Chapter III: The Kind Companions (2)

“Me too,” said James. “I know what you mean.”

“I never thought I could fancy a husband,” she observed. “But there’s something about you, James—well—I don’t know! So gentle as you are generally and then throwing anybody out of the window!” She laughed. “It seems like I’ve got to keep you out of mischief.”

“We’ll be married at once,” he said, revolving the great idea in his mind.

“We might as well,” she agreed.

There was a pause while the betrothed pair stared at each other. Dolly began to wonder whether she would have to prompt him, so slow was he in arriving at a clear conception of his own needs. But at last he drew her toward him and began to kiss her fresh cheek, tentatively, and with an embarrassment which seemed to her pitiful. She realized that these were probably the first caresses ever offered by him to any human being since the departure of her aunt from Lyndon. This was not the diffidence of an inept lover but a symbol of the complete isolation in which he had lived.

The knowledge filled her with a passionate tenderness, and, half sobbing, she flung a protecting arm round him as though to shield him from a world which had been too unkind.

3

“I can’t quite understand what is going on in the shrubbery,” said Agatha, sitting up and shading her eyes. “First of all I saw Lady Clewer and Mr. Ervine walking up and down on the terrace. Then, with a determined air, they went into the shrubbery, just as if they had lost something and were going to look for it. Then she came out without him and went into the house. Then she reappeared with Lois and marched her into the shrubbery. Now I see her coming out again alone. She has presumably left them inside together.”

“Rather unusual on her part, isn’t it?” said Gerald.

“Very. That’s why I’m puzzled. What can be the meaning of it?”

“Well, she’s coming to tell us.”

Marian was advancing across the lawn toward the cedar tree, her face aglow with smiles. Though she was at least a hundred yards from the shrubbery she had the air of one who walks on tip-toe. She joined them.

“I hope you won’t mind my giving you a hint,” she began, “but I wouldn’t go into the shrubbery just now if I were you.”

“Not if you’d rather we didn’t,” said Agatha, feeling that no power on earth should induce her to ask why not.

“Of course, I don’t know,” pursued the joyful mother, “if anything will come of it. But Mr. Ervine is having a little talk with Lois. A very important little talk.”

“So we saw.”

“Oh, did you guess? How quick of you, dear! Between ourselves I have a very shrewd suspicion of what her feelings are. And nothing could please me more. He is such a nice fellow! And he has been so straightforward about it all, speaking to me before he ever said a word to her. I just had to give him the opportunity.”

“I see Sir Thomas going into the shrubbery from the terrace,” exclaimed Agatha.

“Oh, dear!” cried Marian, looking much distressed. “I can never reach him in time. Can we shout? How can we stop him?”

“I’ll run,” said Gerald.

He ran and Marian sank exhausted into his chair.

“Dear me!” she said. “How all this takes me back to your engagement, Agatha. I never shall forget that dance at the Calthorpes’, and how your mother and I stood at the door of the little conservatory, blocking up the entrance, so that you and John should have time to settle things before any one came in.”

“Did you?” asked Agatha curiously.

“Yes. And your poor mother was so afraid that you would refuse him. I was a little nervous myself. You were so young. And you hadn’t seen Lyndon.”

Agatha glanced at the house which should have prompted her to so immediate an acceptance of John. It was indeed a magnificent possession. There was no end to its beauty. But she was quite sure that she had never thought of it once during that half-hour in the conservatory. As far as she could remember she had not thought about anything at all. If she had entertained any intelligent ideas they had made no impression. She could recall the heavy scent of the conservatory, and the flame of orchids, the cadences of a distant waltz, John’s hand on her heart and the urgency of his voice. These things had brought her to Lyndon.

“I was very young,” she said. “I hardly knew what I was doing.”

Gerald was now on the terrace talking to Sir Thomas. She looked at him resentfully. He was unfair and she often wished that she could tell him so. He did her an injustice in supposing that she had not married for love, according to her lights. Everyone, her mother even, had encouraged her to believe that her attachment to John was of an enduring nature. If she had learnt the impermanence of such passion, it was irrevocable experience which had taught her. She could not be expected to know then.

Not that she feared for Lois. This manipulated proposal, so typical of Marian and her kind, did not go for much. Lois and Hubert were really suited to each other; they had a community of tastes which augured well for the future. They would probably make a better thing of it than she and John had done. They would rise to a level of intimacy and companionship impossible to her. And yet, it might not have been impossible if . . . Here, woman-like, she was able to skip a few thoughts and safeguard her conscience.

Gerald was returning with Sir Thomas and two more chairs. They all sat down under the tree in silence, bending an expectant regard upon the entrance to the shrubbery. At last Gerald asked Marian how long she supposed her young couple would be. Marian looked rather scandalized and said she really didn’t know.

“They would have to come out by now, surely, if she had refused him,” suggested Agatha. “But do you think it’s quite nice of us to sit here waiting?”

“I must know when they have finished their little talk,” urged Marian. “I shall have to speak to Lois.”

“But the rest of us? I think it would be more tactful if we removed ourselves.”

Agatha began to prepare for departure, while Gerald unkindly suggested that the interesting pair might have left the shrubbery by the gate into the park. This idea horrified Marian, and she was about to pursue them when they were all given pause by the hasty approach of Cynthia. They were instantly aware that she had news of interest to communicate to them. So seldom did she move with animation that only the deepest excitement could cause her to hurry as she was now doing. She surveyed them triumphantly for a moment and then drawled:

“James has done it this time.”

“Oh, James!” said Marian, with bored irritation. “What has he been doing now?”

“He wants to marry Kell.”

“Kell!”

“Kell, the housemaid?”

Everybody gaped, and Agatha immediately wondered why she had not foreseen it. It was so patently obvious.

“The third housemaid,” said Cynthia with relish.

“Good heavens! But why . . .?” began Marian.

“How should I know?” replied Cynthia, who believed that she did.

“Who told you?” demanded Agatha.

“John. He and James are hard at it in the study. James got up this morning, you know. The doctor said he might as long as he keeps his arm all tied up. And he went straight off, as soon as he was up, and found John and made this announcement. They want you, please, Mother.”

“Oh, dear,” cried Marian, with a glance at the shrubbery. “I can’t possibly come yet. I must stay here for a minute or two.”

“But isn’t it like James?” exclaimed Agatha.

“She seems a nice girl,” contributed Gerald.

“An uncommonly pretty girl,” pronounced Sir Thomas. “What does she say to it? Will she have him?”

“You bet she will if she can,” Cynthia assured them. “You’ll have to sack her now, I suppose, Agatha?”

“Yes, indeed! My dear, it will be most disagreeable for you,” said Marian sympathetically. “Having a thing like this happen in one’s own house! Would you like me to see her for you?”

“No, thank you,” replied Agatha a little coldly.

“I don’t see how you can possibly blame yourself, though,” continued Marian. “Nobody could have foreseen this. I suppose it’s all the result of our letting him go to Paris. However . . .”

Her glance suggested that they could not really discuss this delicate matter in the presence of gentlemen. Agatha was thinking swiftly. She remembered Kell tugging at the heavy ladder to get cherries for James. She thought of Kell’s Bible on his bed. Kell was really a very nice creature. It was monstrous that any one should regard the affair in the light of a scandal. Marian’s suggestive hints were not to be endured. Neither James nor Kell should be insulted while Agatha was the lady of Lyndon.

“I shall be very sorry to lose her,” she announced. “She is such an exceptionally nice girl. But I don’t suppose she will want to stay on as housemaid after she is married.”

This was an open defection and was felt as such by the company. Marian looked dumbfounded. Cynthia and Sir Thomas had much ado not to laugh. The affair, to them, could have but one significance. Gerald Blair became extremely joyful.

“I think James has shown the most astounding good sense,” stated the amazing Agatha. “I think he will be very lucky if he can succeed in marrying such an admirable creature. I am sure she will make him happy, which no one else has ever tried to do.”

“My dear Agatha . . .” began Marian, but the rebel, quite exhausted by her own violence, had turned away toward the house.

Gerald recognized the frightened pallor which had succeeded her flush of excitement. He had seen it before on an occasion, the only occasion in her life, when she had defied her mother. That was five years ago, and her defiance, if he remembered rightly, had been shortlived. This time her rash impetuosity must be encouraged, upheld. He hastened after her and found her, still palpitating, in the flowery spaciousness of her drawing room. They looked at each other and Gerald ejaculated:

“Cleared it!”

“Well, but don’t you agree with me? Don’t you? If she cares for him, don’t you think it’s the best thing that could happen to him? And I honestly don’t think she’d have accepted him if she didn’t.”

“Of course it is. Any man would be in luck to get a girl like that. She’s splendid. Well balanced, healthy, sane—a good stock. I watched her at the Dante lecture and thought what a fine woman she was.”

“Oh, don’t talk like that. I don’t mean that. They love each other really and properly, as only one couple in a thousand manage to do. Stop talking like a eugenics text-book.”

“It’s my job.”

“Yes. But you know better than that! Gerald! Stop looking out of the window! You know better than that.”

“I know——” he began, and pulled up, appalled at the indiscretion of the remark he had been about to make.

The contagious properties of love are proverbial and it is always dangerous for a couple divorced by fate to reflect in unison upon the happier romances of other people. These ill-starred cousins were unlucky in that they had been thrown together at a time when the whole of Lyndon was mating. A moment after Gerald’s too significant pause, they had the prudence to withdraw, somewhat hastily, from an interview which was leading them beyond the bounds of decorum. Agatha ran upstairs and Gerald bolted into the billiard room.

4

He left Lyndon next day before she had finished making her leisurely breakfast in bed. She heard the throbbing of his car at the door and the change of gear as it hummed away up the slope. Silence fell upon Lyndon when he was gone, scarcely broken by the peaceful, everlasting sound of mowing and the shouting of cuckoos far off across the water meadows.

She lay drowsily, watching the tempered sunlight which streamed through the half-shaded windows. It fell in great rainbow splashes upon the crystal and silver of her dressing table. Her breakfast steamed on a tray beside her bed and her morning’s letters were strewed upon the counterpane. At last she roused herself sufficiently to pour out another cup of coffee and examine her mail. There were several pages from her mother, and she frowned a little as she perused them. One passage in particular made her flush and sigh:

“By the way, I’ve had such a funny letter from Marian. (How I
wish we had not got on to these Christian name terms of
intimacy! They tie one so!) I must show it to you. It’s most
veiled, of course, but it seems she really is getting worried
upon the family question. Has she been dropping tactful hints to
you? If not, I think you may expect them. Personally, I consider
it’s exceedingly impertinent of her, in spite of my own views on
the matter, of which you are already aware. _Of course_ it’s
important that the place shouldn’t go to the Causfield Clewers,
and I really think that the sooner that contingency is provided
against, the better. Still, you’ve heard all this before, and I
expect you think you know your own business.

“_Have_ you talked to J. about standing for Parliament in the
next election? I met Tim Fenwick at Lady Peel’s yesterday, and
he seemed to take it for granted that the Government would come
to grief over this Ulster question. If this is really so, John
has no time to lose. He, T. F., I mean, has been nursing his
constituency for months. Do get J. to stir himself. I think it
would be such an excellent thing for you both; you can do so
much for him, canvassing and so on, and people without a family
need something of the kind, some common interest to bring them
together. And I think a serious object in life would be good for
him. If you will persist in what I cannot but regard as a very
rash obstinacy, I think the safest course will be to get John
into Parliament if possible. . . .”

Agatha, angry as she was, could not help laughing a little at these tactful suggestions. It was so like her mother to think that politics would provide John with a good substitute for paternity.

Since the death of her first-born, the luckless heir of Lyndon, she had steadily refused to bear children or had, rather, postponed the bearing of them to a more convenient epoch. She could not bring herself to face again the trials of that first year of wifehood. It had taught her, with an enduring shock, the nature of her hold upon her husband. She had felt him slipping from her at a moment when she stood in the most need of his supporting tenderness.

It had been his obvious pity for her condition which had alarmed her. He had been much too considerate for her peace of mind. Never for a moment had he forgotten that her eclipsed beauty had made her an object of compassion. This attitude struck her as an insult; a piece of brutality thinly veiled by sentiment. She knew that she had lost all her real power over him and that he was behaving to her in accordance with his ideas of civility. His renewed ardour at her recovery of health and good looks had made her sure of this. And at that time she cared a great deal for his devotion. She did still. On his subjugation depended most of her own self-esteem.

She had decided to wait some years before taking such a risk again, and he, happy in the recovery of his beautiful wife, had acquiesced. There was plenty of time before them, for Agatha was, in those days, barely nineteen. But the subject was a sore one with Mrs. Cocks, who continually urged her daughter to “get it over.” As for Marian, she looked upon such a refusal of responsibility as flighty and a little ill-bred. It is to be doubted whether any one in the world guessed what tears had been shed by the mother in secret over the child she had never even seen. Now, as she lay at ease in her magnificent bed, a small and very bitter drop splashed on to Mrs. Cocks’s letter and blurred the large handwriting. For Agatha had a morbid and unconfessed conviction that no child born to herself and John would meet with a better fate than the first.

His step in the gallery recalled her to herself. Instantly she put her hands to her hair beneath the falling silk and lace of her cap. Searching under her pillow she found a small handkerchief and carefully removed the traces of her tears. When he greeted her she was smiling.

“Blair has gone,” he informed her. “I expect you heard him go.”

“Yes.”

“Hope being here has done him good. He assures me that he is sleeping better. But I can’t say I see much improvement. He came looking haggard and he’s gone away looking haggard.”

“I don’t think visits to relations are very good rest cures.”

“You’re right. He should have gone a sea voyage or something.”

He was wandering round the room picking up photographs and putting them down again and fidgeting among the things on her dressing table.

“Lois and Ervine are settled,” he said. “Mamma is going to send the notice to the papers to-day. Hello! What’s this?”

He held up a small, common-looking object. It was that pocket photograph of Gerald and Agatha which had been taken so long ago at Canverley Fair. She had on the previous night removed it from the cabinet where it had lain forgotten and stared at it for a little time, thinking strange thoughts. She remembered now that she had not put it away.

“This is Blair, isn’t it?” continued John. “But who’s the kid?”

“Don’t you recognize her?”

“Not . . .? You never wore your hair dragged back like that, did you?”

“When I was sixteen I did. I was sixteen when that was taken.”

“But how on earth did your mother allow it?”

“She didn’t know. We got photographed without her leave at a country fair.”

“I didn’t mean that. I mean how could she allow you to do your hair like that?”

“Oh, she liked it like that. It’s unbecoming, isn’t it? But I wasn’t out, you see.”

“It’s hideous. I didn’t think you could look like that.”

He put it in his pocket and said:

“I can’t have this thrown away. It’s a family curio.”

“It wasn’t going to be thrown away. Please give it back, John!”

“Oh, no. I’m going to keep it. I’ll put it among the miniatures.”

“No, John! I want it!”

“You won’t get it. Though I don’t wonder that you don’t want to let it out of your hands. It’s a very compromising piece of evidence, you know.”

“What of?” she asked, tremendously startled.

“That you were ever plain. No one would believe it without positive proof. It gives me unlimited power over you. Cynthia would give her eyes for a squint at it. By the way, now that Mamma has disposed of Lois, I think she will wake up a bit about Cynthia and Bragge.”

“What do you think about that?” asked Agatha, sitting up.

“Oh, well—he’s rather a bounder, but if she will have him, it’s a good match from the financial point of view.”

“But he’s so much older.”

“Yes, it’s a drawback. But if she doesn’t mind, why should we?”

“I can’t see how she can contemplate such a thing.”

“I expect she wants her freedom.”

“But I can’t believe it will turn out happily.”

“There won’t be any scandals in the family, if that’s what you mean. Cynthia’s got her head screwed on too well for that. And that’s all we need worry about.”

“I hate his ideas. So vulgar—so mercenary.”

“What about hers?”

Agatha was silent.

“You may take it,” he said, “that they will be well matched. She knows her own business. So does he. And a pretty penny she’ll cost him.”

“At her age,” argued Agatha, “a girl ought to have ideals.”

“Ought she? Had you?”

He had seated himself beside her on the bed. Silhouetted against the shaded window she could study his massive profile and the slight thickening of his neck over the back of his collar—the first indications of approaching corpulence. Though not really fat, he had too much flesh for thirty-four. But all the Clewer men were large; James would be fat in ten years’ time, fat and pale, whereas John would be fat and red. He was toying with her hand, pressing each white finger slowly back, and she conquered an impulse to snatch it from him.

“I think I had ideals at seventeen,” she said thoughtfully.

“You’d got rid of them by the time I met you. That was one of the first things that struck me about you, Agatha: your sense of proportion! Don’t start losing it now!”

“If only Sir Thomas wasn’t so . . .” She paused and met his eye. “Well, you know quite well, don’t you, that . . .?”

“She got him on the rebound after a break?” He laughed. “How far did he go before you turned him down?”

“Oh, a good way, horrid old thing.”

“Old blackguard!” He laughed again. “I thought as much. In fact, it was pretty obvious. But he can’t be blamed so very much. He has a certain amount of excuse, you know, my dear.”

“But he was your guest.”

“Well—er—yes. He is a bounder, isn’t he? But Cynthia probably knows all about it, don’t you think?”

“Are you never jealous, John?” she asked curiously.

“Not of that! Consider, my love, what a stormy life we would lead if I began. No. But just occasionally, when you get these soul qualms, you alarm me. I have a suspicion that if you ever deceive me it will be with a bishop or somebody like that.”

After a pause he continued:

“Oh, I remember now what I really came to talk to you about. It’s this affair of James’s. Something’s got to be done about it. And my only hope is the girl. I want you to talk to her and see if you can’t scare her off. You know she’s played her cards uncommonly well. She must be a clever girl. I’ve been talking to James, and I gather she’s succeeded in hooking him without giving any tricks away. There’s been absolutely nothing in their relations which puts her at a disadvantage. She isn’t forced to have him, you understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“I must confess I was surprised.”

“I’m not. I don’t think you understand either of them.”

“I don’t understand James, certainly, and you are more likely to understand the workings of another woman’s mind than I am. My own opinion is, however, that she’ll chuck him when she finds that four hundred pounds is all she’ll get with him. She must have thought he had more. When she finds that he hasn’t, she’ll probably change her mind, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. It isn’t a bad match for a girl in her class.”

“Not if the fellow were presentable. But really, you know, the girl’s a fine girl. She must expect some compensation for putting up with James.”

“Really and truly I think you are mistaking the nature of her attachment to him.”

“Well, that’s what I want you to find out. You talk to her, quite sympathetically, if you like, but just hint what a bad bargain he will be.”

“But do you think it’s altogether a thing to be discouraged? She is, after all, a nice, respectable girl, and he is not quite like other people. He’s a misfit here. Nobody regards him, and he’s not happy, obviously. With a wife and a home of his own he might do much better. And he’s very fond of her.”

“It wouldn’t do at all,” said John decidedly. “Don’t you see that they would probably be in continual financial difficulties? Always dragging us down and coming to us for help. Besides,” he added, with some constraint, “I think it would be rather a misfortune for James ever to marry any one. We don’t want a heap of his brats swarming all over the place.”

“But they won’t live here, surely?”

“No, but they would eventually, if James came into the place.”

“It’s early days to think of that.”

“I can’t help thinking of it. Hang it all, I do care for the place.”

“It isn’t any worse than the Causfield Clewers getting it. You’ve always said you wouldn’t mind so very much if that happened.”

“Nor would I. They are a very decent set, I believe. This would be quite a different thing.”

“Well,” she said, “I’ll see Kell and I’ll put the financial question before her. But I can’t promise not to back her up if she sticks to him. I shall think too well of her.”

“No, don’t. I don’t want a quarrel. James is so persistent that he may carry this through, just as he did us all over the Paris business. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised. And in that case I don’t want an open breach. It will only make things worse. That’s why I don’t want Mamma to get her finger into this pie; she’s so uncompromising. Be nice to Kell, but tell her firmly that, if they insist upon marriage, we won’t help them in any way. That should scare her.”

“All right. I’ll see her now.”

“Need you worry so early?” He looked grateful. “Wait until after lunch. Any time will do. You’ve nothing doing to-day, have you?”

“Nothing. But I’ll see her at once and then get up,” said Agatha briskly.

He kissed her and departed, leaving her to arrange her thoughts for the encounter. Kell was summoned. In her print frock, with her flaming hair tucked away under her cap, she looked out of place in the exotic richness of Agatha’s bedroom. She suggested a marigold in an orchid house. She came and stood at the bedside, looking at her employer with eyes that were respectful but unembarrassed.

“Sit down, won’t you?” said Agatha, raising herself upon one elbow and looking kindly at the girl.

Kell sat, with a trace of nervousness, hardly knowing where to place her reddened hands.

“I wanted to talk,” continued Agatha, “about this marriage. Naturally it is rather a surprise to us. You must forgive us if it is so.”

“Of course, I see that, my lady,” rejoined Kell. After a pause she continued in the careful speech she used with her employers, “I know he is above me in station. But I think I can make him happy. He is so different from most gentlemen.”

“He is indeed!” thought Agatha. Aloud she said: “Have you thought—forgive me if I am impertinent—have you thought at all about ways and means? Do you think you can afford to marry, in fact?”

“Oh, yes,” said Kell, looking surprised. “We were going to begin buying our furniture at once.”

“He has four hundred pounds a year, I believe,” murmured Agatha.

“Plenty girls in my class marry on less, Lady Clewer. I’d think very poorly of myself if I couldn’t manage on eight pounds a week. And we’ve got something saved for our furniture.”

“But then the standard of living would be rather different. You couldn’t live like cottagers, quite.” Kell looked unconvinced. “Or would you?”

“We thought so,” the other girl admitted. “We don’t want anything different. I’m not marrying him because I want anything different. I don’t like his being in a different class to me. I’d rather he was the same. For us to try to live like gentlepeople would be silly. It wouldn’t suit him nor me.”

“Then what are your plans?”

“There’s a little cottage out Bramfield way, my lady, that would do for us very well. I like Bramfield, because I’ve a married cousin living near there. And he likes it because of his pictures. He often goes over there to draw out the scenery.”

“Does he? Do you like his pictures, Ke . . . I can’t call you Kell if I’m to be your sister-in-law, can I? May I call you Dolly? It seems to be more sensible, doesn’t it? Tell me how you like his pictures.”

“I don’t know.” Dolly looked confused. “I hardly understand such things. He seems quite set on it, as you might say.”

“Do you think he’ll go on painting when you are married?”

“Why, yes! What else would he do? A man must have something.”

“But you don’t admire his work particularly?”

Dolly flushed, feeling that her loyalty was in some sort attacked.

“I think he’s very clever to draw out all those things,” she said defensively. “And they’re very like, I’m sure. I think the machinery in that picture of the traction engine has come out quite beautiful. But I don’t understand such things. At school I was always bad at the drawing.”

Agatha turned to another aspect of the case and asked: “What are your immediate plans? It will be very awkward for you during the next few weeks, won’t it? Are you finding it difficult?”

“Well, they don’t know in The Room yet,” said Dolly. “But I’ve nothing to be ashamed of when they do.”

“No, indeed! But I was wondering if it would be easier for you to go away for a bit. Have you no friends you could stay with until your marriage?”

Dolly shook her head.

“There’s only my aunt,” she said. “And she won’t be too pleased. She doesn’t hold with people marrying above them.”

“We’ll think out a plan,” said Agatha. “I’ll get up now. Could you send Pauline to me?”

Dolly rose, her round face very pink.

“I have to thank you for your kindness to me,” she said. “I know it is difficult for you and your family, and I shall always be grateful to you, Lady Clewer, for treating me in such a friendly way. I don’t know whether you and Sir John and old Lady Clewer won’t think that I ought to try and live like a lady when I’m married. But, to my way of thinking, we’d look more foolish if we did that, and give the family more to be ashamed of, than if we went on in the station we are used to.”

“But you see, Dolly, it won’t be his station.”

“I know, my lady. No more this isn’t.” Dolly was becoming earnest and idiomatic. “James and me—we are just suited to each other like. We’ll be just a little sort of class to ourselves, I should say.”

“That will be it,” said Agatha, enlightened. “Well . . . if you are both happy . . .”

Then, remembering John’s instructions, she repeated his warning as well as she could. Dolly listened with dignity.

“We don’t want anything done for us,” she said. “And I can promise that we won’t burden you. We wouldn’t like to lose our independence, you see.”

“Very well, as long as I’ve made it clear to you . . .”

“It’s quite clear, thank you, Lady Clewer. We’ll remember it.”

Dolly withdrew and Agatha embarked upon her toilet. Later in the morning she climbed the unaccustomed stairs to James’s attic. The artist, his arm in a sling, sat before the portrait of “Jellybelly,” which had remained on the easel since the day of the accident. Agatha turned her eyes away from it hastily, with that instinct of self-preservation which James’s work usually evoked.

“I came up,” she said, “to talk about you and Dolly.”

“Well?” he asked truculently.

“I think things will be rather difficult for Dolly, you know.”

“You can make them difficult.”

“I don’t want to. Please believe that I don’t want to. What I want to say is this. Wouldn’t it relieve the situation a good deal if you both came with me up to town and stayed in an hotel somewhere until after the wedding? You’ll have a lot of shopping to do, and it will be easier all round. I’ve not proposed this to John yet, until I saw what you and Dolly think. But I believe he would think it a good plan if the marriage is really coming off soon.”

“Thank you, Agatha. But I don’t see, if you are nice to her, that she would have such a bad time here.”

“But the other servants!”

“What could they do to her? Dolly won’t mind.”

“Yes, she will. Dear James, if you are going to marry her you must try to think of things from her point of view. Can’t you see that?”

“Have you spoken to Dolly?”

“Yes. And I believe she would like the plan if I suggested it.”

“Well,” he said, “I’ll agree all right, if you will be my guest while we are in town, Agatha. Will you do that? I’ve been yours quite long enough. It’s time you were mine.”

“Well, James—I don’t quite like——”

“You want to stop it?” he asked, looking at her keenly.

“What? The marriage? No I don’t.” She hesitated a moment and then said: “I don’t at all. I believe it ought to be a great success.”

“Agatha! Then you are really on our side?”

“Yes. I believe I am.”

“Well, I wouldn’t ever have guessed. Though I always thought, you know, that you were a nice creature. Nicer than any one except Dolly.”

He smiled at her, his plain face creased into an unaccustomed beam of delight.

“You are——” Words failed him. “I can’t tell you what I feel. But I’ll never forget it. Nor will Dolly. It makes it all so much easier. I used to think sometimes that you weren’t one really though you looked like one.”

“Like what, James?”

“Oh—one of those women—like Mamma and Lois and Cynthia—a lady, you know. Not like Dolly.”

He fell silent, smiling delightedly at her. Then, suddenly inspired, he jerked his thumb toward the easel.

“You have it.”

She controlled her features and hoped that she had given no hint of her dismay. But he was, fortunately, quite convinced by her words of gratitude.

“Shall I bring it down to your room?” he asked.

She tried to imagine its stark contours in the luxury of her bedchamber.

“Where on earth can I put it?” she asked herself, as she stumbled down the garret stairs.