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Title: The Garotters

Author: William D. Howells

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CHAPTER I.

THE NEW-COMERS.

"If you please,
mum,"
said the voice of a domestic from somewhere round the angle of the door,
"number three is moving in.

Two little old ladies,
who were sitting at either side of a table,
sprang
to their feet
with ejaculations of interest,
and rushed
to the window of the sitting-room.

"Take care,
Monica dear,"
said one,
shrouding herself in the lace curtain;
"don't let them see us.

"No,
no,
Bertha.

We must not give them reason
to say that their neighbors are inquisitive.

But I think that we are safe if we stand like this."

The open window looked out upon a sloping lawn,
well trimmed and pleasant,
with fuzzy rosebushes and a star-shaped bed of sweet-william.

It was bounded by a low wooden fence,
which screened it off from a broad,
modern,
new metaled road.

At the other side of this road were three large detached deep-bodied villas
with peaky eaves and small wooden balconies,
each standing in its own little square of grass and of flowers.

All three were equally new,
but numbers one and two were curtained and sedate,
with a human,
sociable look
to them;
while number three,
with yawning door and unkempt garden,
had apparently only just received its furniture and made itself ready
for its occupants.

A four-wheeler had driven up
to the gate,
and it was at this that the old ladies,
peeping out bird-like from behind their curtains,
directed an eager and questioning gaze.

The cabman had descended,
and the passengers within were handing out the articles which they desired him
to carry up
to the house.

He stood red-faced and blinking,
with his crooked arms outstretched,
while a male hand,
protruding from the window,
kept piling up upon him a series of articles the sight of which filled the curious old ladies
with bewilderment.

"My goodness me!"
cried Monica,
the smaller,
the drier,
and the more wizened of the pair.

"What do you call that,
Bertha?

It looks
to me like four batter puddings."

"Those are what young men box each other with,"
said Bertha,
with a conscious air of superior worldly knowledge.

"And those?"
Two great bottle-shaped pieces of yellow shining wood had been heaped upon the cabman.

"Oh,
I don't know what those are,"
confessed Bertha.

Indian clubs had never before obtruded themselves upon her peaceful and very feminine existence.

These mysterious articles were followed,
however,
by others which were more within their,
range of comprehension--by a pair of dumb-bells,
a purple cricket-bag,
a set of golf clubs,
and a tennis racket.

Finally,
when the cabman,
all top-heavy and bristling,
had staggered off up the garden path,
there emerged in a very leisurely way from the cab a big,
powerfully built young man,
with a bull pup under one arm and a pink sporting paper in his hand.

The paper he crammed into the pocket of his light yellow dust-coat,
and extended his hand as if
to assist some one else from the vehicle.

To the surprise of the two old ladies,
however,
the only thing which his open palm received was a violent slap,
and a tall lady bounded unassisted out of the cab.

With a regal wave she motioned the young man towards the door,
and then
with one hand upon her hip she stood in a careless,
lounging attitude by the gate,
kicking her toe against the wall and listlessly awaiting the return of the driver.

As she turned slowly round,
and the sunshine struck upon her face,
the two watchers were amazed
to see that this very active and energetic lady was far from being in her first youth,
so far that she had certainly come of age again since she first passed that landmark in life's journey.

Her finely chiseled,
clean-cut face,
with something red Indian about the firm mouth and strongly marked cheek bones,
showed even at that distance traces of the friction of the passing years.

And yet she was very handsome.

Her features were as firm in repose as those of a Greek bust,
and her great dark eyes were arched over by two brows so black,
so thick,
and so delicately curved,
that the eye turned away from the harsher details of the face
to marvel at their grace and strength.

Her figure,
too,
was straight as a dart,
a little portly,
perhaps,
but curving into magnificent outlines,
which were half accentuated by the strange costume which she wore.

Her hair,
black but plentifully shot
with grey,
was brushed plainly back from her high forehead,
and was gathered under a small round felt hat,
like that of a man,
with one sprig of feather in the band as a concession
to her sex.

A double-breasted jacket of some dark frieze-like material fitted closely
to her figure,
while her straight blue skirt,
untrimmed and ungathered,
was cut so short that the lower curve of her finely-turned legs was plainly visible beneath it,
terminating in a pair of broad,
flat,
low-heeled and square-toed shoes.

Such was the lady who lounged at the gate of number three,
under the curious eyes of her two opposite neighbors.

But if her conduct and appearance had already somewhat jarred upon their limited and precise sense of the fitness of things,
what were they
to think of the next little act in this tableau vivant?

The cabman,
red and heavy-jowled,
had come back from his labors,
and held out his hand
for his fare.

The lady passed him a coin,
there was a moment of mumbling and gesticulating,
and suddenly she had him
with both hands by the red cravat which girt his neck,
and was shaking him as a terrier would a rat.

Right across the pavement she thrust him,
and,
pushing him up against the wheel,
she banged his head three several times against the side of his own vehicle.

"Can I be of any use
to you,
aunt?"
asked the large youth,
framing himself in the open doorway.

"Not the slightest,"
panted the enraged lady.

"There,
you low blackguard,
that will teach you
to be impertinent
to a lady."

The cabman looked helplessly about him
with a bewildered,
questioning gaze,
as one
to whom alone of all men this unheard-of and extraordinary thing had happened.

Then,
rubbing his head,
he mounted slowly on
to the box and drove away
with an uptossed hand appealing
to the universe.

The lady smoothed down her dress,
pushed back her hair under her little felt hat,
and strode in through the hall-door,
which was closed behind her.

As
with a whisk her short skirts vanished into the darkness,
the two spectators--Miss Bertha and Miss Monica Williams--sat looking at each other in speechless amazement.

For fifty years they had peeped through that little window and across that trim garden,
but never yet had such a sight as this come
to confound them.

"I wish,"
said Monica at last,
"that we had kept the field."

"I am sure I wish we had,"
answered her sister.

---- CHAPTER II.

BREAKING THE ICE.

The cottage from the window of which the Misses Williams had looked out stands,
and has stood
for many a year,
in that pleasant suburban district which lies between Norwood,
Anerley,
and Forest Hill.

Long before there had been a thought of a township there,
when the Metropolis was still quite a distant thing,
old Mr. Williams had inhabited
"The Brambles,"
as the little house was called,
and had owned all the fields about it.

Six or eight such cottages scattered over a rolling country-side were all the houses
to be found there in the days when the century was young.

From afar,
when the breeze came from the north,
the dull,
low roar of the great city might be heard,
like the breaking of the tide of life,
while along the horizon might be seen the dim curtain of smoke,
the grim spray which that tide threw up.

Gradually,
however,
as the years passed,
the City had thrown out a long brick-feeler here and there,
curving,
extending,
and coalescing,
until at last the little cottages had been gripped round by these red tentacles,
and had been absorbed
to make room
for the modern villa.

Field by field the estate of old Mr. Williams had been sold
to the speculative builder,
and had borne rich crops of snug suburban dwellings,
arranged in curving crescents and tree-lined avenues.

The father had passed away before his cottage was entirely bricked round,
but his two daughters,
to whom the property had descended,
lived
to see the last vestige of country taken from them.

For years they had clung
to the one field which faced their windows,
and it was only after much argument and many heartburnings,
that they had at last consented that it should share the fate of the others.

A broad road was driven through their quiet domain,
the quarter was re-named
"The Wilderness,"
and three square,
staring,
uncompromising villas began
to sprout up on the other side.

With sore hearts,
the two shy little old maids watched their steady progress,
and speculated as
to what fashion of neighbors chance would bring into the little nook which had always been their own.

And at last they were all three finished.

Wooden balconies and overhanging eaves had been added
to them,
so that,
in the language of the advertisement,
there were vacant three eligible Swiss-built villas,
with sixteen rooms,
no basement,
electric bells,
hot and cold water,
and every modern convenience,
including a common tennis lawn,
to be let at L100 a year,
or L1,500 purchase.

So tempting an offer did not long remain open.

Within a few weeks the card had vanished from number one,
and it was known that Admiral Hay Denver,
V.

C.,
C.

B.,
with Mrs. Hay Denver and their only son,
were about
to move into it.

The news brought peace
to the hearts of the Williams sisters.

They had lived
with a settled conviction that some wild impossible colony,
some shouting,
singing family of madcaps,
would break in upon their peace.

This establishment at least was irreproachable.

A reference to
"Men of the Time"
showed them that Admiral Hay Denver was a most distinguished officer,
who had begun his active career at Bomarsund,
and had ended it at Alexandria,
having managed between these two episodes
to see as much service as any man of his years.

From the Taku Forts and the _Shannon_ brigade,
to dhow-harrying off Zanzibar,
there was no variety of naval work which did not appear in his record;
while the Victoria Cross,
and the Albert Medal
for saving life,
vouched
for it that in peace as in war his courage was still of the same true temper.

Clearly a very eligible neighbor this,
the more so as they had been confidentially assured by the estate agent that Mr. Harold Denver,
the son,
was a most quiet young gentleman,
and that he was busy from morning
to night on the Stock Exchange.

The Hay Denvers had hardly moved in before number two also struck its placard,
and again the ladies found that they had no reason
to be discontented
with their neighbors.

Doctor Balthazar Walker was a very well-known name in the medical world.

Did not his qualifications,
his membership,
and the record of his writings fill a long half-column in the
"Medical Directory,"
from his first little paper on the
"Gouty Diathesis"
in 1859
to his exhaustive treatise upon
"Affections of the Vaso-Motor System"
in 1884?

A successful medical career which promised
to end in a presidentship of a college and a baronetcy,
had been cut short by his sudden inheritance of a considerable sum from a grateful patient,
which had rendered him independent
for life,
and had enabled him
to turn his attention
to the more scientific part of his profession,
which had always had a greater charm
for him than its more practical and commercial aspect.

To this end he had given up his house in Weymouth Street,
and had taken this opportunity of moving himself,
his scientific instruments,
and his two charming daughters
(he had been a widower
for some years)
into the more peaceful atmosphere of Norwood.

There was thus but one villa unoccupied,
and it was no wonder that the two maiden ladies watched
with a keen interest,
which deepened into a dire apprehension,
the curious incidents which heralded the coming of the new tenants.

They had already learned from the agent that the family consisted of two only,
Mrs. Westmacott,
a widow,
and her nephew,
Charles Westmacott.

How simple and how select it had sounded! Who could have foreseen from it these fearful portents which seemed
to threaten violence and discord among the dwellers in The Wilderness?

Again the two old maids cried in heartfelt chorus that they wished they had not sold their field.

"Well,
at least,
Monica,"
remarked Bertha,
as they sat over their teacups that afternoon,
"however strange these people may be,
it is our duty
to be as polite
to them as
to the others."

"Most certainly,"
acquiesced her sister.

"Since we have called upon Mrs. Hay Denver and upon the Misses Walker,
we must call upon this Mrs. Westmacott also."

"Certainly,
dear.

As long as they are living upon our land I feel as if they were in a sense our guests,
and that it is our duty
to welcome them."

"Then we shall call to-morrow,"
said Bertha,
with decision.

"Yes,
dear,
we shall.

But,
oh,
I wish it was over!"
At four o'clock on the next day,
the two maiden ladies set off upon their hospitable errand.

In their stiff,
crackling dresses of black silk,
with jet-bespangled jackets,
and little rows of cylindrical grey curls drooping down on either side of their black bonnets,
they looked like two old fashion plates which had wandered off into the wrong decade.

Half curious and half fearful,
they knocked at the door of number three,
which was instantly opened by a red-headed page-boy.

Yes,
Mrs. Westmacott was at home.

He ushered them into the front room,
furnished as a drawing-room,
where in spite of the fine spring weather a large fire was burning in the grate.

The boy took their cards,
and then,
as they sat down together upon a settee,
he set their nerves in a thrill by darting behind a curtain
with a shrill cry,
and prodding at something
with his foot.

The bull pup which they had seen upon the day before bolted from its hiding-place,
and scuttled snarling from the room.

"It wants
to get at Eliza,"
said the youth,
in a confidential whisper.

"Master says she would give him more'n he brought."

He smiled affably at the two little stiff black figures,
and departed in search of his mistress.

"What--what did he say?"
gasped Bertha.

"Something about a---- Oh,
goodness gracious! Oh,
help,
help,
help,
help,
help!"
The two sisters had bounded on
to the settee,
and stood there
with staring eyes and skirts gathered in,
while they filled the whole house
with their yells.

Out of a high wicker-work basket which stood by the fire there had risen a flat diamond-shaped head
with wicked green eyes which came flickering upwards,
waving gently from side
to side,
until a foot or more of glossy scaly neck was visible.

Slowly the vicious head came floating up,
while at every oscillation a fresh burst of shrieks came from the settee.

"What in the name of mischief!"
cried a voice,
and there was the mistress of the house standing in the doorway.

Her gaze at first had merely taken in the fact that two strangers were standing screaming upon her red plush sofa.

A glance at the fireplace,
however,
showed her the cause of the terror,
and she burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"Charley,"
she shouted,
"here's Eliza misbehaving again."

"I'll settle her,"
answered a masculine voice,
and the young man dashed into the room.

He had a brown horse-cloth in his hand,
which he threw over the basket,
making it fast
with a piece of twine so as
to effectually imprison its inmate,
while his aunt ran across
to reassure her visitors.

"It is only a rock snake,
"
she explained.

"Oh,
Bertha!"
"Oh,
Monica!"
gasped the poor exhausted gentlewomen.

"She's hatching out some eggs.

That is why we have the fire.

Eliza always does better when she is warm.

She is a sweet,
gentle creature,
but no doubt she thought that you had designs upon her eggs.

I suppose that you did not touch any of them?"
"Oh,
let us get away,
Bertha!'
cried Monica,
with her thin,
black-gloved hands thrown forwards in abhorrence.

"Not away,
but into the next room,"
said Mrs. Westmacott,
with the air of one whose word was law.

"This way,
if you please! It is less warm here."

She led the way into a very handsomely appointed library,
with three great cases of books,
and upon the fourth side a long yellow table littered over
with papers and scientific instruments.

"Sit here,
and you,
there,"
she continued.

"That is right.

Now let me see,
which of you is Miss Williams,
and which Miss Bertha Williams?"
"I am Miss Williams,"
said Monica,
still palpitating,
and glancing furtively about in dread of some new horror.

"And you live,
as I understand,
over at the pretty little cottage.

It is very nice of you
to call so early.

I don't suppose that we shall get on,
but still the intention is equally good."

She crossed her legs and leaned her back against the marble mantelpiece.

"We thought that perhaps we might be of some assistance,"
said Bertha,
timidly.

"If there is anything which we could do
to make you feel more at home----"
"Oh,
thank you,
I am too old a traveler
to feel anything but at home wherever I go.

I've just come back from a few months in the Marquesas Islands,
where I had a very pleasant visit.

That was where I got Eliza.

In many respects the Marquesas Islands now lead the world."

"Dear me!"
ejaculated Miss WilliaMs. "In what respect?"
"In the relation of the sexes.

They have worked out the great problem upon their own lines,
and their isolated geographical position has helped them
to come
to a conclusion of their own.

The woman there is,
as she should be,
in every way the absolute equal of the male.

Come in,
Charles,
and sit down.

Is Eliza all right?"
"All right,
aunt."

"These are our neighbors,
the Misses WilliaMs. Perhaps they will have some stout.

You might bring in a couple of bottles,
Charles."

"No,
no,
thank you! None
for us!"
cried her two visitors,
earnestly.

"No?

I am sorry that I have no tea
to offer you.

I look upon the subserviency of woman as largely due
to her abandoning nutritious drinks and invigorating exercises
to the male.

I do neither."

She picked up a pair of fifteen-pound dumb-bells from beside the fireplace and swung them lightly about her head.

"You see what may be done on stout,"
said she.

"But don't you think,"
the elder Miss Williams suggested timidly,
"don't you think,
Mrs. Westmascott,
that woman has a mission of her own?"
The lady of the house dropped her dumb-bells
with a crash upon the floor.

"The old cant!"
she cried.

"The old shibboleth! What is this mission which is reserved
for woman?

All that is humble,
that is mean,
that is soul-killing,
that is so contemptible and so ill-paid that none other will touch it.

All that is woman's mission.

And who imposed these limitations upon her?

Who cooped her up within this narrow sphere?

Was it Providence?

Was it nature?

No,
it was the arch enemy.

It was man."

"Oh,
I say,
auntie!"
drawled her nephew.

"It was man,
Charles.

It was you and your fellows I say that woman is a colossal monument
to the selfishness of man.

What is all this boasted chivalry--these fine words and vague phrases?

Where is it when we wish
to put it
to the test?

Man in the abstract will do anything
to help a woman.

Of course.

How does it work when his pocket is touched?

Where is his chivalry then?

Will the doctors help her
to qualify?

will the lawyers help her
to be called
to the bar?

will the clergy tolerate her in the Church?

Oh,
it is close your ranks then and refer poor woman
to her mission! Her mission!
to be thankful
for coppers and not
to interfere
with the men while they grabble
for gold,
like swine round a trough,
that is man's reading of the mission of women.

You may sit there and sneer,
Charles,
while you look upon your victim,
but you know that it is truth,
every word of it.

Terrified as they were by this sudden torrent of words,
the two gentlewomen could not but smile at the sight of the fiery,
domineering victim and the big apologetic representative of mankind who sat meekly bearing all the sins of his sex.

The lady struck a match,
whipped a cigarette from a case upon the mantelpiece,
and began
to draw the smoke into her lungs.

"I find it very soothing when my nerves are at all ruffled,"
she explained.

"You don't smoke?

Ah,
you miss one of the purest of pleasures--one of the few pleasures which are without a reaction."

Miss Williams smoothed out her silken lap.

"It is a pleasure,"
she said,
with some approach
to self-assertion,
"which Bertha and I are rather too old-fashioned
to enjoy."

"No doubt,
It would probably make you very ill if you attempted it.

By the way,
I hope that you will come
to some of our Guild meetings.

I shall see that tickets are sent you."

"Your Guild?"
"It is not yet formed,
but I shall lose no time in forming a committee.

It is my habit
to establish a branch of the Emancipation Guild wherever I go.

There is a Mrs. Sanderson in Anerley who is already one of the emancipated,
so that I have a nucleus.

It is only by organized resistance,
Miss Williams,
that we can hope
to hold our own against the selfish sex.

Must you go,
then?"
"Yes,
we have one or two other visits
to pay,"
said the elder sister.

"You will,
I am sure,
excuse us.

I hope that you will find Norwood a pleasant residence."

"All places are
to me simply a battle-field,"
she answered,
gripping first one and then the other
with a grip which crumpled up their little thin fingers.

"The days
for work and healthful exercise,
the evenings
to Browning and high discourse,
eh,
Charles?

Good-bye!"
She came
to the door
with them,
and as they glanced back they saw her still standing there
with the yellow bull pup cuddled up under one forearm,
and the thin blue reek of her cigarette ascending from her lips.

"Oh,
what a dreadful,
dreadful woman!"
whispered sister Bertha,
as they hurried down the street.

"Thank goodness that it is over."

"But she'll return the visit,"
answered the other.

"I think that we had better tell Mary that we are not at home.

---- CHAPTER III.

DWELLERS IN THE WILDERNESS.

How deeply are our destinies influenced by the most trifling causes! Had the unknown builder who erected and owned these new villas contented himself by simply building each within its own grounds,
it is probable that these three small groups of people would have remained hardly conscious of each other's existence,
and that there would have been no opportunity
for that action and reaction which is here set forth.

But there was a common link
to bind them together.

To single himself out from all other Norwood builders the landlord had devised and laid out a common lawn tennis ground,
which stretched behind the houses
with taut-stretched net,
green close-cropped sward,
and widespread whitewashed lines.

Hither in search of that hard exercise which is as necessary as air or food
to the English temperament,
came young Hay Denver when released from the toil of the City;
hither,
too,
came Dr. Walker and his two fair daughters,
Clara and Ida,
and hither also,
champions of the lawn,
came the short-skirted,
muscular widow and her athletic nephew.

Ere the summer was gone they knew each other in this quiet nook as they might not have done after years of a stiffer and more formal acquaintance.

And especially
to the Admiral and the Doctor were this closer intimacy and companionship of value.

Each had a void in his life,
as every man must have who
with unexhausted strength steps out of the great race,
but each by his society might help
to fill up that of his neighbor.

It is true that they had not much in common,
but that is sometimes an aid rather than a bar
to friendship.

Each had been an enthusiast in his profession,
and had retained all his interest in it.

The Doctor still read from cover
to cover his Lancet and his Medical Journal,
attended all professional gatherings,
worked himself into an alternate state of exaltation and depression over the results of the election of officers,
and reserved
for himself a den of his own,
in which before rows of little round bottles full of glycerine,
Canadian balsam,
and staining agents,
he still cut sections
with a microtome,
and peeped through his long,
brass,
old-fashioned microscope at the arcana of nature.

With his typical face,
clean shaven on lip and chin,
with a firm mouth,
a strong jaw,
a steady eye,
and two little white fluffs of whiskers,
he could never be taken
for anything but what he was,
a high-class British medical consultant of the age of fifty,
or perhaps just a year or two older.

The Doctor,
in his hey-day,
had been cool over great things,
but now,
in his retirement,
he was fussy over trifles.

The man who had operated without the quiver of a finger,
when not only his patient's life but his own reputation and future were at stake,
was now shaken
to the soul by a mislaid book or a careless maid.

He remarked it himself,
and knew the reason.

"When Mary was alive,"
he would say,
"she stood between me and the little troubles.

I could brace myself
for the big ones.

My girls are as good as girls can be,
but who can know a man as his wife knows him?"
Then his memory would conjure up a tuft of brown hair and a single white,
thin hand over a coverlet,
and he would feel,
as we have all felt,
that if we do not live and know each other after death,
then indeed we are tricked and betrayed by all the highest hopes and subtlest intuitions of our nature.

The Doctor had his compensations
to make up
for his loss.

The great scales of Fate had been held on a level
for him;
for where in all great London could one find two sweeter girls,
more loving,
more intelligent,
and more sympathetic than Clara and Ida Walker?

So bright were they,
so quick,
so interested in all which interested him,
that if it were possible
for a man
to be compensated
for the loss of a good wife then Balthazar Walker might claim
to be so.

Clara was tall and thin and supple,
with a graceful,
womanly figure.

There was something stately and distinguished in her carriage,
"queenly"
her friends called her,
while her critics described her as reserved and distant.

Such as it was,
however,
it was part and parcel of herself,
for she was,
and had always from her childhood been,
different from any one around her.

There was nothing gregarious in her nature.

She thought
with her own mind,
saw
with her own eyes,
acted from her own impulse.

Her face was pale,
striking rather than pretty,
but
with two great dark eyes,
so earnestly questioning,
so quick in their transitions from joy
to pathos,
so swift in their comment upon every word and deed around her,
that those eyes alone were
to many more attractive than all the beauty of her younger sister.

Hers was a strong,
quiet soul,
and it was her firm hand which had taken over the duties of her mother,
had ordered the house,
restrained the servants,
comforted her father,
and upheld her weaker sister,
from the day of that great misfortune.

Ida Walker was a hand's breadth smaller than Clara,
but was a little fuller in the face and plumper in the figure.

She had light yellow hair,
mischievous blue eyes
with the light of humor ever twinkling in their depths,
and a large,
perfectly formed mouth,
with that slight upward curve of the corners which goes
with a keen appreciation of fun,
suggesting even in repose that a latent smile is ever lurking at the edges of the lips.

She was modern
to the soles of her dainty little high-heeled shoes,
frankly fond of dress and of pleasure,
devoted
to tennis and
to comic opera,
delighted
with a dance,
which came her way only too seldom,
longing ever
for some new excitement,
and yet behind all this lighter side of her character a thoroughly good,
healthy-minded English girl,
the life and soul of the house,
and the idol of her sister and her father.

Such was the family at number two.

A peep into the remaining villa and our introductions are complete.

Admiral Hay Denver did not belong
to the florid,
white-haired,
hearty school of sea-dogs which is more common in works of fiction than in the Navy List.

On the contrary,
he was the representative of a much more common type which is the antithesis of the conventional sailor.

He was a thin,
hard-featured man,
with an ascetic,
acquiline cast of face,
grizzled and hollow-cheeked,
clean-shaven
with the exception of the tiniest curved promontory of ash-colored whisker.

An observer,
accustomed
to classify men,
might have put him down as a canon of the church
with a taste
for lay costume and a country life,
or as the master of a large public school,
who joined his scholars in their outdoor sports.

His lips were firm,
his chin prominent,
he had a hard,
dry eye,
and his manner was precise and formal.

Forty years of stern discipline had made him reserved and silent.

Yet,
when at his ease
with an equal,
he could readily assume a less quarter-deck style,
and he had a fund of little,
dry stories of the world and its ways which were of interest from one who had seen so many phases of life.

Dry and spare,
as lean as a jockey and as tough as whipcord,
he might be seen any day swinging his silver-headed Malacca cane,
and pacing along the suburban roads
with the same measured gait
with which he had been wont
to tread the poop of his flagship.

He wore a good service stripe upon his cheek,
for on one side it was pitted and scarred where a spurt of gravel knocked up by a round-shot had struck him thirty years before,
when he served in the Lancaster gun-battery.

Yet he was hale and sound,
and though he was fifteen years senior
to his friend the Doctor,
he might have passed as the younger man.

Mrs. Hay Denver's life had been a very broken one,
and her record upon land represented a greater amount of endurance and self-sacrifice than his upon the sea.

They had been together
for four months after their marriage,
and then had come a hiatus of four years,
during which he was flitting about between St. Helena and the Oil Rivers in a gunboat.

Then came a blessed year of peace and domesticity,
to be followed by nine years,
with only a three months'
break,
five upon the Pacific station,
and four on the East Indian.

After that was a respite in the shape of five years in the Channel squadron,
with periodical runs home,
and then again he was off
to the Mediterranean
for three years and
to Halifax
for four.

Now,
at last,
however,
this old married couple,
who were still almost strangers
to one another,
had come together in Norwood,
where,
if their short day had been chequered and broken,
the evening at least promised
to be sweet and mellow.

In person Mrs. Hay Denver was tall and stout,
with a bright,
round,
ruddy-cheeked face still pretty,
with a gracious,
matronly comeliness.

Her whole life was a round of devotion and of love,
which was divided between her husband and her only son,
Harold.

This son it was who kept them in the neighborhood of London,
for the Admiral was as fond of ships and of salt water as ever,
and was as happy in the sheets of a two-ton yacht as on the bridge of his sixteen-knot monitor.

Had he been untied,
the Devonshire or Hampshire coast would certainly have been his choice.

There was Harold,
however,
and Harold's interests were their chief care.

Harold was four-and-twenty now.

Three years before he had been taken in hand by an acquaintance of his father's,
the head of a considerable firm of stock-brokers,
and fairly launched upon
'Change.

His three hundred guinea entrance fee paid,
his three sureties of five hundred pounds each found,
his name approved by the Committee,
and all other formalities complied with,
he found himself whirling round,
an insignificant unit,
in the vortex of the money market of the world.

There,
under the guidance of his father's friend,
he was instructed in the mysteries of bulling and of bearing,
in the strange usages of
'Change in the intricacies of carrying over and of transferring.

He learned
to know where
to place his clients'
money,
which of the jobbers would make a price in New Zealands,
and which would touch nothing but American rails,
which might be trusted and which shunned.

All this,
and much more,
he mastered,
and
to such purpose that he soon began
to prosper,
to retain the clients who had been recommened
to him,
and
to attract fresh ones.

But the work was never congenial.

He had inherited from his father his love of the air of heaven,
his affection
for a manly and natural existence.

To act as middleman between the pursuer of wealth,
and the wealth which he pursued,
or
to stand as a human barometer,
registering the rise and fall of the great mammon pressure in the markets,
was not the work
for which Providence had placed those broad shoulders and strong limbs upon his well knit frame.

His dark open face,
too,
with his straight Grecian nose,
well opened brown eyes,
and round black-curled head,
were all those of a man who was fashioned
for active physical work.

Meanwhile he was popular
with his fellow brokers,
respected by his clients,
and beloved at home,
but his spirit was restless within him and his mind chafed unceasingly against his surroundings.

"Do you know,
Willy,"
said Mrs. Hay Denver one evening as she stood behind her husband's chair,
with her hand upon his shoulder,
"I think sometimes that Harold is not quite happy."

"He looks happy,
the young rascal,"
answered the Admiral,
pointing
with his cigar.

It was after dinner,
and through the open French window of the dining-room a clear view was
to be had of the tennis court and the players.

A set had just been finished,
and young Charles Westmacott was hitting up the balls as high as he could send them in the middle of the ground.

Doctor Walker and Mrs. Westmacott were pacing up and down the lawn,
the lady waving her racket as she emphasized her remarks,
and the Doctor listening
with slanting head and little nods of agreement.

Against the rails at the near end Harold was leaning in his flannels talking
to the two sisters,
who stood listening
to him
with their long dark shadows streaming down the lawn behind them.

The girls were dressed alike in dark skirts,
with light pink tennis blouses and pink bands on their straw hats,
so that as they stood
with the soft red of the setting sun tinging their faces,
Clara,
demure and quiet,
Ida,
mischievous and daring,
it was a group which might have pleased the eye of a more exacting critic than the old sailor.

"Yes,
he looks happy,
mother,"
he repeated,
with a chuckle.

"It is not so long ago since it was you and I who were standing like that,
and I don't remember that we were very unhappy either.

It was croquet in our time,
and the ladies had not reefed in their skirts quite so taut.

What year would it be?

Just before the commission of the Penelope."

Mrs. Hay Denver ran her fingers through his grizzled hair.

"It was when you came back in the Antelope,
just before you got your step."

"Ah,
the old Antelope! What a clipper she was! She could sail two points nearer the wind than anything of her tonnage in the service.

You remember her,
mother.

You saw her come into Plymouth Bay.

Wasn't she a beauty?"
"She was indeed,
dear.

But when I say that I think that Harold is not happy I mean in his daily life.

Has it never struck you how thoughtful,
he is at times,
and how absent-minded?"
"In love perhaps,
the young dog.

He seems
to have found snug moorings now at any rate."

"I think that it is very likely that you are right,
Willy,"
answered the mother seriously.

"But
with which of them?"
"I cannot tell."

"Well,
they are very charming girls,
both of them.

But as long as he hangs in the wind between the two it cannot be serious.

After all,
the boy is four-and-twenty,
and he made five hundred pounds last year.

He is better able
to marry than I was when I was lieutenant."

"I think that we can see which it is now,"
remarked the observant mother.

Charles Westmacott had ceased
to knock the tennis balls about,
and was chatting
with Clara Walker,
while Ida and Harold Denver were still talking by the railing
with little outbursts of laughter.

Presently a fresh set was formed,
and Doctor Walker,
the odd man out,
came through the wicket gate and strolled up the garden walk.

"Good evening,
Mrs. Hay Denver,"
said he,
raising his broad straw hat.

"May I come in?"
"Good evening,
Doctor! Pray do!"
"Try one of these,"
said the Admiral,
holding out his cigar-case.

"They are not bad.

I got them on the Mosquito Coast.

I was thinking of signaling
to you,
but you seemed so very happy out there."

"Mrs. Westmacott is a very clever woman,"
said the Doctor,
lighting the cigar.

"By the way,
you spoke about the Mosquito Coast just now.

Did you see much of the Hyla when you were out there?"
"No such name on the list,"
answered the seaman,
with decision.

"There's the Hydra,
a harbor defense turret-ship,
but she never leaves the home waters."

The Doctor laughed.

"We live in two separate worlds,"
said he.

"The Hyla is the little green tree frog,
and Beale has founded some of his views on protoplasm upon the appearancer,
of its nerve cells.

It is a subject in which I take an interest."

"There were vermin of all sorts in the woods.

When I have been on river service I have heard it at night like the engine-room when you are on the measured mile.

You can't sleep
for the piping,
and croaking,
and chirping.

Great Scott! what a woman that is! She was across the lawn in three jumps.

She would have made a captain of the foretop in the old days."

"She is a very remarkable woman.

"A very cranky one."

"A very sensible one in some things,"
remarked Mrs. Hay Denver.

"Look at that now!"
cried the Admiral,
with a lunge of his forefinger at the Doctor.

"You mark my words,
Walker,
if we don't look out that woman will raise a mutiny
with her preaching.

Here's my wife disaffected already,
and your girls will be no better.

We must combine,
man,
or there's an end of all discipline."

"No doubt she is a little excessive in her views."

said the Doctor,
"but in the main I think as she does."

"Bravo,
Doctor!"
cried the lady.

"What,
turned traitor
to your sex! We'll court-martial you as a deserter."

"She is quite right.

The professions are not sufficiently open
to women.

They are still far too much circumscribed in their employments.

They are a feeble folk,
the women who have
to work
for their bread--poor,
unorganized,
timid,
taking as a favor what they might demand as a right.

That is why their case is not more constantly before the public,
for if their cry
for redress was as great as their grievance it would fill the world
to the exclusion of all others.

It is all very well
for us
to be courteous
to the rich,
the refined,
those
to whom life is already made easy.

It is a mere form,
a trick of manner.

If we are truly courteous,
we shall stoop
to lift up struggling womanhood when she really needs our help--when it is life and death
to her whether she has it or not.

And then
to cant about it being unwomanly
to work in the higher professions.

It is womanly enough
to starve,
but unwomanly
to use the brains which God has given them.

Is it not a monstrous contention?"
The Admiral chuckled.

"You are like one of these phonographs,
Walker,"
said he;
"you have had all this talked into you,
and now you are reeling it off again.

It's rank mutiny,
every word of it,
for man has his duties and woman has hers,
but they are as separate as their natures are.

I suppose that we shall have a woman hoisting her pennant on the flagship presently,
and taking command of the Channel Squadron."

"Well,
you have a woman on the throne taking command of the whole nation,"
remarked his wife;
"and everybody is agreed that she does it better than any of the men."

The Admiral was somewhat staggered by this home-thrust.

"That's quite another thing,"
said he.

"You should come
to their next meeting.

I am
to take the chair.

I have just promised Mrs. Westmacott that I will do so.

But it has turned chilly,
and it is time that the girls were indoors.

Good night! I shall look out
for you after breakfast
for our constitutional,
Admiral."

The old sailor looked after his friend
with a twinkle in his eyes.

"How old is he,
mother?"
"About fifty,
I think."

"And Mrs. Westmacott?"
"I heard that she was forty-three."

The Admiral rubbed his hands,
and shook
with amusement.

"We'll find one of these days that three and two make one,"
said he.

I'll bet you a new bonnet on it,
mother.

CHAPTER IV.

A SISTER'S SECRET.

"Tell me,
Miss Walker! You know how things should be.

What would you say was a good profession
for a young man of twenty-six who has had no education worth speaking about,
and who is not very quick by nature?"
The speaker was Charles Westmacott,
and the time this same summer evening in the tennis ground,
though the shadows had fallen now and the game been abandoned.

The girl glanced up at him,
amused and surprised.

"Do you mean yourself?"
"Precisely."

"But how could I tell?"
"I have no one
to advise me.

I believe that you could do it better than any one.

I feel confidence in your opinion."

"It is very flattering."

She glanced up again at his earnest,
questioning face,
with its Saxon eyes and drooping flaxen mustache,
in some doubt as
to whether he might be joking.

On the contrary,
all his attention seemed
to be concentrated upon her answer.

"It depends so much upon what you can do,
you know.

I do not know you sufficiently
to be able
to say what natural gifts you have."

They were walking slowly across the lawn in the direction of the house.

"I have none.

That is
to say none worth mentioning.

I have no memory and I am very slow."

"But you are very strong."

"Oh,
if that goes
for anything.

I can put up a hundred-pound bar till further orders;
but what sort of a calling is that?"
Some little joke about being called
to the bar flickered up in Miss Walker's mind,
but her companion was in such obvious earnest that she stifled down her inclination
to laugh.

"I can do a mile on the cinder-track in 4:50 and across-country in 5:20,
but how is that
to help me?

I might be a cricket professional,
but it is not a very dignified position.

Not that I care a straw about dignity,
you know,
but I should not like
to hurt the old lady's feelings.

"Your aunt's?"
"Yes,
my aunt's.

My parents were killed in the Mutiny,
you know,
when I was a baby,
and she has looked after me ever since.

She has been very good
to me.

I'm sorry
to leave her."

"But why should you leave her?"
They had reached the garden gate,
and the girl leaned her racket upon the top of it,
looking up
with grave interest at her big white-flanneled companion.

"It's,
Browning,"
said he.

"What!"
"Don't tell my aunt that I said it"--he sank his voice
to a whisper--"I hate Browning."

Clara Walker rippled off into such a merry peal of laughter that he forgot the evil things which he had suffered from the poet,
and burst out laughing too.

"I can't make him out,"
said he.

"I try,
but he is one too many.

No doubt it is very stupid of me;
I don't deny it.

But as long as I cannot there is no use pretending that I can.

And then of course she feels hurt,
for she is very fond of him,
and likes
to read him aloud in the evenings.

She is reading a piece now `Pippa Passes,'
and I assure you,
Miss Walker,
that I don't even know what the title means.

You must think me a dreadful fool."

"But surely he is not so incomprehensible as all that?"
she said,
as an attempt at encouragement.

"He is very bad.

There are some things,
you know,
which are fine.

That ride of the three Dutchmen,
and Herve Riel and others,
they are all right.

But there was a piece we read last week.

The first line stumped my aunt,
and it takes a good deal
to do that,
for she rides very straight.

`Setebos and Setebos and Setebos.'

That was the line."

"It sounds like a charm."

"No,
it is a gentleman's name.

Three gentlemen,
I thought,
at first,
but my aunt says one.

Then he goes on,
`Thinketh he dwelleth in the light of the moon.'

It was a very trying piece."

Clara Walker laughed again.

"You must not think of leaving your aunt,"
she said.

"Think how lonely she would be without you."

"Well,
yes,
I have thought of that.

But you must remember that my aunt is
to all intents hardly middle-aged,
and a very eligible person.

I don't think that her dislike
to mankind extends
to individuals.

She might form new ties,
and then I should be a third wheel in the coach.

It was all very well as long as I was only a boy,
when her first husband was alive."

"But,
good gracious,
you don't mean that Mrs. Westmacott is going
to marry again?"
gasped Clara.

The young man glanced down at her
with a question in his eyes
"Oh,
it is only a remote,
possibility,
you know,"
said he.

"Still,
of course,
it might happen,
and I should like
to know what I ought
to turn my hand to."

"I wish I could help you,"
said Clara.

"But I really know very little about such things.

However,
I could talk
to my father,
who knows a very great deal of the world."

"I wish you would.

I should be so glad if you would."

"Then I certainly will.

And now I must say good-night,
Mr. Westmacott,
for papa will be wondering where I am."

"Good night,
Miss Walker."

He pulled off his flannel cap,
and stalked away through the gathering darkness.

Clara had imagined that they had been the last on the lawn,
but,
looking back from the steps which led up
to the French windows,
she saw two dark figures moving across towards the house.

As they came nearer she could distinguish that they were Harold Denver and her sister Ida.

The murmur of their voices rose up
to her ears,
and then the musical little child-like laugh which she knew so well.

"I am so delighted,"
she heard her sister say.

"So pleased and proud.

I had no idea of it.

Your words were such a surprise and a joy
to me.

Oh,
I am so glad."

"Is that you,
Ida?"
"Oh,
there is Clara.

I must go in,
Mr. Denver.

Good-night!"
There were a few whispered words,
a laugh from Ida,
and a
"Good-night,
Miss Walker,"
out of the darkness.

Clara took her sister's hand,
and they passed together through the long folding window.

The Doctor had gone into his study,
and the dining-room was empty.

A single small red lamp upon the sideboard was reflected tenfold by the plate about it and the mahogany beneath it,
though its single wick cast but a feeble light into the large,
dimly shadowed room.

Ida danced off
to the big central lamp,
but Clara put her hand upon her arm.

"I rather like this quiet light,"
said she.

"Why should we not have a chat?"
She sat in the Doctor's large red plush chair,
and her sister cuddled down upon the footstool at her feet,
glancing up at her elder
with a smile upon her lips and a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

There was a shade of anxiety in Clara's face,
which cleared away as she gazed into her sister's frank blue eyes.

"Have you anything
to tell me,
dear?"
she asked.

Ida gave a little pout and shrug
to her shoulder.

"The Solicitor-General then opened the case
for the prosecution,"
said she.

"You are going
to cross-examine me,
Clara,
so don't deny it.

I do wish you would have that grey satin foulard of yours done up.

With a little trimming and a new white vest it would look as good as new,
and it is really very dowdy."

"You were quite late upon the lawn,"
said the inexorable Clara.

"Yes,
I was rather.

So were you.

Have you anything
to tell me?"
She broke away into her merry musical laugh.

"I was chatting
with Mr. Westmacott."

"And I was chatting
with Mr. Denver.

By the way,
Clara,
now tell me truly,
what do you think of Mr. Denver?

Do you like him?

Honestly now!"
"I like him very much indeed.

I think that he is one of the most gentlemanly,
modest,
manly young men that I have ever known.

So now,
dear,
have you nothing
to tell me?"
Clara smoothed down her sister's golden hair
with a motherly gesture,
and stooped her face
to catch the expected confidence.

She could wish nothing better than that Ida should be the wife of Harold Denver,
and from the words which she had overheard as they left the lawn that evening,
she could not doubt that there was some understanding between them.

But there came no confession from Ida.

Only the same mischievous smile and amused gleam in her deep blue eyes.

"That grey foulard dress----"
she began.

"Oh,
you little tease! Come now,
I will ask you what you have just asked me.

Do you like Harold Denver?"
"Oh,
he's a darling!"
"Ida!"
"Well,
you asked me.

That's what I think of him.

And now,
you dear old inquisitive,
you will get nothing more out of me;
so you must wait and not be too curious.

I'm going off
to see what papa is doing."

She sprang
to her feet,
threw her arms round her sister's neck,
gave her a final squeeze,
and was gone.

A chorus from Olivette,
sung in her clear contralto,
grew fainter and fainter until it ended in the slam of a distant door.

But Clara Walker still sat in the dim-lit room
with her chin upon her hands,
and her dreamy eyes looking out into the gathering gloom.

It was the duty of her,
a maiden,
to play the part of a mother--to guide another in paths which her own steps had not yet trodden.

Since her mother died not a thought had been given
to herself,
all was
for her father and her sister.

In her own eyes she was herself very plain,
and she knew that her manner was often ungracious when she would most wish
to be gracious.

She saw her face as the glass reflected it,
but she did not see the changing play of expression which gave it its charm--the infinite pity,
the sympathy,
the sweet womanliness which drew towards her all who were in doubt and in trouble,
even as poor slow-moving Charles Westmacott had been drawn
to her that night.

She was herself,
she thought,
outside the pale of love.

But it was very different
with Ida,
merry,
little,
quick-witted,
bright-faced Ida.

She was born
for love.

It was her inheritance.

But she was young and innocent.

She must not be allowed
to venture too far without help in those dangerous waters.

Some understanding there was between her and Harold Denver.

In her heart of hearts Clara,
like every good woman,
was a match-maker,
and already she had chosen Denver of all men as the one
to whom she could most safely confide Ida.

He had talked
to her more than once on the serious topics of life,
on his aspirations,
on what a man could do
to leave the world better
for his presence.

She knew that he was a man of a noble nature,
high-minded and earnest.

And yet she did not like this secrecy,
this disinclination upon the part of one so frank and honest as Ida
to tell her what was passing.

She would wait,
and if she got the opportunity next day she would lead Harold Denver himself on
to this topic.

It was possible that she might learn from him what her sister had refused
to tell her.

---- CHAPTER V.

A NAVAL CONQUEST.

It was the habit of the Doctor and the Admiral
to accompany each other upon a morning ramble between breakfast and lunch.

The dwellers in those quiet tree-lined roads were accustomed
to see the two figures,
the long,
thin,
austere seaman,
and the short,
bustling,
tweed-clad physician,
pass and repass
with such regularity that a stopped clock has been reset by them.

The Admiral took two steps
to his companion's three,
but the younger man was the quicker,
and both were equal
to a good four and a half miles an hour.

It was a lovely summer day which followed the events which have been described.

The sky was of the deepest blue,
with a few white,
fleecy clouds drifting lazily across it,
and the air was filled
with the low drone of insects or
with a sudden sharper note as bee or bluefly shot past
with its quivering,
long-drawn hum,
like an insect tuning-fork.

As the friends topped each rise which leads up
to the Crystal Palace,
they could see the dun clouds of London stretching along the northern sky-line,
with spire or dome breaking through the low-lying haze.

The Admiral was in high spirits,
for the morning post had brought good news
to his son.

"It is wonderful,
Walker,"
he was saying,
"positively wonderful,
the way that boy of mine has gone ahead during the last three years.

We heard from Pearson to-day.

Pearson is the senior partner,
you know,
and my boy the junior--Pearson and Denver the firm.

Cunning old dog is Pearson,
as cute and as greedy as a Rio shark.

Yet he goes off
for a fortnight's leave,
and puts my boy in full charge,
with all that immense business in his hands,
and a freehand
to do what he likes
with it.

How's that
for confidence,
and he only three years upon
'Change?"
"Any one would confide in him.

His face is a surety,"
said the Doctor.

"Go on,
Walker!"
The Admiral dug his elbow at him.

"You know my weak side.

Still it's truth all the same.

I've been blessed
with a good wife and a good son,
and maybe I relish them the more
for having been cut off from them so long.

I have much
to be thankful for!"
"And so have I.

The best two girls that ever stepped.

There's Clara,
who has learned up as much medicine as would give her the L.S.A.,
simply in order that she may sympathize
with me in my work.

But hullo,
what is this coming along?"
"All drawing and the wind astern!"
cried the Admiral.

"Fourteen knots if it's one.

Why,
by George,
it is that woman!"
A rolling cloud of yellow dust had streamed round the curve of the road,
and from the heart of it had emerged a high tandem tricycle flying along at a breakneck pace.

In front sat Mrs. Westmacott clad in a heather tweed pea-jacket,
a skirt which just{?} passed her knees and a pair of thick gaiters of the same material.

She had a great bundle of red papers under her arm,
while Charles,
who sat behind her clad in Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers,
bore a similar roll protruding from either pocket.

Even as they watched,
the pair eased up,
the lady sprang off,
impaled one of her bills upon the garden railing of an empty house,
and then jumping on
to her seat again was about
to hurry onwards when her nephew drew her attention
to the two gentlemen upon the footpath.

"Oh,
now,
really I didn't notice you,"
said she,
taking a few turns of the treadle and steering the machine across
to them.

"Is it not a beautiful morning?"
"Lovely,"
answered the Doctor.

"You seem
to be very busy."

"I am very busy."

She pointed
to the colored paper which still fluttered from the railing.

"We have been pushing our propaganda,
you see.

Charles and I have been at it since seven o'clock.

It is about our meeting.

I wish it
to be a great success.

See!"
She smoothed out one of the bills,
and the Doctor read his own name in great black letters across the bottom.

"We don't forget our chairman,
you see.

Everybody is coming.

Those two dear little old maids opposite,
the Williamses,
held out
for some time;
but I have their promise now.

Admiral,
I am sure that you wish us well."

"Hum! I wish you no harm,
ma'am."

"You will come on the platform?"
"I'll be---- No,
I don't think I can do that."

"To our meeting,
then?"
"No,
ma'am;
I don't go out after dinner."

"Oh yes,
you will come.

I will call in if I may,
and chat it over
with you when you come home.

We have not breakfasted yet.

Goodbye!"
There was a whir of wheels,
and the yellow cloud rolled away down the road again.

By some legerdemain the Admiral found that he was clutching in his right hand one of the obnoxious bills.

He crumpled it up,
and threw it into the roadway.

"I'll be hanged if I go,
Walker,"
said he,
as be resumed his walk.

"I've never been hustled into doing a thing yet,
whether by woman or man."

"I am not a betting man,"
answered the Doctor,
"but I rather think that the odds are in favor of your going."

The Admiral had hardly got home,
and had just seated himself in his dining-room,
when the attack upon him was renewed.

He was slowly and lovingly unfolding the Times preparatory
to the long read which led up
to luncheon,
and had even got so far as
to fasten his golden pince-nez on
to his thin,
high-bridged nose,
when he heard a crunching of gravel,
and,
looking over the top of his paper,
saw Mrs. Westmacott coming up the garden walk.

She was still dressed in the singular costume which offended the sailor's old-fashioned notions of propriety,
but he could not deny,
as he looked at her,
that she was a very fine woman.

In many climes he had looked upon women of all shades and ages,
but never upon a more clearcut,
handsome face,
nor a more erect,
supple,
and womanly figure.

He ceased
to glower as he gazed upon her,
and the frown smoothed away from his rugged brow.

"May I come in?"
said she,
framing herself in the open window,
with a background of green sward and blue sky.

"I feel like an invader deep in an enemy's country."

"It is a very welcome invasion,
ma'am,"
said he,
clearing his throat and pulling at his high collar.

"Try this garden chair.

What is there that I can do
for you?

Shall I ring and let Mrs. Denver know that you are here?"
"Pray do not trouble,
Admiral.

I only looked in
with reference
to our little chat this morning.

I wish that you would give us your powerful support at our coming meeting
for the improvement of the condition of woman."

"No,
ma'am,
I can't do that."

He pursed up his lips and shook his grizzled head.

"And why not?"
"Against my principles,
ma'am."

"But why?"
"Because woman has her duties and man has his.

I may be old-fashioned,
but that is my view.

Why,
what is the world coming to?

I was saying
to Dr. Walker only last night that we shall have a woman wanting
to command the Channel Fleet next."

"That is one of the few professions which cannot be improved,"
said Mrs. Westmacott,
with her sweetest smile.

"Poor woman must still look
to man
for protection."

"I don't like these new-fangled ideas,
ma'am.

I tell you honestly that I don't.

I like discipline,
and I think every one is the better
for it.

Women have got a great deal which they had not in the days of our fathers.

They have universities all
for themselves,
I am told,
and there are women doctors,
I hear.

Surely they should rest contented.

What more can they want?"
"You are a sailor,
and sailors are always chivalrous.

If you could see how things really are,
you would change your opinion.

What are the poor things
to do?

There are so many of them and so few things
to which they can turn their hands.

Governesses?

But there are hardly any situations.

Music and drawing?

There is not one in fifty who has any special talent in that direction.

Medicine?

It is still surrounded
with difficulties
for women,
and it takes many years and a small fortune
to qualify.

Nursing?

It is hard work ill paid,
and none but the strongest can stand it.

What would you have them do then,
Admiral?

Sit down and starve?"
"Tut,
tut! It is not so bad as that."

"The pressure is terrible.

Advertise
for a lady companion at ten shillings a week,
which is less than a cook's wage,
and see how many answers you get.

There is no hope,
no outlook,
for these struggling thousands.

Life is a dull,
sordid struggle,
leading down
to a cheerless old age.

Yet when we try
to bring some little ray of hope,
some chance,
however distant,
of something better,
we are told by chivalrous gentlemen that it is against their principles
to help."

The Admiral winced,
but shook his head in dissent.

"There is banking,
the law,
veterinary surgery,
government offices,
the civil service,
all these at least should be thrown freely open
to women,
if they have brains enough
to compete successfully
for them.

Then if woman were unsuccessful it would be her own fault,
and the majority of the population of this country could no longer complain that they live under a different law
to the minority,
and that they are held down in poverty and serfdom,
with every road
to independence sealed
to them."

"What would you propose
to do,
ma'am?"
"To set the more obvious injustices right,
and so
to pave the way
for a reform.

Now look at that man digging in the field.

I know him.

He can neither read nor write,
he is steeped in whisky,
and he has as much intelligence as the potatoes that he is digging.

Yet the man has a vote,
can possibly turn the scale of an election,
and may help
to decide the policy of this empire.

Now,
to take the nearest example,
here am I,
a woman who have had some education,
who have traveled,
and who have seen and studied the institutions of many countries.

I hold considerable property,
and I pay more in imperial taxes than that man spends in whisky,
which is saying a great deal,
and yet I have no more direct influence upon the disposal of the money which I pay than that fly which creeps along the wall.

Is that right?

Is it fair?"
The Admiral moved uneasily in his chair.

"Yours is an exceptional case,"
said he.

"But no woman has a voice.

Consider that the women are a majority in the nation.

Yet if there was a question of legislation upon which all women were agreed upon one side and all the men upon the other,
it would appear that the matter was settled unanimously when more than half the population were opposed
to it.

Is that right?"
Again the Admiral wriggled.

It was very awkward
for the gallant seaman
to have a handsome woman opposite
to him,
bombarding him
with questions
to none of which he could find an answer.

"Couldn't even get the tompions out of his guns,"
as he explained the matter
to the Doctor that evening.

"Now those are really the points that we shall lay stress upon at the meeting.

The free and complete opening of the professions,
the final abolition of the zenana I call it,
and the franchise
to all women who pay Queen's taxes above a certain sum.

Surely there is nothing unreasonable in that.

Nothing which could offend your principles.

We shall have medicine,
law,
and the church all rallying that night
for the protection of woman.

Is the navy
to be the one profession absent?"
The Admiral jumped out of his chair
with an evil word in his throat.

"There,
there,
ma'am,"
he cried.

"Drop it
for a time.

I have heard enough.

You've turned me a point or two.

I won't deny it.

But let it stand at that.

I will think it over."

"Certainly,
Admiral.

We would not hurry you in your decision.

But we still hope
to see you on our platform."

She rose and moved about in her lounging masculine fashion from one picture
to another,
for the walls were thickly covered
with reminiscences of the Admiral's voyages.

"Hullo!"
said she.

"Surely this ship would have furled all her lower canvas and reefed her topsails if she found herself on a lee shore
with the wind on her quarter."

"Of course she would.

The artist was never past Gravesend,
I swear.

It's the Penelope as she was on the 14th of June,
1857,
in the throat of the Straits of Banca,
with the Island of Banca on the starboard bow,
and Sumatra on the port.

He painted it from description,
but of course,
as you very sensibly say,
all was snug below and she carried storm sails and double-reefed topsails,
for it was blowing a cyclone from the sou'east.

I compliment you,
ma'am,
I do indeed!
"
"Oh,
I have done a little sailoring myself--as much as a woman can aspire to,
you know.

This is the Bay of Funchal.

What a lovely frigate!"
"Lovely,
you say! Ah,
she was lovely! That is the Andromeda.

I was a mate aboard of her--sub-lieutenant they call it now,
though I like the old name best."

"What a lovely rake her masts have,
and what a curve
to her bows! She must have been a clipper."

The old sailor rubbed his hands and his eyes glistened.

His old ships bordered close upon his wife and his son in his affections.

"I know Funchal,"
said the lady carelessly.

"A couple of years ago I had a seven-ton cutter-rigged yacht,
the Banshee,
and we ran over
to Madeira from Falmouth."

"You ma'am,
in a seven-tonner?"
"With a couple of Cornish lads
for a crew.

Oh,
it was glorious! A fortnight right out in the open,
with no worries,
no letters,
no callers,
no petty thoughts,
nothing but the grand works of God,
the tossing sea and the great silent sky.

They talk of riding,
indeed,
I am fond of horses,
too,
but what is there
to compare
with the swoop of a little craft as she pitches down the long steep side of a wave,
and then the quiver and spring as she is tossed upwards again?

Oh,
if our souls could transmigrate I'd be a seamew above all birds that fly! But I keep you,
Admiral.

Adieu!"
The old sailor was too transported
with sympathy
to say a word.

He could only shake her broad muscular hand.

She was half-way down the garden path before she heard him calling her,
and saw his grizzled head and weather-stained face looking out from behind the curtains.

"You may put me down
for the platform,"
he cried,
and vanished abashed behind the I curtain of his Times,
where his wife found him at lunch time.

"I hear that you have had quite a long chat
with Mrs. Westmacott,"
said she.

"Yes,
and I think that she is one of the most sensible women that I ever knew.

"Except on the woman's rights question,
of course."

"Oh,
I don't know.

She had a good deal
to say
for herself on that also.

In fact,
mother,
I have taken a platfom ticket
for her meeting."

---- CHAPTER VI.

AN OLD STORY.

But this was not
to be the only eventful conversation which Mrs. Westmacott held that day,
nor was the Admiral the only person in the Wilderness who was destined
to find his opinions considerably changed.

Two neighboring families,
the Winslows from Anerley,
and the Cumberbatches from Gipsy Hill,
had been invited
to tennis by Mrs. Westmacott,
and the lawn was gay in the evening
with the blazers of the young men and the bright dresses of the girls.

To the older people,
sitting round in their wicker-work garden chairs,
the darting,
stooping,
springing white figures,
the sweep of skirts,
and twinkle of canvas shoes,
the click of the rackets and sharp whiz of the balls,
with the continual
"fifteen love--fifteen all!"
of the marker,
made up a merry and exhilarating scene.

To see their sons and daughters so flushed and healthy and happy,
gave them also a reflected glow,
and it was hard
to say who had most pleasure from the game,
those who played or those who watched.

Mrs. Westmacott had just finished a set when she caught a glimpse of Clara Walker sitting alone at the farther end of the ground.

She ran down the court,
cleared the net
to the amazement of the visitors,
and seated herself beside her.

Clara's reserved and refined nature shrank somewhat from the boisterous frankness and strange manners of the widow,
and yet her feminine instinct told her that beneath all her peculiarities there lay much that was good and noble.

She smiled up at her,
therefore,
and nodded a greeting.

"Why aren't you playing,
then?

Don't,
for goodness'
sake,
begin
to be languid and young ladyish! When you give up active sports you give up youth."

"I have played a set,
Mrs. Westmacott."

"That's right,
my dear."

She sat down beside her,
and tapped her upon the arm
with her tennis racket.

"I like you,
my dear,
and I am going
to call you Clara.

You are not as aggressive as I should wish,
Clara,
but still I like you very much.

Self-sacrifice is all very well,
you know,
but we have had rather too much of it on our side,
and should like
to see a little on the other.

What do you think of my nephew Charles?"
The question was so sudden and unexpected that Clara gave quite a jump in her chair.

"I--I--I hardly ever have thought of your nephew Charles."

"No?

Oh,
you must think him well over,
for I want
to speak
to you about him."

"To me?

But why?"
"It seemed
to me most delicate.

You see,
Clara,
the matter stands in this way.

It is quite possible that I may soon find myself in a completely new sphere of life,
which will involve fresh duties and make it impossible
for me
to keep up a household which Charles can share."

Clara stared.

Did this mean that she was about
to marry again?

What else could it point to?

"Therefore Charles must have a household of his own.

That is obvious.

Now,
I don't approve of bachelor establishments.

Do you?"
"Really,
Mrs. Westmacott,
I have never thought of the matter."

"Oh,
you little sly puss! Was there ever a girl who never thought of the matter?

I think that a young man of six-and-twenty ought
to be married."

Clara felt very uncomfortable.

The awful thought had come upon her that this ambassadress had come
to her as a proxy
with a proposal of marriage.

But how could that be?

She had not spoken more than three or four times
with her nephew,
and knew nothing more of him than he had told her on the evening before.

It was impossible,
then.

And yet what could his aunt mean by this discussion of his private affairs?

"Do you not think yourself,"
she persisted,
"that a young man of six-and-twenty is better married?"
"I should think that he is old enough
to decide
for himself."

"Yes,
yes.

He has done so.

But Charles is just a little shy,
just a little slow in expressing himself.

I thought that I would pave the way
for him.

Two women can arrange these things so much better.

Men sometimes have a difficulty in making themselves clear."

"I really hardly follow you,
Mrs. Westmacott,"
cried Clara in despair.

"He has no profession.

But he has nice tastes.

He reads Browning every night.

And he is most amazingly strong.

When he was younger we used
to put on the gloves together,
but I cannot persuade him
to now,
for he says he cannot play light enough.

I should allow him five hundred,
which should be enough at first."

"My dear Mrs. Westmacott,"
cried Clara,
"I assure you that I have not the least idea what it is that you are talking of."

"Do you think your sister Ida would have my nephew Charles?"
Her sister Ida?

Quite a little thrill of relief and of pleasure ran through her at the thought.

Ida and Charles Westmacott.

She had never thought of it.

And yet they had been a good deal together.

They had played tennis.

They had shared the tandem tricycle.

Again came the thrill of joy,
and close at its heels the cold questionings of conscience.

Why this joy?

What was the real source of it?

Was it that deep down,
somewhere pushed back in the black recesses of the soul,
there was the thought lurking that if Charles prospered in his wooing then Harold Denver would still be free?

How mean,
how unmaidenly,
how unsisterly the thought! She crushed it down and thrust it aside,
but still it would push up its wicked little head.

She crimsoned
with shame at her own baseness,
as she turned once more
to her companion.

"I really do not know,"
she said.

"She is not engaged?"
"Not that I know of."

"You speak hesitatingly."

"Because I am not sure.

But he may ask.

She cannot but be flattered."

"Quite so.

I tell him that it is the most practical compliment which a man can pay
to a woman.

He is a little shy,
but when he sets himself
to do it he will do it.

He is very much in love
with her,
I assure you.

These little lively people always do attract the slow and heavy ones,
which is nature's device
for the neutralizing of bores.

But they are all going in.

I think if you will allow me that I will just take the opportunity
to tell him that,
as far as you know,
there is no positive obstacle in the way."

"As far as I know,
"Clara repeated,
as the widow moved away
to where the players were grouped round the net,
or sauntering slowly towards the house.

She rose
to follow her,
but her head was in a whirl
with new thoughts,
and she sat down again.

Which would be best
for Ida,
Harold or Charles?

She thought it over
with as much solicitude as a mother who plans
for her only child.

Harold had seemed
to her
to be in many ways the noblest and the best young man whom she had known.

If ever she was
to love a man it would be such a man as that.

But she must not think of herself.

She had reason
to believe that both these men loved her sister.

Which would be the best
for her?

But perhaps the matter was already decided.

She could not forget the scrap of conversation which she had heard the night before,
nor the secret which her sister had refused
to confide
to her.

If Ida would not tell her,
there was but one person who could.

She raised her eyes and there was Harold Denver standing before her.

"You were lost in your thoughts,"
said he,
smiling.

"I hope that they were pleasant ones."

"Oh,
I was planning,"
said she,
rising.

"It seems rather a waste of time as a rule,
for things have a way of working themselves out just as you least expect."

"What were you planning,
then?"
"The future."

"Whose?"
"Oh,
my own and Ida's."

"And was I included in your joint futures?

"I hope all our friends were included."

"Don't go in,"
said he,
as she began
to move slowly towards the house.

"I wanted
to have a word.

Let us stroll up and down the lawn.

Perhaps you are cold.

If you are,
I could bring you out a shawl."

"Oh,
no,
I am not cold."

"I was speaking
to your sister Ida last night."

She noticed that there was a slight quiver in his voice,
and,
glancing up at his dark,
clear-cut face,
she saw that he was very grave.

She felt that it was settled,
that he had come
to ask her
for her sister's hand.

"She is a charming girl,"
said he,
after a pause.

"Indeed she is,"
cried Clara warmly.

"And no one who has not lived
with her and known her intimately can tell how charming and good she is.

She is like a sunbeam in the house."

"No one who was not good could be so absolutely happy as she seems
to be.

Heaven's last gift,
I think,
is a mind so pure and a spirit so high that it is unable even
to see what is impure and evil in the world around us.

For as long as we can see it,
how can we be truly happy?"
"She has a deeper side also.

She does not turn it
to the world,
and it is not natural that she should,
for she is very young.

But she thinks,
and has aspirations of her own."

"You cannot admire her more than I do.

Indeed,
Miss Walker,
I only ask
to be brought into nearer relationship
with her,
and
to feel that there is a permanent bond between us."

It had come at last.

For a moment her heart was numbed within her,
and then a flood of sisterly love carried all before it.

Down
with that dark thought which would still try
to raise its unhallowed head! She turned
to Harold
with sparkling eyes and words of pleasure upon her lips.

"I should wish
to be near and dear
to both of you,"
said he,
as he took her hand.

"I should wish Ida
to be my sister,
and you my wife."

She said nothing.

She only stood looking at him
with parted lips and great,
dark,
questioning eyes.

The lawn had vanished away,
the sloping gardens,
the brick villas,
the darkening sky
with half a pale moon beginning
to show over the chimney-tops.

All was gone,
and she was only conscious of a dark,
earnest,
pleading face,
and of a voice,
far away,
disconnected from herself,
the voice of a man telling a woman how he loved her.

He was unhappy,
said the voice,
his life was a void;
there was but one thing that could save him;
he had come
to the parting of the ways,
here lay happiness and honor,
and all that was high and noble;
there lay the soul-killing round,
the lonely life,
the base pursuit of money,
the sordid,
selfish aiMs. He needed but the hand of the woman that he loved
to lead him into the better path.

And how he loved her his life would show.

He loved her
for her sweetness,
for her womanliness,
for her strength.

He had need of her.

Would she not come
to him?

And then of a sudden as she listened it came home
to her that the man was Harold Denver,
and that she was the woman,
and that all God's work was very beautiful--the green sward beneath her feet,
the rustling leaves,
the long orange slashes in the western sky.

She spoke;
she scarce knew what the broken words were,
but she saw the light of joy shine out on his face,
and her hand was still in his as they wandered amid the twilight.

They said no more now,
but only wandered and felt each other's presence.

All was fresh around them,
familiar and yet new,
tinged
with the beauty of their new-found happiness.

"Did you not know it before?"
he asked.

"I did not dare
to think it."

"What a mask of ice I must wear! How could a man feel as I have done without showing it?

Your sister at least knew."

"Ida!"
"It was last night.

She began
to praise you,
I said what I felt,
and then in an instant it was all out."

"But what could you--what could you see in me?

Oh,
I do pray that you may not repent it!"
The gentle heart was ruffled amid its joy by the thought of its own unworthiness.

"Repent it! I feel that I am a saved man.

You do not know how degrading this city life is,
how debasing,
and yet how absorbing.

Money
for ever clinks in your ear.

You can think of nothing else.

From the bottom of my heart I hate it,
and yet how can I draw back without bringing grief
to my dear old father?

There was but one way in which I could defy the taint,
and that was by having a home influence so pure and so high that it may brace me up against all that draws me down.

I have felt that influence already.

I know that when I am talking
to you I am a better man.

It is you who,
must go
with me through life,
or I must walk
for ever alone."

"Oh,
Harold,
I am so happy!"
Still they wandered amid the darkening shadows,
while one by one the stars peeped out in the blue black sky above them.

At last a chill night wind blew up from the east,
and brought them back
to the realities of life.

"You must go in.

You will be cold."

"My father will wonder where I am.

Shall I say anything
to him?"
"If you like,
my darling.

Or I will in the morning.

I must tell my mother to-night.

I know how delighted she will be."

"I do hope so."

"Let me take you up the garden path.

It is so dark.

Your lamp is not lit yet.

There is the window.

Till to-morrow,
then,
dearest."

"Till to-morrow,
Harold."

"My own darling!"
He stooped,
and their lips met
for the first time.

Then,
as she pushed open the folding windows she heard his quick,
firm step as it passed down the graveled path.

A lamp was lit as she entered the room,
and there was Ida,
dancing about like a mischievous little fairy in front of her.

"And have you anything
to tell me?"
she asked,
with a solemn face.

Then,
suddenly throwing her arms round her sister's neck,
"Oh,
you dear,
dear old Clara! I am so pleased.

I am so pleased."

CHAPTER VII.

VENIT TANDEM FELICITAS.

It was just three days after the Doctor and the Admiral had congratulated each other upon the closer tie which was
to unite their two families,
and
to turn their friendship into something even dearer and more intimate,
that Miss Ida Walker received a letter which caused her some surprise and considerable amusement.

It was dated from next door,
and was handed in by the red-headed page after breakfast.

"Dear Miss Ida,"
began this curious document,
and then relapsed suddenly into the third person.

"Mr. Charles Westmacott hopes that he may have the extreme pleasure of a ride
with Miss Ida Walker upon his tandem tricycle.

Mr. Charles Westmacott will bring it round in half an hour.

You in front.

Yours very truly,
Charles Westmacott."

The whole was written in a large,
loose-jointed,
and school-boyish hand,
very thin on the up strokes and thick on the down,
as though care and pains had gone
to the fashioning of it.

Strange as was the form,
the meaning was clear enough;
so Ida hastened
to her room,
and had hardly slipped on her light grey cycling dress when she saw the tandem
with its large occupant at the door.

He handed her up
to her saddle
with a more solemn and thoughtful face than was usual
with him,
and a few moments later they were flying along the beautiful,
smooth suburban roads in the direction of Forest Hill.

The great limbs of the athlete made the heavy machine spring and quiver
with every stroke;
while the mignon grey figure
with the laughing face,
and the golden curls blowing from under the little pink-banded straw hat,
simply held firmly
to her perch,
and let the treadles whirl round beneath her feet.

Mile after mile they flew,
the wind beating in her face,
the trees dancing past in two long ranks on either side,
until they had passed round Croydon and were approaching Norwood once more from the further side.

"Aren't you tired?"
she asked,
glancing over her shoulder and turning towards him a little pink ear,
a fluffy golden curl,
and one blue eye twinkling from the very corner of its lid.

"Not a bit.

I am just getting my swing."

"Isn't it wonderful
to be strong?

You always remind me of a steamengine."

"Why a steamengine?"
"Well,
because it is so powerful,
and reliable,
and unreasoning.

Well,
I didn't mean that last,
you know,
but--but--you know what I mean.

What is the matter
with you?"
"Why?"
"Because you have something on your mind.

You have not laughed once."

He broke into a gruesome laugh.

"I am quite jolly,"
said he.

"Oh,
no,
you are not.

And why did you write me such a dreadfully stiff letter?"
"There now,"
he cried,
"I was sure it was stiff.

I said it was absurdly stiff."

"Then why write it?"
"It wasn't my own composition."

"Whose then?

Your aunt's?"
"Oh,
no.

It was a person of the name of Slattery."

"Goodness! Who is he?"
"I knew it would come out,
I felt that it would.

You've heard of Slattery the author?"
"Never."

"He is wonderful at expressing himself.

He wrote a book called `The Secret Solved;
or,
Letter-writing Made Easy.'

It gives you models of all sorts of letters."

Ida burst out laughing.

"So you actually copied one."

"It was
to invite a young lady
to a picnic,
but I set
to work and soon got it changed so that it would do very well.

Slattery seems never
to have asked any one
to ride a tandem.

But when I had written it,
it seemed so dreadfully stiff that I had
to put a little beginning and end of my own,
which seemed
to brighten it up a good deal."

"I thought there was something funny about the beginning and end."

"Did you?

Fancy your noticing the difference in style.

How quick you are! I am very slow at things like that.

I ought
to have been a woodman,
or game-keeper,
or something.

I was made on those lines.

But I have found something now."

"What is that,
then?"
"Ranching.

I have a chum in Texas,
and he says it is a rare life.

I am
to buy a share in his business.

It is all in the open air--shooting,
and riding,
and sport.

Would it--would it inconvenience you much,
Ida,
to come out there
with me?"
Ida nearly fell off her perch in her amazement.

The only words of which she could think were
"My goodness me!"
so she said them.

"If it would not upset your plans,
or change your arrangements in any way."

He had slowed down and let go of the steering handle,
so that the great machine crawled aimlessly about from one side of the road
to the other.

"I know very well that I am not clever or anything of that sort,
but still I would do all I can
to make you very happy.

Don't you think that in time you might come
to like me a little bit?"
Ida gave a cry of fright.

"I won't like you if you run me against a brick wall,"
she said,
as the machine rasped up against the curb
"Do attend
to the steering."

"Yes,
I will.

But tell me,
Ida,
whether you will come
with me."

"Oh,
I don't know.

It's too absurd! How can we talk about such things when I cannot see you?

You speak
to the nape of my neck,
and then I have
to twist my head round
to answer."

"I know.

That was why I put `You in front'
upon my letter.

I thought that it would make it easier.

But if you would prefer it I will stop the machine,
and then you can sit round and talk about it."

"Good gracious!"
cried Ida.

"Fancy our sitting face
to face on a motionless tricycle in the middle of the road,
and all the people looking out of their windows at us!"
"It would look rather funny,
wouldn't it?

Well,
then,
suppose that we both get off and push the tandem along in front of us?"
"Oh,
no,
this is better than that."

"Or I could carry the thing."

Ida burst out laughing.

"That would be more absurd still."

"Then we will go quietly,
and I will look out
for the steering.

I won't talk about it at all if you would rather not.

But I really do love you very much,
and you would make me happy if you came
to Texas
with me,
and I think that perhaps after a time I could make you happy too."

"But your aunt?"
"Oh,
she would like it very much.

I can understand that your father might not like
to lose you.

I'm sure I wouldn't either,
if I were he.

But after all,
America is not very far off nowadays,
and is not so very wild.

We would take a grand piano,
and--and--a copy of Browning.

And Denver and his wife would come over
to see us.

We should be quite a family party.

It would be jolly."

Ida sat listening
to the stumbling words and awkward phrases which were whispered from the back of her,
but there was something in Charles Westmacott's clumsiness of speech which was more moving than the words of the most eloquent of pleaders.

He paused,
he stammered,
he caught his breath between the words,
and he blurted out in little blunt phrases all the hopes of his heart.

If love had not come
to her yet,
there was at least pity and sympathy,
which are nearly akin
to it.

Wonder there was also that one so weak and frail as she should shake this strong man so,
should have the whole course of his life waiting
for her decision.

Her left hand was on the cushion at her side.

He leaned forward and took it gently in his own.

She did not try
to draw it back from him.

"May I have it,"
said he,
"for life?"
"Oh,
do attend
to your steering,"
said she,
smiling round at him;
"and don't say any more about this to-day.

Please don't!"
"When shall I know,
then?"
"Oh,
to-night,
to-morrow,
I don't know.

I must ask Clara.

Talk about something else."

And they did talk about something else;
but her left hand was still enclosed in his,
and he knew,
without asking again,
that all was well.

---- CHAPTER VIII.

SHADOWS BEFORE.

Mrs. Westmacott's great meeting
for the enfranchisement of woman had passed over,
and it had been a triumphant success.

All the maids and matrons of the southern suburbs had rallied at her summons,
there was an influential platform
with Dr. Balthazar Walker in the chair,
and Admiral Hay Denver among his more prominent supporters.

One benighted male had come in from the outside darkness and had jeered from the further end of the hall,
but he had been called
to order by the chair,
petrified by indignant glances from the unenfranchised around him,
and finally escorted
to the door by Charles Westmacott.

Fiery resolutions were passed,
to be forwarded
to a large number of leading statesmen,
and the meeting broke up
with the conviction that a shrewd blow had been struck
for the cause of woman.

But there was one woman at least
to whom the meeting and all that was connected
with it had brought anything but pleasure.

Clara Walker watched
with a heavy heart the friendship and close intimacy which had sprung up between her father and the widow.

From week
to week it had increased until no day ever passed without their being together.

The coming meeting had been the excuse
for these continual interviews,
but now the meeting was over,
and still the Doctor would refer every point which rose
to the judgment of his neighbor.

He would talk,
too,
to his two daughters of her strength of character,
her decisive mind,
and of the necessity of their cultivating her acquaintance and following her example,
until at last it had become his most common topic of conversation.

All this might have passed as merely the natural pleasure which an elderly man might take in the society of an intelligent and handsome woman,
but there were other points which seemed
to Clara
to give it a deeper meaning.

She could not forget that when Charles Westmacott had spoken
to her one night he had alluded
to the possibility of his aunt marrying again.

He must have known or noticed something before he would speak upon such a subject.

And then again Mrs. Westmacott had herself said that she hoped
to change her style of living shortly and take over completely new duties.

What could that mean except that she expected
to marry?

And whom?

She seemed
to see few friends outside their own little circle.

She must have alluded
to her father.

It was a hateful thought,
and yet it must be faced.

One evening the Doctor had been rather late at his neighbor's.

He used
to go into the Admiral's after dinner,
but now he turned more frequently in the other direction.

When he returned Clara was sitting alone in the drawing-room reading a magazine.

She sprang up as he entered,
pushed forward his chair,
and ran
to fetch his slippers.

"You are looking a little pale,
dear,"
he remarked.

"Oh,
no,
papa,
I am very well."

"All well
with Harold?"
"Yes.

His partner,
Mr. Pearson,
is still away,
and he is doing all the work."

"Well done.

He is sure
to succeed.

Where is Ida?"
"In her room,
I think."

"She was
with Charles Westmacott on the lawn not very long ago.

He seems very fond of her.

He is not very bright,
but I think he will make her a good husband."

"I am sure of it,
papa.

He is very manly and reliable."

"Yes,
I should think that he is not the sort of man who goes wrong.

There is nothing hidden about him.

As
to his brightness,
it really does not matter,
for his aunt,
Mrs. Westmacott,
is very rich,
much richer than you would think from her style of living,
and she has made him a handsome provision."

"I am glad of that."

"It is between ourselves.

I am her trustee,
and so I know something of her arrangements.

And when are you going
to marry,
Clara?"
"Oh,
papa,
not
for some time yet.

We have not thought of a date.

"Well,
really,
I don't know that there is any reason
for delay.

He has a competence and it increases yearly.

As long as you are quite certain that your mind is made up----"
"Oh,
papa!"
"Well,
then,
I really do not know why there should be any delay.

And Ida,
too,
must be married within the next few months.

Now,
what I want
to know is what I am
to do when my two little companions run away from me."

He spoke lightly,
but his eyes were grave as he looked questioningly at his daughter.

"Dear papa,
you shall not be alone.

It will be years before Harold and I think of marrying,
and when we do you must come and live
with us."

"No,
no,
dear.

I know that you mean what you say,
but I have seen something of the world,
and I know that such arrangements never answer.

There cannot be two masters in a house,
and yet at my age my freedom is very necessary
to me."

"But you would be completely free."

"No,
dear,
you cannot be that if you are a guest in another man's house.

Can you suggest no other alternative?"
"That we remain
with you."

"No,
no.

That is out of the question.

Mrs. Westmacott herself says that a woman's first duty is
to marry.

Marriage,
however,
should be an equal partnership,
as she points out.

I should wish you both
to marry,
but still I should like a suggestion from you,
Clara,
as
to what I should do."

"But there is no hurry,
papa.

Let us wait.

I do not intend
to marry yet."

Doctor Walker looked disappointed.

"Well,
Clara,
if you can suggest nothing,
I suppose that I must take the initiative myself,"
said he.

"Then what do you propose,
papa?"
She braced herself as one who sees the blow which is about
to fall.

He looked at her and hesitated.

"How like your poor dear mother you are,
Clara!"
he cried.

"As I looked at you then it was as if she had come back from the grave."

He stooped towards her and kissed her.

"There,
run away
to your sister,
my dear,
and do not trouble yourself about me.

Nothing is settled yet,
but you will find that all will come right."

Clara went upstairs sad at heart,
for she was sure now that what she had feared was indeed about
to come
to pass,
and that her father was going
to take Mrs. Westmacott
to be his wife.

In her pure and earnest mind her mother's memory was enshrined as that of a saint,
and the thought that any one should take her place seemed a terrible desecration.

Even worse,
however,
did this marriage appear when looked at from the point of view of her father's future.

The widow might fascinate him by her knowledge of the world,
her dash,
her strength,
her unconventionality--all these qualities Clara was willing
to allow her--but she was convinced that she would be unendurable as a life companion.

She had come
to an age when habits are not lightly
to be changed,
nor was she a woman who was at all likely
to attempt
to change them.

How would a sensitive man like her father stand the constant strain of such a wife,
a woman who was all decision,
with no softness,
and nothing soothing in her nature?

It passed as a mere eccentricity when they heard of her stout drinking,
her cigarette smoking,
her occasional whiffs at a long clay pipe,
her horsewhipping of a drunken servant,
and her companionship
with the snake Eliza,
whom she was in the habit of bearing about in her pocket.

All this would become unendurable
to her father when his first infatuation was past.

For his own sake,
then,
as well as
for her mother's memory,
this match must be prevented.

And yet how powerless she was
to prevent it! What could she do?

Could Harold aid her?

Perhaps.

Or Ida?

At least she would tell her sister and see what she could suggest.

Ida was in her boudoir,
a tiny little tapestried room,
as neat and dainty as herself,
with low walls hung
with Imari plaques and
with pretty little Swiss brackets bearing blue Kaga ware,
or the pure white Coalport china.

In a low chair beneath a red shaded standing lamp sat Ida,
in a diaphanous evening dress of mousseline de soie,
the ruddy light tinging her sweet childlike face,
and glowing on her golden curls.

She sprang up as her sister entered,
and threw her arms around her.

"Dear old Clara! Come and sit down here beside me.

I have not had a chat
for days.

But,
oh,
what a troubled face! What is it then?"
She put up her forefinger and smoothed her sister's brow
with it.

Clara pulled up a stool,
and sitting down beside her sister,
passed her arm round her waist.

"I am so sorry
to trouble you,
dear Ida,"
she said.

"But I do not know what
to do.

"There's nothing the matter
with Harold?"
"Oh,
no,
Ida."

"Nor
with my Charles?"
"No,
no."

Ida gave a sigh of relief.

"You quite frightened me,
dear,"
said she.

"You can't think how solemn you look.

What is it,
then?"
"I believe that papa intends
to ask Mrs. Westmacott
to marry him."

Ida burst out laughing.

"What can have put such a notion into your head,
Clara?"
"It is only too true,
Ida.

I suspected it before,
and he himself almost told me as much
with his own lips to-night.

I don't think that it is a laughing matter."

"Really,
I could not help it.

If you had told me that those two dear old ladies opposite,
the Misses Williams,
were both engaged,
you would not have surprised me more.

It is really too funny."

"Funny,
Ida! Think of any one taking the place of dear mother.

But her sister was of a more practical and less sentimental nature.

"I am sure,"
said she,
"that dear mother would like papa
to do whatever would make him most happy.

We shall both be away,
and why should papa not please himself?"
"But think how unhappy he will be.

You know how quiet he is in his ways,
and how even a little thing will upset him.

How could he live
with a wife who would make his whole life a series of surprises?

Fancy what a whirlwind she must be in a house.

A man at his age cannot change his ways.

I am sure he would be miserable."

Ida's face grew graver,
and she pondered over the matter
for a few minutes.

"I really think that you are right as usual,"
said she at last.

"I admire Charlie's aunt very much,
you know,
and I think that she is a very useful and good person,
but I don't think she would do as a wife
for poor quiet papa."

"But he will certainly ask her,
and I really think that she intends
to accept him.

Then it would be too late
to interfere.

We have only a few days at the most.

And what can we do?

How can we hope
to make him change his mind?"
Again Ida pondered.

"He has never tried what it is
to live
with a strong-minded woman,"
said she.

"If we could only get him
to realize it in time.

Oh,
Clara,
I have it;
I have it! Such a lovely plan!"
She leaned back in her chair and burst into a fit of laughter so natural and so hearty that Clara had
to forget her troubles and
to join in it.

"Oh,
it is beautiful!"
she gasped at last.

"Poor papa! What a time he will have! But it's all
for his own good,
as he used
to say when we had
to be punished when we were little.

Oh,
Clara,
I do hope your heart won't fail you.

"I would do anything
to save him,
dear."

"That's it.

You must steel yourself by that thought."

"But what is your plan?"
"Oh,
I am so proud of it.

We will tire him
for ever of the widow,
and of all emancipated women.

Let me see,
what are Mrs. Westmacott's main ideas?

You have listened
to her more than I.

Women should attend less
to household duties.

That is one,
is it not?"
"Yes,
if they feel they have capabilities
for higher things.

Then she thinks that every woman who has leisure should take up the study of some branch of science,
and that,
as far as possible,
every woman should qualify herself
for some trade or profession,