CHAPTER XXV

IN WHICH THE STREAM FLOWS MUDDY AND CLEAR

An Irish retriever-pup of the Shannon breed, Pat by name, was undergoing

tuition on the sward close by the kennels, Rose's hunting-whip being

passed through his collar to restrain erratic propensities. The

particular point of instruction which now made poor Pat hang out his

tongue, and agitate his crisp brown curls, was the performance of the

'down-charge'; a ceremony demanding implicit obedience from the animal in

the midst of volatile gambadoes, and a simulation of profound repose when

his desire to be up and bounding was mighty. Pat's Irish eyes were

watching Rose, as he lay with his head couched between his forepaws in

the required attitude. He had but half learnt his lesson; and something

in his half-humorous, half-melancholy look talked to Rose more eloquently

than her friend Ferdinand at her elbow. Laxley was her assistant

dog-breaker. Rose would not abandon her friends because she had accepted

a lover. On the contrary, Rose was very kind to Ferdinand, and perhaps

felt bound to be so to-day. To-day, also, her face was lighted; a

readiness to colour, and an expression of deeper knowledge, which she now

had, made the girl dangerous to friends. This was not Rose's fault but

there is no doubt among the faculty that love is a contagious disease,

and we ought not to come within miles of the creatures in whom it lodges.

Pat's tail kept hinting to his mistress that a change would afford him

satisfaction. After a time she withdrew her wistful gaze from him, and

listened entirely to Ferdinand: and it struck her that he spoke

particularly well to-day, though she did not see so much in his eyes as

in Pat's. The subject concerned his departure, and he asked Rose if she

should be sorry. Rose, to make him sure of it, threw a music into her

voice dangerous to friends. For she had given heart and soul to Evan, and

had a sense, therefore, of being irredeemably in debt to her old

associates, and wished to be doubly kind to them.

Pat took advantage of the diversion to stand up quietly and have a shake.

He then began to kiss his mistress's hand, to show that all was right on

both sides; and followed this with a playful pretence at a bite, that

there might be no subsequent misunderstanding, and then a bark and a

whine. As no attention was paid to this amount of plain-speaking, Pat

made a bolt. He got no farther than the length of the whip, and all he

gained was to bring on himself the terrible word of drill once more. But

Pat had tasted liberty. Irish rebellion against constituted authority was

exhibited. Pat would not: his ears tossed over his head, and he jumped to

right and left, and looked the raggedest rapparee that ever his ancestry

trotted after. Rose laughed at his fruitless efforts to get free; but

Ferdinand meditatively appeared to catch a sentiment in them.

'Down-charge, Sir, will you? Ah, Pat! Pat! You'll have to obey me, my

boy. Now, down-charge!'

While Rose addressed the language of reason to Pat, Ferdinand slipped in

a soft word or two. Presently she saw him on one knee.

'Pat won't, and I will,' said he.

'But Pat shall, and you had better not,' said she. 'Besides, my dear

Ferdinand,' she added, laughing, 'you don't know how to do it.'

'Do you want me to prostrate on all fours, Rose?'

'No. I hope not. Do get up, Ferdinand. You'll be seen from the windows.'

Instead of quitting his posture, he caught her hand, and scared her with

a declaration.

'Of all men, you to be on your knees! and to me, Ferdinand!' she cried,

in discomfort.

'Why shouldn't I, Rose?' was this youth's answer.

He had got the idea that foreign cavalier manners would take with her;

but it was not so easy to make his speech correspond with his posture,

and he lost his opportunity, which was pretty. However, he spoke plain

English. The interview ended by Rose releasing Pat from drill, and

running off in a hurry. Where was Evan? She must have his consent to

speak to her mother, and prevent a recurrence of these silly scenes.

Evan was with Caroline, his sister.

It was contrary to the double injunction of the Countess that Caroline

should receive Evan during her absence, or that he should disturb the

dear invalid with a visit. These two were not unlike both in organization

and character, and they had not sat together long before they found each

other out. Now, to further Evan's love-suit, the Countess had induced

Caroline to continue yet awhile in the Purgatory Beckley Court had become

to her; but Evan, in speaking of Rose, expressed a determination to leave

her, and Caroline caught at it.

'Can you?--will you? Oh, dear Van! have you the courage? I--look at

me--you know the home I go to, and--and I think of it here as a place to

be happy in. What have our marriages done for us? Better that we had

married simple stupid men who earn their bread, and would not have been

ashamed of us! And, my dearest, it is not only that. None can tell what

our temptations are. Louisa has strength, but I feel I have none; and

though, dear, for your true interest, I would indeed sacrifice myself--I

would, Van! I would!--it is not good for you to stay,--I know it is not.

For you have Papa's sense of honour--and oh! if you should learn to

despise me, my dear brother!'

She kissed him; her nerves were agitated by strong mental excitement. He

attributed it to her recent attack of illness, but could not help asking,

while he caressed her:

'What's that? Despise you?'

It may have been that Caroline felt then, that to speak of something was

to forfeit something. A light glimmered across the dewy blue of her

beautiful eyes. Desire to breathe it to him, and have his loving aid: the

fear of forfeiting it, evil as it was to her, and at the bottom of all,

that doubt we choose to encourage of the harm in a pleasant sin

unaccomplished; these might be read in the rich dim gleam that swept like

sunlight over sea-water between breaks of clouds.

'Dear Van! do you love her so much?'

Caroline knew too well that she was shutting her own theme with iron

clasps when she once touched on Evan's.

Love her? Love Rose? It became an endless carol with Evan. Caroline

sighed for him from her heart.

'You know--you understand me; don't you?' he said, after a breathless

excursion of his fancy.

'I believe you love her, dear. I think I have never loved any one but my

one brother.'

His love for Rose he could pour out to Caroline; when it came to Rose's

love for him his blood thickened, and his tongue felt guilty. He must

speak to her, he said,--tell her all.

'Yes, tell her all,' echoed Caroline. 'Do, do tell her. Trust a woman

utterly if she loves you, dear. Go to her instantly.'

'Could you bear it?' said Evan. He began to think it was for the sake of

his sisters that he had hesitated.

'Bear it? bear anything rather than perpetual imposture. What have I not

borne? Tell her, and then, if she is cold to you, let us go. Let us go. I

shall be glad to. Ah, Van! I love you so.' Caroline's voice deepened. 'I

love you so, my dear. You won't let your new love drive me out? Shall you

always love me?'

Of that she might be sure, whatever happened.

'Should you love me, Van, if evil befel me?'

Thrice as well, he swore to her.

'But if I--if I, Van Oh! my life is intolerable! Supposing I should ever

disgrace you in any way, and not turn out all you fancied me. I am very

weak and unhappy.'

Evan kissed her confidently, with a warm smile. He said a few words of

the great faith he had in her: words that were bitter comfort to

Caroline. This brother, who might save her, to him she dared not speak.

Did she wish to be saved? She only knew that to wound Evan's sense of

honour and the high and chivalrous veneration for her sex and pride in

himself and those of his blood, would be wicked and unpardonable, and

that no earthly pleasure could drown it. Thinking this, with her hands

joined in pale dejection, Caroline sat silent, and Evan left her to lay

bare his heart to Rose. On his way to find Rose he was stopped by the

announcement of the arrival of Mr. Raikes, who thrust a bundle of notes

into his hand, and after speaking loudly of 'his curricle,' retired on

important business, as he said, with a mysterious air. 'I 'm beaten in

many things, but not in the article Luck,' he remarked; 'you will hear of

me, though hardly as a tutor in this academy.'

Scanning the bundle of notes, without a reflection beyond the thought

that money was in his hand; and wondering at the apparition of the

curricle, Evan was joined by Harry Jocelyn, and Harry linked his arm in

Evan's and plunged with extraordinary spontaneity and candour into the

state of his money affairs. What the deuce he was to do for money he did

not know. From the impressive manner in which he put it, it appeared to

be one of Nature's great problems that the whole human race were bound to

set their heads together to solve. A hundred pounds--Harry wanted no

more, and he could not get it. His uncles? they were as poor as rats; and

all the spare money they could club was going for Mel's Election

expenses. A hundred and fifty was what Harry really wanted; but he could

do with a hundred. Ferdinand, who had plenty, would not even lend him

fifty. Ferdinand had dared to hint at a debt already unsettled, and he

called himself a gentleman!

'You wouldn't speak of money-matters now, would you, Harrington?'

'I dislike the subject, I confess,' said Evan.

'And so do I' Harry jumped at the perfect similarity between them. 'You

can't think how it bothers one to have to talk about it. You and I are

tremendously alike.'

Evan might naturally suppose that a subject Harry detested, he would not

continue, but for a whole hour Harry turned it over and over with grim

glances at Jewry.

'You see,' he wound up, 'I'm in a fix. I want to help that poor girl, and

one or two things--'

'It 's for that you want it?' cried Evan, brightening to him. 'Accept it

from me.'

It is a thing familiar to the experience of money-borrowers, that your

'last chance' is the man who is to accommodate you; but we are always

astonished, nevertheless; and Harry was, when notes to the amount of the

largest sum named by him were placed in his hand by one whom he looked

upon as the last to lend.

'What a trump you are, Harrington!' was all he could say; and then he was

for hurrying Evan into the house, to find pen and paper, and write down a

memorandum of the loan: but Evan insisted upon sparing him the trouble,

though Harry, with the admirable scruples of an inveterate borrower,

begged hard to be allowed to bind himself legally to repay the money.

''Pon my soul, Harrington, you make me remember I once doubted whether

you were one of us--rather your own fault, you know!' said Harry. 'Bury

that, won't you?'

''Till your doubts recur,' Evan observed; and Harry burst out, 'Gad, if

you weren't such a melancholy beggar, you'd be the jolliest fellow I

know! There, go after Rosey. Dashed if I don't think you're ahead of

Ferdinand, long chalks. Your style does for girls. I like women.'

With a chuckle and a wink, Harry swung-off. Evan had now to reflect that

he had just thrown away part of the price of his bondage to Tailordom;

the mention of Rose filled his mind. Where was she? Both were seeking one

another. Rose was in the cypress walk. He saw the star-like figure up the

length of it, between the swelling tall dark pillars, and was hurrying to

her, resolute not to let one minute of deception blacken further the soul

that loved so true a soul. She saw him, and stood smiling, when the

Countess issued, shadow-like, from a side path, and declared that she

must claim her brother for a few instants. Would her sweet Rose pardon

her? Rose bowed coolly. The hearts of the lovers were chilled, not that

they perceived any malice in the Countess, but their keen instincts felt

an evil fate.

The Countess had but to tell Evan that she had met the insolvent in

apples, and recognized him under his change of fortune, and had no doubt

that at least he would amuse the company. Then she asked her brother the

superfluous question, whether he loved her, which Evan answered

satisfactorily enough, as he thought; but practical ladies require

proofs.

'Quick,' said Evan, seeing Rose vanish, 'what do you want? I'll do

anything.'

'Anything? Ah, but this will be disagreeable to you.'

'Name it at once. I promise beforehand.'

The Countess wanted Evan to ask Andrew to be the very best brother-in-law

in the world, and win, unknown to himself, her cheerful thanks, by

lending Evan to lend to her the sum of one hundred pounds, as she was in

absolute distress for money.

'Really, Louisa, this is a thing you might ask him yourself,' Evan

remonstrated.

'It would not become me to do so, dear,' said the Countess, demurely; and

inasmuch as she had already drawn on Andrew in her own person pretty

largely, her views of propriety were correct in this instance.

Evan had to consent before he could be released. He ran to the end of the

walk through the portal, into the park. Rose was not to be seen. She had

gone in to dress for dinner. The opportunity might recur, but would his

courage come with it? His courage had sunk on a sudden; or it may have

been that it was worst for this young man to ask for a loan of money,

than to tell his beloved that he was basely born, vile, and unworthy, and

had snared her into loving him; for when he and Andrew were together,

money was not alluded to. Andrew, however, betrayed remarkable

discomposure. He said plainly that he wanted to leave Beckley Court, and

wondered why he didn't leave, and whether he was on his head or his feet,

and how he had been such a fool as to come.

'Do you mean that for me?' said sensitive Evan.

'Oh, you! You're a young buck,' returned Andrew, evasively. 'We

common-place business men-we 're out of our element; and there's poor

Carry can't sit down to their dinners without an upset. I thank God I'm a

Radical, Van; one man's the same as another to me, how he's born, as long

as he's honest and agreeable. But a chap like that George Uplift to look

down on anybody! 'Gad, I've a good mind to bring in a Bill for the

Abolition of the Squirearchy.'

Ultimately, Andrew somehow contrived to stick a hint or two about the

terrible dinner in Evan's quivering flesh. He did it as delicately as

possible, half begging pardon, and perspiring profusely. Evan grasped his

hand, and thanked him. Caroline's illness was now explained to him.

'I'll take Caroline with me to-morrow,' he said. 'Louisa wishes to

stay--there 's a pic-nic. Will you look to her, and bring her with you?'

'My dear Van,' replied Andrew, 'stop with Louisa? Now, in confidence,

it's as bad as a couple of wives; no disrespect to my excellent good

Harry at home; but Louisa--I don't know how it is--but Louisa, you lose

your head, you're in a whirl, you're an automaton, a teetotum! I haven't

a notion of what I've been doing or saying since I came here. My belief

is, I 've been lying right and left. I shall be found out to a certainty:

Oh! if she's made her mind up for the pic-nic, somebody must stop. I can

only tell you, Van, it's one perpetual vapour-bath to me. There 'll be

room for two in my trousers when I get back. I shall have to get the

tailor to take them in a full half.'

Here occurred an opening for one of those acrid pleasantries which

console us when there is horrid warfare within.

'You must give me the work,' said Evan, partly pleased with his hated

self for being able to jest on the subject, as a piece of preliminary

self-conquest.

'Aha!' went Andrew, as if the joke were too good to be dwelt on; 'Hem';

and by way of diverting from it cleverly and naturally, he remarked that

the weather was fine. This made Evan allude to his letter written from

Lymport, upon which Andrew said: 'tush! pish! humbug! nonsense! won't

hear a word. Don't know anything about it. Van, you're going to be a

brewer. I say you are. You're afraid you can't? I tell you, sir, I've got

a bet on it. You're not going to make me lose, are you--eh? I have, and a

stiff bet, too. You must and shall, so there's an end. Only we can't make

arrangements just yet, my boy. Old Tom--very good old fellow--but, you

know--must get old Tom out of the way, first. Now go and dress for

dinner. And Lord preserve us from the Great Mel to-day!' Andrew mumbled

as he turned away.

Evan could not reach his chamber without being waylaid by the Countess.

Had he remembered the sister who sacrificed so much for him? 'There,

there!' cried Evan, and her hand closed on the delicious golden whispers

of bank-notes. And, 'Oh, generous Andrew! dear good Evan!' were the

exclamations of the gratified lady.

There remained nearly another hundred. Evan laid out the notes, and eyed

them while dressing. They seemed to say to him, 'We have you now.' He was

clutched by a beneficent or a most malignant magician. The former seemed

due to him, considering the cloud on his fortunes. This enigma might

mean, that by submitting to a temporary humiliation, for a trial of

him--in fact, by his acknowledgement of the fact, loathed though it

was,--he won a secret overlooker's esteem, gained a powerful ally. Here

was the proof, he held the proof. He had read Arabian Tales and could

believe in marvels; especially could he believe in the friendliness of a

magical thing that astounded without hurting him.

He, sat down in his room at night and wrote a fairly manful letter to

Rose; and it is to be said of the wretch he then saw himself, that he

pardoned her for turning from so vile a pretender. He heard a step in the

passage. It was Polly Wheedle. Polly had put her young mistress to bed,

and was retiring to her own slumbers. He made her take the letter and

promise to deliver it immediately. Would not to-morrow morning do, she

asked, as Miss Rose was very sleepy. He seemed to hesitate--he was

picturing how Rose looked when very sleepy. Why should he surrender this

darling? And subtler question--why should he make her unhappy? Why

disturb her at all in her sweet sleep?

'Well,' said Evan. 'To-morrow will do.--No, take it to-night, for God's

sake!' he cried, as one who bursts the spell of an opiate. 'Go at once.'

The temptation had almost overcome him.

Polly thought his proceedings queer. And what could the letter contain? A

declaration, of course. She walked slowly along the passage, meditating

on love, and remotely on its slave, Mr. Nicholas Frim. Nicholas had never

written her a letter; but she was determined that he should, some day.

She wondered what love-letters were like? Like valentines without the

Cupids. Practical valentines, one might say. Not vapoury and wild, but

hot and to the point. Delightful things! No harm in peeping at a

love-letter, if you do it with the eye of a friend.

Polly spelt just a word when a door opened at her elbow. She dropped her

candle and curtsied to the Countess's voice. The Countess desired her to

enter, and all in a tremble Polly crept in. Her air of guilt made the

Countess thrill. She had merely called her in to extract daily gossip.

The corner of the letter sticking up under Polly's neck attracted her

strangely, and beginning with the familiar, 'Well, child,' she talked of

things interesting to Polly, and then exhibited the pic-nic dress. It was

a lovely half-mourning; airy sorrows, gauzy griefs, you might imagine to

constitute the wearer. White delicately striped, exquisitely trimmed, and

of a stuff to make the feminine mouth water!

Could Polly refuse to try it on, when the flattering proposal met her

ears? Blushing, shame-faced, adoring the lady who made her look adorable,

Polly tried it on, and the Countess complimented her, and made a doll of

her, and turned her this way and that way, and intoxicated her.

'A rich husband, Polly, child! and you are a lady ready made.'

Infamous poison to poor Polly; but as the thunder destroys small insects,

exalted schemers are to be excused for riding down their few thousands.

Moreover, the Countess really looked upon domestics as being only

half-souls.

Dressed in her own attire again, Polly felt in her pockets, and at her

bosom, and sang out: 'Oh, my--Oh, where! Oh!'

The letter was lost. The letter could not be found. The Countess grew

extremely fatigued, and had to dismiss Polly, in spite of her eager

petitions to be allowed to search under the carpets and inside the bed.

In the morning came Evan's great trial. There stood Rose. She turned to

him, and her eyes were happy and unclouded.

'You are not changed?' he said.

'Changed? what could change me?'

The God of true hearts bless her! He could hardly believe it.

'You are the Rose I knew yesterday?'

'Yes, Evan. But you--you look as if you had not slept.'

'You will not leave me this morning, before I go, Rose? Oh, my darling!

this that you do for me is the work of an angel-nothing less! I have been

a coward. And my beloved! to feel vile is agony to me--it makes me feel

unworthy of the hand I press. Now all is clear between us. I go: I am

forgiven.'

Rose repeated his last words, and then added hurriedly:

'All is clear between us? Shall I speak to Mama this morning? Dear Evan!

it will be right that I should.'

For the moment he could not understand why, but supposing a scrupulous

honesty in her, said: 'Yes, tell Lady Jocelyn all.'

'And then, Evan, you will never need to go.'

They separated. The deep-toned sentence sang in Evan's heart. Rose and

her mother were of one stamp. And Rose might speak for her mother. To

take the hands of such a pair and be lifted out of the slough, he thought

no shame: and all through the hours of the morning the image of two

angels stooping to touch a leper, pressed on his brain like a reality,

and went divinely through his blood.

Toward mid-day Rose beckoned to him, and led him out across the lawn into

the park, and along the borders of the stream.

'Evan,' she said, 'shall I really speak to Mama?'

'You have not yet?' he answered.

'No. I have been with Juliana and with Drummond. Look at this, Evan.' She

showed a small black speck in the palm of her hand, which turned out, on

your viewing it closely, to be a brand of the letter L. 'Mama did that

when I was a little girl, because I told lies. I never could distinguish

between truth and falsehood; and Mama set that mark on me, and I have

never told a lie since. She forgives anything but that. She will be our

friend; she will never forsake us, Evan, if we do not deceive her. Oh,

Evan! it never is of any use. But deceive her, and she cannot forgive

you. It is not in her nature.'

Evan paused before he replied: 'You have only to tell her what I have

told you. You know everything.'

Rose gave him a flying look of pain: 'Everything, Evan? What do I know?'

'Ah, Rose! do you compel me to repeat it?'

Bewildered, Rose thought: 'Have I slept and forgotten it?'

He saw the persistent grieved interrogation of her eyebrows.

'Well!' she sighed resignedly: 'I am yours; you know that, Evan.'

But he was a lover, and quarrelled with her sigh.

'It may well make you sad now, Rose.'

'Sad? no, that does not make me sad. No; but my hands are tied. I cannot

defend you or justify myself; and induce Mama to stand by us. Oh, Evan!

you love me! why can you not open your heart to me entirely, and trust

me?'

'More?' cried Evan: 'Can I trust you more?' He spoke of the letter: Rose

caught his hand.

'I never had it, Evan. You wrote it last night? and all was written in

it? I never saw it--but I know all.'

Their eyes fronted. The gates of Rose's were wide open, and he saw no

hurtful beasts or lurking snakes in the happy garden within, but Love,

like a fixed star.

'Then you know why I must leave, Rose.'

'Leave? Leave me? On the contrary, you must stay by me, and support me.

Why, Evan, we have to fight a battle.'

Much as he worshipped her, this intrepid directness of soul startled

him-almost humbled him. And her eyes shone with a firm cheerful light, as

she exclaimed: 'It makes me so happy to think you were the first to

mention this. You meant to be, and that's the same thing. I heard it this

morning: you wrote it last night. It's you I love, Evan. Your birth, and

what you were obliged to do--that's nothing. Of course I'm sorry for it,

dear. But I'm more sorry for the pain I must have sometimes put you to.

It happened through my mother's father being a merchant; and that side of

the family the men and women are quite sordid and unendurable; and that's

how it came that I spoke of disliking tradesmen. I little thought I

should ever love one sprung from that class.'

She turned to him tenderly.

'And in spite of what my birth is, you love me, Rose?'

'There's no spite in it, Evan. I do.'

Hard for him, while his heart was melting to caress her, the thought that

he had snared this bird of heaven in a net! Rose gave him no time for

reflection, or the moony imagining of their raptures lovers love to dwell

upon.

'You gave the letter to Polly, of course?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, naughty Polly! I must punish you,' Rose apostrophized her. 'You

might have divided us for ever. Well, we shall have to fight a battle,

you understand that. Will you stand by me?'

Would he not risk his soul for her?

'Very well, Evan. Then--but don't be sensitive. Oh, how sensitive you

are! I see it all now. This is what we shall have to do. We shall have to

speak to Mama to-day--this morning. Drummond has told me he is going to

speak to her, and we must be first. That 's decided. I begged a couple of

hours. You must not be offended with Drummond. He does it out of pure

affection for us, and I can see he's right--or, at least, not quite

wrong. He ought, I think, to know that he cannot change me. Very well, we

shall win Mama by what we do. My mother has ten times my wits, and yet I

manage her like a feather. I have only to be honest and straightforward.

Then Mama will gain over Papa. Papa, of course, won't like it. He's quiet

and easy, but he likes blood, but he also likes peace better; and I think

he loves Rosey--as well as somebody--almost? Look, dear, there is our

seat where we--where you would rob me of my handkerchief. I can't talk

any more.'

Rose had suddenly fallen from her prattle, soft and short-breathed.

'Then, dear,' she went on, 'we shall have to fight the family. Aunt

Shorne will be terrible. My poor uncles! I pity them. But they will come

round. They always have thought what I did was right, and why should they

change their minds now? I shall tell them that at their time of life a

change of any kind is very unwise and bad for them. Then there is

Grandmama Bonner. She can hurt us really, if she pleases. Oh, my dear

Evan! if you had only been a curate! Why isn't your name Parsley? Then my

Grandmama the Countess of Elburne. Well, we have a Countess on our side,

haven't we? And that reminds me, Evan, if we're to be happy and succeed,

you must promise one thing: you will not tell the Countess, your sister.

Don't confide this to her. Will you promise?'

Evan assured her he was not in the habit of pouring secrets into any

bosom, the Countess's as little as another's.

'Very well, then, Evan, it's unpleasant while it lasts, but we shall gain

the day. Uncle Melville will give you an appointment, and then?'

'Yes, Rose,' he said, 'I will do this, though I don't think you can know

what I shall have to endure-not in confessing what I am, but in feeling

that I have brought you to my level.'

'Does it not raise me?' she cried.

He shook his head.

'But in reality, Evan--apart from mere appearances--in reality it does!

it does!'

'Men will not think so, Rose, nor can I. Oh, my Rose! how different you

make me. Up to this hour I have been so weak! torn two ways! You give me

double strength.'

Then these lovers talked of distant days--compared their feelings on this

and that occasion with mutual wonder and delight. Then the old hours

lived anew. And--did you really think that, Evan? And--Oh, Rose! was that

your dream? And the meaning of that by-gone look: was it what they

fancied? And such and such a tone of voice; would it bear the wished

interpretation? Thus does Love avenge himself on the unsatisfactory Past

and call out its essence.

Could Evan do less than adore her? She knew all, and she loved him! Since

he was too shy to allude more than once to his letter, it was natural

that he should not ask her how she came to know, and how much the 'all'

that she knew comprised. In his letter he had told all; the condition of

his parents, and his own. Honestly, now, what with his dazzled state of

mind, his deep inward happiness, and love's endless delusions, he

abstained from touching the subject further. Honestly, therefore, as far

as a lover can be honest.

So they toyed, and then Rose, setting her fingers loose, whispered: 'Are

you ready?' And Evan nodded; and Rose, to make him think light of the

matter in hand, laughed: 'Pluck not quite up yet?'

'Quite, my Rose!' said Evan, and they walked to the house, not quite

knowing what they were going to do.

On the steps they met Drummond with Mrs. Evremonde. Little imagining how

heart and heart the two had grown, and that Evan would understand him,

Drummond called to Rose playfully: 'Time's up.'

'Is it?' Rose answered, and to Mrs. Evremonde

'Give Drummond a walk. Poor Drummond is going silly.'

Evan looked into his eyes calmly as he passed.

'Where are you going, Rose?' said Mrs. Evremonde.

'Going to give my maid Polly a whipping for losing a letter she ought to

have delivered to me last night,' said Rose, in a loud voice, looking at

Drummond. 'And then going to Mama. Pleasure first--duty after. Isn't that

the proverb, Drummond?'

She kissed her fingers rather scornfully to her old friend.