At dinner there was much pleasant talk. The baronet's vein of humourous criticism flowed freely. Walking through London streets this morning, his eye had caught sight of a couple of posters which held him in meditation.

"One was a huge picture of an ox, and beneath it one read in great letters that sixty thousand bullocks are annually slaughtered for the manufacture of Nokes's beef-tea. The other advertised Stokes's pills, and informed the world, in still bigger lettering, that, every minute of the day, seven of these pills 'reached their destination.'

Delightful phrase! 'Reached their destination.' And this, you see, is how we adorn the walls of our cities. It is not only permitted, but favoured. I am quite sure that a plebiscite, if some more civilised alternative were offered, would p.r.o.nounce in favor of the bullocks and the pills, as much more interesting. Yet to my mind, spoilt by pottering among old pictures, that bit of wall was so monstrous in its hideousness that I stood moon-stricken, and even yet I haven't got over it. I shall dream to-night of myriads of bullocks ma.s.sacred for beef-tea, and of an endless procession of pills--reaching their destination. I ask myself, in my foolish theoretic way, what earthly right we have to lay claim to civilisation. How much better it would be always to speak of ourselves as barbarians. We should then, perhaps, make some endeavour to improve. The barbarian who imagines himself on the pinnacle of refinement is in a parlous state--far more likely to retrograde than to advance."

"There should be a league of landowners," said Miss Tomalin, "pledged to forbid any such horror on their own property."

"I don't know that I have much faith in leagues," returned Sir William.

"I am a lost individualist. Let everyone try to civilise himself; depend upon it, it's the best work he can do for the world at large."

"And yet," put in Lord Dymchurch, "the world can't do without apostles.

Do you think mere example has ever availed much?"

"Perhaps not. I would say that I don't care. Do you really believe that the world ever _will_ be much more civilised than it is? In successive epochs, there are more or fewer persons of liberal mind--that's all; the proportion rises and falls. Why should we trouble about it? Let those of us who really dislike the ox and pill placards, keep as much out of sight of them as possible, that's all. It doesn't do to think over much about the problems of life. Nowadays almost everybody seems to feel it a duty to explain the universe, and with strange results.

For instance, I read an article last night, a most profound article, altogether too much for my poor head, on the question of right and wrong. Really, I had supposed that I knew the difference between right and wrong; in my blundering way, I had always tried to act on the knowledge. But this writer proves to me that I shall have to begin all over again. 'Morality,' he says, 'depends upon cerebral oxidation.'

That's a terrible dictum for a simpleminded man. If I am not cerebrally oxidised, or oxidally cerebrised, in the right degree, it's all over with my hopes of leading a moral life. I'm quite sure that a large number of people are worrying over that article, and asking how they can oxidise if not their own cerebellum, at all events that of their offspring."

"Man and nature," said Lord Dymchurch presently, "have such different views about the good of the world."

"That," exclaimed the baronet, "is a very striking remark. Let me give you an ill.u.s.tration of its truth. Years ago I had an intimate friend, a wonderfully clever man, who wrote and published a delightful little book. Few such books have ever been written; it was a marvel of delicate thought and of exquisite style. The half-dozen readers who could appreciate it cried aloud that this man had a great future, that his genius was a jewel which the world would for ever prize--and so on.

Well, my friend married, and since then he has written nothing, nor will he ever again. I know people who lament his fate, who declare that marriage was his ruin, and a crime against civilisation. The other day, I called upon him--not having seen him for ages. I found a rather uncomfortable little house, a pretty, dull little wife, and three beautiful children in the most vigorous health. 'Alas!' said my friend to me in private, 'I try to work, but I can do nothing. I need absolute tranquillity, such as I had when I wrote my book. I try, but domestic life is fatal to me.' Now, what better example of what you say, Lord Dymchurch? To _us_ it seems a misfortune to the world that this man didn't live on in bachelorhood and write more exquisite books. But nature says 'What do I care for his _books_?' 'Look at his _children_!'

That's what she meant him for, and from Nature's point of view he is a triumphant success."

Dymchurch seemed not only amused, but pleased. He grew thoughtful, and sat smiling to himself whilst others carried on the conversation.

The evening pa.s.sed. Lady Amys gave the signal of retirement; May and Constance followed; the baronet and the peer chatted for yet a few minutes with their hostess, then bade her good-night. But, just as he was leaving the room, Dymchurch heard Lady Ogram call his name; he stepped back towards her.

"I forgot to tell you," she said, "that Mr. Lashmar will lunch with us the day after to-morrow. Of course he is very busy at Hollingford."

"I shall be glad to see him," replied the other, cordially. "I wish I could help him in any way."

Lady Ogram resumed her seat. She was looking at the marble bust, and Dymchurch, following the direction of her eyes, also regarded it.

"Until this morning," she said, "I hadn't seen that for more than fifty years. I would tell you why--but I should only send you to sleep."

Her guest begged to hear the story, and sat down to listen. Though the day had been so unusually long and fatiguing, Lady Ogram seemed to feel no effect of it; her eyes were still l.u.s.trous she held herself with as much dignity as when the guests arrived. She began a narrative of such clearness and vigour that the listener never thought of doubting its truth; yet the story of her youth as the lady of Rivenoak wished Lord Dymchurch to receive it differed in very important points from that which her memory preserved. Not solely, nor indeed chiefly, on her own account did Arabella thus falsify the past; it was as the ancestress of May Tomalin that she spoke, and on behalf of May's possible children.

Dymchurch, looking back into years long before he was born, saw a beautiful maiden of humble birth loyally wooed and wedded by a romantic artist, son of a proud baronet. Of course she became the b.u.t.t of calumny, which found its chief support in the fact that the young artist had sculptured her portrait, and indiscreetly shown it to friends, before their marriage. Hearing these slanderous rumours, she wished all the work which represented her to be destroyed, and her husband led her to believe that this was done; but on succeeding to the t.i.tle, and coming to live at Rivenoak, Sir Quentin confessed that he had not been able to destroy that marble bust which was his joy and his pride; he undertook, however, to keep it hidden under lock and key, and only this day, this very day, had it come forth again into the light.

"I am an old, old woman," she said, not without genuine pathos in her utterance. "I have long outlived the few who were my enemies and spoke ill of me, as well as those who knew the truth and held me in respect.

I fear no one. I wanted to see how I looked when I was a girl, and I confess I am glad for others to see it, too."

Dymchurch murmured that nothing could be more natural.

"I was almost as good-looking as May, don't you think?" she asked, with a not very successful affectation of diffidence.

"There is a likeness," answered Dymchurch. "But--"

She interrupted his effort to describe the points of difference.

"You very much prefer the other face. That doesn't surprise me and you needn't be afraid to confess it. May is much better-tempered than I was, and she looks it. Did I ever tell you how she is related to me? I call her my niece, but she is really the grand-daughter of my brother, who emigrated to Canada."

Thereupon Lady Ogram sketched a portrait of that brother, depicting him as a fine specimen of the colonising Briton, breezy, st.u.r.dy, honest to the core. She traced the history of the Canadian family, which in the direct line had now no representative but May. Of her long search for the Tomalins she did not think it necessary to speak; but, turning hack to her own history, she told of the son she had lost, and how all her affections were now bestowed upon this young girl, who in truth had become to her as a daughter. Then, discreetly, with no undue insistence, she made known her intention to endow May Tomalin with the greater part of her fortune.

"I have lived long enough to know that money is not happiness, but in the right hands it is a great and good thing. I have no fear of the use May will make of it, and you can't know what a pleasure it is to be able to give it to her, to one of my own blood, my own name, instead of leaving it to strangers, as I once feared I must.--But," she broke off suddenly in a changed voice, "here I keep you listening to my old tales, when you ought to be asleep. Good-night, Lord Dymchurch!

To-morrow you must see Rivenoak. Good-night!"

For her, there was again no sleep. The weather had changed; through the open window breathed a cool, sweet air, very refreshing after the high temperature of the last few days; but Lady Ogram in vain closed her eyes and tried to lull her thoughts to rest. It disappointed her that Dymchurch, in reply to her confidences, had spoken no decisive word. Of course he would declare himself on the morrow; he would have every opportunity for private talk with May, and of the issue there could be no serious doubt. But Lady Ogram's nerves were tortured with impatience. In the glimmer of dawn, she wished to rise and walk about, but found herself unequal to the effort. Her head ached; her blood was feverish. Though it was a thing she hated to do, she summoned the attendant who lay in an adjoining room.

At mid-day she was able to descend At the foot of the stairs, she encountered Constance Bride, who stood glancing over a book.

"What are they all doing?" was her first question. And, before Constance could reply, she asked "Where is Lord Dymchurch?"

"I saw him not long ago in the garden."

"Alone?"

"No, with Miss Tomalin."

"Why didn't you say so at once? Where are the others? Tell them I am down."

Constance delayed replying for a moment, then said with cold respectfulness:

"You will find Sir William and Lady Amys in the drawing-room."

"I shall find them there, shall I? And what if I don't wish to go into the drawing-room?"

Constance looked into the angry face. In the book she was carrying, a French volume arrived by post this morning, she had found things which troubled her mind and her temper; she was in no mood for submitting to harsh dictatorship. But those blood-shot eyes and shrivelled lips, the hollow temples and drawn cheeks which told of physical suffering, stilled her irritation.

"I will tell them at once, Lady Ogram."

Dymchurch and May Tomalin had strayed from the garden into the park.

They were sitting on a bench which encircled a great old tree. For some minutes neither had spoken. Dymchurch held in his hand a last year's leaf, brown, crisp, but still perfect in shape; he smiled dreamily, and, as his eyes wandered to the girl's face, said in a soft undertone:

"How easily one loses oneself in idle thoughts! I was asking myself where this grew--on which branch, which twig; and it seemed strange to me that by no possibility could anyone discover it."

May had not a very high opinion of her companion's intelligence, but it struck her this morning he was duller than usual. She humoured him, replying with her philosophical air:

"No, indeed! Yet we try to find out how life began, and what the world means."

Dymchurch was pleased. He liked to find her capable of such a reflection. It encouraged the movements of vague tenderness which had begun to justify a purpose formed rather in the mind than in the heart.

"Yes! Amusing, isn't it? But you, I think, don't trouble much about such questions."

"It seems to me waste of time."

She was thinking of Dyce Lashmar, asking herself whether she would meet him, or not, to-morrow morning. Certainly she wished to do so. Lashmar at a distance left her coolly reasonable; she wanted to recover the emotional state of mind which had come about during their stolen interview. With Lord Dymchurch, though his attentions were flattering, she could not for a moment imagine herself touched by romantic feeling.

"So it is," he was saying. "To waste time in that way has always been one of my bad habits. But I am going to get rid of it."

He seemed on the point of adding more significant words. May heard the sound fail in his throat; saw without looking at him--his sudden embarra.s.sment. When the words came, as surely they would, what was to be her answer? She hoped for inspiration. Why should it be necessary for her to make precise reply? No! She would not. Freedom and the exercise of power were what she wanted. Enough to promise her answer a month, or half a year, hence. If the old lady didn't like it, let her learn patience.