle," Mary said, gratefully. "And you must
remember it isn't as though I were leaving you alone. You have the
girls."

Mr. Bullsom nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I have the girls. Look here, Mary," he added,
suddenly, looking her in the face, "I want to have a word with you. I'm
going to talk plainly. Be honest with me."

"Of course," she murmured.

"It's about the girls. It's a hard thing to say, but somehow--I'm a bit
disappointed with them."

She looked at him in something like amazement.

"Yes, disappointed," he continued. "That's the word. I'm an uneducated
man myself--any fool can see that--but I did all I could to have them
girls different. They've been to the best school in Medchester, and
they've been abroad. They've had masters in most everything, and I've
had 'em taught riding and driving, and all that sort of thing, properly.
Then as they grew up I built this 'ouse, and came up to live here
amongst the people whom I reckoned my girls'd be sure to get to know.
And the whole thing's a damned failure, Mary. That's the long and short
of it."

"Perhaps--a little later on" Mary began, hesitatingly.

"Don't interrupt me," he said, brusquely. "This is the first honest
talk I've ever had about it, and it's doing me good. The girls'd like
to put it down to your mother and me, but I don't believe it. I'm
ashamed to say it, but I'm afraid it's the girls themselves. There's
something not right about them, but I'm blessed if I know what it is.
Their mother and I are a bit vulgar, I know, but I've done my best to
copy those who know how to behave--and I believe we'd get through for
what we are anywhere without giving offence. But my girls oughtn't to
be vulgar. It's education as does away with that, and I've filled em
chock-full of education from the time they were babies. It's run out of
them, Mary, like the sands through an hour-glass. They can speak
correctly, and I dare say they know all the small society tricks. But
that isn't everything. They don't know how to dress. They can spend
just as much as they like, and then you can come into the room in a
black gown as you made yourself, and you look a lady, and they don't.
That's the long and short of it. The only decent people who come to
this house are your friends, and they come to see you. There's young
Brooks, now. I've no son, Mary, and I'm fond of young men. I never
knew one I liked as I like him. My daughters are old enough to be
married, and I'd give fifty thousand pounds to have him for a son-in-law.
And, of course, he won't look at 'em. He sees it. He'll talk to you.
He takes no more notice of them than is civil. They fuss round him, and
all that, but they might save themselves the pains. It's hard lines,
Mary. I'm making money as no one knows on. I could live at Enton and
afford it. But what's the good of it? If people don't care to know us
here, they won't anywhere. Mary, how was it education didn't work with
them girls? Your mother was my own sister, and she married a
gentleman. He was a blackguard, but hang it, Mary, if I were you I'd
sooner be penniless and as you are than be my daughters with five
thousand apiece."

There was an embarrassed silence. Then Mary faced the situation boldly.

"Uncle," she said, "you are asking my advice. Is that it?"

"If there's any advice you can give, for God's sake let's have it. But
I don't know as you can make black white."

"Selina and Louise are good girls enough," she said, "but they are a
little spoilt, and they are a little limited in their ideas. A town
like this often has that effect. Take them abroad, uncle, for a year,
or, better still, if you can find the right person, get a companion for
them--a lady--and let her live in the house."

"That's sound!" he answered. "I'll do it."

"And about their clothes, uncle. Take them up to London, go to one of
the best places, and leave the people to make their things. Don't let
them interfere. Down here they've got to choose for themselves. They
wouldn't care about taking advice here, but in London they'd probably
be content to leave it. Take them up to town for a fortnight. Stay
at one of the best hotels, the Berkeley or the Carlton, and let them see
plenty of nice people. And don't be discouraged, uncle."

"Where the devil did you get your common-sense from?" he inquired,
fiercely. "Your mother hadn't got it, and I'll swear your father
hadn't."

She laughed heartily.

"Above all, be firm with them, uncle," she said. "Put your foot down,
and stick to it. They'll obey you.

"Obey me? Good Lord, I'll make 'em," Mr. Bullsom declared,
vigorously. "Mary, you're a brick. I feel quite cheerful. And,
remember this, my girl. I shall make you an allowance, but that's
nothing. Come to me when you want a bit extra, and if ever the young
man turns up, then I've got a word or two to say. Mind, I shall only be
giving you your own. My will's signed and sealed."

She kissed him fondly.

"You're a good sort, uncle," she said. "And now will you tell me what
you think of this letter?"

"Read it to me, dear," he said. "My eyes aren't what they were."

She obeyed him.

"41, BUCKLESBURY, LONDON, E. C.

"DEAR MADAM,

"We have received a communication from our agents at Montreal, asking us
to ascertain the whereabouts of Miss Mary Scott, daughter of Richard
Scott, at one time a resident in that city.

"We believe that you are the young lady in question, and if you will do
us the favour of calling at the above address, we may be able to give
you some information much to your advantage.

"We are, dear madam,

"Yours respectfully,

"JONES AND LLOYD."

Mr. Bullsom stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"Sounds all right," he remarked. "Of course you'll go. But I always
understood that your father's relations were as poor as church mice."

"Poorer, uncle! His father--my grandfather, that is--was a clergyman
with barely enough to live on, and his uncle was a Roman Catholic
priest. Both of them have been dead for years."

"And your father--well, I know there was nothing there," Mr. Bullsom
remarked, thoughtfully.

"You cabled out the money to bring me home," Mary reminded him.

"Well, well!" Mr. Bullsom declared. "You must go and see these chaps.
There's no harm in that, at any rate. We must all have that trip to
London. I expect Brooks will be wanting to go and see Henslow. We'll
have to give that chap what for, I know."

Selina sailed into the room in a salmon-coloured wrapper, which should
long ago have been relegated to the bath-room. She pecked her father on
the cheek and nodded to Mary.

"Don't you see Mr. Brooks, dear?" her father remarked, with a twinkle
in his eye and something very much like a wink to Mary.

Selina screamed, and looked fearfully around the room.

"What do you mean, papa?" she exclaimed. "There is no one here."

"Serve you right if there had been," Mr. Bullsom declared, gruffly.
"A pretty state to come down in the morning at past nine o'clock."

Selina tossed her head.

"I am going to dress directly after breakfast," she remarked.

"Then if you'll allow me to say so," her father declared, "before
breakfast is the time to dress, and not afterwards. You're always the
same, Selina, underdressed when you think there's no one around to see
you, and overdressed when there is."

Selina poured herself out some coffee and yawned.

"La, papa, what do you know about it?" she exclaimed.

"What my eyes tell me," Mr. Bullsom declared, sternly. "You've no
allowance to keep to. You've leave to spend what you want, and you're
never fit to be seen. There's Mary there taking thirty pounds a year
from me, and won't have a penny more, though she's heartily welcome to
it, and she looks a lady at any moment of the day."

Selina drew herself up, and her eyes narrowed a little.

"You're talking about what, you don't understand, pa," she answered with
dignity. "If you prefer Mary's style of dress"--she glanced with silent
disparagement at her cousin's grey skirt and plain white blouse--"well,
it's a matter of taste, isn't it?

"Taste!" Mr. Bullsom replied, contemptuously. "Taste! What sort of
taste do you call that beastly rug on your shoulders, eh? Or your hair
rolled round and just a pin stuck through it? Looks 

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