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The Making of a Soul

by Kathlyn Rhodes · English · Gutenberg #21674 · 641,786 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Making of a Soul

Author: Kathlyn Rhodes


        
Release date: June 4, 2007 [eBook #21674]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21674

Credits: E-text prepared by David Clarke, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAKING OF A SOUL ***


E-text prepared by David Clarke, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)



THE MAKING OF A SOUL

by

KATHLYN RHODES

Author of "_The Desert Dreamers_," "_The Will of Allah_," "_The Lure of
the Desert_," "_Flower of Grass_," _etc_.







London: Hutchinson & Co.
Paternoster Row




CHAPTER I


Barry Raymond drew the latchkey out of the door and entered his small
flat in Kensington just as the clock in the tiny hall chimed the hour of
ten.

It was a wet night; and he drew off his Burberry and hung it up with a
sense of pleasure in being again in his cosy little eyrie at the top of
the chilly stone steps.

Humming a tune, he crossed the diminutive hall and went into the
sitting-room, where the cheerful crackle of a small wood fire gave an
air of comfort to the hearth.

On the table, where his admirable man-servant had placed it, was a tray
bearing glasses, a siphon and a bottle of whisky; and beside the tray
were the few letters which had come by the last post; while in a
conspicuous place lay a telegram in its tawny envelope; and this,
naturally enough, was the first thing Barry touched.

Taking it up, he tore it open decisively; and as the envelope fell to
the ground he unfolded the pink paper and read the message scrawled
thereon.

     "Just arrived Southampton will be with you about ten o'clock.
     OWEN."

The paper fluttered to the floor and Barry consulted his watch hastily.

"Ten o'clock! Why, it's that now. So Owen's home. By Jove, what an
unlucky day he's chosen!"

He stood still for a moment, rapt, it would seem, in contemplation of an
unpleasant vision. Then with a shrug of his shoulders he moved to the
fireplace and turned on more light.

"Well, it'll have to be done sooner or later; but"--for a second a
rueful smile lit up his despondent young face--"I wish I hadn't got to
do it ... and at ten o'clock at night into the bargain!"

He looked round him as though considering some serious matter.

"Food--and drink. Here's drink, anyhow. What about food?"

Seizing a hand-lamp from the bureau at his elbow, he quitted the room
and made for the kitchen, which his man had left, as usual, in the
perfection of neatness on his departure two hours ago.

Hastening to the cupboard which did duty, in the flat, for a pantry,
Barry flung open the door and surveyed the shelves with anxious eyes.

Ah! There was plenty of food, of a sort, and suddenly Barry remembered,
with gratitude, the fact that he had intended to dine at home, and had
been prevented doing so at the eleventh hour owing to an unexpected
invitation which he had then regarded as an unmitigated bore, but now
looked upon as a direct interposition of Providence.

A cold roast chicken, an apple tart and cream, cheese and
biscuits--surely the traveller could make a meal off these provisions,
and Barry carried them gaily into the sitting-room and laid the table
with much good-will and no little celerity.

Knives, forks, glasses--for he intended to share the meal--salt, pepper,
bread--in a dozen light-hearted journeys he managed to bring everything
he considered necessary; and he was just standing back to admire his own
handiwork when the electric bell pealed loudly through the silent flat.

"Here he is, by Jove!" Barry all but dropped the vase of chrysanthemums
he was carrying to the table, and setting it down hastily he went to the
door, in a flutter of anticipation, of hospitality, and, if the truth be
told, of nervousness.

Opening the door:

"Is that you, Owen?" he asked--a superfluous question, for he knew his
visitor well enough. "Come in, old chap--you must be soaked--it's a
frightful night!"

"Soaked--I should just say I am!" Owen Rose accepted the invitation and
stepped inside, shaking himself like a dog as he did so. "Lord, Barry,
what a climate! I declare I'd sooner live in Timbuctoo!"

"Oh, the climate's all right--only a bit moist," returned Barry
philosophically. "But come on in--take off your coat and come to the
fire. Any luggage?"

"No, I've sent it on to my place." He drew himself out of his big coat
as he spoke. "I thought I'd come up and see you for half an hour first
of all. Jolly glad you're at home. You got my wire?"

"Yes, a few minutes ago. Come and have something to eat." They were in
the sitting-room by now. "There's not much, but I hadn't time to kill
the fatted calf."

"Looks like it." Owen's eyes roamed over the cheerful little
supper-table. "Barry, you're a fraud. Chicken, apple-pie--what more can
man desire? But I confess I _am_ hungry, though I didn't come for a
meal."

"Well, sit down and let's begin," said Barry practically. "I dined at my
aunt's to-night, and as usual I couldn't get much to eat! She asked me
so many questions about ..." he coloured and hurried on "... about
everything, that by the time I'd finished answering them dinner was
over!"

"I see." Owen accepted the plate Barry handed him. "Well, you're looking
very fit, Barry. How's things?"

"Oh, fair." Barry paused in the act of pouring out a whisky-and-soda.
"That's to say, I'm still with old Joliffe, and got a rise of screw last
quarter."

"Did you! Well, wait till we get the review going, and see if I don't
tempt you away from that dictatorial old boss of yours!"

"Oh, I'll come to you all right," said Barry gaily. "But in the meantime
I'd better hang on in the House of Rimmon, hadn't I? You see ..." He
broke off, the colour mounting to his face.

"Of course. You're thinking of Olive. Quite right, too. How is she,
Barry? Well?"

"A 1." Barry fell to on his supper with renewed zest. "Longing to see
you, old chap. By the way"--he slid rather dexterously away from the
subject--"you promised her a skin or something, didn't you? Have any
luck?"

"Luck! Rather! I bagged one tiger who was really magnificent--he'll make
a grand hearthrug for you and Olive. He was a splendid brute and I was
lucky to get him. Of course, I've had luck all the way through. By gad,
Barry, there's nothing like big-game shooting to make one fit! You know
what I was like when I set out--and look at me now!"

Thus invited, Barry looked; and he was bound to admit that his friend
was right.

Eighteen months previous to this wet night of January, Owen Rose had
been so severely injured in a motor-accident that his life had been
despaired of; and although he had eventually recovered, he had been left
so unlike himself that a return to the normal round was impossible.

There was only one prescription, his doctors agreed, and that was the
agreeable, if expensive, one of travel. Only by gaining complete change
of scene, complete change, also, of life and routine, could he hope to
recapture his old splendid vitality and abundant health; and since
luckily Owen was by no means a poor man, the prescription was not so
hard to carry out as might have been the case with another patient.

True, this break in his life interfered with several cherished projects.
In the first--and most important--place, his marriage must be delayed;
and although Miss Vivian Rees was only twenty, and might be considered
fully young to be a bride, the delay, to the ardent lover, was
vexatious, at the least.

Then the review, to which he had alluded in his conversation with Barry,
had perforce to be shelved; and although there was plenty of time for
the production of such a literary newcomer, he had felt, at the moment,
as though called upon to abandon altogether a beloved ideal.

But the fiat had gone forth; and indeed he had agreed entirely with the
medical verdict which pronounced him unfit to shoulder fresh tasks until
his old strength should be regained. Therefore, unwillingly, but none
the less unflinchingly, he had made preparations to leave England for a
year's leisurely travel in the East, starting, as it were, from Bombay
and journeying onwards wherever the fancy took him.

It happened that during his travels he fell in with a couple of old
schoolfellows who were on the verge of a sporting expedition; and Owen,
who by that time was tired of his loafing method of travel, jumped with
alacrity at an invitation to join the party.

They had glorious sport; and in the excitement and vigour of the chase
Owen regained all his old bodily strength and added thereto a quite
fresh store of health and spirits. When at length he turned his face
homewards he knew himself to be in such condition as he had never before
experienced; and as he sat opposite his host to-night, eating and
drinking gaily in this quiet room, he presented to Barry a picture of
such perfect health as is rarely met with in the streets of London.

"Yes." Barry brought his leisurely survey to a close. "You do look
uncommonly fit, I suppose you've had a gorgeous time."

Thus invited, Owen launched forth into an account of some of his most
thrilling adventures, and the time flew as he recounted the tale of the
glorious nights and days he had lived through, or made his hearer laugh
with his stories of the various attendants and their humours.

The clock had chimed the hour of midnight before the friends left the
table; and then, sitting by the rosy fire, with pipes alight, each one
felt that the moment had come in which a deeper subject might well be
introduced.

Yet Barry, at least, would cheerfully have ignored that subject; for he
foresaw, with friendship's intuition, that the thing he had to say would
effectually mar and break the midnight peace; and as the moment drew
near in which he must strike a fatal blow at his friend's serenity he
fell into an embarrassed silence very unlike his recent cordiality.

At last it came--the question he had dreaded.

"I say, Barry, have you seen much of Vivian lately?" Although the
subject affected the speaker so vitally, he was so calmly, confidently
sure of the reply that his tone was quiet and unagitated. Even though
Barry paused for a quite perceptible fraction of time before he replied,
the other man was too certain of the answer to notice the pause.

"I ... I have seen her--yes." He spoke without removing his pipe from
between his teeth, which might account for the curious thickness of his
tone.

"And how is she? All right, I suppose? You see"--Owen laughed rather
diffidently--"my return was to be a surprise to her. I wasn't coming for
another couple of months, you know, and then all at once I couldn't bear
it any longer. I simply _had_ to come."

"But--haven't you corresponded all this time?"

"Well, not regularly. You know Vivian hates writing letters as much as I
do; and I couldn't give her any settled addresses while we were moving
about, so we agreed that we would not expect much from each other in
that way!"

"I see. But--you _have_ heard from her?"

"Oh, yes, now and then. Of course she had my banker's address and could
cable to me from time to time. I got one cable from her in December--on
my birthday, it was--and she said she was writing, but I never got the
letter."

"In December. I see." And so he did--saw a vision of half-unwilling
treachery, of hesitating loyalty, of dying faith, which turned his heart
sick within him.

"I wrote to her for Christmas, of course, and sent her a card now and
then." He seemed to be excusing his own quite allowable slackness in the
matter. "You see, I really had no time for letter-writing, and I knew
she would understand and forgive me."

"You ... did you tell her you were coming home to-day?"

"Yes. I wired to her a week ago.... I half expected she'd come down to
meet me." He laughed shamefacedly. "But you know what her people are. I
expect they'd think it frightfully unnecessary to do that. Of course,
I'm going there first thing in the morning."

"You ... you haven't been there yet, then?" Barry hated himself for his
fatuity as he put the question.

"No. Fact is, I was a perfect savage when I landed ... a beard half a
yard long!" He laughed jovially. "Had to get trimmed up a bit ... but in
any case she would probably have been out somewhere or other to-night."

"Yes. I see."

"But first thing in the morning, it's a taxi for mine, as the Americans
say. And I shall catch her alone, after breakfast, before anyone's
about."

"Yea." Barry paused, cursing himself for his cowardice, and then plunged
recklessly into the quicksand before him. "Owen, old man, have you heard
anything about Miss Rees lately?"

"Heard anything?" He laid down his pipe and stared at his questioner.
"Why should I hear anything? What is there to hear?"

Before replying Barry rose, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece;
and as he looked down on his friend his heart was wrung within him at
the cruelty of fate.

"You ... you've not seen her name in the papers?" His throat was dry,
but he went on bravely.

"Papers? I've not looked at a newspaper for months. And anyway, what
should I see about Vivian in any paper?"

"Only ... I thought you might have done." Barry was finding his task
almost incredibly hard, and his brow was pearled with fine drops of
moisture as he stood before his friend.

"What was there to see, Barry?" Owen's voice was quiet--dangerously
quiet. "Is there anything wrong with Vivian? Is she--has she been ill?"

"No."

"Then ... God! man, what are you trying to tell me?" His forced calm was
breaking up. "Out with it--whatever it is. Is Vivian--is she _dead_?"

"No--oh, no." He spoke hurriedly, thankful that he could at least answer
that question in the negative.

"Then ... what is it? Come, Barry"--Owen spoke through his teeth in a
hoarse tone quite unlike his usual voice--"if Vivian is not dead, not
ill ... what is this wonderful piece of news I might have read in the
papers--and did not?"

There was a moment's tense silence, broken only by the crackling of the
gay little fire on the hearth.

Then Barry said heavily:

"Miss Rees was married to Lord Saxonby this morning."




CHAPTER II


For a moment there was a silence fraught with a thousand possibilities.
Then Owen sprang from his seat and crossing the intervening space, as it
were in a bound, seized his friend savagely by the shoulders.

"Say that again, Barry! Say it if you _dare_!"

With a fury of which he was unconscious he shook the other man
violently; and Barry broke away with an expression of annoyance.

"Good God, Owen, what do you think you're doing? What do you mean by
attacking me like this!"

"I'm going to knock your damned head off for telling me a lie!" His tone
was dangerous. "How dare you say that Vivian is married when you _know_
she is engaged to me?"

"Look here, Owen." Barry stood facing him, panting a little. "It's only
because you're my pal that I don't retaliate in kind. Any other man who
calls me a liar has to go through it, and that's a fact. But as it's
you, and as I know I've done the business badly--well"--his voice grew
suddenly wistful--"let's sit down and talk it over quietly, shall we?"

Something in his tone made the other man turn cold; and when he replied
his manner had lost its vehemence.

"See here, Barry, I'm sorry I attacked you like that. The fact is,
I ... I think I can't have understood rightly what you were trying to
tell me. You said something just now about Miss Rees being married to
Lord Saxonby. Well, what, exactly, did you mean?"

The very quietness with which he spoke made it still more difficult for
Barry to answer him.

"I meant just what I said." He fidgeted nervously with a cigarette as he
spoke. "Miss Rees was married--quietly--to Lord Saxonby this morning."

"Lord Saxonby? You mean that chap who hung round her before I went
away?" Owen's voice was studiously self-controlled, but his hand shook
as he played with a silver pencil-case on the table before him.

"Yes. That's the man."

"I see." For a moment he bent his head over the table, and when he
looked up Barry understood that he had accepted the truth at last. "So
she's played me false, has she? Married another fellow without troubling
to let me know. Well, there's no more to be said, I suppose. I must make
up my mind to be the laughing-stock of my friends, to be pointed at by
men and women, jeered at in the clubs, as the fellow who was
jilted ... thrown over for another fellow!"

He paused; then resumed in a louder tone.

"It's an ugly word, Barry--jilted. And by Jove, it's an ugly thing. Odd
how naturally women take to it, isn't it? They won't steal, as a
rule--draw the line at murder, but they think nothing of making damned
fools of men who are insane enough to believe in them!"

He laughed bitterly; and his eyes looked grim.

"It would have been quite easy to let me know, wouldn't it?" He flung
the question at his friend. "A sixpenny wire--even a cable wouldn't have
ruined her, would it? And it would have been much less brutal than to
let me come home expecting to find a blushing bride waiting for me!"

"I expect she ... she thought you'd see it in the papers," said Barry
rather lamely. "Although it was kept pretty quiet here there were
paragraphs about it, of course, and she may have supposed you would see
them."

"Hardly the thing to leave it to chance," said Owen drily. "After all,
when one gets out of an invitation to dinner, one generally sends an
excuse; but ..." he broke off, and his eyes blazed suddenly "... look
here, Barry, you know, and I know, that this woman has played a low-down
trick on me. I thought her--well, no matter what I thought her--but
anyway I know her now for what she is. And I'll be infinitely obliged to
you if you'll be good enough to drop the subject now and for evermore."

"I say, old chap, I'm awfully sorry----"

Barry's impulsive speech got no further, for the other raised his hand
to cut it short.

"All right, Barry, we'll take it all as said. Henceforth no such person
as Miss Rees--I mean Lady Saxonby--exists for me; and if you'll remember
that it will make things easier for us both."

"Very well, Owen." Barry felt emboldened to light a cigarette; and then,
with a tactlessness born of mental discomfort, he asked a blundering
question. "What shall you do now, old man? Have another shot at big game
for a bit, or what?"

"Another shot--I say, Barry, why on earth should I go back the moment
I've got home? Oh, I see!" He smiled cynically. "You mean town won't be
very pleasant for a bit? Well, I daresay it won't, but thank God no one
will dare to say much to me!" His jaw squared itself rather
aggressively. "But I don't intend to quit. On the contrary, my firm
intention is to remain here, do some good work, and, incidentally,
marry."

Barry swung round and faced him, openly surprised.

"Marry? But--whom?"

"Oh, I don't know ... at the moment; but someone. You look astonished,
Barry! Why shouldn't I marry? Ah, I see! You think because one woman's
turned me down no one else will care to risk her happiness with me!
Well, of course my value is considerably depreciated, no doubt; but
after all, men are in the minority, and I daresay I'll be able to find
some girl to take pity on me!"

"Don't talk like that, Owen!" Barry spoke hastily, and his blue eyes
looked rather stern. "You don't want a girl to take you out of pity, do
you? That's not much of a basis for a happy marriage, is it?"

"No, Barry." He took the rebuke well. "I was talking like a fool. But
honestly, I do mean to marry--as soon as possible. Oh, I daresay I'm
taking it the wrong way, but it seems to me that there's only one thing
for a man in my position to do, and that is to show that he's not
heart-broken because one unscrupulous woman has treated him badly!"

"That's all very well--but what about the other woman? Are you going to
marry the first girl you meet, irrespective of love, or what _are_ you
going to do? I can understand your feeling for Miss Rees has changed its
nature--love and hate are akin, I know, but still----"

"No, Barry, you're wrong." He spoke very gently. "I don't _hate_ Vivian.
Why should I? She merely exercised her feminine prerogative and changed
her mind. Besides, one only hates big things. Vivian isn't big. She's
very small, or she'd not have done this thing. If she'd asked me to
release her, I'd have done it, and never have uttered a reproach. It's
the heartlessness, the unnecessary cruelty of this that hurts me so. I
loved her, Barry, and she knew it. Loved her in the right way, in the
way a man should love the woman he's going to marry; and my love meant
so little to her that she chucked it away without even telling me she
was tired of it."

"But to marry, out of revenge, as it were, is small too."

"Out of revenge? Come, Barry, what are you thinking of?" Owen rose and
spoke with an eerie joviality. "There'll be no revenge about it! Mayn't
I marry and settle down like another man? I'll guarantee that the first
woman who wants me can have me; and if she plays the game she shan't
regret it, for I'll play it too!"

"But where will you look for her?" Barry could not understand this
attitude of mind.

"Look for her? Oh, I'll look for her all right--and she'll turn up,
never fear!" He moved restlessly. "There's always some woman ready to
enter a man's life when he throws the door ajar--and here I'm positively
flinging it open, inviting the little dears to come in!"

"But, I say, Owen"--Barry looked anxiously at his
friend--"you ... you'll be careful, won't you? I mean, you won't let any
twopenny-halfpenny little chorus-girl, or ... or girl out of a shop come
in, will you? You see, if you let them all know...."

"Chorus-girls are sometimes worth a good deal more than
twopence-halfpenny," Owen reminded him quietly, "and I daresay a girl
out of a shop would make a jolly decent wife. But I wasn't contemplating
them when I spoke."

"Of course not," assented Barry hastily. "I only meant----"

"You only meant to give me good advice," said Owen, more kindly than he
had yet spoken. "All right, old man, I understand. You must forgive me
if I'm cross-grained to-night. You see I've had a shock----"

He broke off abruptly.

"There, I'm not going to whine about it. It's over, done with, and a new
chapter's started." He yawned ostentatiously. "Barry, I shall call upon
your good offices as best man yet--unless you hurry up and marry Miss
Lynn first."

"Oh, Olive and I are in no hurry!" He laughed a trifle awkwardly. "You
see, she is so young--only just eighteen--and her people won't hear of
it for a couple of years."

"Well, that will soon pass." He turned towards the door. "I must be off
now, Barry--it's late, and I'm pretty fagged. See you in the morning, I
suppose?"

"Of course. I say, Owen, sure you won't stay here to-night? I can give
you a bed, you know."

"Thanks awfully, old chap, but I'd rather get home. I've heaps of things
to see to. Thanks all the same."

Still talking, the friends crossed the hall, and Barry unlatched the
door of the flat.

"Well, so-long, Barry. Awfully glad to have seen you again." He gripped
the younger man's hand, and Barry understood what the grip implied.

"Good-night, Owen. See you to-morrow."

Two minutes later Owen had disappeared round a bend in the staircase;
and Barry went slowly back into his sitting-room, feeling curiously
tired, as though he had been indulging in some violent physical
exercise.

"Poor old chap! What a beast that girl is!" He had never liked Miss
Rees, and now felt, naturally, that his dislike was justified. "But I
hope to goodness he doesn't go and do anything rash. He's got a pretty
good head on him, though, and I daresay a lot of this talk is mere
bravado."

He turned off the light and went into his bedroom. On the dressing-table
stood a silver frame holding a photograph; and Barry took up the frame
and studied the portrait carefully.

"Olive, you'd never play me a trick like that, would you! My God, I hope
you don't! It would just about kill me to have to lose faith in you!"

The deep eyes looked up at him candidly, the sweet mouth seemed to
smile; and with a sudden blissful certainty that the original of the
photograph was as true and straightforward as the picture proclaimed her
to be, Barry put down the frame again, and began, whistling, to prepare
for bed.




CHAPTER III


A month later Barry relinquished his post as secretary to the man he
called "old Joliffe," and announced himself to be from henceforth at
Owen's disposal.

The review to which the latter had alluded was a long-standing ideal of
Owen Rose's. From his earliest youth he had been attracted by the
journalistic side of life, and seeing no means of editing a London daily
at an early age, he had wisely determined to learn the whole business of
newspaper journalism from the beginning. At the ago of eighteen he was
sub-editor on a big provincial daily; but his brilliant and versatile
intelligence soon wearied of the monotony of the life, and he came to
London to demand the right of admittance into Fleet Street.

At that time, luckily for himself, he was on terms of friendship with a
well-known editor; and what his own talent might have found difficulty
in obtaining was placed unexpectedly within his reach. Before he was
twenty-five he was well-known in the newspaper world; and since, on his
twenty-fifth birthday, he came into possession of the comfortable income
left to him by his father many years before, he was able to turn his
back definitely on any soul-destroying drudgery and devote his time and
brains to better work. Beneath his journalistic ability there was a
sound and delicate literary _flair_; and it had long been his dream to
found a magazine which, while neither commonplace nor unduly "precious,"
should hit a happy mean between the cheap magazines devoted to more or
less poor fiction, and the somewhat pompous reviews which held up the
light of learning and research in a rather severe and forbidding
fashion.

He would have a little fiction--of the highest order. A comparatively
large portion of the review was to be devoted to poetry, both as
regarded original verse and the critical appreciation of modern poetry
as a whole. Articles on art, music, the drama, were all to find a home
in his pages; and there was to be a judicious sprinkling of science to
add a little ballast to the lighter freight.

But what he intended to be the striking feature of the review was the
tone which was to prevail throughout. It was to be warm, eager,
enthusiastic, optimistic. He intended himself to write a series of
articles dealing with the future in relation to the past. Each
subject--music, literature, humanitarianism, mysticism, and a dozen
others--would be treated in turn; and while in no wise belittling the
magic inventiveness of an age which has given us an Edison, a Marconi,
and a whole host of brilliant explorers, birdmen, and others equally
daring and distinguished, he intended to remember always the enormous
debt which we of this century owe to the glorious past.

Possibly in Owen's very enthusiasm, in the eager, ardent spirit of his
dreams, there was more of the spirit of the future than of the past--but
he intended to hold the balance as evenly as possible.

On one point he was firm. While hoping that his review would be in every
way a serious contribution to the more valuable literature of the day,
the literature which was worth something, he intended it to be strictly
non-political. There would be no room within its covers for writers with
axes to grind. No acrimonious discussions, thinly-veiled in pedantry,
should mar the harmony of the pages; no party cries should echo from the
editorial offices; and although he aimed, in some measure, at
instructing and uplifting his readers, it was their betterment as human
beings, rather than as citizens--so far as the two may be divorced--with
which he intended to concern himself.

He was fortunate in his collaborators. At his back he had an old friend
of his fathers', a gifted, if somewhat inarticulate, man of letters, who
had longed, in his early life, for the opportunity to do what Owen was
doing; and was generous enough to feel that, though his own working days
were over, he might well use a little of his wealth in helping another
man to realize their mutual dream.

Everything was to be on a strictly business-like footing. Owen, as
editor, was to receive a moderate salary--moderate because he felt that
in the circumstances the backing he received was worth more than any
emolument. Also he was sufficiently well-off to waive the matter if he
chose until the review was on firm financial ground. Barry, as his
personal secretary and general second-in-command, was to receive a
generous sum; and the rest of the men, all young, ardent, and fired with
a whole-hearted belief in Owen as their chief, were to be remunerated
according to their work and ability.

A certain Miss Lucy Jenkins had been selected as typewriter and
assistant at what seemed to her the princely sum of forty shillings a
week; and by the beginning of February activity at headquarters, a
pleasant, though not palatial suite of offices in Victoria Street,
Westminster, was in full swing.

The first number of the _Bridge_ was to make its appearance at Easter;
and Owen was meditating one morning over the possible inclusion of a
little set of verses which had reached him from a hitherto-unknown
contributor, when Barry appeared in the doorway leading to his inner
sanctum with a worried look in his frank blue eyes.

"Hallo, Barry, anything wrong?" Owen put down the paper he held and
looked at his young colleague with a smile.

"Well, it's no end of a bore!" Barry frowned distastefully. "That stupid
Jenkins woman has gone and landed herself in Holloway!"

"Holloway?" Owen repeated the word in surprise.

"Yes. I knew she was a Militant Suffragette, but I thought she would
have more sense than to go mixing herself up in brawls with the police!"

"And she hasn't?"

"No. On Saturday afternoon"--this was Monday--"she went and marched in a
procession of women out to smash windows or something of the sort, got
into a row and kicked a bobby in the ribs. The end was she got locked up
that night."

"Where is she now?"

"Brought up before the magistrate this morning and sentenced to fourteen
days without an option for violence," said Barry laconically. "I've just
had a note from her mother, who's nearly distracted, begging me to keep
her place open for her, but I don't see how we can do that."

"Certainly not," said Owen decidedly. "I'll have no militant women on my
staff, and the sooner they understand that the better. She wasn't any
great treasure, either. She was too fond of revising the stuff she had
to type; and her ideas and mine clashed considerably when it came to
punctuation."

"I suppose I must advertise for someone to take her place, then," said
Barry, with a sigh.

"Yes. Get a younger girl this time, if you can. Miss Jenkins had reached
the certain--or uncertain--age when women take to militant suffragism.
She didn't like being corrected when she made mistakes, and used to
argue with me till you'd have thought it was she who ran the office, and
not I."

"All right. I'll do my best."

"Not too young, though," said Owen, half-maliciously, "or she'll be
thinking about her best boy all day instead of working. Of course that's
a bit better than militancy, less upsetting; but women are so
incomprehensible when they're in what they are pleased to call love that
it's rather difficult to know what they're driving at."

"Oh, all right!" Owen's flippancy disturbed Barry, and he spoke shortly,
whereupon Owen smiled meaningly, and Barry went out of the room rather
hurriedly.

Once safe in his own sanctum he lamented the unkind Fate which had given
Owen's heart as a plaything into the hands of an unscrupulous woman such
as Miss Rees had proved herself to be. Although Owen rarely mentioned
the subject, Barry knew well enough that he had not relinquished the
idea of a speedy marriage. Once or twice Owen had asked him his opinion
of this or that woman with whom they were both acquainted; but so far he
had shown no signs of forming any new engagement, though Barry lived in
a state of apprehension lest his friend should suddenly announce a more
or less undesirable tie.

For Owen, perhaps naturally, shunned the women of his own set. They all
knew too much, knew the history of his disastrous engagement too
well--were, in many cases, friends of the woman who had jilted him; and
were therefore no acquaintances for a man in his mood.

But there were other women, with whom, before his departure for the
East, he had been on terms of casual acquaintance; the daughters of City
friends, girls who lived in Kensington or Hampstead, girls with brothers
who had knocked up against the young men in athletic or journalistic
circles; an actress or two; good-hearted, ordinary young women for the
most part, commonplace in spite of suburban leanings towards "culture,"
and in many cases entirely out of sympathy with the aims and ideals of
both Owen and his friend.

As a matter of fact Owen and Barry were too busy during these strenuous
days to have time for social delights; but now and then they met one or
other of these various girls, visited one of the actresses on a "first
night," dined, reluctantly, in Earl's Court or Belsize Road, and on the
following morning Owen would ask Barry, half-teasingly, whether Rose or
Sybil or Gwendoline struck him as the most suitable bride for an already
jilted bachelor.

Barry never took up the subject, showed plainly by his manner that he
did not like the jest; but the occasional queries went to show that the
idea of marriage was still in his friend's thoughts; and Barry was now
and again seriously uneasy lest some designing woman--that was the way
he put it--should make the vague possibility into an accomplished fact.

And then, just when the idea seemed to be fading, lost in the pressure
of work, the interest of bringing forth the first realization of a
lifelong dream, the woman herself--but she was not designing--came.




CHAPTER IV


Miss Antonia Gibbs came from the typewriting office with excellent
testimonials. Though but eighteen years of age, she was vouched for as a
steady, conscientious worker, well-educated and of exceptional
intelligence. Quick, accurate, and possessed of a capital memory, she
would seem to be the ideal typist for an office such as that presided
over by Owen Rose; and after perusing the certificates and other
documents forming what one might call her _dossier_, Owen had really no
choice but to engage the prodigy.

When she received the letter announcing the fact Miss Gibbs danced with
delight.

"Two pounds a week! Think of it!" Thus she besought her cousin Fanny, a
rather full-blown young woman employed in a "drapery-house" at Brixton.
"And easy hours--with an hour off for lunch! Isn't it lovely!"

"You'll have the office 'commish' to pay," her cousin reminded her, "and
I know all about those short hours! Sound well, but they generally want
overtime out of you--without paying for it either!"

"Do they?" Antonia's joy was momentarily checked. Then she recovered her
spirits. "Anyway, even then it's a good post, and I can easily pay the
commission out of two pounds!"

"Yes, of course." Fanny, whose natural optimism was somewhat impaired by
her experience in drapers' shops, cheered up also. "It's a grand
opportunity for you, Toni, and mind you make the most of it."

"Rather," returned Toni gaily. "I'm to start to-morrow, so this is my
last free night. Aren't you glad some people are coming in to tea?"

"Yes." Fanny, recalled to the immediate present, began her preparations
for the tea-party. "Josh'll be pleased to hear of your luck, Toni; he's
real fond of you, you know."

"Is he?" Toni, pulling off her flannel blouse, spoke a trifle absently.

"Yes. If I weren't fond of you myself I declare I'd be jealous! Don't
know how it is, all the boys seem to take to you straight away, Toni,
and you don't care a pin for any of 'em!"

"Perhaps that's why," said Toni cheerfully, voicing a truth without in
the least realizing it. "After all, who is there to care for? Jack
Brown, or young Graves, or that funny little Walter Britton out of Lea
and Harper's?" She plunged her glowing face into a basin of cold water
as she spoke.

"No. I s'pose they're not quite your sort." Fanny stared thoughtfully at
her cousin. "I don't know how it is, Toni--you are my cousin, your
father was Dad's own brother--and yet you're as different from us as--as
chalk from cheese."

She in her turn had uttered a profound truth. Between Toni and the rest
of the commonplace lower-middle-class household was a great gulf fixed,
a gulf which was the more inexplicable because it was clearly visible to
the parties on either side of the chasm.

Red-faced, brawny Fred Gibbs, the butcher, his equally red-faced, though
slightly more refined wife, and their several sons and daughters,
belonging, most of them, to the category of "fine" boys and girls, were
a good-humoured, kindly people enough; yet between them and the pretty,
dark-eyed Antonia there was not the slightest vestige of resemblance,
either in looks, manners, or disposition.

Not that Toni gave herself airs. On the contrary, she was the most
cheerful and light-hearted little soul in the world. She flung herself
bodily into all the family's interests and pursuits, helped her uncle
with his books and her aunt with her housework, was Fanny's sworn
confidante and ally in all matters of the heart. The younger children
adored her for her good looks, her vivacity, her high spirits; and even
the flashes of rage which now and then marred her usually sunny temper
were fascinating in their very fire.

Yet--with it all she was not, never would be, one of them. Fanny was
inclined to put it down to her foreign blood--for Toni's mother had been
Italian. The elder Gibbs fancied the girl's superior education was
responsible--for Toni had been to a real "Seminary for Young Ladies," in
contradistinction to the Council School attended by her cousins; while
as for Toni herself, though she was as fully conscious as the rest that
she was "different, somehow," she could never say, with any certainty,
in what the difference lay.

Perhaps a psychologist would have found Antonia's position an
interesting one. Briefly, her history was this.

The Gibbs were North-Country people, a good old yeoman family who had
been in service with an older and more aristocratic people in the county
of Yorkshire. The family, however, had begun, a few generations back, to
die out. Instead of the usual lusty sons, only daughters had been born
to most of the Gibbs, and they in their turn married and died, in the
nature of things relinquishing their own name, until there were few
left.

So the race dwindled, until old Matthew Gibbs and his two sons Fred and
Roger were the last representatives of the old stock; and to the
father's bitter disappointment neither boy would consent to settle down
on the farm and carry out the tradition of the family. Fred, always a
pushing, commercially-minded lad, found farming too slow and
unprofitable to satisfy him, and he took service in a butcher's shop at
York, as a first step towards his goal, London, in which city he
eventually made his home, married a Cockney girl, and settled down for
the rest of his prosperous life.

The second son, Roger, early showed a desire to travel; and though his
father would have kept him at home, he realized that after all youth
will be served, and let the boy go out into the world as soon as he had
passed his eighteenth birthday.

Being possessed of unlimited confidence, exceptional strength and a
light-hearted determination to make something of life, Roger was
successful from the start. As is often her way with those from whom she
means, later, to exact a heavy toll, Fate smiled upon the good-looking
young man who faced her so gaily. He got one post after another:
secretary, mechanic, groom--for he was equally clever with hands and
head. In this or that capacity he travelled quite extensively for some
years, and finally, having a natural bent for languages, came to Rome in
the position of courier to a rich American family. It happened that the
daughter of the house had an Italian maid, a beautiful, refined girl
from Southern Italy; and the young people quickly fell in love. In spite
of his apparent irresponsibility Roger had saved a little money, and
within six months he had married his Italian girl and carried her off to
live in a village on the side of a mountain not far from Naples, where
for four blissful years they lived in perfect contentment.

Old Matthew Gibbs, having in his later years sustained heavy
agricultural losses, was dead, and there was nothing to call Roger back
to England. He much preferred, indeed, to remain in the South, and as
their wants were simple he and his wife were able to live quite
comfortably on Roger's own little bit of money and the few _lire_ he
made through the kindly offices of the village priest, who liked the gay
young Englishman and put many odd jobs--translation, the acting as
interpreter and guide to tourists, and other things of the sort--in his
way.

When Toni came to complete the trio, their happiness was complete; and
for three years after her birth the little house on the hill-side was
the home of joy and love and all the pleasant domestic virtues and
graces.

When the child was three years old, the elder Antonia, herself only a
girl, died, after twenty-four hours' fever; and in one black hour Roger
paid for all the sunny days with which Fortune had so lavishly endowed
him.

When at length he summoned up resolution to face the future he
determined, with a passionate desire to carry out his young wife's
unspoken entreaty, to devote himself to his child; and with this
intention he stayed on bravely in the little home from which the
sunshine had departed.

For nearly six years they lived together in the tiny village near
Naples; and gradually the pall began to lift from the young man's
spirit, and the sunshine and the flowers, the blue sky and sea, and the
snow-capped mountains made their appeal once again to the warm, ardent
soul which sorrow had darkened.

During these six years father and daughter had lived frugally, almost as
the peasants lived; yet with a daintiness, an order, which were unknown
to the peasants. The little Antonia--Toni, as they called her--grew
straight and strong as she played on the mountain slopes, or ate the
simple meals of grapes and bread and goat's flesh provided for her by
the old housekeeper, Fiammetta, who ruled both the pretty child and the
handsome young father with a rule of iron which yet made life a very
well-ordered and gracious existence.

But when Toni had almost reached her ninth birthday the change came. The
good old priest died; and with the death of his sole friend Roger Gibbs
found life in the village impossible.

Truth to tell, it was a marvel he had borne it so long. Only a numbing
blow such as he had received could have stunned his faculties into
acquiescence with this sleepy, uneventful existence; and now, suddenly,
his soul awoke from its peaceful slumber and demanded life, and yet more
life.

Italy became all at once unendurable. The nomad spirit was aroused, and
nothing would satisfy the man but a fresh start in life's pilgrimage.

His little daughter, too, must be educated; and although he loved the
child with all the concentrated passion of a man who has lost the woman
of whom the child is his only memento, he yet felt that the time had
come when he must shake himself free from the trammels of domesticity
and live once again the life of a man in some free, wild,
adventure-filled land.

A month after Father Pietro's death Roger and his little daughter
Antonia were in England. The father's first object was to seek out his
brother Fred and see if he and his wife would take charge of the child
for a short time; and this he found both Fred and his comely spouse very
willing to do. There were other children in the home who were only too
ready to welcome the pretty little Toni; and after a stay of some weeks
in the noisy Brixton house Roger Gibbs had bidden his little daughter
farewell, and had gone forth once more, this time as assistant purser on
a liner, a post to which one of his former employers had assisted him
opportunely. It was a chance to see more of the world, and the man
embraced it gladly enough, though it would certainly prove irksome in
the end.

After that it was long before Toni saw her father again. At regular
intervals he sent money for her maintenance; and she grew up with her
cousins, attending the big Council School in the next street with them,
and sharing in all the ups and downs of the Gibbs family.

When she was thirteen Roger returned from an expedition to Peru, in the
course of which he had amassed a respectable sum of money, and father
and daughter met again, a meeting fraught, on Roger's side, with
something like disappointment.

Four years of London life had transformed the olive-skinned, dreamy-eyed
child into a pale, long-legged girl who, although she had not lost her
soft Southern voice, used the colloquialisms of street and playground
with unpleasing fluency. True, she wore her shabby clothes with an air
of grace, but contact with other children had developed her into a
sharp, somewhat pert _gamine_, who was reputed quick at her lessons, but
equally, and less meritoriously, quick with her tongue.

Within her father's mind disillusionment reigned supreme. Naturally, it
was not the fault of the child that she had taken on so quickly the
colour of her environment; nor, fortunately, was it too late to overlay
those traits with other and more pleasing characteristics. But thinking
of the soft-eyed, gentle, loving Italian girl he had married, Roger
resolved that her child should have another chance before it was too
late; and with that object in mind he scoured the neighbourhood until he
found what suited him, a quiet, old-fashioned ladies' school, conducted
by two prim but kindly women who appeared to him likely to have the
influence he sought.

The Misses Holland were interested in his story, pleased with the idea
of softening and refining the child, half-Italian, half-Londoner, and
made things easy for the bronzed and handsome father; with the result
that from that time Toni's connection with the Council School ceased,
and she became a boarder, on surprisingly low terms, at the aforesaid
School for Young Ladies; where she remained until she was close on
seventeen.

These years were the turning point of Antonia's life. Here, in company
with twenty other girls, somewhat above her in station, she learnt,
among other things, the virtues of gentleness, quietness in voice and
movement, unselfishness, and many kindred things; and those years of
happy, monotonous toil, broken only by pleasant, friendly treats, or
gentle, old-fashioned punishments, were full of use and value to the
growing girl.

On her seventeenth birthday she was to leave school for good; and it had
been settled that her father was then to return to England and make a
home for her--a hope which the girl had hugged to her heart through all
these quiet years.

But on the very day which should have seen her emancipation something
happened.

The liner on which Roger was hastening back to England, after a year in
the East, went down in a mighty gale off Gibraltar; and Roger Gibbs was
among the drowned.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of course all hope of that little home was at an end now. No more
remittances could be looked for, the store of money left for her
education was all spent; and though it seemed incredible that Roger
should have made no provision for his daughter's future, such indeed
proved to be the fact.

Doubtless he had intended to settle down, to obtain some post in
England; but as things turned out there was nothing left for Antonia.
Let it be said at once that her relations behaved well. The Misses
Holland, too, would have taken her to help in the school but for the
unexpected advent of a needy niece of their own; but from the first
Antonia set her face against teaching.

She did not like it, would rather go in for business, she said; and the
upshot of it all was that after some time she managed to obtain a post
in a large typewriting office in order to learn the work, after which
she was required to give her services for a period of twelve months for
a nominal salary in return for the teaching and business training
bestowed upon her.

It was not a very good bargain; but she closed with it in lieu of a
better opening; and when, in a few weeks from the date of her aunt's
tea-party, she would be free to earn her living in her own way, she
would be able to defray the expense to which that same aunt had been put
during her time of apprenticeship.

       *       *       *       *       *

So rapid is thought that between the beginning and ending of the task of
changing her outdoor shoes and stockings for slightly better ones,
Antonia's quick mind had flashed back over those years which had, so she
owned to herself, made all the difference; but not for worlds would she
have let her cousin know that she recognized any such difference.

"Different! Not a bit of it!" She looked up and spoke with more warmth
than usual. "And as for the boys liking me--well, you're engaged, and
I'm not!"

"Well, yes, there is that to be said!" Fanny regarded with affection the
cheap gold ring, set with imitation rubies, which adorned her plump
hand. "But you know, Toni, you could got Mr. Dowson any minute if you
tried!"

"Mr. Dowson!" Toni, occupied in brushing out her black hair, tossed her
head with a little foreign gesture peculiar to her. "Why, Fan, how could
I marry Mr. Dowson! He's very nice, and good-hearted, but his chest is
narrow, and he's going bald!"

"Well, that's not his fault," returned Fanny practically, "and it's not
with age either, because he's quite young. I expect it's with studying
so hard."

"I daresay--but still ... of course he's clever," owned Toni rather
grudgingly, "he must be, to be a dentist, but--no, Fan, I'm not going to
marry Mr. Dowson, so there!"

"Oh, all right." Fanny was a philosopher. "You know your own business
best. Will you do me up, dear, and tell me how you like my frock? I
think myself it's rather striking."

Thus besought, Toni stuck the last pin-casually in her hair and came to
give her assistance in the matter of "doing up."

Miss Frances Gibbs' dress was composed of a bright rose-pink voile,
bought cheaply at a sale, ornamented with a sash of ribbon of an equally
vivid hue of violet; and striking it certainly was, in the sense that
one felt inclined to collapse at sight of it. Miss Gibbs' figure being
of the order which dressmakers call "full," the effect was distinctly
startling; and as Fanny had carefully arranged her abundant hair in as
many rolls as she could possibly manage, it is to be inferred that she
presented a more overpowering effect than ever.

Although, possibly owing to her Italian blood, Toni herself had a
weakness for bright colours, on other people, this daring juxtaposition
of pink and violet was a trifle bizarre even for her taste; and she
looked critically at Fanny as the latter paraded under the gas jet in
order to show off the "creation" to its best advantage.

"Well?" Fanny's tone was anxious; and Antonia flung scruple to the
winds.

"It's lovely, Fan, and you look scrumptious in it!" She hastily produced
from a paper bag a bunch of violets she had intended for her own
adornment. "Here, let me pin these in for you, they will finish you off
beautifully."

"But they're yours, Toni!"

"Oh, never mind me!" Toni laughed recklessly. "I've not got a Josh
waiting for me downstairs--and anyway, I don't much care to wear
flowers, they die so quickly, poor dears."

Her own frock, an oft-washed white muslin, was donned in a second. A
bright green ribbon round her waist, a pair of greenstone earrings put
in beneath the clustering black hair, giving her a quaintly picturesque
look, and Antonia was ready for the evening's jollity.

As the cousins ran downstairs together, an appetising smell of roasting
chickens came to their nostrils, and Toni sniffed appreciatively.

"I wish Uncle Fred had a birthday every week! Isn't it fun having people
in and playing games afterwards!"

"Rather, but I wish we'd been going to the theatre!"

"Well, so do I," conceded Toni, "but anyhow this is better than one of
our usual dull evenings!"

Half an hour later the feast was in full progress. The table in the
little "front room" literally groaned with good things; indeed, so
liberally was it provided that half-way through the meal the butcher
insisted on removing the vase of chrysanthemums which stood proudly in
the middle on a green paper mat, alleging as he did so that "them
flowers took up a sight too much room"--an axiom to which he stuck in
spite of his daughter's remonstrances.

Besides the family there were three guests. Mr. Joshua Lee who was
engaged to Fanny, naturally had the place of honour beside her; and from
that vantage ground he played the part of prospective son-in-law to
perfection, removing the plates, running about in search of a mislaid
salt-cellar, and generally acquitting himself, so Fanny thought proudly,
like a perfect gentleman.

The other two guests were less busy. One of them, Mr. Britton, sat
beside his hostess and carried on an animated conversation with her as
to the nature and effect of the various patent medicines they had
mutually sampled; while the remaining guest, Mr. Dowson, sat next to
Antonia, and endeavoured, without much success, to attract her attention
to himself.

Halfway through one of his most intimate speeches Toni interrupted him
ruthlessly.

"Aunt Jean, where's Lu?"

"Got smacked and sent to bed for stealing jam," her youngest cousin
informed her unctuously. "My! She did howl! I guess Ma thumped her
pretty well!"

"I did whip her rather hard," confessed Mrs. Gibbs half-apologetically.
"I was real vexed with her when I found her with her fingers in the jar!
But there, she's been wanting a smacking long enough, and I expect it'll
do her good," she finished up cheerfully.

"Poor Lu! And she'd been so looking forward to to-night!" Toni's soft
heart was wrung for the culprit. "Did she have any tea, Auntie?"

"Not she. I sent her straight off to bed." Mrs. Gibbs' tone was uneasy
now. "And she didn't eat no dinner to-day, she was that excited!"

"Oh, poor Lu! Can't I take her up something, Aunt Jean?"

Mrs. Gibbs appeared to consider the question, though everyone at the
table knew very well that her mother-heart had relented towards her
darling long ago.

"Well, I don't mind if you do take her just a bite," she said presently;
and amid much laughter and sympathetic joking a tray was fitted out with
various delicacies and entrusted to the willing hands of Antonia.

Up she went, finding Lu's room in darkness, Lu herself lying sullenly
awake, refusing to be comforted.

Her plump little person had strongly resented the force of her mother's
stern hand; but her vanity was more severely hurt by the fact that the
visitors downstairs would know both the cause and the method of her
punishment. Therefore she turned away and pretended to be asleep; but
Toni's gentle hand pulling down the clothes, Toni's soft voice murmuring
of forgiveness and compensation were too much for the child.

She sat up, disclosing the tear-stains on her round cheeks in the light
of the candle Toni carried, and allowed herself to be comforted with
alternate bites of chicken and sips of lemonade.

"That's better!" Toni gave her a plate of trifle, and brushed back the
tangled curls from the hot little forehead. "Now eat that up and then I
must run away. They're waiting for me, you know, so when you've finished
you must give me a kiss and go straight to sleep."

"Yes, Toni." Lu lay obediently down, soothed by the girl's kind tone.
"I'll go to sleep all right if ... if Ma'll come up and say good-night!"

"Of course she will!" Toni smiled at the child's involuntary clinging to
the mother who had punished her. "I'll tell her you're waiting--and now
I must fly! Good-night, Ducky, sleep well!"

She kissed the child, her eyes very soft as she bent over the bed; and
then, picking up the tray, she ran swiftly downstairs again and
re-entered the room where tea was rapidly drawing to an end.

"How kind-hearted you are, Miss Toni," said Mr. Dowson admiringly as she
slipped into her seat beside him. "Lots of people would have said the
kiddy deserved to be whipped and sent to bed."

"I daresay she did, but that didn't make it any better--for her,"
laughed Toni, with a vivid remembrance of her aunt's corrective powers.
"I know what Auntie's whippings are like, you see, and they're no joke!"

"You don't mean to say Mrs. Gibbs ever dared to ... to punish you, Miss
Antonia?" His pale-blue eyes were aghast at the thought of such
sacrilege.

"Oh, rather!" Toni laughed joyously at his face of horror. "She's
whipped me heaps, of times.... I expect I deserved it, too, for I can
assure you I was never a pattern child!"

"I ... I would like to see anyone venture to lay a hand on you," said
Mr. Dowson earnestly--too earnestly for Toni's liking. "Miss Antonia, if
you ... if you would only give me the right ..."

Bang! An hilariously-disposed little Gibbs had exploded a cracker in the
young man's ear; and Mr. Dowson, blushing to the very edge of his
extremely high collar, subsided rather wrathfully.

Much to Antonia's relief the party rose from the table a moment later;
and with a stern determination in her mind not to allow Mr. Dowson
another opportunity to make the avowal which she knew very well trembled
on his lips, Toni bustled gaily about, helping to clear the table and
make things ready for the evening's festivity.

Mr. Dowson's pale eyes followed her about rather wistfully. To him the
white-clad, black-crowned little figure represented a dream--the
fulfilment, rather, of an ideal which he had never dared to hope would
materialize in his own hard-working, rather grey and sordid life.

Although, thanks to a kindly patron, Leonard Dowson had been able to
carry out his desire and qualify as a dentist, he was under no delusion
as to his social position. He came of humble, illiterate folk, and he
knew well enough that in a fashionable, high-class practice he would be
altogether out of place.

He set up his surgery, therefore, in the populous neighbourhood of
Brixton; and now, after five years' strenuous toil, he was beginning to
pay his way, beginning also to dream of a wife to bear him company in
the dingy, narrow house in which he dwelt.

That Antonia Gibbs would ever consent to be his wife he almost feared to
believe. He wooed her persistently, quietly, bringing her books--which
she seldom opened--an occasional bunch of flowers, or, more rarely
still, a box of sweets of some variety which his professional soul
warranted harmless, for Mr. Dowson was conscientiousness itself, and
nothing would have persuaded him to place his lady-love's little white
teeth in jeopardy, even though by such means she might be brought into
contact with him.

For her sake he scraped and saved, denying himself the least luxury, so
that if she came to him he could at least offer her a decent home; and
every act of petty self-sacrifice was sweet to him because it was
endured for her.

Yet Toni never gave him a second thought. To her, in her vivid youth,
Mr. Dowson, with his thirty-five years, his prematurely bald head, his
narrow chest, was a being of another race than her own. She knew--the
minx--that the man was deeply and quietly in love with her, but with the
unconscious cruelty of youth she ignored his suffering, and possibly
despised him ever so little that he continued to sigh for something
which he ought to have known was, for him, unattainable.

Yet to-night, her spirits raised by her unexpected good-fortune, Toni
showed herself more than usually bewitching; and although she managed to
stave off the declaration which still trembled on the young man's lips,
she played games with him in the most friendly fashion, and bade him
good-night at last with so sweet a smile that he almost fell upon his
knees then and there and kissed the slim little feet in their cheap
patent shoes!

He did not do it, fortunately. He retained just sufficient common sense
to know that the proceeding would have annoyed his divinity; and instead
he merely squeezed her hand and murmured a few inarticulate words which
meant a good deal more than they contrived to convey.

Then, arriving at home, he went to bed--and dreamed of Toni.

But Toni's dreams--the rainbow dreams of happy youth--were of a very
different quality.




CHAPTER V


Precisely at nine o'clock on the following morning Antonia presented
herself at the office of the new review; and was forthwith conducted to
the editor's room.

Here Owen and Barry were waiting for her; and at the sight of the trim
little figure in the doorway the faces of both men brightened.

In truth Toni was pleasant to look upon. She had taken off her hat and
coat in the little ante-room, and as she stood there in her black frock,
with its demure little white turn-down collar, she looked very young,
very shy, and if the truth must be told, very pretty. Whereupon Barry,
who loved all pretty girls in a harmless, kindly fashion, rejoiced
exceedingly; while even Owen, to whom things feminine were at present
anathema, owned to himself that she was certainly more attractive to
have about the place than her sour-faced predecessor.

It was Barry who put her at her ease, of course. Not being troubled with
shyness he greeted her in friendly fashion, bade her come in, and
pointed out to her the chair, behind the typewriter, which she was
expected to fill.

Yes, she said, in answer to questioning, she was used to a Remington.
No, she had never been connected with journalism before. Yes, she was
well up in ordinary office work, and--in answer to Owen, this--she knew
pretty well the rules of composition, grammar, etc.

"That's good." Owen spoke formally, and Toni decided instantly that she
liked Mr. Raymond the better of the two. "Well, I have here an article I
want you to type at once, and then--can you read proof?"

Blushing, she owned her inability to do so. Privately, she was not at
all sure what he meant, but dread of Miss Hardy's wrath should she be
returned to the office marked "Incompetent" forced her to add quickly:--

"But I'm sure I could learn if--if you wouldn't mind showing me how to
do it."

"I'm sure you could." Barry spoke kindly and she turned to him with a
feeling of relief. "When you have typed that article for Mr. Rose I'll
show you how, and then you'll manage all right."

"Teach her now," advised Rose, looking up from the manuscript he was
scanning. "This stuff wants a bit of revising, and you might as well do
something for your living, Barry, you lazy wretch."

Barry smilingly disclaimed any right to the title.

"I'm ready to work as hard as anyone," he said gaily.

"But as I'm only considered fit to do the theatrical criticisms and play
office-boy to you, Owen, naturally I find time to make holiday now and
then. Well, Miss ... er ..."

"Gibbs." She supplied him with the name as he hesitated.

"Gibbs? You won't mind being known as 'Our Miss Gibbs,' will you?" His
tone was free of all offence, and Toni smiled in response. "Now, here's
a chair for me, and if only our chief will hold his peace for half an
hour, I'll soon put you wise, as the Yankees say."

He sat down beside her, and pulling a couple of galley proof-sheets
towards him, began to initiate her into the mysteries of "reading." For
all his laughing manner he was an excellent teacher; and after twenty
minutes of his clear and lucid exposition the girl felt she was
beginning to grasp her lesson thoroughly. She proved, too, wonderfully
quick at detecting mistakes, and Barry, who had petitioned the heads of
the office they had selected not to send him any Council School product,
was pleased to find that her spelling was admirable, her grammar
passable, and her memory retentive.

As to the meaning which the article they were correcting conveyed to
her, Barry was a little doubtful.

It was a short summary, by a famous Catholic writer, of some of the
lesser-understood aspects of mysticism; and Barry suspected that a good
deal of it was Greek to her, though she did her best to answer him
intelligently when he questioned her, rather artfully, on the correct
reading of a somewhat involved sentence.

As a matter of fact, Toni was wondering inwardly what on earth it was
all about. Her education, though sound so far as it went, had been
thoroughly old-fashioned; and at this period of her development it is to
be feared there were whole tracts of mind and brain left vacant--for
Toni belonged, by adoption at least, to a class who read only for
amusement and occupation, and are not in the least anxious to try their
mental teeth on any abstract theories or philosophies of life. She was
at present all for the concrete. Things seen and known were of
importance, things unseen were alike uninteresting and incredible. The
abstract virtues were all very well, but life was much too vivid and
important to allow itself to be ousted by dreams and speculations.

Something of this Barry, who had an almost femininely swift intuition,
guessed as he sat beside Toni on this first morning; but Toni was much
too intent on her work to wonder what he thought of her; and by the time
she had done a little typing, taken down a few letters, and read a short
proof all by herself, it was one o'clock, and she was dismissed in
search of lunch.

When she returned, nearly an hour later, she found Owen alone, studying
a dummy copy of the review; and seeing she was interested, Owen handed
it over for her to see.

"The _Bridge_." She quoted the title a little dubiously. "Is that what
you call it? But--what does it mean?"

Taking it back into his own hands, Owen pointed with a pencil to the
design on the cover.

"Here is the Bridge, you see, and this stream of people passing over it
symbolize the present generation. This side of the bridge represents the
past, from which the present comes; this, over the bridge, is the
future, towards which the pilgrims are hastening. The idea is to bridge
the gulf between past and future, between the old worlds and the new;
and with that in mind we try, while never neglecting the storehouse of
the past, to point to the future, with all its wonderful, and as yet
unwon, rewards and discoveries."

She murmured a word or two, and he went on with a note of enthusiasm in
his voice.

"Personally, I look to the future with confidence. Some people say
the golden age of poetry, of music and letters generally, is past;
but I don't agree. I think that there will be a fresh Renaissance
presently, that there will be found fresh hands to pass on the sacred
torch ... there's a flood of brilliant youth let loose in the world just
now; and every bit of help the _Bridge_ can give is at the service of
that marvellous band."

He broke off suddenly, the light of the visionary gleaming in his eyes;
but seeing, with a slight pang of disappointment, that his outburst was
unintelligible to his hearer, he threw down the paper and laughed.

"There, Miss Gibbs, I have finished! Don't start me on the subject
unless you're ready to be bored. Talk to Barry about it--he is able to
look upon the _Bridge_ quite sanely, as a means of providing bread and
butter; but I'm afraid I'm a bit of a fanatic."

Toni, uncertain of her ground, but desperately anxious to appear
intelligent, murmured something shyly, and Rose pulled out his watch
with a smile.

"After two already! Well, Miss Gibbs, I'm off for lunch. You might just
sort these papers out a bit, will you? We seem to have let things get
into rather a muddle."

"I'll do it at once. There would be plenty of room for everything if
some of these papers wore tidied up."

"Yes, I suppose you're right." Owen, who loved order, but was too
impatient to preserve it, spoke dubiously. "Of course some of those
papers are done with, but you wouldn't know which to keep, would you?"

"Perhaps Mr. Raymond would help me?"

Owen's face cleared.

"Of course--do the idle young beggar good. All right, Miss Gibbs, he
shall give you a hand this afternoon when he gets back. He's an awfully
good sort, you know, though I pretend to rag him. He's as clever as you
please, and with it all as obliging and unspoilt as possible. Well, I'd
better go. You can get along all right, can you?"

Receiving her reply, he lit a cigarette and went out, assuring himself
that so far she promised well.

"Pretty little thing, and anxious to please us. Shallow, I expect,
emotional probably, and not brainy enough to appreciate the symbolism of
the _Bridge_. Well, we don't want too brilliant a typist, after
all--Miss Jenkins and her 'culture' were a bit trying at times!"

And then meeting by chance an old friend who insisted on carrying him
off to lunch, Owen speedily forgot that such a person as Miss Antonia
Gibbs existed in the world.




CHAPTER VI


It did not take Miss Fanny Gibbs very long to discover that her cousin's
new post held for her an interest beyond that which an unusually
congenial situation might be expected to hold.

In Miss Gibbs' world one's "job" was generally of very secondary
importance to one's private affairs; and the fact is not to be wondered
at when one remembers that the life of the average shop or business girl
can by no manner of means be called either pleasant or exciting.

Hitherto Toni had been fully in accord with her cousin's opinion.
Although the robust, if promiscuous, flirtations in which Fanny, before
her engagement, had indulged freely had never appealed to the more
fastidious Toni, she had always been quite ready to join in any fun
which might be going. She had eaten sweets gaily in the cheap seats of
theatre or picture-palace, had made one at the many informal and
harmless little gatherings for which Fanny had a taste; and had
cheerfully and quite normally grumbled if detained at the office one
moment longer than she considered fair.

But of late Antonia had altered strangely; and Fanny's shrewd eyes noted
the change almost from the first.

To begin with, Toni was always in a fidget to get to work. Miss Gibbs
took her annual week's holiday just then, and had plenty of time to note
her cousin's behaviour; and the way in which Toni swallowed her
breakfast and clad herself for the start was a revelation to one who
knew her former dilatory nature.

Toni had always been careful of her appearance--more so than her cousin
considered at all necessary; but now she was absolutely ridiculous, so
thought Fanny, with her new Peter-Pan collars and her fussy attention to
her pretty hands, set off by tiny lace cuffs to match the collars. Her
black frock, only a year old, was perfectly good and serviceable yet;
but the extravagant creature must needs make herself another one in her
spare time, and never had she been so particular about the cut, nor so
incessant in her demands on Fanny for a helping hand with the
"trying-on." She bought herself a new hat, too, a little soft affair in
which she looked perfectly delicious; and as the days went by it seemed
to Fanny that her cousin was growing prettier and more attractive every
week, with a still more bewitching colour in her rounded cheeks, and a
still more sparkling light in her Southern eyes.

Yet even her woman's wit could not fathom the mystery of Toni's new joy
in life. When interrogated concerning her employers, Toni was always
vague. That there were two of them Fanny knew; but from Toni's extremely
colourless description, Miss Gibbs gathered that neither was at all what
the girls called interesting; and Mr. Rose, at least, almost
middle-aged. (Heaven knows what flight of fancy on the part of
Toni--Toni, whose magic romance was the shyest, most delicate fantasy in
the world--was responsible for that fallacy!)

That Barry was younger Fanny understood; but so lightly did Toni touch
upon his kindness that Fanny could not be accused of density in her
conception of him as a nonentity in whom her little cousin could take no
interest.

Yet that someone was responsible for Toni's sudden outburst of new
beauty Miss Gibbs felt assured; and it gradually dawned upon her that
there were other men about the place to whom Miss Antonia Gibbs might
well appeal.

When questioned about these others, the subordinates who were workers
like herself, Antonia at first stared, then coloured impatiently, and
finally laughed, with a queer note of impishness in her laughter which
puzzled Fanny more than ever.

That she, who was privileged to breathe the same atmosphere as Owen
Rose, could be supposed even to realize the existence of any outsider
was in itself absurd, if not almost insulting; but Toni was quick to see
that here was the opportunity she sought to conceal her wonderful,
presumptuous dream.

For she was in love--she knew it now--wildly, deliriously, gloriously in
love with Owen. To her he was the embodiment of all that was most noble,
most god-like in man. His voice was music, his commands gifts, his rare
vexation as the frown of Jove. She trembled and turned pale at his
footstep, and when he spoke to her suddenly her heart throbbed and her
colour came and went until she felt as though he must observe her
emotion.

In a word, she was in love; and when it is remembered that on one side
of her Toni was purely of the South--the glowing, ardent, passionate
South--it is not to be wondered at that this new emotion dominated her
whole being to the exclusion of all else.

Her love, indeed, was pathetic in its young ignorance. Anyone could have
told her that she was wasting her treasure, that it was the act of a
fool to pour out her priceless gift at the feet of one who did not want
it, who would consider it a mere presumption.

Her place in Owen's life was that of a servant, a subordinate; and her
common sense should have told her that in that light alone would Owen
inevitably behold her. Vaguely she realized this--knew well enough that
he never thought of her save as his more or less useful secretary, but
after all, she could not be expected to reason out this thing too
closely. Its very vagueness, indeed, lent it charm. Her love was veiled,
as it were, in a most delicate, most diaphanous mist, which took from it
all earthliness, and left it intangible, magical as some gift from
fairyland. So far, no hint of desire had entered into it. It was all
unselfish, girlish adoration, an almost childish reverence for one
immeasurably her superior; and though she made her new dress and
adjusted her little bits of muslin and lace with scrupulous care, it was
not so much in the hope that she might find favour in Owen's eyes as in
the personal longing to make herself more worthy of the love within her.

It never entered her head that Owen would suspect her secret. Indeed,
the whole affair was so dream-like, of so unsubstantial, so gossamer a
lightness, that merely to speculate upon her romance would have been to
shatter it, as one might put a finger through a fairy cobweb.

She loved--and at present that was enough. To be with Owen daily, to sit
in the same room, breathe the same air, obey his wishes, help him with
his work, was all she desired; and being at heart an incurable little
optimist, she was content to weave her rose-coloured dreams, spin her
shining web, with no anxiety about the future to shadow and darken her
thoughts.

Yet Barry, with his quick intuition, was uncannily aware of the girl's
infatuation; and it was Barry who, through his very knowledge of her
secret, precipitated the inevitable revelation.

       *       *       *       *       *

One day during Toni's absence for lunch the two men were sitting
together in Owen's room when Owen suddenly threw a large unmounted
photograph across to his friend.

"What's this, Owen? Oh--your house at Willowhurst, isn't it? By Jove,
it's a lovely place--I wonder you don't live there."

The moment he had spoken he would willingly have recalled his words, but
Owen gave him no time.

"You forget--I was going to live there!" His smile was forced. "The
people who have had it for years cleared out last October, and it was
all put in apple-pie order then, in anticipation of my wife's arrival."

Barry, red and embarrassed, said nothing, but examined the photograph
with unnecessary minuteness.

"Seems a pity the place should stand idle," went on Owen musingly. "It's
a jolly old house, and been in the family for centuries--built before
the river became fashionable--and the grounds are really fine; some
gorgeous old trees and shrubs in them."

"How far from town?" Barry put the first question that suggested itself.

"Oh, not far--twenty or thirty miles. You can get up easily in a car or
by a fast train. Greenriver--that's the house--is really charmingly
situated, with big grounds at the back, and the river just beneath the
house."

"You lived there as a youngster?"

"Yes. When my father died my mother couldn't bear to live there, and we
let the place. After her death I could have gone back, but somehow I
didn't want to. It was only when I met Vivian----"

He broke off suddenly, and springing to his feet, began to pace up and
down.

"By Jove, Barry, what fools we men make of ourselves over women! Just
because Vivian was kind, smiled on me, seemed really interested in my
affairs, I told her everything--all sorts of things I haven't even told
you, old chap! We used to go for strolls together in the summer
evenings--once or twice we motored down to Richmond and went for a walk
in the park ... we used to talk about all sorts of things ... women are
the very deuce for leading men on to talk. They pretend to be so
interested, ask such gentle little questions, are so sympathetic, so
kind ... and when it comes to sport, a girl like Vivian can talk as well
as any man."

He sighed impatiently.

"We didn't talk sentiment--those days. We were chums--the best of
chums ... discussed flying, motoring--she used to drive a little car
of her own. Sometimes we played golf--and, by Jove, she could pretty
nearly beat me! She was interested in all the things I liked, was a
rattling good shot with a rifle, and hadn't a nerve in her. Clever, too;
could talk on all sorts of subjects, and had read books I'd never even
heard of! She spoke three or four languages ... but--but it wasn't
that."

He broke off in his rambling talk to light a cigarette, and then
continued, in the same musing tone.

"It was something else. She was so handsome, so--so fine, somehow. I
used to think, when we were engaged, that she was like Brunhilde, or
some of the other Wagnerian heroines. Sometimes I couldn't help
thinking"--he coloured--"what splendid children a woman like that would
have. She ... she satisfied one, somehow. You knew she was sound in
every way--the sort of woman one would always be proud of--and when I
thought of her as the mistress of Greenriver, I----"

He threw away his cigarette impatiently.

"What a fool I am! What a damned fool you must think me, raving about a
woman who played me the shabbiest trick a woman could play! God! When I
think of it--think how I was deceived, I--I hate the woman! I hate
myself for being such a fool, but I hate her more! Well, she's married
now--good luck to her!--and there's only one thing for me to do; I must
get married too!"

"But why?" Barry's blue eyes were very kindly as they looked at his
friend. "Why not go on as you are for a bit longer?"

"Why not?" He stretched out his arms with a curious, restless gesture.
"Because I've got unsettled, I suppose. You see, when you've looked on
yourself as practically a married man, planned everything, renounced
your bachelor ways and anticipated a new and more settled existence,
well, somehow you can't go back to the old state of things. There's the
house, too. I feel as though I wanted to live in it again--the servants
are clamouring for me to go there. I promised, you know, and the river
is so lovely in the summer...."

"Well, why not go down and have a car?"

"Go there--alone?" He spoke bitterly. "No, thanks. That would be folly.
I meant to go with my wife----"

Suddenly he stopped in his restless pacing and faced Barry with gleaming
eyes.

"By gad, Barry! Why shouldn't I take my wife there after all?"

"Your wife?" Even the quick-witted Barry was at fault.

"Yes. My wife." He laughed at the other man's face. "Oh, I'm not married
yet, but why shouldn't I be? I swore I'd marry the first woman who'd
have me, and it's just occurred to me--Barry, do you thing she _would_
have me?"

"She? _What_ she?" demanded Barry in justifiable bewilderment.

"Why, our excellent little secretary and typist--our Miss Gibbs--our
Antonia, known at home as Toni!"

Barry's boyish face flushed crimson, and for a second he looked so angry
that Owen stared in genuine amazement.

"Well, Barry, what's up? I assure you my intentions are strictly
honourable! If she'll have me, she shall step into the shoes vacated by
Miss Vivian Rees, and succeed to the house, the car, the boats, and all
the rest of the worldly goods which weren't sufficient to tempt my
beautiful _fiancée_!"

"See here, Owen." Barry's voice was quiet. "I suppose you're ragging,
but let me tell you I think the rag's in execrable taste, and I'll be
obliged if you'll drop the subject."

For a second Owen seemed about to retort in the same tone. Then, quite
suddenly, his face changed.

"Say, Barry, why all these frills? You surely didn't think I meant any
harm--any disrespect to the girl?"

"Of course not." He spoke rather coldly. "Only--well, I don't like to
hear you joking about marrying Miss Gibbs. She's a decent little thing,
and far too good to be made a cat's paw in a game of revenge."

Owen looked at his friend quietly.

"You're right, Barry, and if I were only joking it would be a bit
low-down. But suppose I mean it? Suppose I ask the girl to marry me,
quite quietly, not entering into any heroics or telling any condemned
lies, and she accepts me, what then?"

Barry's heart gave a sudden throb of dismay. There was something behind
Owen's calm manner which made him feel vaguely uneasy. Could it be that
Owen too had surprised Toni's pitiful little secret--that he knew--had
known all along that the girl was not so indifferent to him as she
wished to appear?

For the moment Barry was nonplussed. If it were so, if Owen knew, and,
knowing, chose to take the risk of the girl's acceptance, had he any
right to interfere?

That Toni would accept, Barry felt almost convinced; and yet, fond as he
was of his friend, fond as he was, too, of the girl with whom he had
worked during these weeks of spring, Barry was clear-sighted enough to
feel assured that such a marriage would not make for happiness.

It might answer for a time. If Toni wore genuinely attached to Rose, as
Barry was inclined to believe, it was possible--nay, probable--that her
affection for him would bring out the best in Owen's nature, and he
would repay that affection with a real and kindly consideration. But
when the first freshness had worn off, when Owen should have grown used
to the girl's shy gratitude and devotion, when her prettiness, her
radiant youth, her naïve simplicity should have ceased to charm, what
then would remain?

For all his sporting instincts Owen was primarily a man of letters,
versatile, brilliant, even distinguished in his way; and Barry foresaw a
bitter disillusionment for each of the pair when the real dissimilarity
of their natures should, as must inevitably happen, become apparent to
both.

To Toni, who never willingly opened a book, her husband's delight and
absorption in the masterpieces of literature must be a constant wonder;
while to Rose, Toni's ignorance, her youthful, unashamed lack of
interest in the "things which matter" would be a perpetual irritation.

Although not so brilliant as his friend, Barry experienced at times
flashes of almost uncanny insight; and as he contemplated the
possibility of this marriage he had a sudden clear conviction that it
would not, could not, turn out successfully.

"See here, Owen"--he faced the other man resolutely--"you must know the
thing is quite impossible. Miss Gibbs is a nice little girl, a pretty
little thing and as straight as a die. But she is not your equal in any
sense; neither socially nor intellectually; and though you may not
believe it, you would regret the marriage in a week."

Owen looked at him, half-affectionately, half-quizzically, for a moment.

"Why should I, Barry? Toni may not be of very exalted birth, but she is
a hundred times more ladylike than half the flappers one meets in
Society nowadays, with their cigarette-cases, their bridge purses and
their slangy talk. One of those loud young women would be the death of
me in a week--and you know Toni's voice is delightfully soft, with quite
a Southern intonation--caught in Italy, I expect."

"But what of her education--or lack of it?" Barry went on relentlessly.
"You know quite well that the girl is a little ignoramus in reality. She
has read nothing, been nowhere, learned precious little; and she has no
more conversation than--than a Persian cat."

"That's a bad simile," said Owen calmly. "A Persian cat doesn't talk
much, I admit, but it is a most fascinating piece of mystery when it
sits still and says nothing. And Miss Gibbs may in reality be just as
mysterious."

"Oh, you're impossible!" Barry spoke impatiently, and Owen's manner
changed.

"Come, Barry, confess the truth. You're afraid Toni will jump at me--to
put it baldly. You know"--for a second he hesitated--"you know, Barry,
I'm not blind, and I can't help seeing that the girl has ... well, taken
a fancy to me; and if that is so, seeing that the woman I wanted
wouldn't have me, why shouldn't I offer myself to the one who ... would
perhaps take me if I asked her to?"

"You really mean to ask her, then?"

"Yes. I know you won't approve, old chap, but I'm going to do it all the
same. The girl may refuse me, you know, and then there'll be no harm
done."

And nothing could move him from the attitude he had adopted. The utmost
concession Barry could wring from him was a promise to wait for a week
at least before carrying out his plan; and during the whole of that week
Barry did his utmost to dissuade his friend from taking a step which he
foresaw would end in disaster.

He argued, cajoled, even thundered, in vain. He spoke of disparity of
tastes, of habits, of views on life in general; and Owen laughingly
reminded him that dissimilarity in tastes was supposed to be a good
foundation for wedded happiness.

He pointed out that although Antonia herself was a lady in the best
sense of the word, neither he nor Owen knew anything of her family; and
he endeavoured to alarm Rose by his vigorous sketch of her possibly
undesirable relations.

"I tell you the girl's an orphan," said Owen, smiling as Barry finished
painting an imaginary portrait of a very unattractive mother-in-law.
"She lives with an uncle and aunt and a family of cousins somewhere
Brixton way."

"Then I suppose the wedding will take place in Brixton," said Barry,
with an assumption of polite interest, and Owen coloured in spite of
himself.

"No--at least, not in a church. I can't face a regular wedding, Barry,
seeing my bride isn't the one I expected to lead to the altar. I think
the Registrar will have to tie the knot, and we'll dispense with all the
fuss of satins and veils and white flowers that I was dreading with all
my heart!"

Something in his tone--a hint of dreary disappointment, of a
wretchedness hitherto well concealed, made Barry feel compunction for
his own rough handling of what must have been in reality a sore subject;
and quite suddenly he abandoned his own superior, not to say
condemnatory, attitude for a more human, more sympathetic frame of mind.

"I say, old chap"--Owen's eyes lightened with pleasure at the friendly
tone--"I've been an awful beast all this time. The fact is, I've thought
only of the girl's point of view. It didn't seem fair she should be used
as a sort of tool to make your position easier; but after all, I believe
on my soul she'd ask nothing better than to marry you; and I know you'd
treat her decently, so--so if----"

"If I like to do it, you'll give me your blessing, eh, Barry?" Owen's
smile was a little melancholy. "Well, I'll take advantage of your
permission and put it to the little girl herself. She may refuse me, of
course--Miss Rees didn't find me irresistible, did she?" A hint of the
deadly wound she had dealt him coloured his tone. "But unless I'm a
conceited fool I believe I have a sporting chance at least--and I'd like
to show Lady Saxonby she's not the only woman in the world for me!"

At that moment Toni herself entered the room; and with an effort both
men greeted her as usual, and proceeded to the ordinary routine of the
day's work without giving her any indication that she had interrupted a
discussion of the highest importance to herself.




CHAPTER VII


Antonia had just returned from lunch on the following day when Owen
called her to him; and she hastened to obey the summons, still wearing
her hat and coat.

"Oh, Miss Gibbs"--his tone was admirably casual. "I've been wondering
whether you would mind helping me this afternoon. I want some books from
my house down at Willowhurst to verify some quotations in an article I
am writing for the next number of the _Bridge_."

"Yes, Mr. Rose?"

"I intended first going down in the car for them, but as it seems a pity
to bring a lot of old books up to town, I thought if you would come down
too, bringing the little Blick typewriter with you, I could get you to
copy out the quotations I want, and I needn't take the books away."

Insensibly Toni's eyes brightened.

"Yes, Mr. Rose. I should be very pleased."

"That's right. Well, I'll go out and get some lunch. Will you be ready
in half an hour?"

"Yes--I've just time to run through these letters."

"Very well. _Au revoir!_ I'll be back at half-past two."

He went out, and Antonia joyfully pirouetted round the room before
settling to work--somewhat to the surprise of Barry, who entered at that
moment.

"Hallo, Miss Gibbs--practising the turkey-trot, or what?"

She stopped, blushing hotly, and tried in vain to look unconcerned.

"No, Mr. Raymond. Only--Mr. Rose wants me to motor down to Willowhurst
with him about some books--and it's such a lovely day!"

"You like motoring?" Barry could not resist a sympathetic smile.

"Oh, I just love it!" She clasped her hands in rapture. "Of course, I've
only been in taxis and char-à-bancs and things, but I've always wanted
to go in a real motor-car--a private one, I mean!"

"Have you never been in one?" Her childish confession made Barry feel
half pitiful, half dismayed.

"No, how should I?" She laughed, showing her pretty teeth
whole-heartedly. "You know girls in my position don't go about in
motors! Of course"--with one of her sudden changes of mood she paled and
spoke slowly--"if my father had lived things would have been different."

"You lived in Italy together?"

"Yes." She sank into a chair, and went on speaking dreamily,
her chin cradled in her hollowed hands. "We lived in a village not
far from Naples. Oh, how beautiful Italy is in the spring, when
the pink almond-blossom makes the hill-sides look like a great
rose-garden ... and the oranges and lemons flame out among the
dark-green leaves--and the roads are hot and white, and the blue
sea lies at the back of everything, sparkling in the sunshine...."

She paused, but Barry, fascinated by this revelation of a depth, almost
a poetry, in the nature he had thought shallow and commonplace, said
nothing; and after a second she continued.

"There was a steep hill behind our little house, and sometimes the sheep
that browsed there would stray ... so that the boy would sit and pipe to
them to come back. I used to watch him pipe, and make a garland of
vine-leaves and put it on his curls, and my father would laugh and call
him Pan, and say he was really thousands of years old ... and the sheep
would come up the slope looking so white against the green, and the air
would be full of the smell of the violets they crushed beneath their
feet...."

Again she paused, and this time Barry prompted her.

"And when he had found his flock, what did your boy-Pan do then?"

"Then he would drive them away over the hill-side, and we would hear his
pipe growing fainter and fainter in the distance, until it died away
altogether...."

She sprang up suddenly.

"Oh, Mr. Raymond, what nonsense I'm talking! That life's over and done
with, and I've all these letters to copy!"

"All right--I won't interrupt!" He took up some papers. "But just tell
me this. Do you ever want to go back to Italy?"

She hesitated, considering.

"No, I think not," she said at last. "You see, it would all be
different. My father wouldn't be there, nor the Padre--and even old
Fiammetta may be dead by now."

"But the place would be the same--the sea as blue!"

"Ah, I should like to see the sea!" She spoke softly. "Do you know I've
only seen the sea once since I came to England--when we went to Southend
for the day. And there it was all cold and grey--and the sands were
mud ... it wasn't a bit like my sea, and I wished I'd never seen it."

There were actually tears in her eyes, and Barry cursed himself for a
fool, as he went rather absently into his own room, leaving her to her
work--which work was done none the less carefully because of the vague
longings which the conversation had aroused in the worker's breast.

Punctually at two-thirty Owen returned, and Toni ran down the steps with
a smiling face from which all traces of tears had long since vanished.

The car was waiting in the dingy street, and Toni's foot was actually on
the step when she turned and looked at Owen with a kind of desperate
appeal in her eyes.

"Mr. Rose, do you drive the car yourself?"

"Yes. I sit in front, you know--ah, would you like to sit with me?"

"May I?" Her accent was acceptance enough; and two minutes later Toni,
as happy as a queen, was installed by the driver's side, and the car
began to glide faster and faster down the street on its way to the open
country beyond the town.

When they had gone a little distance Owen turned to look at his
passenger, and for a second his heart stood still at the expression on
her face. Surely no girl would look so rapturously happy unless some
magic were at work....

"Are you warm enough? There's a big coat in the car." He spoke abruptly,
but the girl shook her head gratefully.

"No, I'm quite warm, thank you."

She had tied on her soft little hat with a scarf of some thin material
which framed her face very satisfactorily, and Owen did not press the
question.

On and on sped the car, through Putney and Richmond, on past Feltham and
Staines, eating up the miles so fast that before they knew it they were
out in the country, flying along the level road between hedges whose
green had not as yet become dusty with the summer's traffic.

It was a glorious afternoon in early May, and the Thames valley was at
its best. On either hand were fields sown thick with creamy daisies and
yellow buttercups. Down in a marshy hollow they caught a glimpse of a
carpet of golden kingcups, and once they passed a tiny dell in whose
very heart an azure mist whispered of bluebells; while the blackthorn
and the may made the air fragrant for miles. The birds were singing
their hearts out in the mellow sunshine, and now and again the cuckoo's
call came floating over the meadows from copse or spinney.

Ever and anon as they shot through some village hamlet they caught
glimpses of orchards in full blossom, the pink and white bloom standing
out against the pale blue of the sky with the effect of some delicate
Japanese painting; and in all the little gardens flowers rioted
joyously.

To Toni, spending her life in dingy Brixton, this afternoon was a
red-letter day. The soft, clean air which blew in her face was different
from the stagnant air of the Brixton streets; the scent of flowers was
grateful after the odours of the City, and the vision, now and then, of
the flashing river was a delight to eyes tired with much staring at ugly
houses and shops.

If Toni said little during that magic excursion, it was not shyness
alone which sealed her lips; and although he cast a look now and then at
his companion, Owen was too considerate to break into her raptures with
questioning words.

Only when they were approaching their destination did he begin to point
out the various features of the landscape.

"That village over there is Willgate, noted for an old Saxon arch in its
church. My mother used to go over there to evening service, I remember.
She liked it better than our own church--the one you can just see
peeping between the trees. The village--Willowhurst, I mean--lies round
this bend. It's quite a rural-looking place, when you remember that
after all it is not an hour's journey from Waterloo."

The car glided round the bend as he spoke, and Toni saw the village
lying in the afternoon sunshine, which winked back from the windows of
the little houses, built in a queer, old-fashioned manner round a small
green. There was a pleasant, old-world look about the place which was
oddly charming; and Toni was quite sorry when the car left the little
green behind. But in another minute they were on a stretch of white road
bordered by a high wall, behind which tall trees stood like sentinels;
and Toni caught her breath as Owen said, in a voice which he tried,
vainly, to keep steady:

"See, there's Greenriver--my home--beyond the trees."

They had reached the high gates in the wall, and when once they had
entered and were rolling up the broad avenue Toni gazed eagerly in the
direction he had indicated.

Greenriver was a stately old place enough. It had been built in the days
of Queen Bess; and was just such a house as that in which Justice
Shallow might have entertained Falstaff--a long grey building with a
porch in the centre and a huge gable at either end--a house with
deep-mullioned windows and large stacks of chimney-pots.

The house faced the river, to which it led by a terrace of velvety turf,
broken here and there by gay flower-beds; while the real gardens lay at
the other side of the building. Here beauty and dignity had joined
hands, as it were, to preserve the stately loveliness of the grounds,
under whose tall elms many a joyous company must have roamed when the
river was the highway of elegance and fashion, and great barges floated
down the Thames bearing Royal personages reclining on their couches
covered with cloth of gold. Here on summer evenings the nightingales
sang to the roses for which the gardens were famous; and for centuries
the big white owls had hooted from their nests in the tree-tops, or
flown, like pale ghosts, across the dusky paths.

The grounds were indeed noted all along the river for the magnificence
of their green, velvety lawns, the size and beauty of the flowers in
parterre and bed, the wonderful completeness--and in some cases the
antiquity--of the contents of the famous herbaceous border; and Toni
never forgot the sensation of awe which overwhelmed her as she realized
that this glorious place belonged to the man beside her.

She spoke a little shyly as the car came to a standstill at the foot of
the steps leading to the big door.

"This is your house?"

"Yes, this is Greenriver." He helped her out of the car. "And here is my
old friend Mrs. Blades coming to meet us."

An elderly, rather prim-looking woman came forward as Owen advanced, and
in her eyes shone a welcoming light.

"Come in, sir. We were beginning to wonder if you were coming to-day."

"Yes--started rather late." Owen gave her hand a friendly shake. "But we
shan't have to go back just yet. I want to have a chat with you by and
bye, Mrs. Blades. This young lady, Miss Gibbs, has kindly come down to
help me with some work."

"I'm sure the young lady is very welcome," was Mrs. Blades'
old-fashioned reply. "Shan't I make you a cup o' tea, sir, first of
all?"

"Well, a cup of tea would be nice ... but I think, if Miss Gibbs isn't
tired, we'll get on with our work first, and then we'll enjoy it better.
Eh, Miss Gibbs?"

Miss Gibbs agreed; and five minutes later she was installed, with her
typewriter, in the library. Owen busied himself, for a few moments, at
the shelves, searching for the books he wanted; and Toni spent the time
in gazing round her, wonder, admiration and awe mingling in her gaze.

The room was large and lofty and the big mullioned windows looked out
upon a beautiful terrace, bordered with wallflowers, jonquils, and
masses of dancing daffodils. The grass, smooth as velvet, led to a stone
balustrade, beyond which lay the river, sparkling in the sunshine,
whilst beyond that again were green fields, broken here and there by
clumps of majestic trees, the fields in their turn leading to a range of
distant, misty, blue hills.

The room itself was second only in interest to the view. In all her life
Toni had never entered such a room--had never imagined, indeed, that
private houses boasted such apartments.

The furniture was all of dark-green leather--the big saddle-bag chairs,
the low divan and the smaller chairs all being upholstered in the same
material, while the wall was distempered a lighter shade of green, and
the carpet was of a darker tone. In one of the deep window embrasures
was a bureau, of just the right height to allow anyone sitting before it
to enjoy the prospect without; while the table at which Toni sat was a
large, heavy affair, evidently intended for serious work.

But the generally sombre tone of the room formed an excellent background
for the books which lined its walls. Shelf after shelf of them rose from
the floor, almost to the ceiling; and since many were bound in soft,
rich colours, they struck a delightful note in the rather dusky whole.

There were books bound in leather, dark-brown calf, soft red or blue
morocco; richly-tooled volumes, slim books clothed in tan or purple
suède, gay with gold edges and lettering; priceless old volumes, rare
black-letter editions, poets, classics, all the standard novels.... Toni
had never seen so many books in her life; and it must be confessed that
she regarded them with something akin to awe.

Who in the world could wish to read these hundreds of volumes? For all
their beautiful bindings she had a conviction that the contents would be
appallingly dull; and her eyes fled gladly to the more congenial scene
outside the windows where the flowers danced gaily in the sunshine and a
little skiff floated by on the shimmering river, like some magic boat
gliding to a haven in fairyland.

Presently Owen approached the table, bearing an armful of thin books,
bound for the most part in soft fawn suède.

"Look, Miss Gibbs, these are the verses I want you to copy." He pointed
out the poems, and gave her one or two instructions, while Toni,
conscious that she had been dreaming away her time, hastily uncovered
her typewriter and took up a sheet of paper.

"If you'll do these, I'll go and have a chat with old Mrs. Blades," said
Owen presently. "Then we'll have tea, and if there's time I'll show you
the gardens. They are really worth seeing."

She thanked him shyly and he went out. In the doorway he paused, looking
back at her as she sat among the books; and if she had looked up she
could not have failed to observe something odd in the expression with
which he was regarding her.

But she did not look up; and after a few seconds' scrutiny he went out
quietly and closed the door.

It did not take Toni very long to finish her task. Almost as she took
the last sheet of paper out of the typewriter the door opened to admit
Owen and a staid-looking maid with a tea-tray.

"Well, Miss Gibbs, finished?" Owen came forward with a smile. "That's
good! Now you shall have some tea to refresh you after your toil. Let me
see, Kate, where shall we have it?"

The maid suggested that the table in the far window would be suitable;
and as the afternoon sunshine still streamed in, making a pleasant
warmth, Owen agreed heartily.

Evidently Mrs. Blades had not been taken unprepared; for there were
dainty sandwiches, hot cakes, and a big and substantial-looking
seed-loaf, which was, so Owen informed his guest, his housekeeper's
special pride.

"Now"--Kate had withdrawn after placing the massive silver tea-pot on
the tray--"will you pour out for me, Miss Gibbs? And I'll hand the
cakes."

Blushing gloriously, Toni slipped into the seat behind the tray. In
honour of the fine day she had discarded her black frock for a serge
skirt and a girlish-looking white blouse, open at the throat; and now
that she had thrown aside her veil, her black hair, prettily loosened
beneath her soft little hat, made an ebony frame for her vivid face.

As he watched her gravely attending to the duties of the tea-tray, Owen
told himself that he might have made a worse choice.

He had long ago surprised her secret--although Toni had no idea of her
self-betrayal. At this stage of her development Toni was pure emotion--a
mere lamp through which love might shine unchecked, casting its beams
unashamedly upon the object of its devotion. Later she might learn, as
many women do, to interpose a veil between her soul and the world. The
lamp would shine with a tempered beam, its glow moderated to a mere
even, more tranquil light, and none would recognize the quality of its
burning.

But at present Toni's love was so whole-hearted, so innocently,
pathetically intense that it was no wonder Owen had divined both its
nature and its object long ago.

Well, to a heart rendered sore by a woman's callousness, such a warm,
eager devotion as this was inexpressibly attractive; and if Owen's eyes
were blinded by suffering, there was surely a chance that Toni's soft
fingers laid upon their lids might prolong the merciful myopia.

When tea was over there came a sudden little silence. The dusk was
falling; and the garden wore a ghostly look; while the river lay
passively unreflecting beneath the twilit sky.

The atmosphere of the room changed with the passing of the
sunlight--grew tense, electric, almost, one would have said, expectant;
and Owen realized that the moment for which he waited had come.

Toni, having finished her tea, was sitting rather slackly in her chair,
gazing dreamily out of the window; and Owen hesitated for a minute
before he spoke. She looked so young, so wistful, so helpless. It was
almost unfair, selfish, to speak to the child--and then, suddenly, he
knew that selfish or no, he must put an end to his own solitary
sore-heartedness.

"Toni"--she looked up as he spoke, and his utterance of her name set the
whole atmosphere throbbing with wild, sweet possibilities--"I want to
ask you something."

She did not speak, only her eyes fastened on his face.

"Do you think, Toni"--for a moment he faltered, then plunged bravely
on--"you could ever bring yourself to marry me? Oh, I know you're
surprised--I ought not to spring it on you like this--but if you will be
my wife I will do my best to make you happy."

There was a silence. Suddenly an owl flew, hooting, past the window, and
in the dusk his white wings looked ghostly, unreal.

Then, quite quietly, Toni spoke.

"Mr. Rose, do you mean it? You want to marry me?"

"Yes, dear." For an instant he spoke as one speaks to a child, so
powerful was the illusion of youth in the large-eyed Toni just then.
"Well, what do you say? Will you have me?"

He was still sitting in the big chair opposite to her, one hand on the
arm, the other clenched on his knee; and he was unprepared for Toni's
answer.

With a sudden rush she was out of her chair, and the next moment she was
kneeling beside him, her face all aglow with love and wonder.

"You mean it?" She could only, it seemed, question his meaning.
"But--how did you know I loved you, Mr. Rose? I never let you see--did
I?"

With that soft, sparkling face upturned to his, those Italian eyes
gazing at him with an intensity of appeal in their liquid depths, one
answer alone was possible.

"No, Toni, you never let me see that! But if it's true--if you do love
me a little--well, is it--yes?"

For answer she suddenly laid her head on his knee and burst into a
passion of wild sobbing. Poor, emotional, overwrought little Toni! Why
she wept she had no idea, but it was the same emotion which had made
her, as a child, weep at the sight of a group of violets growing in the
grass, at the sound of the shepherd's pipe, the scent of the sea-laden
breeze. Although her heart was so full of bliss that she could scarcely
bear it, there was a wild, inexplicable sadness in it too, which tears
alone could assuage; and though she tried to recapture her self-control,
it was useless until she had cried away the first bewilderment.

But Owen, unused to the complex Southern nature, was thoroughly
nonplussed by her tears. In vain he besought her to calm herself, begged
her to listen to him, to refuse him if the thought of his offer made her
miserable. Toni only cried the harder; and at last, uncertain of his
ground, but feeling that something must be done, Owen stooped down and
lifted her bodily on to his knee.

Once in his arms, her tears ceased as if by magic. She lay against his
heart like a child, and as he felt her little body in his arms a new
feeling of pity, almost of gratitude, awoke in his heart.

If his love meant so much to her--then it should be hers--if indeed love
could be bestowed at will. In any case he would marry her and devote his
life to making her happy; and in his curiously exalted state of mind
Owen quite lost sight of the fact that when one is the lover and the
other the beloved, between the two there is often a great gulf fixed.

       *       *       *       *       *

When at last Owen roused the girl, who had sobbed herself into
quiescence in his arms, the room was nearly dark.

"Come, Toni, it's getting cold and dark in here. What do you say, shall
we get Mrs. Blades to give us a little dinner and go home by
moonlight--or would you rather start at once?"

"I would rather go now." She spoke in a low voice, like a child that is
uncertain of its treatment; and Owen guessed she was ashamed of her
tears.

He set himself to reassure her.

"Well, just as you like. Wait a moment, though. I'll light a candle, and
you shall put your hat straight, and tie on that precious veil of yours
first."

While she tidied herself, rather self-consciously, before a large oval
mirror, Owen gathered up the papers she had typewritten; and when he
turned towards her at last she was able to conjure up a rather wan
little smile.

"Good girl!" He laid his hand kindly on her arm. "Now we'll be off--but
first, do you mind if I let old Blades into our secret? She's a faithful
old soul, though her temper's a bit crabby, and she'll be awfully
pleased!"

She assented, of course; and opening the door Owen led her across the
dim hall towards the kitchen regions.

Evidently the magic hour of lighting-up was at hand, for when they had
passed through the green baize door which shut off the servants'
premises, they found themselves in a brightly-lit passage, at the end of
which Mrs. Blades' voice could be heard energetically exhorting a maid
to "be quick and take these lamps."

"Come along, we'll pay her a visit in her room," said Owen, his eyes
sparkling with fun; and drawing Toni's arm through his he ran with her
down the passage, and drew up finally in a large square room where Mrs.
Blades was at work.

In spite of her shyness Toni was lost in wonder at the nature of that
work. The room itself was lighted with gas, flaring in an iron cage; but
on the table in front of Mrs. Blades were no less than ten small
oil-lamps, evidently intended to hang against the wall, and fashioned in
some wrought metal which gave them a curiously mediæval look.

"Hallo, Mrs. Blades!" Owen's voice made her turn round quickly. "The Ten
Little Ladies going as strong as ever, I see!"

"Yes, Mr. Owen, they're still on the go." She regarded the lamps
affectionately. "At first Mr. Leetham used to say a good big lamp would
be best, at the head of the stairs; but afterwards he got to like the
Little Ladies, and we've had 'em every night."

"We'll have to go on having them," declared Owen. "Look, Toni, they're
really quite pretty, aren't they? And thanks to Mrs. Blades they give a
jolly good light."

"But--the 'Little Ladies'?" Toni looked, as she felt, puzzled.

"Yes, it was a fancy of my father's. He would never have gas anywhere
except in the kitchens; and the long gallery upstairs, where all the
bedrooms are, was always as dark as Erebus." He laughed, catching sight
of the blank look on Mrs. Blades' face at the word. "So my mother
invented these lamps, years ago when I was a tiny kid, and every night
they are fixed at intervals along the walls of the gallery."

"But the name?"

"Oh, I don't know who first christened them, but they've always been
known as the Ten Little Ladies--and always will be, I suppose. Eh, Mrs.
Blades?"

"So long as I'm here, sir, I hope they will be," rejoined Mrs. Blades
somewhat formally; and something in her tone made Owen remember his
resolve.

He looked round. The door was open into the passage, a rosy-cheeked maid
waiting, apparently, to carry off the tray with the Little Ladies; but
on Owen approaching with the intention of closing the door she withdrew
modestly out of earshot.

Coming back to the table Owen took one of Toni's hands in his and turned
to the old housekeeper, who glanced with sudden shrewdness at the girl's
shy face.

"Mrs. Blades," said Owen quietly, "Miss Gibbs has promised to marry me;
and I hope that before many weeks are over we shall come down to live at
Greenriver. Well, what do you say? Will you welcome us when we come?"

The half-boyish, half-masterful tone in which he spoke seemed too much
for the old woman, who had watched Owen grow from boy to man, and now,
after a lapse of years, saw him in his manhood. She looked first at him,
then at the pale girl by his side, and her features worked oddly.

"Come, Mrs. Blades!" Owen had had enough of tears for one afternoon.
"Cheer up! Don't look as if we were going to cut off your head! That's a
poor welcome to Miss Gibbs!"

Thus reproved, the housekeeper did her best to conjure up a more
cheerful expression; and managed presently to shake Toni's cold little
hand with a respectful word or two; after which Owen discovered that it
was high time to go.

Five minutes later Toni was snugly packed into the car again; and Owen
was about to take his seat when he remembered that he had left the
typewritten sheets in the housekeeper's room.

"I'll run back for them, Toni." He jumped down from the step. "I won't
be a moment. You don't mind waiting?"

"Of course not!" She smiled up at him with dewy eyes. "Don't hurry--it's
so lovely here in the dusk--the flowers smell so sweet."

Re-entering the house, Owen ran down the passage with hasty feet. Mrs.
Blades, who had a tendency to what she called "chronical brownkitis,"
had not ventured to brave the night air; and Owen found her still
regarding the Little Ladies, who burned trimly on the tray before her.

"All right, Mrs. Blades--I've only left some papers!" He snatched them
up as he spoke, and crammed them into the pocket of his leather coat.
"That's all--now I'm really off."

He patted her carelessly on the shoulder as he passed her; but to his
surprise she put out a veined hand to stay his progress.

"Mr. Owen"--her voice shook--"do you really mean that you're going to
marry the young lady?"

"Of course, Blades." Unconsciously Owen pulled himself together. "Why
should I say such a thing if I did not mean it?"

"Because..." the old woman faltered "... Miss Gibbs ain't the sort of
lady you ought to marry. She ... she's not like the other lady you were
going to bring here as mistress of Greenriver ... the one as was
presented at Court with all them lovely feathers in her hair."

An expression such as she had never seen before crossed Owen's face. He
shook off her hand impatiently.

"Oh, you're an old silly, Blades." His voice was grating. "Miss Gibbs is
a thousand times more suitable to be the mistress of Greenriver.
The--the other lady thought very small beer of us all down here--she
wasn't our sort, I assure you!"

"Neither is this one." The old woman stuck to her guns with the
obstinacy of age. "Mr. Owen, I remember your father bringing home his
bride--a girl she was, only eighteen--but the highest lady in the land
couldn't have been evened to her. Miss Gibbs is pretty and a good girl,
I'm sure, but--but she ain't like your mother, Mr. Owen; and you ought
to look higher when you marry than her!"

"Don't be a fool, Blades!" Owen spoke angrily now. "If I think Miss
Gibbs good enough to be my wife that's quite sufficient for everyone.
After all, I'm not such a great catch," he added bitterly.

"Nay, Mr. Owen, don't be vexed with me!" Too late the old woman
regretted her foolish words. "I'm growing old, and maybe I'm in my
dotage ... ah, he's gone--I've driven the lad away with my folly!"

It was indeed so. Owen had flung out of the door angrily; and as she
listened, half-afraid, she heard his steps receding down the passage
towards the hall. There was impatience in his very tread; for, truth to
tell, Owen felt a kind of hot anger welling in his heart as he
remembered the words she had spoken.

At first he was merely annoyed at what he called her
presumption--induced, he supposed, by her long connection with the
family. But suddenly a feeling of vague uneasiness descended upon him,
and he paused before going out to join Toni in the car.

"She only saw Toni for a moment--barely heard her speak--and yet she
speaks as though I were making an unsuitable marriage." He frowned
thoughtfully, anger dying before some feeling whose nature he could not,
yet, recognize. "I wonder--what could she mean?"

He stood in the quiet hall, fighting down a host of surmises, of
unwelcome doubts which sprang, it would seem, out of the twilight,
brought to birth by an old woman's homely words; and in those
illuminating seconds Owen allowed himself to wonder whether, after all,
he had committed an action which he would find cause to regret.

But somehow the idea seemed a treachery towards the girl who sat waiting
so trustfully, so happily for his coming; and with a sudden uplifting of
his head, Owen went resolutely out to the car.

       *       *       *       *       *

But Mrs. Blades, left alone, shod a few of the difficult tears of age as
she went over the little scene. She felt suddenly old; and for the first
time in her busy, self-satisfied life she questioned her own wisdom.

Then she too shook off her uncomfortable thoughts, and calling the rosy
Maggie to her, delivered into her hands the Ten Little Ladies, who still
waited patiently upon the tray for their nightly release.




CHAPTER VIII


On a beautiful midsummer morning Antonia Rose crept softly down the
broad old staircase of Greenriver and crossed the hall with so
fairy-light a tread that never a soul in the house could hear a
footstep.

It was very early, barely half-past five; but the glorious summer
morning was calling, calling insistently to Toni to come and share its
glories; and the call was not one to be disregarded, by Antonia at
least.

Not a thing stirred. In the gallery the Ten Little Ladies grew wan and
faded before the vitality of the daylight; and when, after some
difficulty, Toni unlocked the big hall door and let in a flood of
sunshine, they gave up the unequal contest and expired quietly.

Ah! What a world of beauty burst upon Toni's gaze as she stood,
thrilling delightfully with a sense of adventure, on the big stone steps
outside the great door.

A rush of perfume from the tall lilies greeted her first; followed by a
perfect shower of fragrance from the pink and creamy roses growing
beside the door. Other scents there were--a dozen of them--from the
flowers massed in glowing ranks in the beds; but the lilies and the
roses had it all their own way; and Toni laughed with delight as they
assailed her with their sweetness.

There was music, too, in this pearly dawn. In the trees the birds were
astir, twittering their songs of morning; and already the velvety brown
bees were beginning to hum their spinning chorus as they hovered here
and there among the tall flowers which stood in rows before the windows,
like marriageable maidens waiting for inspection.

Beyond the terrace lay the river, shining with that strange, ethereal
effect of silver which water has beneath the early morning sky; and away
beyond the river the thin, delicate mists of the night were rising like
vaporous ghosts, to dissolve in the fresh, clean atmosphere of dawn.

"Oh, how beautiful it all is! What a lovely world God made when He
made--this!" Toni stood on the steps with arms outstretched, like some
young priestess of a pagan faith welcoming the sun. "And why do we lie
asleep in stuffy beds when all the birds and flowers have been awake for
ages!"

She pulled the big door gently to behind her, and then ran through the
gardens and across the terrace to the big grey balustrade which kept the
boundary of the garden from the towing path beyond. Leaning her arms on
the stone she looked out over the shining river, and in fancy her spirit
roved here and there--to the violet-strewn mountain slopes of Italy
where she had passed her childhood ... to the wonderful, rocky coast of
Cornwall where her honeymoon had been spent.

At the thought of the Cornish seas she caught her breath. Those
marvellous green billows, foaming in the sunshine, dashing against the
cliffs with a sound like thunder; the gentler wavelets creaming over the
snow-white sands in lines of lotus-blue; the pools, deep and limpid,
where in the aquamarine water all kind of strange sea-creatures lived;
the jagged, tooth-like rocks springing from the depths of the ocean,
ready to destroy the passing ships; the still more wonderful
lighthouses, rising, some of them, like tall white needles into the
turquoise sky; the gulls, flashing grey and white in the sunshine; the
salt scent of the sea mingling with the pungent fragrance of the yellow
gorse, hot with the sun ... surely the Cornish coast was a very favoured
spot, and the Scilly Isles, to which passage could be taken in a queer,
cranky boat, were indeed the Fortunate Isles, cradled by the bluest,
most magical, most romantic waters in the world!

Thoughts of the ocean were indissolubly bound up with all Toni's
thoughts of her honeymoon. Acting on a hint from Barry, Owen had taken
his bride straight away from the Registrar's dingy office to Paddington,
thence to Cornwall; and he would never forget the sight of Toni's face
when first she saw the sea, lying purple and green beneath a stormy sky.

During the long journey she had said very little, shyness enveloping her
as in a mantle; but when the train began to run along the sea shore, so
that the whole expanse of ocean lay spread before the window, Toni's
face changed, her eyes sparkled, and she turned to Owen with a
spontaneous expression of delight.

Now, looking back, it seemed to Toni that never for an instant had the
voice of the sea been out of her ears during all those wonderful days
and nights. Its song had helped her to bear herself properly during the
long hours alone with the man she had married. Again and again, when
embarrassment threatened to overcome her at this unusually prolonged
_tête-à-tête_, the sea whispered to her to take courage; and each night
she fell asleep to its murmured lullaby.

During the fortnight which they spent down in the genial West Country,
Owen gave himself up entirely to the service of his young wife. He
divined pretty well what she was feeling--guessed that her marriage,
after only three weeks' engagement, must have meant a complete upheaval
of her entire life; and the very fact that he did not love her gave an
added gentleness to his intercourse with her; for he could not rid
himself of a sensation that somehow she had been cheated in this
bargain, had been cajoled into giving the pure gold of love in return
for the counterfeit of mere liking.

True, he did not repent his marriage. Rather it seemed to him that it
might turn out successful after all; and since they spent the days
exploring the coast, which was new to both of them, there was plenty to
be said, an abundance of interesting subjects to discuss.

Only once--on the last night of their stay in Cornwall--was there the
slightest suspicion of a shadow between them; and Owen blamed himself
entirely for the occurrence.

It happened that Owen was suffering from a very severe headache--a not
uncommon complaint since his accident--and the afternoon post brought
him the proofs of an article required for the next number of the
_Bridge_. An urgent note from Barry accompanied the papers, begging for
an early revision; and after dinner Owen sat down to run through the
article in preparation for dispatch in the morning.

But his brain refused to work. His eyes felt as though each eyeball were
aflame; and his forehead was contracted with the severe pain which had
racked him all day, so that consecutive thought was almost impossible.
He tried, again and again, to do the work; but at length, so acute was
the agony in his eyes, he threw aside the papers with a groan.

Immediately Toni looked up from the magazine she was reading.

"May I help you?" She put the question rather timidly, and by way of
answer he tossed the bundle of proofs into her lap.

"Thanks awfully, dear. I simply can't see out of my eyes--neuralgia, I
expect. Do your best, won't you? You know how to read proof as well as I
do, now."

"Yes." So she did, for Barry had taught her thoroughly; and she had
applied herself to his lessons with every fraction of her intelligence.

What he had not taught her, however, was an extensive knowledge of the
master poets and their works; and Toni's ignorance betrayed her
hopelessly.

At the old-fashioned school she had attended, few poets were considered
fit for the girls' reading; Tennyson, of course, was included in the
pupils' studies, and Shakespeare, carefully edited, was a standby; but
of the works of Browning, Rossetti, Swinburne, Keats, Toni was
lamentably ignorant.

When, therefore, in the article before her she found a quotation from
one of Robert Browning's poems, followed almost immediately by a line
from one of the poet's wife's writings, she concluded, hastily, that the
printers were at fault, and cheerfully amended the latter initials to
the one magic R. In the same way she confused Keats and Yeats; and
finished by ascribing to Christina Rossetti one of Dante Gabriel's most
impassioned utterances; thus destroying whatever value the article might
have had, as a critical appreciation of the various writers' work.

Having completed her task Toni raised her eyes to look at her husband,
and found him lying back in his chair watching her with a very kindly
glance.

"Finished, little girl? That's good. I'll just initial it and send it
back." He took the sheets she handed him and raised his eyebrows at the
numerous corrections. "I say, they must be getting careless at the
office to let all these slips go through!" He ran his eye over the page,
more from force of habit than because he expected to find any more
corrections necessary; and suddenly Toni, watching, saw him frown.

"I say, Toni, you've made a mistake." He tried not to speak sharply, for
after all proof-reading is an art. "This line--'There may be Heaven,
there must be Hell'--that's Robert Browning all right; but the next
quotation is from the Sonnets to the Portuguese."

"Is it?" Toni did not understand.

"Well, Mrs. Browning wrote those, you know." He was busy repairing
Toni's mistake. "And the next is hers, too. And----" he was skimming
down the page "--why, you little goose, it was Dante Rossetti who wrote
'The Blessed Damosel.'"

"Was it? I thought her name was Christina." Toni's voice faltered; for
though she did not yet realize the enormity of her offence, she knew
that Owen was annoyed by her stupidity.

"_Her_ name? Why, of course _her_ name was Christina; but this happens
to be his poem, you see."

"His? Whose?" Toni was flustered, or she would never have betrayed
herself so utterly.

"Whose?" Owen, his nerves strained almost to breaking point by his
bodily pain, spoke irritably, and Toni shrank miserably into her chair.
"Why, Toni, have you never heard of the poet Rossetti? Good Heavens,
child, don't you ever open a book?"

She said nothing, though the tears welled slowly into her eyes; and Owen
went on reading, finding still further evidences of his wife's lack of
acquaintance with the giants of literature as he read.

In an ordinary way he would have let her down gently. After all it is no
crime to confuse two poets of the same name; and to "correct" a
quotation by transposing two words into a more ordinary sequence is not
a very heinous offence; but to Owen, racked with pain, the whole affair
was an instance of the most flagrant ignorance, and he let fly one or
two biting sarcasms as he bent over the papers, which reduced Toni to a
state of trembling, impotent misery.

To do him justice Owen repented as soon as he had spoken, and when he
saw how he had hurt her, he threw aside the proof-sheets and devoted
himself to making amends for his harshness.

He succeeded finally in winning back something of her usual serenity;
but to both the incident was oddly discomposing; to Toni because for the
first time she saw the critic in the husband, and trembled to think how
often she must fall short of his high standard; to Owen because the
affair seemed to open up such vast tracts of ignorance in the woman who
was his wife, and showed, more clearly than ever before, the dividing
line between intellect and ordinary shrewdness.

For just one illuminating moment he saw Toni as she was; a pretty,
winning, half-educated little girl, to whom the world of art and
literature was a sphere apart, its shibboleths mere meaningless babble
in her ears, its greatest exponents but so many confusing names,
divorced from any enlightening personalities.

Where, he asked himself half desperately, was there any common meeting
ground for two beings so widely diverse as they, husband and wife though
they were? Surely they were as widely sundered as the poles....

And then the sight of Toni's face, her eyes filled with tears, her
childish mouth quivering, lighted a sudden flame in his heart which
consumed, for the time being, all doubts and petty vexations. After all,
she was only a child--and she loved him; and so he took her in his arms
and kissed away the tears with a remorseful tenderness which might well
pass--with an uncritical being like Toni--for love.

But Toni was not thinking of that dreadful episode on this brilliant
June morning. Rather she was trying to realize that she was the mistress
of this beautiful place, that Greenriver, with its grounds, its flowers,
its lofty rooms, was to be her home; and to the girl who had lived in
Winter Road, Brixton, Greenriver was indeed a revelation.

They had been home a week; and so far Owen had not left her for more
than a few hours, on the occasion of a business visit to London. The
weather had been superb; and they had spent several long afternoons on
the river, thereby missing, to Toni's great content, three or four
callers who had come to see what manner of woman Owen Rose had married.
That these calls must be returned Toni knew very well; but it must be
confessed she shivered at the prospect; more especially as Owen had told
her, laughingly, that she must not count upon his aid on those purely
social occasions.

As the thought of the terrible duty-calls flashed through her mind Toni
slipped down from her perch on the balustrade and made her way down to
the towing path beneath. She often walked beside the river in these
quiet morning hours, alone unless her dog Jock, an Airedale terrier of
unimpeachable ancestry and cheerful disposition, was at hand to
accompany her.

Jock had been presented to her by Barry as a wedding gift; and Toni, who
had never before been on an intimate footing with a dog, found his
companionship both delightful and stimulating. Although he was nearly
two years old Jock was a puppy at heart. He did his best to comport
himself as a full-grown dog should do: but had lapses into babyhood,
when a shoe carelessly left about seemed too tempting; or, after a muddy
walk, a soft satin cushion gave him an invitation to repose which could
not possibly be denied.

He was a lovable creature, however, and a perfect gentleman as regards
cats--a very desirable trait in an animal belonging to Toni, who loved
all cats and would certainly have quarrelled with any dog who waged war
upon the furry tribe.

To her satisfaction Jock came bounding over the terrace to follow her as
she stepped on to the towing path; and together they strolled by the
river in the fresh morning air, Toni gazing half-absently towards the
distant hills, Jock keeping one eye and ear anxiously cocked in
anticipation of any unwary rat who should show himself upon the
river-bank.

Although Willowhurst was comparatively far from town there were a good
many visitors on the river during the summer months. There was a perfect
reach for punting just here, and many people came down to occupy the
bungalows built on the opposite bank to that on which Greenriver stood.
To Owen these little summer dwellings were in the nature of an eyesore.
Fond as he was of his own beautiful house he would have liked to keep
the neighbourhood free from this essentially modern phase of river-life;
but to Toni the gay little bungalows had a charm of their own. They were
all specially spick and span just now, having been newly painted and
garnished with flowers for the season; and Toni looked across the river
with frank interest at the Cot, the Dinky House, the Mascot, and the
rest of the tiny shanties. She liked the houseboats, too, with their
gaily-striped awnings, their hanging baskets filled with gaudy pink
geraniums and bright lobelia. Their primly-curtained little windows
amused her; and in the evenings she would lure Owen out on to the
terrace to look down the river to where the Chinese lanterns hung on
their poles like globes of magic light against the darkening sky.

Toni and Jock had strolled about a quarter of a mile down the path when
they were brought sharply to a halt by the sound of a deep bark from the
other side of the water; and looking across they found they were not the
only waking creatures in this apparently sleeping world.

In one of the little gardens opposite to where they stood were a couple
of friends like themselves; but in this case the human being was a man
in his shirt sleeves, and the canine was a singularly beautiful white
wolfhound, who stood, at the moment, barking defiance at the intruders
on the opposite bank.

Jock, whose natural pugnacity was always easily aroused, returned the
compliment with the most evident sincerity; but the Borzoi, having flung
down the gage of battle and asserted her dignity, retired gracefully
from the contest, and walking daintily up to her master rose and placed
her slender paws on his shoulders, an action which said plainly that
honour was satisfied.

The animal was so striking-looking, from her long, graceful head to her
plumy tail, that Toni could not resist a second look; and the dog's
master had a good view of the girl whom he guessed to be the young
mistress of Greenriver, the house which he had often admired as he
passed by in his boat during the summer days.

As she stood, gazing almost childishly across the intervening water, she
looked barely more than a schoolgirl; and her short skirt and simple
white blouse aided the illusion. It was only the sight of the coils of
black hair which bound her head, and the gleam of the gold wedding-ring
on her finger, which placed her definitely in the category of womanhood;
and the man who watched her felt a strange sensation of something like
pity for the girl launched so early on the sea of matrimony, a sea whose
perils he, of all men, had cause to dread.

But suddenly Toni became aware of the indecorousness of her conduct. It
was the height of discourtesy to stand staring; and with a blush she
called Jock and turned hastily away to retrace her steps.

The man and the dog watched her go; and only when she was nearly out of
sight did they turn back and re-enter the little white bungalow which
was known locally as the Hope House.

At breakfast Owen asked Toni kindly if she felt inclined for a day on
the river.

"I thought we might take our lunch and go quite a long way," he said.
"I'm afraid this must be our last holiday jaunt for a little time. I
shall have to be busy after this."

"Will you?" She looked a trifle wistful; and Owen was sorry for her.

"Well, I daresay I can manage a day off now and then. To-morrow's
Thursday, isn't it? I must be up in town then, and I'm afraid I shall be
late home. There's a dinner I rather wanted to attend, but it would mean
a long evening alone for you."

"I don't mind." She smiled reassuringly. "I've got Jock to keep me
company and there are plenty of people in the house."

"Well, Andrews is a pretty sturdy young chap, and of course there are
three or four women. There's the telephone, too, you know, so you really
needn't be nervous--especially now, when the river is as full of traffic
as Bond Street!"

"I'm not a bit nervous," she said. "I ... I was just wondering----"

She broke off, flushing, and Owen felt an unwonted curiosity as to her
meaning.

"Well?" He spoke kindly, but Toni seemed unable to proceed.

"I was thinking ... I mean ..." Suddenly impatient of her own cowardice
she took her courage in both hands and spoke bravely. "I was wondering
whether you would allow me to ask Fanny--my cousin--down for the
afternoon. You see, if you are away----"

"Why, of course, dear!" Owen spoke the more heartily because he felt a
slight compunction at the thought of her relations. "Ask your cousin by
all means. You must remember that this is your house, Toni, and you need
not ask my leave to invite your friends."

"Thank you." She was looking down as she spoke, but her cheeks were
scarlet. "I will ask her then ... but ..." suddenly her words came with
a rush "... I know my people aren't like yours ... I couldn't let them
meet your friends ... I mean--I'll ask them when you are not at home,
and then----"

"Don't be a goose, Toni!" Owen hoped his voice betrayed nothing. "Your
people are my people now, you know, and I don't want you to get any
silly ideas into your head at the start."

She stretched out her hand impulsively and laid it on his arm.

"Owen, you're too good to me. I know so well that we belong to different
worlds, but ... if you mean that----"

"Of course I mean it." He rose as he spoke and patted her shoulder.
"Don't be a little silly--and now run away and write to your cousin at
once. If she can't come to-morrow, suggest Friday."

"Oh, she couldn't come then," returned Toni naïvely. "You see the shop
closes on Thursday afternoon, and it's Fanny's only free day."

"I see." Somehow the little explanation, with its picture of a different
life from that to which he was accustomed, struck a chill to Owen's
heart; but he hid his discomfort cleverly and bade Toni write her letter
without delay.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Gibbs accepted the invitation joyfully; and on Thursday morning
Owen went off to town, after bidding Toni keep her cousin to dinner if
possible.

"She can take the nine-fifteen to town," he said. "I have the car, but
if she can stay, telephone for a taxi from the station to be here at
nine. You won't be lonely, Toni?"

"Not a bit!" Indeed she was thrilling with pleasure at the idea of
entertaining her cousin in her new home. "I've lots to see to. What a
pity Mrs. Blades is ill to-day."

"Yes, her usual bronchitis, I suppose. She'll be all right in a day or
two." Owen was hunting for a paper as he spoke. "Confound it, where is
that manuscript, Toni? You know the one--that article on Alfred Noyes."

"It's here." Toni handed him the paper he required.

"Thanks awfully. You're a first-rate little secretary, Toni! I guess we
shall miss you at the office!"

He did not observe the rather wistful look which swept over her face at
the half-careless praise. At that moment Toni felt she would have asked
nothing better than to jump into the car and journey up to town with
Owen to take her old place behind the typewriter in Owen's room. She
hated to see him leaving her, longed to beg him to stay; but something
stronger than personal longing held her back. A wife, she told herself,
must be a help, not a hindrance; and since Owen saw fit to leave her, to
carry on the work in which she had now no place, her duty, plainly, was
to remain at home and keep everything in her little world in order for
his return.

Besides, it was a glorious day, the sun was shining, the flowers dancing
in the breeze; and Fanny would be with her during the afternoon. It was
a day created for gladness, for rejoicing, and Toni, made wise by love,
banished wistfulness from her eyes and returned Owen's kiss with a gay
word of farewell.

But she stood looking after him as the car whizzed down the avenue; and
the smile which touched her lips was just a little sad.




CHAPTER IX


When Owen was safely gone Toni entered the house with a look of
determination on her face, and retreating to the little white-panelled
room known as the morning-room she rang the bell to summon Kate to her
presence.

It was not Kate who answered the ring, however. In her stead came
Maggie, the rosy-faced housemaid, who had already fallen in love with
her young mistress, and was ready to carry out any order which Mrs. Rose
might give.

"Oh, it's you, Maggie?" Toni looked up from the paper on which she was
scribbling. "Where's Kate?"

It seemed Kate was busy, poulticing Mrs. Blades, who was suffering under
one of her usual attacks of bronchitis, and she had sent Maggie, with
apologies, in her stead.

"Mrs. Blades is really ill? Had she better see a doctor?"

No, Maggie was empowered by Kate to say that a doctor's visit was
unnecessary. Mrs. Blades often had these attacks, and they knew just
what to do; but she would not be able to attend to her duties for a
couple of days at the least.

In spite of herself Toni's face brightened. Not that she wished Mrs.
Blades to suffer, but she knew quite well that the old housekeeper, for
all her respectful ways, resented the arrival of a mistress of whom, for
some reason, she did not approve; and Toni felt rather glad that for
to-day, at any rate, she could be in reality the mistress of the whole
establishment.

With the other servants she was on the best of terms. Whatever Mrs.
Blades might think of Toni's social position previous to her marriage
she was sufficiently loyal to keep her doubts to herself; and Martha the
cook, Kate the serious parlourmaid, and Andrews the young man-servant,
one and all combined to make their new mistress feel at ease with her
staff.

Maggie, to-day, was full of importance at being allowed to replace Kate
to assist Toni in her preparation for the afternoon's visitor; and she
listened attentively to all that Toni had to say.

"I want a really nice tea, Maggie!" Toni looked up from her list with a
serious face. "Miss Gibbs has to catch an early train from town, and
won't have time for much lunch." Even the unsophisticated Toni knew
better than to mention the nature of Miss Gibbs' employment. "So I want
tea at four o'clock and it must be pretty--well, substantial."

Maggie fully endorsed the suggestion, and waited to see what Mrs. Rose
considered necessary for the meal.

"Tea and hot cakes, of course. And that lovely plum cake Martha made
for ..." Toni blushed, but went on bravely "... for our wedding-cake.
And then--is it possible to get shrimps, Maggie?"

"Why, yes, ma'am--don't you remember cook's shrimp savoury for Sunday
lunch? And you'd shrimp sauce with the fish last night."

"Of course, so we had. Well, when the man calls from the fish shop,
order some. You get them by the pint--or is it the pound?" said Toni,
vaguely remembering her aunt's orders on the occasion of a tea-party.

Maggie thought it was the pint; and in any case she would give the order
to the young man herself.

"Very well. And then--what else, Maggie? I do want a nice tea."

The little handmaiden eagerly racked her brain for some brilliant idea;
and finally suggested that Cook was very fond of making "shape."

"Shape? Oh, I see," said Toni a trifle dubiously. "You mean a
blanc-mange or a cream. But I don't think it would do for tea."

Maggie thought, respectfully, that it would do fine. In her last place
her mistress always had a shape when company was coming to tea.
But--suddenly her rosy face grew even more pink--perhaps she was wrong,
and anyway Mrs. Rose knew best.

Sorry for the girl's evident embarrassment Toni gave the order forthwith
for a cream; and then turned to the subject of dinner.

"Miss Gibbs will stay to dinner, and we will have it at half-past seven.
That gives us time to go on the river first; and the cab won't be here
till nine."

"Cook's sent you a mennyoo, ma'am." Maggie produced a somewhat crumpled
piece of paper. "She thought perhaps something of this sort would do."

Toni ran her eye over the paper, and her brow cleared.

"Soup, fish, sweetbread and green peas, chicken...." she gave the paper
back. "Yes, it will do beautifully, and I'm sure Miss Gibbs will like
Martha's trifle. Well, Maggie, that's all, I think. Have I forgotten
anything?"

The two girls stared at one another for a moment, their faces quite
solemn with the effort of concentration. Then Toni relaxed and spoke
gaily.

"No, that's all, I'm sure ... well, Maggie, what have you thought of
now?"

"Please, ma'am, the flowers."

"Yes, I'd forgotten! Good girl, Maggie! Well, get me the scissors and a
basket, and then you might put the vases ready in the little room."

Maggie flew to obey the commands, and Toni, to whom the idea of giving
orders was still almost ludicrous, strolled to the window to await her
return.

The room overlooked the river, and on that account was a favourite with
Toni. It was reached by a short flight of stairs apart from the main
staircase, and boasted a large casement window, built over the terrace
below, and giving the river an air of proximity which always delighted
Toni.

To-day the water sparkled in the sunshine with a very cheerful effect;
and as Toni looked a cream-white swan drifted by, the sun's light
turning its feathers into a kind of gilded snow. A punt passed slowly
with two occupants, one a girl in a white frock, lying lazily on a heap
of blue-green cushions, her uncovered head protected from the sun by a
scarlet parasol, the other a bronzed and fair-haired youth, who wielded
his pole with an athletic grace purely Greek.

Toni's eyes softened as the two glided by. Her own happiness was so
immense, her love for Owen had been so wonderfully, so completely
satisfied, that she wished all other girls to be as happy as she was;
and although the two in the punt were only visible for a few moments she
thought she could read in their faces the story of their mutual
attraction.

When Maggie returned Toni took the basket and went out into the garden.
Gathering flowers was an occupation of which she never tired. Never,
since her days on the hill-slope above Naples, had she been able to
indulge her passionate love for flowers; and to the girl who had been
wont to regard sixpence spent on a branch of golden mimosa, or a handful
of the big pink carnations which seem indigenous to the London streets,
as something of an extravagance, the delight of filling bowls and vases
with unlimited supplies of the loveliest, freshest flowers could not be
overrated.

To-day she cut more lavishly than usual in Fanny's honour, and when,
just as the lunch gong sounded, she rested from her labours, the lovely
old house was a dream of beauty and colour and scent.

Snapdragons, in every shade of yellow and pink and deep, rich rose,
stood in tall jars, wherever there was a dark corner to be lighted up.
Big blue bowls held masses of roses of every describable hue, whose
fragrance scented all the house; and every available inch of space had
been utilized as a resting-place for one or more vases of the sweetest,
gayest blooms imaginable.

Even Toni was satisfied at last, and she hurried over her lunch in good
spirits. Just as she was rising from the table a thought struck her.

"Kate, do you think we might have tea in here? You see--we ought to have
a table, I think--and it wouldn't matter for once, would it?"

Kate, who had experienced sundry qualms at the idea of a feast of
shrimps in the charming, old-world drawing-room, gave a decided assent.

"It would be much more suitable, ma'am. I could put a pretty lace cloth
on the table, and then with some flowers it would look quite nice."

"Thank you, Kate." Toni gave vent to a relieved sigh. "You and Maggie
are really treasures in helping me. Oh--how is Mrs. Blades!"

Mrs. Blades was better; but Kate, who had a shrewd notion of the old
woman's real opinion of her pretty mistress, was not ill-pleased to
inform Toni that the bronchial attack from which she was suffering made
it impossible for her to supervise the household affairs for to-day at
least.

"Well, you must look after things for me, Kate," said Toni, smiling in a
friendly fashion at the girl; and Kate, although she had lived in
"smart" houses, and knew that shrimps and blanc-mange were not usually
met with at tea, succumbed still more completely to that friendly little
smile.

"Why shouldn't she have her tea-party as she likes it?" she said to
herself as she went out. "The master's away, and she's not likely to do
this sort of thing when he's about." Kate, who was thirty-one, and
experienced in the ways of the world, was quite aware of the element of
awe in Toni's love for her husband--an element of which Toni herself was
as yet wholly unsuspicious. "And I've no doubt this young lady as is
coming down isn't used to great things. You can see as Mrs. Rose hasn't
lived with anyone partikler--but she's a real little lady in her ways,
for all that," concluded this authority on the ways of gentlefolk.

       *       *       *       *       *

Punctually at three o'clock Miss Gibbs arrived; and was shown into the
drawing-room, where Toni awaited her coming.

To tell the truth Miss Gibbs was a little awed by the unexpected
grandeur of her surroundings; and not even the consciousness of her new
linen frock and elaborately-trimmed hat could give her quite her usual
assurance.

She followed Andrews meekly across the hall, hardly daring to lift her
eyes; and when the man threw open the drawing-room door and ushered her
in, Fanny unconsciously moderated her usual hearty footstep and
endeavoured to make her entry as inconspicuous as possible.

Toni, who had not heard the cab arrive, jumped up hastily from her low
chair and ran to meet her cousin, while Andrews discreetly withdrew and
closed the door.

"Fanny! How glad I am to see you!" Toni hugged Miss Gibbs
affectionately. "I'd have come to meet you but I was so late with lunch
that I hadn't time."

"I found a cab waiting for me," said Fanny, returning her embrace. "You
were a dear to send it, Toni. You're quite a way from the station,
aren't you?"

"I suppose we are," said Toni carelessly. "But how are you, Fan? And
Auntie--and Lu and all of them?"

"Mother's first-rate and longing to see you when you can get up to town.
Everyone's all right," said Fanny comfortably. "Lu's been in mischief
again, though. She and some of the girls from her school played truant
t'other day and went to see a County cricket-match. You know cricket's
the craze this term, and they got their money stolen and couldn't get
home, and Lu didn't land up till ten o'clock at night!"

"You don't mean it! What did Auntie say?"

"She didn't say much then, 'cause Lu was cryin' and nearly dead with
tramping for miles; but next day she got a jolly good whipping and was
shut up on bread and water all over Sunday."

"Oh, poor Lu!" Toni felt very pitiful towards the hapless cricket
enthusiast. "After all, Fan, you and I once ran away to see the Boat
Race on our own!"

"Yes, and we got jolly well punished for it, too! I can remember Ma's
slipper to this day!"

"Well, you ought to be sorry for Lu!"

"Serve her right," said Miss Gibbs with sisterly severity. "Cricket,
indeed! What do girls want with cricket! Anyhow, she won't do it again
in a hurry--Ma saw to that!"

"And how's Josh, Fan?" Toni saw that no sympathy was to be looked for
from the culprit's sister.

"A 1. I say, Toni, where's Mr. Rose?" Fanny, regaining some of her usual
assurance, looked round her vaguely.

"He has had to go up to town. But I thought you wouldn't mind, Fan. I
want to show you the house and have a real good talk."

"My! It _is_ a house and no mistake!" Fanny gazed about the beautiful
room with frank admiration. "I thought the man must be going wrong when
he turned in here--and what lovely gardens you've got."

"Yes, they are jolly, aren't they? Well, shall we go over the house
before tea or after? It's very nearly four, and I said we'd have tea
early."

"I'm glad of that." Fanny beamed approval. "To tell you the truth, Toni,
I hadn't time for much lunch. We're supposed to shut at one, you know,
but of course we don't get off at once, and to-day everything went
wrong! At the last minute I upset a box of ribbons, and the spiteful
things all went and got unrolled, and then that odious little
Jackson--you know, the shopwalker I told you about--came and slanged me
like anything."

"What a shame!" Toni had been one of the workers of the world too
recently to have lost sympathy with the grievances of those who work. "I
wish you could leave the old shop, Fanny. Why don't you and Josh get
married?"

"Too soon." Fanny was of a prudent nature. "We _must_ wait till Josh
gets a rise, and I can't afford to leave the shop. You see, I must have
a few clothes before I marry ... by the way, Toni, what about your
clothes? You didn't get much when you married, did you?"

"No, but before we came here we went up to town and stayed at the
Russell for two days and did a whole heap of shopping." Toni stifled a
sigh at the thought of those long hours spent in shops. "You see I
didn't really know what to get, so Owen went, with me, and I got a lot
of things ready-made, and was fitted for others, so I have quite a
trousseau by now!"

"That skirt's well-cut," said Miss Gibbs, surveying her cousin
critically. "Blue serge always looks well--and that white blouse is good
thick silk."

"I'm glad you like it. Owen likes me in these low collars, and they're
cool." Toni looked at the clock. "But come upstairs and take off your
hat and we'll have tea straight away."

Nothing loth, Miss Gibbs agreed; and went into fresh raptures when she
saw Toni's bedroom.

"My! What lovely furniture!" She went up to the toilet-table and began
to examine it. "And these silver brushes and things--are they all
yours?"

"Yes. Owen gave them to me."

"Well to be you," commented Miss Gibbs briskly. "What a lovely long
glass, too! Can't you see yourself properly just!"

She stood in front of the glass so long that Toni grew impatient.

"Hurry up, Fan! I'm sure tea's ready and I'm dying for some. I hadn't
much lunch."

Thus incited, Miss Gibbs laid aside the flowery hat she had been
admiring, disclosing a much curled and waved _coiffure_, and together
the cousins ran downstairs, just as Andrews carried in the silver
tea-pot and the hot cakes.

Kate, true to her word, had made the best of the oval table. She had
laid upon it the finest, laciest cloth she could find, and had placed in
the centre a tall jar of lilies, while here and there she had found room
for small silver bowls of pink roses. The silver tea-tray, with its thin
china cups and saucers, stood proudly at the head of the table; and so
far nothing could have been more charming.

But alas! Even Kate could not hide the eminent unsuitability of the
feast itself to its elegant surroundings. True, the bread and butter was
of wafer-like thinness, there were hot cakes of the crispest, finest
variety, and the plum-cake which was Martha's welcome to the bride was
of the richest, most tempting description.

But side by side with those delicacies was a dish of shrimps, in all
their native vulgarity; and further down, almost hidden in fact by the
flowery centrepiece, was a glass dish containing a velvety white cream
whose real place should have been on the dinner-table.

For a moment Toni's heart misgave her as she saw these things in their
blatancy; and she wished she had stuck to the usual tiny sandwiches
which Martha sent up when she and Owen were alone. Then she remembered,
gratefully, that Fanny was hungry, and common sense whispered that to a
girl who had lunched lightly a sandwich was unsatisfying fare.

As for Fanny, her spirits, momentarily damped by the sight of the silver
tray, rose with a bound as she surveyed the table.

"I say, Toni, what a spread! Shrimps, I declare! Well, I thought you'd
have been much too smart nowadays to think of them!"

"Nonsense!" Toni's depression vanished, and she laughed gaily. "I always
did like shrimps--and why shouldn't I have them if I want them? Come and
sit down, Fan--here, by me--and do make a good tea!"

Fanny needed no second bidding. Taking the seat indicated she leaned
forward to examine the silver in the most open fashion.

"I say, you've got some tiptop things and no mistake! That cloth is
simply lovely--just look at the lace, as fine as fine!"

"It belonged to Owen's mother," said Toni, passing her a cup of tea.
"There are lots of things like that in the house. Now, Fanny, help
yourself--and pass the dish!"

Thus invited, Fanny did help herself; and presently both girls were
happily eating and talking, Fanny asking innumerable questions and Toni
satisfying her curiosity without entering into details.

Suddenly Toni jumped up.

"There's Jock at the door. You must see him, Fan--he's a darling, and
I'm sure you'll love him!"

Almost before the door was properly open Jock hurled himself
reproachfully into the room, and flinging himself on to his mistress,
inquired in the plainest dog-language why she had been so slow in
answering his summons. When she had apologized and received his
forgiveness, she introduced him to Miss Gibbs, who was won immediately
by his courteous manner towards her and the friendliness in his nice
brown eyes.

She cemented the acquaintance by offering him--timidly--a piece of cake;
and instantly Jock threw dignity to the winds and begged, shamelessly,
for further morsels; which being denied him caused him to bark
vociferously and show off his few tricks in the hope of adequate reward.

He was engaged in walking on his hind legs round the room, following
Fanny, who was laughing excitedly and flourishing a piece of cake, while
Toni clapped her hands and called out words of encouragement at the top
of her voice, when a loud whirring sound on the gravel outside made both
girls turn in the direction from which came the noise--just in time to
see a big grey car shoot by the window on its way to the front door.

One glance was enough.

"Good gracious, Fan! Visitors! What a bore!"

"Will they come in? Won't your man say you're out?" gasped Fanny,
hastily dropping the bit of cake she held and pinning up a roll of hair
which had come down in the game.

"No--they saw us," said Toni wildly. "I never said I wasn't at home--and
anyway they'd hear us laughing!"

In a dead silence the two girls stood, waiting breathlessly to see what
would happen; and in the sudden hush they heard the clang of the big
bell, and Andrews' speedy arrival in the hall.

For one wild moment Toni thought of waylaying him with instructions to
send the visitors away. The next instant she realized that such a course
was impossible, and waited helplessly for the next act of the drama.

Andrews opened the door, and Toni heard a gentle, cultured voice ask if
Mrs. Rose were at home.

For a fraction of a second Andrews, who was young enough to be human,
and had not yet become a machine, hesitated as though he would fain deny
his mistress to these invaders; but finally habit triumphed over
humanity and he replied stolidly in the affirmative.

The next moment Toni, standing by the door, heard the rustle of skirts
and the firm step of a man, which sounds proceeded in the direction of
the drawing-room; and with an agonized sign to her cousin Toni flew back
to her seat behind the tea-tray just as the door opened to admit
Andrews.

The visitors, knowing themselves unknown, had provided the servant with
cards; and these Andrews silently presented to his mistress, who took
them with a shaking hand.

"The Honourable Mrs. Anstey, Miss Olive Lynn, Mr. Barry Raymond----" She
broke off with a sigh of relief. "Why, that's Owen's friend, Fanny. It's
not half so bad if he's there!"

She turned to the man.

"Are they in the drawing-room, Andrews?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh!" For a second Toni hesitated, then common sense came to her rescue.
"I will come, Andrews. Fanny, will you come with me?"

"Oh, do let me stay here," begged Miss Gibbs, who was still endeavouring
to make herself tidy. "I'm such a sight, playing with the dog--but you
go, Toni ... and p'raps they won't stop long."

Toni walked across the hall with lagging footsteps, preceded by the
sympathetic Andrews, who threw open the door for her with a
compassionate air, and then retired to break the news of this intrusion
to the maids who were anxiously waiting his return.

In the drawing-room were three people; and as Toni made her entrance,
looking like a veritable schoolgirl in her blouse and short skirt, the
oldest of the trio came forward with an expression of surprise on her
beautiful, faded face.

"Mrs. Rose?" She shook hands. "I am so glad to find you at home. This is
my niece, Miss Lynn, who is staying with me--and Mr. Raymond I think you
know?"

Toni, feeling shyer than ever, shook hands with the pretty, grey-eyed
girl who approached at the sound of her name; and then turned, with a
feeling of genuine relief, to Barry.

"Mr. Raymond! I'm so pleased to see you--but I'm afraid Owen isn't at
home!"

"I know that!" He laughed. "He is doing a little work to-day, for a
change--and my call is really on you!"

"Well, won't you sit down?" Toni drew a low chair forward for Mrs.
Anstey, who accepted it with a smile, while Olive Lynn sank down on the
couch, where, after a second's pause, Toni also took her seat.

"I had hoped to see you before now," said Mrs. Anstey, with a smile
which won Toni's impressionable heart. "But I heard you had only just
got home, and thought I would give you a chance to settle down."

"It is very good of you to come," said Toni simply. "You live some
distance away, don't you? I think my husband pointed out your house to
me when we were motoring one day."

"Yes, nearly eight miles off--in the next village, in fact. But as you
have a motor I hope you'll come over and see me pretty often." She gave
the invitation with a pleasant note of sincerity. "Just at present my
niece is taking pity on me, but I am very lonely sometimes."

"I will come, certainly," said Toni, feeling curiously at ease with this
charming, elderly woman who, in spite of her aristocratic bearing, was
so delightfully kindly. "I haven't returned any calls yet--but my
husband tells me I must really start next week."

"Do--and come to tea with me first of all." Mrs. Anstey spoke quite
unconsciously, but something in her words aroused Toni to a sense of her
own deficiencies as hostess.

Tea--of course! Owen had told her that it was imperative to offer tea to
afternoon visitors; and these people had motored eight miles over a
dusty road--they must be hot and thirsty and longing for tea.

Yet--suddenly Toni felt it would be impossible to ask her guests to
participate in the feast which she had spread for Fanny. The delicacies
which had been prepared for her cousin took on a very uncouth
appearance, and from the bottom of her heart Toni wished she had kept to
the usual _régime_ of dainty sandwiches and cakes.

Yet she must offer tea--and quickly, before her visitors had time to
doubt her hospitable intentions. She was so lost in thought that she let
Mrs. Anstey's remark go unanswered; and Barry, looking at her, wondered
what had made her suddenly colour hotly and look embarrassed and
nervous.

Truth to tell, Toni was hot all over. A more experienced hostess than
she would have rung the bell and requested Andrews to bring tea; and
doubtless he would have done so without delay, thereby saving the
situation; but to Toni's mind the fact that tea was ready in the room
across the hall quite precluded the possibility of having another tea
brought for the latest visitors; besides which it flashed through her
mind that these people must have seen the tea-table through the big
dining-room window.

Olive Lynn, seeing her confusion, but not understanding its cause, tried
good-naturedly to put her at her ease.

"I think I saw you on the river last night, didn't I? We were in a
canoe, and you and Mr. Rose were punting."

"Oh--yes!" Toni, still wrestling with her problem, answered rather
vaguely. "We--we had taken tea with us and were late home."

"That's so jolly, isn't it?" Olive smiled. "We often do that--take a
tea-basket and have a picnic."

Tea again! Suddenly Toni grew desperate. Tea must be offered; there was
no way out of this dilemma save a frank acceptance of the situation; and
with a sinking heart Toni took the plunge.

"I ... we were just having tea, my cousin and I," she said abruptly.
"Will you ... will you come and have some? I'm sure you must be thirsty
after your drive."

Mrs. Anstey, with a look at her niece, accepted courteously. It was a
hot day and the roads were dusty, and in a house like Greenriver one
need not be afraid of putting one's hostess out by accepting a cup of
tea.

"Thank you. A cup of tea would be very refreshing--I'm sure Olive thinks
so, don't you, dear?"

"Oh, I'm always ready for tea," replied the girl, laughing, "and
motoring does make one thirsty, doesn't it, Mrs. Rose?"

"Will you come, then?" Toni had risen, and now moved, feeling cold with
nervousness, towards the door. "We ... we are having tea in the
dining-room to-day."'

Barry opened the door as she spoke; and together the little party
crossed the hall to the dining-room. Andrews was hovering about; and as
he saw his mistress leading her guests he slipped away in search of
fresh cups and a supply of hot tea.

Inside the dining-room Miss Gibbs, having reduced her appearance to
something like order, was sitting rather apprehensively in her place;
and as the door opened to admit the quartette she rose and stood waiting
nervously for Toni's introductions.

These were soon made. Mrs. Anstey and Olive shook hands with Fanny, each
of them wondering in her mind at the relationship between her pretty,
shy hostess and this florid, rather overdressed young woman; but
convention mercifully intervened to hide their wonder; and Fanny could
find no fault with their courteous greetings.

With Barry it was quite impossible to feel ill at ease; and he shook
hands so nicely, making a remark about Jock as he did so, that Fanny
felt suddenly comfortable again.

The guests, in response to Toni's invitation, seated themselves; Olive
taking a chair by Fanny's side, while Mrs. Anstey sat next to her
hostess, and Barry appropriated a stool beside the elder woman.

Andrews entering with fresh supplies, Toni provided her visitors with
tea, losing her first nervousness as she did so; and for a moment it
seemed as though the little party would be a success after all.

Mrs. Anstey had just accepted a hot cake, and Olive was begging prettily
for another lump of sugar, when Jock, who had been sitting quietly
beside his mistress, suddenly rose and rushed madly over to the window,
uttering a succession of shrill barks as he did so.

Everyone glanced at the window to see what had disturbed him; and there,
on the gravel outside, stood two ladies, evidently a little uncertain of
the Airedale's intentions.

"I think those are some more visitors, Mrs. Rose!" Barry gave her a
quizzical look. "It never rains but it pours! Shall I ... er ... Jock
seems a little anxious to send the visitors away!"

Luckily the window was raised a good height from the ground; and Jock
was obliged to content himself with putting his paws on the window-seat
and barking still more fiercely at the figures without.

Presently, however, the two ladies appeared to regain the courage they
had momentarily lost; and vanished from sight in the direction of the
front door; which was shortly opened by Andrews, who had evidently been
lurking in the hall listening to Jock's protestations.

It is possible that the man, who was really little more than a boy, lost
his head; or perhaps he was infected by the spirit of nervousness which
had gripped Toni earlier in the afternoon. At any rate, whatever the
excuse, he made no pretence of showing the new-comers into the
drawing-room, but opened the dining-room door and ushered them straight
into the presence of his mistress; after which he closed the door and
leaned against the wall, aghast at his own stupidity.

To make matters worse, he had announced the ladies in so indistinct a
voice that Toni had not the faintest notion who her visitors were; and
for a second they stared helplessly at one another, while Jock, who had
conceived a violent dislike for these latest comers, barked loudly and
unmercifully throughout.

At last, however, just as Toni mustered up courage to shake hands, Mrs.
Anstey came to the rescue.

"Why, Lady Martin, I had no idea you were home again. You have come to
welcome Mrs. Rose, I suppose. My dear"--to Toni--"Lady Martin is your
nearest neighbour--really near, I mean; only a mile away."

"Less by the fields." Lady Martin spoke magisterially. "And this fine
weather tempted us to walk, although both the cars were standing idle in
the garage."

Having thus established her position as the owner of two cars, Lady
Martin brought forward her daughter and presented her to Toni, who
received an instant impression of size, teeth and volubility as Miss
Martin shook hands and expressed her pleasure at finding Mrs. Rose at
home.

The next thing to do was obviously to provide chairs for the guests, and
this Toni did, with the help of Barry, who appeared to be on fairly
friendly terms with the two ladies; and once again Toni turned her
attention to filling teacups.

Fanny, who had been somewhat overlooked during the last strenuous
moments, was relieved to hear herself addressed in a friendly tone by
Miss Lynn, who felt sorry for the girl, so obviously ill-at-ease; and in
return for the kindly attention Fanny eagerly handed Olive the dish of
shrimps with an invitation to "try some."

Olive Lynn, who had possibly never met these small creatures in their
native armour before, hesitated, casting a look at Barry at the same
moment; but he was engaged in handing Lady Martin some bread and butter;
and Olive's appeal went unanswered.

Taking Miss Lynn's silence for consent, and being really anxious to help
Toni by making her guests eat a good tea, Fanny eagerly piled her
neighbour's plate with shrimps; and at that moment Lady Martin first
discovered what plebeian dishes the table held.

Ignoring Barry and his bread and butter, she put up her lorgnette and
deliberately scrutinized the heap of pink shrimps which Fanny, pleased
with her success, was just pushing across to Miss Martin. For a second
her ladyship was speechless; then, as her daughter turned a haughty
stare upon the officious commoner, Lady Martin spoke.

"I think, Lucretia, you had better leave those--er--shellfish alone. I
understand there is always a danger of ptomaine poisoning with such
things."

Toni dropped a lump of sugar with a clatter on the tray and turned
scarlet. Lady Martin's tone was so deliberately offensive, her manner so
disagreeable, that Toni felt like a chidden schoolgirl; and again the
enormity of her social mistake swept over her, rendering her quite
incapable of making any reply to the attack.

But rescue was at hand. Barry, who from the first had felt a chivalrous
interest in his friend's wife, had seen the colour sweep into her face,
and had determined that the Martins, mother and daughter, should not
exercise their well-known prerogative of snubbing any woman who did not
boast a title.

It is true that Lady Martin was the wife of a soap manufacturer,
knighted for services to his party; and both sprang from a very humble
class; but what they lacked in breeding they made up for in arrogance;
and Lady Martin had early determined that if she wished to become a
power in the neighbourhood she must assert herself on every occasion.
Also, she had intended to patronize the young mistress of Greenriver;
and to find Mrs. Anstey, the only person in the district of whom she
stood in awe, here before her had disturbed her mean little soul.

Barry, quick as a woman in some matters, read her mind accurately, and
immediately ranged himself on the side of his embarrassed hostess.

"Are those shrimps, Mrs. Rose? And you never asked me to have any!"

He flashed a laughing glance at her, and drew the dish towards him,
resolved that he at least would not shirk his duty.

"I ... I'm sorry ... I forgot," said Toni lamely. "But ... please don't
have any if you'd rather not."

"It seems hardly the hour for these--delicacies," said Lady Martin,
waving haughtily aside the dish Barry offered her mischievously. "In
sauce--or _pâtés_--yes ... but now--no!"

"Oh, you're making quite a mistake," said Barry coolly, helping himself
as he spoke. "They are delicious with bread and butter. Olive, you've
got some? That's right. Mrs. Anstey, can't I persuade you to try a few?"

Mrs. Anstey, thoroughly understanding the look of appeal which Barry's
laughing eyes held, smiled very kindly.

"My dear boy, I never eat much tea, as you know--but still--if you'll
prepare me one or two ... they really look so tempting...."

To her dying day Lady Martin would never forget that afternoon. There
sat Mrs. Anstey, whom everyone knew to be related to half the "good"
families of England, eating shrimps, shelled for her by Barry, with an
air of enjoyment which was in itself an offence. There, too, was Miss
Lynn, niece to an earl, doing likewise, being assisted in the mysteries
of divorcing the creatures from their shells by the blowsy, florid young
woman beside her, with whom she was soon on excellent terms. And there,
also, was Barry Raymond, a young man for whom everyone had a good word,
laughing and joking with his hostess as though they were old friends,
while that same hostess lost her frightened look beneath his geniality
and did the honours of the tea-tray very prettily.

Only Lady Martin and her daughter were out of it; and when she found
that her cold looks and biting speeches made no impression on
anyone--for even Fanny was at ease now with these delightful people--her
ladyship could bear it no longer.

Rising abruptly, and cutting short a sentence of Toni's as though she
heard nothing, Lady Martin called her daughter to her side.

"I think, Lucretia, if you have finished your tea"--both ladies had left
their cups untouched--"we must tear ourselves away. We promised to look
in at the Vicarage, and you know we are dining with the Batty-Browns
to-night!"

Having thus made it clear that she was in much social demand, Lady
Martin advanced upon her hostess and held out her hand aggressively.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Rose. So glad to have seen you. I am always at home on
Wednesdays in the summer."

Toni shook hands quietly, and Miss Martin followed suit with a limp
handshake; after which the two ladies took what was intended to be a
gushing farewell of the other guests, ignoring Fanny as though she were
not present.

Andrews was in waiting to show the ladies out; and when, a moment later,
they swept by the window, their high-heeled shoes crunching the gravel
sternly, Barry heaved a sigh of relief.

"I don't know how it is, but Lady Martin always gives me the creeps.
Mrs. Rose, is it too late to beg another cup of tea? I assure you I
really want it, to buck me up."

Toni, who was very pale, filled his cup with rather a trembling hand,
and Mrs. Anstey saw that the woman's insolence had unnerved her.

Appearing to notice nothing, she began to make conversation, discoursing
gently on various unimportant topics until Toni grew more like herself;
and when at length Mrs. Anstey rose to go she had completely won Toni's
grateful heart.

Toni took leave of her visitors regretfully, and readily promised to
return the visit as soon as possible; and then she and Fanny accompanied
them to the door to see them comfortably settled in the big grey car.

Barry was driving, Olive sitting beside him; and the girl turned and
waved a kindly hand as the car began to glide down the avenue in the
afternoon sunshine.

"My! Isn't she pretty!" Miss Gibbs' admiration was sincere. "And that
blue bonnet of hers was a dream--must have cost pounds!"

"I think Mrs. Anstey is beautiful," said Toni, rather dreamily, gazing
after the car. "I don't wonder Miss Lynn is so devoted to her. She is
just my ideal of a lady."

"Better than that other stuck-up cat," said Fanny rather viciously. "And
as for that maypole of a daughter, she's nothing but a gawk."

"Oh, don't let's go in there!" Toni laid a hand on her cousin's arm as
Fanny turned towards the dining-room. "I don't want to see the tea-table
any more! Fan, wasn't it _horrible_ when they came first?"

"Well, they were a bit sticky," said Fanny frankly. "But nobody seemed
to care! Mr. Raymond was just making game of them all the time."

"Well, don't let's think of them," said Toni, shaking herself as though
freeing her shoulders from an incubus. "We'll go on the river for an
hour, Fan, and then you shall see the house."

The programme was carried out successfully, and beneath Fanny's
affectionate chatter Toni regained the spirits she had lost. She took
her cousin on the river, returning in time to see the old house before
the summer darkness fell; and after a very satisfactory little dinner
Miss Gibbs departed, highly pleased with her entertainment.

Owen was not to be home till nearly midnight, and Toni decided not to
sit up. Indeed, she was tired, and it was barely ten o'clock when she
went upstairs to bed. Something was troubling her, too; and as she
walked slowly down the long gallery, lighted only by the Ten Little
Ladies, she was asking herself a question which, in spite of its
humorous form, held a hint of tragedy.

"Shall I have to tell Owen everything--how rude she was and what an
idiot I felt? Must I really tell him about--about the _shrimps_?"

She paused, looking about her as though seeking an answer to her
question, which held indeed a significance which she dimly understood.

But the Ten Little Ladies had no reply to give her; and with a sigh Toni
passed on and entered her own room in silence.




CHAPTER X


Fairly late that night Barry Raymond jumped off his motorcycle at the
gate of the bungalow known locally as the Hope House. It was a perfect
June night, and as he unlatched the gate Barry heard a nightingale
singing its love-song to the moon, the deliciously pure notes ringing
across the river with a fascinating, almost unearthly, effect.

The garden of the bungalow was full of sleeping flowers, and their
fragrance stole gently out like a tender welcome to Barry as he strode
up the path between their ranks, pale-coloured in the moonlight, though
full of rich, glowing colour beneath the sun.

Another welcome greeted him in a moment. There was a low, deep-toned
bark, a white streak of something advancing in a hurtling flash, and
then, as the great Borzoi discovered the visitor to be a friend, she
dropped into a welcoming march, waving her plumy tail the while.

"Halloa, Olga, old girl! Where's your boss?"

He was not far off, having been warned of the approach of his friend,
and in another moment the two men were shaking hands cordially.

"By Jove, Barry, it's good to see you again!" There was no mistaking the
pleasure in the tone. "I thought you'd be looking me up--someone told me
you were staying down here."

"Yes--only for three days, worse luck. I'm with the Ansteys--you know
Miss Lynn is Mrs. Anstey's niece, and she is there too."

"I see. Well, come in and have a peg." He led the way hospitably through
the green door into the bungalow, and a minute later the two were seated
cosily in the little living-room, which looked oddly attractive in the
lamplight.

Olga, the wolfhound, followed them in as a matter of course, and when
her master had mixed drinks for himself and his visitor, and had taken
his seat, she lay down beside him, her long nose resting on her paws,
while she blinked sleepily in the mellow light.

"Well, Barry, how goes the world? Cheerily, eh?"

"With me? Yes." He took a pull at his glass, "I'm A 1, and so is Olive."

"Work going ahead? I hear the _Bridge_ is making its way."

"Rather!" He spoke enthusiastically. "The next number will be out in a
few days, and it's better than ever."

"Good! Of course Rose is an excellent man for the job. If he can't make
it go, no one can. By the way, he's come to live down here, as I daresay
you know."

"Yes." Barry spoke slowly, and lighted a cigarette rather thoughtfully.
"As a matter of fact, Jim, that's partly why I've come to see you at
this unholy hour."

"Better now than never!" said his host genially. "But I don't think I
quite understand you."

"No." For a moment Barry said nothing more, and the other man looked at
him a little oddly.

He himself was worth looking at, in spite of the shabbiness which
betrayed either a bachelor habit of mind, or a lofty disdain for the
trappings of life. A man of about forty-one, his face was a curious
mixture of youth and age, of experience and of idealism. His big, bright
eyes and curving mouth betokened enthusiasm, fire, a kindly philosophy;
while the lines upon his forehead and the grey streaks in his abundant
hair seemed to speak of deeper things. Life had indeed graven with its
chisel lines and marks ineffaceable. It was the face of one who had
suffered deeply, who had passed through more than one saddening
experience. In repose one would have said the man was serious, grave to
a fault; but when he smiled, it was the face of youth--ardent, eager,
irresponsible--that the beholder saw before him.

It was a queer, baffling, contradictory face altogether. Only one thing
about it was certain, and that was written so plainly thereon that even
a child might read.

It was a face one could trust. Whatever might be the nature of the
tragic experience which had whitened the crisp locks and drawn the heavy
lines on the broad brow, there was something so gentle, so
straightforward, so kindly about the whole man that none could doubt his
sincerity, his trustworthiness. And side by side with the lines drawn by
sorrow there were other lines betokening laughter, those fine lines at
the corners of the eyes which are born from mirth, and even though they
take away from youth's first unlined smoothness, give value and
perspective to the countenance.

For the rest, he was fairly tall, though he stooped somewhat; and he
walked always with a quick, impetuous step, until such times as memory,
or some other quality, came to life, and gave a queer, dragging effect
to his usually swift tread.

"Well?" It was the host who spoke, and Barry recalled his scattered
thoughts with an effort and remembered the cause on which he was
enlisted.

"Well, it's about Rose's wife that I want to speak to you." Barry looked
searchingly at his friend, and reading in the bright eyes nothing of the
cheap cynicism with which some men might have greeted the announcement,
he went on quickly. "The fact is, she wants someone to give her a
helping hand."

"Someone--apart from her husband?"

"Yes. You see, she's only a kid and a jolly pretty one. Looks like a
schoolgirl----?"

"Stay a moment." Herrick laid down his pipe. "Is Mrs. Rose a little dark
girl, with very bright eyes and a lot of black hair?"

"That's she. You've met her, then?"

"Well, not exactly. Fact is, I have seen a young woman answering to that
description wandering on the towing-path early in the morning once or
twice; and I was a little puzzled to know who she might be."

"Well, that's Mrs. Rose. Now the fact is"--Barry grew red suddenly as he
realized that his interference was quite unauthorized--"I think she
wants a friend, someone to look after her a bit."

"Why? Is she ... er ... what _is_ she?"

"She is very young." Barry spoke deliberately now, having made up his
mind to proceed. "And although she is a perfect little lady in her
way"--thus unconsciously endorsing Kate's verdict--"she has never been
used to the sort of life she will have to lead down here. To tell the
truth--I know it's safe with you, Jim--she was our typist in the office
before her marriage."

"I see. And Rose fell in love with her?"

"Y ... yes." Even to Herrick, Barry could not give away the secret of
Owen's proposal. "Anyway, he married her, and brought her here; and
to-day I was witness to a curious little scene in her house."

"I'm all attention, Barry."

"Well, Rose is away for the day, and Mrs. Rose invited a girl-cousin
down for the afternoon; and to do honour to her, I imagine, she had
provided a sumptuous tea, including shrimps and one of those wobbly
white things that you get at lunch."

"I see. Well?"

"Well, we--Mrs. Anstey, Olive and I--chose to pay a call to-day; and
when, after a little hesitation, Mrs. Rose asked us to have some tea, we
were taken into the dining-room, where these festal delicacies were laid
out."

"And then?"

"Well, it would have been all right--Mrs. Anstey is a dear, and Olive of
course is a ripper--and we'd have had a very jolly little party, but
unfortunately in the middle of it who should arrive but Lady Martin and
that terrible daughter of hers."

"Lady Martin of soap fame?"

"The same. Well, you know what an utter snob the woman is. In two
minutes she had Toni--Mrs. Rose--reduced to a jelly--simply by sneering
at everything."

"Including the--shrimps?"

"Yes. You know shrimps are--well--a bit _vulgar_, aren't they?"

For a second there was silence. Then Herrick stretched out his hand for
his pipe and spoke slowly in the intervals of filling the bowl.

"There was once, if my memory serves me rightly, an Apostle of the name
of Peter who chose to consider some of the creatures made by his own
Maker in the light of vulgarians; and a sheetful of specimens descended
on Peter's head to warn him against the folly of finding any of God's
creations common or unclean. Of course we've no proof that shrimps were
included----"

"I say, Jim, don't rag!" Barry threw away his cigarette rather
impatiently. "I'm in earnest--oh, I know it sounds beastly snobbish, but
still, shrimps at tea----"

"Are unusual, though really, if you try them, first-rate." Herrick had
filled his pipe, and now took up the match-box. "Seriously, Barry, I
know what you mean. So long as we have false standards of gentility I
suppose the sight of a shrimp in conjunction with the tea-pot will cause
us to shrivel up. But I'll guarantee that neither Mrs. Anstey nor Miss
Lynn turned a hair at the sight."

"Rather not! They ate them as if they really liked them--and if that
wasn't a snub to the awful Martin woman--well, she went, anyway, driven
away by our combined vulgarity, I suppose, and we had quite a decent
time when she had gone."

"Well? If Lady Martin was driven from the field, and you were left the
victors, what's the trouble?"

"The trouble is this. Lady Martin, being a spiteful woman, and knowing
perfectly well that Mrs. Anstey meant to teach her a lesson, will lose
no opportunity of spreading the story abroad; and in time it is certain
to come to Rose's ears."

"Ah!" He spoke thoughtfully. "That is it, is it? And Mr. Rose
will--er--resent the tale?"

"You see it's this way." Barry gave way to the impulse to confide in his
friend, to whom all his boyish confidences had been given. "Rose is a
real good sort, and wouldn't for the world let Toni suspect that he
knows he's married beneath him, as the world calls it."

"The world? Ah!" There was a light scorn in the tone.

"Oh, I know--we both know it's all rot, that sort of thing. But still,
as the world goes, one has to remember it; and somehow, although Rose is
genuinely fond of his wife, I doubt whether his love would stand
much--well, ridicule."

"Ah! And I suppose the child did make herself rather ridiculous in her
attempts to welcome a cousin to whom she is doubtless attached."

"It isn't only that." Having once begun, Barry unburdened himself still
further. "You know, although I admire Mrs. Rose immensely, and she's a
ripping kid really, I'm not a bit sure that the marriage will be a
success."

"Why not, Barry?"

"Well, they're unsuited to one another in heaps of ways. Toni is, as I
say, a dear little girl, but she's only half-educated, and not in the
least intellectual. Sharp in her way--the way of a quick-witted
woman--shrewd, and no fool. But you know Rose is rather an exceptional
fellow."

"So I have always understood."

"He's clever, you know--and deep, too. Not one of those fellows who are
always showing off, but really brilliant; and it's rather a dangerous
thing for a shallow woman to marry a man of that sort."

"It's often done, Barry," said the other man quietly.

"Oh, I know, but that doesn't make it any safer. Toni is an out-and-out
good sort, as straight as a die, and a merry, light-hearted little thing
into the bargain; but she's bound to turn out a disappointment to her
husband all the same."

"I don't see why," said Herrick after a moment's pause. "Lots of clever
men marry feather-headed women and manage to get along all right."

"Yes, but Owen's not that sort. He's a fellow who will want his wife to
be a companion, a real comrade, able to go forward side by side with
him, understand his aims, sympathize with his ideals and so on; and this
girl can't do it."

"But why are you so sure she can't, my boy? Probably she is very
different when alone with her husband. All women, as well as men, have
two soul-sides, you know--'one to face the world with'--the other----"

"Oh, that's Browning's view, of course, but then he was an idealist!"
Barry spoke rather impatiently. "No, Jim, there's not much hope of that.
I've made a study of the girl--I don't mind telling you I did my best to
prevent Rose marrying her--and I'm perfectly certain that as far as
anything beyond the merest good-fellowship goes, Rose might just as well
have married a Persian kitten."

"Yet she is fond of him--in her way?"

"Very, I should say; but even then there's an element of something which
shouldn't exist between husband and wife. There is a sort of quite
unconscious patronage on Rose's side which matches a pretty gratitude on
hers; and I have a horrible fear that if ever he found her wanting--and
showed her so--she would break her heart."

"Oh! Then you don't deny her a heart?"

"Good Lord, no! What I do deny her is--well, I don't quite know. Is it
brain, or soul, or what?"

"You take an interest in this girl, Barry. Is it possible you are going
to try to supply this deficiency of brain, or soul, or whatever it is?"

Barry laughed rather defiantly.

"Oh, I know you think I'm a fool for my pains! Yes, that's just what I
do want to do. I want to wake the girl up, to make her use her
intellect, fit herself to be Owen's companion. I hate to think of their
marriage turning out a failure--Owen disappointed in her, feeling
aggrieved, perhaps, at her inability to go forward with him, while she
in her turn feels impatient with him for expecting her to be something
she isn't--and that he ought never to have expected her to be!"

"Wait a moment, Barry." Herrick looked at him squarely. "Isn't there
something behind all this? Didn't I hear a rumour that some woman had
jilted Rose--thrown him over for a richer man, or something of the
sort?"

"Well"--Barry bit his lip--"since you know so much--yes."

"And possibly this marriage was in the nature of a reprisal? Intended to
show the jilting lady that--to put it plainly--there were still good
fish in the sea?"

"Yes--in a way it was."

"Ah! Now I understand. And you, having doubtless been forced into the
position of an accessory before the fact, are anxious that as little
harm as possible shall be done to either party?"

"Yes--but principally to the girl."

"Of course, seeing that she was probably unconscious of the reason
behind the match. Well, it seems hard that she should have been used as
a catspaw, doesn't it?"

"Oh, it wasn't as bad as that. Rose really liked the girl----"

"In spite of her want of--soul?"

"Yes. And I thought," said Barry eagerly, "that if you and I, and one or
two more--Olive, for instance--could give her a helping hand now and
then, show her how to make the best of herself and so on, things might
turn out all right."

"Ah, Barry!" Herrick looked at him with a half-humorous, half-sad smile.
"You're very young--and youth is always--or should be--courageous. Do
you really think that I, or you, or even Miss Lynn, can alter by a
fraction the destiny marked out for that pretty child across the river
there?"

"Destiny--no, perhaps not," said Barry, taken aback by the big word.
"But we might help her--help her to find herself, as the Ibsenites call
it--realize her soul, and all the rest of it. The soul's _there_, all
right, but somehow it seems to be hidden, undeveloped, or something of
the sort."

For a second the older man said nothing, though his square white teeth
clenched themselves on the stem of his pipe. Then, removing the latter,
he said slowly:

"Do you remember what Browning says, Barry?

    'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls
    And matter enough to save one's own!'

Well, don't you agree with him--and me--that one's own soul takes a vast
deal of salvation?"

"Yes, of course--but still--I thought you would be ready to help...."

His accent of dejection touched the other man's heart.

"Come, don't look so disappointed. Of course I'll help, as much as I
can! It ought to be an interesting task, anyway, helping a woman to find
her soul. And if I can help her in any way, I will."

"Good! But how?" He wanted to clinch the matter.

"Well, I suppose the first thing to do is to make the lady's
acquaintance. I know Rose, slightly, and a call will no doubt be
considered neighbourly. And if I can do anything for the child, you may
depend on me to do it."

"You're a brick, Jim!" In the midst of his relief Barry remembered the
hour and rose hastily. "Well, I must be off, or the house will be shut
up. Good-night, old chap. I'm no end obliged to you. I knew you would
help, if anyone would."

He had turned towards the door when a thought struck him and he turned
back rather awkwardly.

"I say, Jim"--he was looking down at the floor as he spoke--"I hadn't
forgotten, but I didn't like to say much. How ... how is--she?"

"My wife, you mean?" Herrick's smile was bitter. "She is pretty well, I
believe. They say her health has improved lately."

"I'm glad. And--forgive me if I'm tactless, Jim, but when do you expect
her back?"

"When does she come out?" All the youth had died away from his face,
leaving it desperately tired and sad. "Some time in the autumn, October,
I believe. The time isn't really up quite so soon, but there's some
remission for good conduct, I understand, which shortens the sentence."

"Have you seen her lately?"

"No. She refused to see me last time, and I shall not trouble her
again."

"I see." Barry fidgeted from one foot to the other, then made a sudden
grab at his friend's hand. "Well, good-bye, Jim. Ever so many thanks for
promising to help the kid. You can do lots for her if you will, and I do
want the marriage to be a success."

"You've come to a queer person to help you, Barry," said the other with
a twisted smile. "My own marriage has been so wonderfully successful,
hasn't it? But there, don't let's talk about it now. How are you going
home? Motor? Ah, all right. Then Olga and I will come and see you safely
off the premises."

He had regained his former kindly manner, and bade the boy good-night
with all his accustomed heartiness; but as Barry turned for a last look
and saw the stooping figure return through the gate, accompanied by the
graceful Borzoi, a fury of rage gripped his generous young heart.

"Damn that woman--oh, _damn_ her!" He said the words wildly to himself
as he spun down the moonlit road between the fragrant hedges. "She's
ruined his life, and will go on doing it as long as they live! October,
he said. Well, there's time to give poor little Toni a helping hand
before then!"

       *       *       *       *       *

But in the quiet bungalow behind him Jim Herrick sat alone until the
short summer night had given way to the glories of the dawn. And in his
face, as he gazed before him, seeing, perhaps the troubled past, perhaps
the darkened future, there was now no trace of youth, only a great and
weary disillusionment.




CHAPTER XI


After all, Jim Herrick's introduction to Mrs. Rose came about in an
unexpected fashion.

Although he had only seen her two or three times, Herrick felt a decided
interest in Rose's young wife. From what Barry had told him he concluded
that there were breakers ahead for the young couple; and since his own
matrimonial misfortunes had made him very pitiful, he determined to try
to hold out a helping hand to the girl should the occasion arise.

The occasion arose, indeed, almost before he expected it; but luckily
Herrick was a man of action and grappled with the opportunity thus
presented.

One sunny afternoon he was returning from a pull up the river in his
skiff, when he saw a punt gliding towards him, the pole manipulated,
rather unskilfully, it must be confessed, by the girl of whom his
thoughts had been full; and he stayed in his mooring to watch her pass.

To Toni the guiding of a punt was so serious a matter that she had no
eyes for anything else, and she never even saw the man in the boat. The
river took rather a curve here, and Toni found it a little difficult to
negotiate the bend. Becoming somewhat flurried, she directed her punt
into the middle of the 

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