"Ha! ha! ha!" shouted Sir Charles. "On my honor, I thought you were
serious at first, Trefusis. Come, confess, old chap; it's all a fad of
yours. I half suspected you of being a bit of a crank." And he winked at
Erskine.

"What I have described to you is the inevitable outcome of our present
Free Trade policy without Socialism. The theory of Free Trade is only
applicable to systems of exchange, not to systems of spoliation. Our
system is one of spoliation, and if we don't abandon it, we must either
return to Protection or go to smash by the road I have just mapped. Now,
sooner than let the Protectionists triumph, the Cobden Club itself would
blow the gaff and point out to the workers that Protection only means
compelling the proprietors of England to employ slaves resident
in England and therefore presumably--though by no means
necessarily--Englishmen. This would open the eyes of the nation at last
to the fact that England is not their property. Once let them understand
that and they would soon make it so. When England is made the property
of its inhabitants collectively, England becomes socialistic. Artificial
inequality will vanish then before real freedom of contract; freedom
of competition, or unhampered emulation, will keep us moving ahead; and
Free Trade will fulfil its promises at last."

"And the idlers and loafers," said Erskine. "What of them?"

"You and I, in fact," said Trefusis, "die of starvation, I suppose,
unless we choose to work, or unless they give us a little out-door
relief in consideration of our bad bringing-up."

"Do you mean that they will plunder us?" said Sir Charles.

"I mean that they will make us stop plundering them. If they hesitate
to strip us naked, or to cut our throats if we offer them the smallest
resistance, they will show us more mercy than we ever showed them.
Consider what we have done to get our rents in Ireland and Scotland, and
our dividends in Egypt, if you have already forgotten my photographs and
their lesson in our atrocities at home. Why, man, we murder the great
mass of these toilers with overwork and hardship; their average lifetime
is not half as long as ours. Human nature is the same in them as in us.
If we resist them, and succeed in restoring order, as we call it, we
will punish them mercilessly for their insubordination, as we did in
Paris in 1871, where, by-the-bye, we taught them the folly of giving
their enemies quarter. If they beat us, we shall catch it, and serve us
right. Far better turn honest at once and avert bloodshed. Eh, Erskine?"

Erskine was considering what reply he should make, when Trefusis
disconcerted him by ringing a bell. Presently the elderly woman
appeared, pushing before her an oblong table mounted on wheels, like a
barrow.

"Thank you," said Trefusis, and dismissed her. "Here is some good wine,
some good water, some good fruit, and some good bread. I know that
you cling to wine as to a good familiar creature. As for me, I make no
distinction between it and other vegetable poisons. I abstain from them
all. Water for serenity, wine for excitement. I, having boiling springs
of excitement within myself, am never at a loss for it, and have only
to seek serenity. However," (here he drew a cork), "a generous goblet
of this will make you feel like gods for half an hour at least. Shall we
drink to your conversion to Socialism?"

Sir Charles shook his head.

"Come, Mr. Donovan Brown, the great artist, is a Socialist, and why
should not you be one?"

"Donovan Brown!" exclaimed Sir Charles with interest. "Is it possible?
Do you know him personally?"

"Here are several letters from him. You may read them; the mere
autograph of such a man is interesting."

Sir Charles took the letters and read them earnestly, Erskine reading
over his shoulder.

"I most cordially agree with everything he says here," said Sir Charles.
"It is quite true, quite true."

"Of course you agree with us. Donovan Brown's eminence as an artist has
gained me one recruit, and yours as a baronet will gain me some more."

"But--"

"But what?" said Trefusis, deftly opening one of the albums at a
photograph of a loathsome room.

"You are against that, are you not? Donovan Brown is against it, and I
am against it. You may disagree with us in everything else, but there
you are at one with us. Is it not so?"

"But that may be the result of drunkenness, improvidence, or--"

"My father's income was fifty times as great as that of Donovan
Brown. Do you believe that Donovan Brown is fifty times as drunken and
improvident as my father was?"

"Certainly not. I do not deny that there is much in what you urge.
Still, you ask me to take a rather important step."

"Not a bit of it. I don't ask you to subscribe to, join, or in any way
pledge yourself to any society or conspiracy whatsoever. I only want
your name for private mention to cowards who think Socialism right, but
will not say so because they do not think it respectable. They will not
be ashamed of their convictions when they learn that a baronet shares
them. Socialism offers you something already, you see; a good use for
your hitherto useless title."

Sir Charles colored a little, conscious that the example of his favorite
painter had influenced him more than his own conviction or the arguments
of Trefusis.

"What do you think, Chester?" he said. "Will you join?"

"Erskine is already committed to the cause of liberty by his published
writings," said Trefusis. "Three of the pamphlets on that shelf contain
quotations from 'The Patriot Martyrs.'"

Erskine blushed, flattered by being quoted; an attention that had been
shown him only once before, and then by a reviewer with the object of
proving that the Patriot Martyrs were slovenly in their grammar.

"Come!" said Trefusis. "Shall I write to Donovan Brown that his letters
have gained the cordial assent and sympathy of Sir Charles Brandon?"

"Certainly, certainly. That is, if my unknown name would be of the least
interest to him."

"Good," said Trefusis, filling his glass with water. "Erskine, let us
drink to our brother Social Democrat."

Erskine laughed loudly, but not heartily. "What an ass you are,
Brandon!" he said. "You, with a large landed estate, and bags of gold
invested in railways, calling yourself a Social Democrat! Are you going
to sell out and distribute--to sell all that thou hast and give to the
poor?"

"Not a penny," replied Trefusis for him promptly. "A man cannot be a
Christian in this country. I have tried it and found it impossible both
in law and in fact. I am a capitalist and a landholder. I have railway
shares, mining shares, building shares, bank shares, and stock of most
kinds; and a great trouble they are to me. But these shares do not
represent wealth actually in existence; they are a mortgage on the labor
of unborn generations of laborers, who must work to keep me and mine in
idleness and luxury. If I sold them, would the mortgage be cancelled and
the unborn generations released from its thrall? No. It would only pass
into the hands of some other capitalist, and the working class would be
no better off for my self-sacrifice. Sir Charles cannot obey the command
of Christ; I defy him to do it. Let him give his land for a public park;
only the richer classes will have leisure to enjoy it. Plant it at the
very doors of the poor, so that they may at last breathe its air, and it
will raise the value of the neighboring houses and drive the poor away.
Let him endow a school for the poor, like Eton or Christ's Hospital,
and the rich will take it for their own children as they do in the
two instances I have named. Sir Charles does not want to minister to
poverty, but to abolish it. No matter how much you give to the poor,
everything except a bare subsistence wage will be taken from them again
by force. All talk of practicing Christianity, or even bare justice, is
at present mere waste of words. How can you justly reward the laborer
when you cannot ascertain the value of what he makes, owing to the
prevalent custom of stealing it? I know this by experience. I wanted to
pay a just price for my wife's tomb, but I could not find out its
value, and never shall. The principle on which we farm out our national
industry to private marauders, who recompense themselves by black-mail,
so corrupts and paralyzes us that we cannot be honest even when we want
to. And the reason we bear it so calmly is that very few of us really
want to."

"I must study this question of value," said Sir Charles dubiously,
refilling his goblet. "Can you recommend me a good book on the subject?"

"Any good treatise on political economy will do," said Trefusis. "In
economics all roads lead to Socialism, although in nine cases out of
ten, so far, the economist doesn't recognize his destination, and incurs
the malediction pronounced by Jeremiah on those who justify the wicked
for reward. I will look you out a book or two. And if you will call on
Donovan Brown the next time you are in London, he will be delighted, I
know. He meets with very few who are capable of sympathizing with him
from both his points of view--social and artistic."

Sir Charles brightened on being reminded of Donovan Brown. "I shall
esteem an introduction to him a great honor," he said. "I had no idea
that he was a friend of yours."

"I was a very practical young Socialist when I first met him," said
Trefusis. "When Brown was an unknown and wretchedly poor man, my
mother, at the petition of a friend of his, charitably bought one of
his pictures for thirty pounds, which he was very glad to get. Years
afterwards, when my mother was dead, and Brown famous, I was offered
eight hundred pounds for this picture, which was, by-the-bye, a very
bad one in my opinion. Now, after making the usual unjust allowance for
interest on thirty pounds for twelve years or so that had elapsed, the
sale of the picture would have brought me in a profit of over seven
hundred and fifty pounds, an unearned increment to which I had no
righteous claim. My solicitor, to whom I mentioned the matter, was of
opinion that I might justifiably pocket the seven hundred and fifty
pounds as reward for my mother's benevolence in buying a presumably
worthless picture from an obscure painter. But he failed to convince me
that I ought to be paid for my mother's virtues, though we agreed that
neither I nor my mother had received any return in the shape of pleasure
in contemplating the work, which had deteriorated considerably by the
fading of the colors since its purchase. At last I went to Brown's
studio with the picture, and told him that it was worth nothing to me,
as I thought it a particularly bad one, and that he might have it back
again for fifteen pounds, half the first price. He at once told me that
I could get from any dealer more for it than he could afford to give me;
but he told me too that I had no right to make a profit out of his work,
and that he would give me the original price of thirty pounds. I took
it, and then sent him the man who had offered me the eight hundred.
To my discomfiture Brown refused to sell it on any terms, because he
considered it unworthy of his reputation. The man bid up to fifteen
hundred, but Brown held out; and I found that instead of putting seven
hundred and seventy pounds into his pocket I had taken thirty out of
it. I accordingly offered to return the thirty pieces. Brown, taking the
offer as an insult, declined all further communication with me. I then
insisted on the matter being submitted to arbitration, and demanded
fifteen hundred pounds as the full exchange value of the picture. All
the arbitrators agreed that this was monstrous, whereupon I contended
that if they denied my right to the value in exchange, they must admit
my right to the value in use. They assented to this after putting off
their decision for a fortnight in order to read Adam Smith and discover
what on earth I meant by my values in use and exchange. I now showed
that the picture had no value in use to me, as I disliked it, and that
therefore I was entitled to nothing, and that Brown must take back the
thirty pounds. They were glad to concede this also to me, as they were
all artist friends of Brown, and wished him not to lose money by the
transaction, though they of course privately thought that the picture
was, as I described it, a bad one. After that Brown and I became very
good friends. He tolerated my advances, at first lest it should seem
that he was annoyed by my disparagement of his work. Subsequently he
fell into my views much as you have done."

"That is very interesting," said Sir Charles. "What a noble
thing--refusing fifteen hundred pounds! He could ill afford it,
probably."

"Heroic--according to nineteenth century notions of heroism. Voluntarily
to throw away a chance of making money! that is the ne plus ultra of
martyrdom. Brown's wife was extremely angry with him for doing it."

"It is an interesting story--or might be made so," said Erskine. "But
you make my head spin with your confounded exchange values and stuff.
Everything is a question of figures with you."

"That comes of my not being a poet," said Trefusis. "But we Socialists
need to study the romantic side of our movement to interest women in it.
If you want to make a cause grow, instruct every woman you meet in it.
She is or will one day be a wife, and will contradict her husband with
scraps of your arguments. A squabble will follow. The son will listen,
and will be set thinking if he be capable of thought. And so the mind
of the people gets leavened. I have converted many young women. Most of
them know no more of the economic theory of Socialism than they know of
Chaldee; but they no longer fear or condemn its name. Oh, I assure you
that much can be done in that way by men who are not afraid of women,
and who are not in too great a hurry to see the harvest they have sown
for."

"Take care. Some of your lady proselytes may get the better of you some
day. The future husband to be contradicted may be Sidney Trefusis. Ha!
ha! ha!" Sir Charles had emptied a second large goblet of wine, and was
a little flushed and boisterous.

"No," said Trefusis, "I have had enough of love myself, and am not
likely to inspire it. Women do not care for men to whom, as Erskine
says, everything is a question of figures. I used to flirt with women;
now I lecture them, and abhor a man-flirt worse than I do a woman one.
Some more wine? Oh, you must not waste the remainder of this bottle."

"I think we had better go, Brandon," said Erskine, his mistrust of
Trefusis growing. "We promised to be back before two."

"So you shall," said Trefusis. "It is not yet a quarter past one.
By-the-bye, I have not shown you Donovan Brown's pet instrument for the
regeneration of society. Here it is. A monster petition praying that the
holding back from the laborer of any portion of the net value produced
by his labor be declared a felony. That is all."

Erskine nudged Sir Charles, who said hastily, "Thank you, but I had
rather not sign anything."

"A baronet sign such a petition!" exclaimed Trefusis. "I did not think
of asking you. I only show it to you as an interesting historical
document, containing the autographs of a few artists and poets. There is
Donovan Brown's for example. It was he who suggested the petition, which
is not likely to do much good, as the thing cannot be done in any such
fashion However, I have promised Brown to get as many signatures as I
can; so you may as well sign it, Erskine. It says nothing in blank verse
about the holiness of slaying a tyrant, but it is a step in the right
direction. You will not stick at such a trifle--unless the reviews have
frightened you. Come, your name and address."

Erskine shook his head.

"Do you then only commit yourself to revolutionary sentiments when there
is a chance of winning fame as a poet by them?"

"I will not sign, simply because I do not choose to," said Erskine
warmly.

"My dear fellow," said Trefusis, almost affectionately, "if a man has a
conscience he can have no choice in matters of conviction. I have read
somewhere in your book that the man who will not shed his blood for the
liberty of his brothers is a coward and a slave. Will you not shed a
drop of ink--my ink, too--for the right of your brothers to the work
of their hands? I at first sight did not care to sign this petition,
because I would as soon petition a tiger to share his prey with me as
our rulers to relax their grip of the stolen labor they live on. But
Donovan Brown said to me, 'You have no choice. Either you believe that
the laborer should have the fruit of his labor or you do not. If you
do, put your conviction on record, even if it should be as useless as
Pilate's washing his hands.' So I signed."

"Donovan Brown was right," said Sir Charles. "I will sign." And he did
so with a flourish.

"Brown will be delighted," said Trefusis. "I will write to him to-day
that I have got another good signature for him."

"Two more," said Sir Charles. "You shall sign, Erskine; hang me if you
shan't! It is only against rascals that run away without paying their
men their wages."

"Or that don't pay them in full," observed Trefusis, with a curious
smile. "But do not sign if you feel uncomfortable about it."

"If you don't sign after me, you are a sneak, Chester," said Sir
Charles.

"I don't know what it means," said Erskine, wavering. "I don't
understand petitions."

"It means what it says; you cannot be held responsible for any meaning
that is not expressed in it," said Trefusis. "But never mind. You
mistrust me a little, I fancy, and would rather not meddle with my
petitions; but you will think better of that as you grow used to me.
Meanwhile, there is no hurry. Don't sign yet."

"Nonsense! I don't doubt your good faith," said Erskine, hastily
disavowing suspicions which he felt but could not account for. "Here
goes!" And he signed.

"Well done!" said Trefusis. "This will make Brown happy for the rest of
the month."

"It is time for us to go now," said Erskine gloomily.

"Look in upon me at any time; you shall be welcome," said Trefusis. "You
need not stand upon any sort of ceremony."

Then they parted; Sir Charles assuring Trefusis that he had never spent
a more interesting morning, and shaking hands with him at considerable
length three times. Erskine said little until he was in the Riverside
Road with his friend, when he suddenly burst out:

"What the devil do you mean by drinking two tumblers of such staggering
stuff at one o'clock in the day in the house of a dangerous man like
that? I am very sorry I went into the fellow's place. I had misgivings
about it, and they have been fully borne out."

"How so?" said Sir Charles, taken aback.

"He has overreached us. I was a deuced fool to sign that paper, and so
were you. It was for that that he invited us."

"Rubbish, my dear boy. It was not his paper, but Donovan Brown's."

"I doubt it. Most likely he talked Brown into signing it just as he
talked us. I tell you his ways are all crooked, like his ideas. Did you
hear how he lied about Miss Lindsay?"

"Oh, you were mistaken about that. He does not care two straws for her
or for anyone."

"Well, if you are satisfied, I am not. You would not be in such high
spirits over it if you had taken as little wine as I."

"Pshaw! you're too ridiculous. It was capital wine. Do you mean to say I
am drunk?"

"No. But you would not have signed if you had not taken that second
goblet. If you had not forced me--I could not get out of it after
you set the example--I would have seen him d--d sooner than have had
anything to do with his petition."

"I don't see what harm can come of it," said Sir Charles, braving out
some secret disquietude.

"I will never go into his house again," said Erskine moodily. "We were
just like two flies in a spider's web."

Meanwhile, Trefusis was fulfilling his promise to write to Donovan
Brown.

"Sallust's House.

"Dear Brown: I have spent the forenoon angling for a couple of very
young fish, and have landed them with more trouble than they are worth.
One has gaudy scales: he is a baronet, and an amateur artist, save the
mark. All my arguments and my little museum of photographs were lost on
him; but when I mentioned your name, and promised him an introduction to
you, he gorged the bait greedily. He was half drunk when he signed; and
I should not have let him touch the paper if I had not convinced myself
beforehand that he means well, and that my wine had only freed his
natural generosity from his conventional cowardice and prejudice.
We must get his name published in as many journals as possible as a
signatory to the great petition; it will draw on others as your name
drew him. The second novice, Chichester Erskine, is a young poet.
He will not be of much use to us, though he is a devoted champion of
liberty in blank verse, and dedicates his works to Mazzini, etc. He
signed reluctantly. All this hesitation is the uncertainty that comes
of ignorance; they have not found out the truth for themselves, and are
afraid to trust me, matters having come to the pass at which no man
dares trust his fellow.

"I have met a pretty young lady here who might serve you as a model for
Hypatia. She is crammed with all the prejudices of the peerage, but I am
effecting a cure. I have set my heart on marrying her to Erskine, who,
thinking that I am making love to her on my own account, is jealous. The
weather is pleasant here, and I am having a merry life of it, but I find
myself too idle. Etc., etc., etc."



CHAPTER XVI

One sunny forenoon, as Agatha sat reading on the doorstep of the
conservatory, the shadow of her parasol deepened, and she, looking up
for something denser than the silk of it, saw Trefusis.

"Oh!"

She offered him no further greeting, having fallen in with his habit
of dispensing, as far as possible, with salutations and ceremonies.
He seemed in no hurry to speak, and so, after a pause, she began, "Sir
Charles--"

"Is gone to town," he said. "Erskine is out on his bicycle. Lady Brandon
and Miss Lindsay have gone to the village in the wagonette, and you have
come out here to enjoy the summer sun and read rubbish. I know all your
news already."

"You are very clever, and, as usual, wrong. Sir Charles has not gone to
town. He has only gone to the railway station for some papers; he will
be back for luncheon. How do you know so much of our affairs?"

"I was on the roof of my house with a field-glass. I saw you come out
and sit down here. Then Sir Charles passed. Then Erskine. Then Lady
Brandon, driving with great energy, and presenting a remarkable contrast
to the disdainful repose of Gertrude."

"Gertrude! I like your cheek."

"You mean that you dislike my presumption."

"No, I think cheek a more expressive word than presumption; and I mean
that I like it--that it amuses me."

"Really! What are you reading?"

"Rubbish, you said just now. A novel."

"That is, a lying story of two people who never existed, and who would
have acted very differently if they had existed."

"Just so."

"Could you not imagine something just as amusing for yourself?"

"Perhaps so; but it would be too much trouble. Besides, cooking takes
away one's appetite for eating. I should not relish stories of my own
confection."

"Which volume are you at?"

"The third."

"Then the hero and heroine are on the point of being united?"

"I really don't know. This is one of your clever novels. I wish the
characters would not talk so much."

"No matter. Two of them are in love with one another, are they not?"

"Yes. It would not be a novel without that."

"Do you believe, in your secret soul, Agatha--I take the liberty of
using your Christian name because I wish to be very solemn--do you
really believe that any human being was ever unselfish enough to love
another in the story-book fashion?"

"Of course. At least I suppose so. I have never thought much about it."

"I doubt it. My own belief is that no latter-day man has any faith in
the thoroughness or permanence of his affection for his mate. Yet he
does not doubt the sincerity of her professions, and he conceals the
hollowness of his own from her, partly because he is ashamed of it,
and partly out of pity for her. And she, on the other side, is playing
exactly the same comedy."

"I believe that is what men do, but not women."

"Indeed! Pray do you remember pretending to be very much in love with me
once when--"

Agatha reddened and placed her palm on the step as if about to spring
up. But she checked herself and said: "Stop, Mr. Trefusis. If you talk
about that I shall go away. I wonder at you! Have you no taste?',

"None whatever. And as I was the aggrieved party on that--stay, don't
go. I will never allude to it again. I am growing afraid of you. You
used to be afraid of me."

"Yes; and you used to bully me. You have a habit of bullying women who
are weak enough to fear you. You are a great deal cleverer than I, and
know much more, I dare say; but I am not in the least afraid of you
now."

"You have no reason to be, and never had any. Henrietta, if she were
alive, could testify that it there is a defect in my relations with
women, it arises from my excessive amiability. I could not refuse a
woman anything she had set her heart upon--except my hand in marriage.
As long as your sex are content to stop short of that they can do as
they please with me."

"How cruel! I thought you were nearly engaged to Gertrude."

"The usual interpretation of a friendship between a man and a woman! I
have never thought of such a thing; and I am sure she never has. We are
not half so intimate as you and Sir Charles."

"Oh, Sir Charles is married. And I advise you to get married if you wish
to avoid creating misunderstandings by your friendships."

Trefusis was struck. Instead of answering, he stood, after one startled
glance at her, looking intently at the knuckle of his forefinger.

"Do take pity on our poor sex," said Agatha maliciously. "You are so
rich, and so very clever, and really so nice looking that you ought to
share yourself with somebody. Gertrude would be only too happy."

Trefusis grinned and shook his head, slowly but emphatically.

"I suppose _I_ should have no chance," continued Agatha pathetically.

"I should be delighted, of course," he replied with simulated confusion,
but with a lurking gleam in his eye that might have checked her, had she
noticed it.

"Do marry me, Mr. Trefusis," she pleaded, clasping her hands in a
rapture of mischievous raillery. "Pray do."

"Thank you," said Trefusis determinedly; "I will."

"I am very sure you shan't," said Agatha, after an incredulous pause,
springing up and gathering her skirt as if to run away. "You do not
suppose I was in earnest, do you?"

"Undoubtedly I do. _I_ am in earnest."

Agatha hesitated, uncertain whether he might not be playing with her as
she had just been playing with him. "Take care," she said. "I may
change my mind and be in earnest, too; and then how will you feel, Mr.
Trefusis?"

"I think, under our altered relations, you had better call me Sidney."

"I think we had better drop the joke. It was in rather bad taste, and I
should not have made it, perhaps."

"It would be an execrable joke; therefore I have no intention of
regarding it as one. You shall be held to your offer, Agatha. Are you in
love with me?"

"Not in the least. Not the very smallest bit in the world. I do not know
anybody with whom I am less in love or less likely to be in love."

"Then you must marry me. If you were in love with me, I should run
away. My sainted Henrietta adored me, and I proved unworthy of
adoration--though I was immensely flattered."

"Yes; exactly! The way you treated your first wife ought to be
sufficient to warn any woman against becoming your second."

"Any woman who loved me, you mean. But you do not love me, and if I run
away you will have the advantage of being rid of me. Our settlements can
be drawn so as to secure you half my fortune in such an event."

"You will never have a chance of running away from me."

"I shall not want to. I am not so squeamish as I was. No; I do not think
I shall run away from you."

"I do not think so either."

"Well, when shall we be married?"

"Never," said Agatha, and fled. But before she had gone a step he caught
her.

"Don't," she said breathlessly. "Take your arm away. How dare you?"

He released her and shut the door of the conservatory. "Now," he said,
"if you want to run away you will have to run in the open."

"You are very impertinent. Let me go in immediately."

"Do you want me to beg you to marry me after you have offered to do it
freely?"

"But I was only joking; I don't care for you," she said, looking round
for an outlet.

"Agatha," he said, with grim patience, "half an hour ago I had no more
intention of marrying you than of making a voyage to the moon. But when
you made the suggestion I felt all its force in an instant, and now
nothing will satisfy me but your keeping your word. Of all the women I
know, you are the only one not quite a fool."

"I should be a great fool if--"

"If you married me, you were going to say; but I don't think so. I am
the only man, not quite an ass, of your acquaintance. I know my value,
and yours. And I loved you long ago, when I had no right to."

Agatha frowned. "No," she said. "There is no use in saying anything more
about it. It is out of the question."

"Come, don't be vindictive. I was more sincere then than you were. But
that has nothing to do with the present. You have spent our renewed
acquaintance on the defensive against me, retorting upon me, teasing and
tempting me. Be generous for once, and say Yes with a good will."

"Oh, I NEVER tempted you," cried Agatha. "I did not. It is not true."
He said nothing, but offered his hand. "No; go away; I will not."
He persisted, and she felt her power of resistance suddenly wane.
Terror-stricken, she said hastily, "There is not the least use in
bothering me; I will tell you nothing to-day."

"Promise me on your honor that you will say Yes to-morrow, and I will
leave you in peace until then."

"I will not."

"The deuce take your sex," he said plaintively.

"You know my mind now, and I have to stand here coquetting because
you don't know your own. If I cared for my comfort I should remain a
bachelor."

"I advise you to do so," she said, stealing backward towards the door.
"You are a very interesting widower. A wife would spoil you. Consider
the troubles of domesticity, too."

"I like troubles. They strengthen--Aha!" (she had snatched at the knob
of the door, and he swiftly put his hand on hers and stayed her). "Not
yet, if you please. Can you not speak out like a woman--like a man, I
mean? You may withhold a bone from Max until he stands on his hind legs
to beg for it, but you should not treat me like a dog. Say Yes frankly,
and do not keep me begging."

"What in the world do you want to marry me for?"

"Because I was made to carry a house on my shoulders, and will do so.
I want to do the best I can for myself, and I shall never have such a
chance again. And I cannot help myself, and don't know why; that is the
plain truth of the matter. You will marry someone some day." She shook
her head. "Yes, you will. Why not marry me?"

Agatha bit her nether lip, looked ruefully at the ground, and, after
a long pause, said reluctantly, "Very well. But mind, I think you are
acting very foolishly, and if you are disappointed afterwards, you must
not blame ME."

"I take the risk of my bargain," he said, releasing her hand, and
leaning against the door as he took out his pocket diary. "You will have
to take the risk of yours, which I hope may not prove the worse of the
two. This is the seventeenth of June. What date before the twenty-fourth
of July will suit you?"

"You mean the twenty-fourth of July next year, I presume?"

"No; I mean this year. I am going abroad on that date, married or not,
to attend a conference at Geneva, and I want you to come with me. I will
show you a lot of places and things that you have never seen before.
It is your right to name the day, but you have no serious business to
provide for, and I have."

"But you don't know all the things I shall--I should have to provide.
You had better wait until you come back from the continent."

"There is nothing to be provided on your part but settlements and your
trousseau. The trousseau is all nonsense; and Jansenius knows me of old
in the matter of settlements. I got married in six weeks before."

"Yes," said Agatha sharply, "but I am not Henrietta."

"No, thank Heaven," he assented placidly.

Agatha was struck with remorse. "That was a vile thing for me to say,"
she said; "and for you too."

"Whatever is true is to the purpose, vile or not. Will you come to
Geneva on the twenty-fourth?"

"But--I really was not thinking when I--I did not intend to say that I
would--I--"

"I know. You will come if we are married."

"Yes. IF we are married."

"We shall be married. Do not write either to your mother or Jansenius
until I ask you."

"I don't intend to. I have nothing to write about."

"Wretch that you are! And do not be jealous if you catch me making love
to Lady Brandon. I always do so; she expects it."

"You may make love to whom you please. It is no concern of mine."

"Here comes the wagonette with Lady Brandon and Ger--and Miss Lindsay.
I mustn't call her Gertrude now except when you are not by. Before they
interrupt us, let me remind you of the three points we are agreed
upon. I love you. You do not love me. We are to be married before the
twenty-fourth of next month. Now I must fly to help her ladyship to
alight."

He hastened to the house door, at which the wagonette had just stopped.
Agatha, bewildered, and ashamed to face her friends, went in through the
conservatory, and locked herself in her room.

Trefusis went into the library with Gertrude whilst Lady Brandon
loitered in the hall to take off her gloves and ask questions of the
servants. When she followed, she found the two standing together at the
window. Gertrude was listening to him with the patient expression she
now often wore when he talked. He was smiling, but it struck Jane that
he was not quite at ease. "I was just beginning to tell Miss Lindsay,"
he said, "of an extraordinary thing that has happened during your
absence."

"I know," exclaimed Jane, with sudden conviction. "The heater in the
conservatory has cracked."

"Possibly," said Trefusis; "but, if so, I have not heard of it."

"If it hasn't cracked, it will," said Jane gloomily. Then, assuming with
some effort an interest in Trefusis's news, she added: "Well, what has
happened?"

"I was chatting with Miss Wylie just now, when a singular idea occurred
to us. We discussed it for some time; and the upshot is that we are to
be married before the end of next month."

Jane reddened and stared at him; and he looked keenly back at her.
Gertrude, though unobserved, did not suffer her expression of patient
happiness to change in the least; but a greenish-white color suddenly
appeared in her face, and only gave place very slowly to her usual
complexion.

"Do you mean to say that you are going to marry AGATHA?" said Lady
Brandon incredulously, after a pause.

"Yes. I had no intention of doing so when I last saw you or I should
have told you."

"I never heard of such a thing in my life! You fell in love with one
another in five minutes, I suppose."

"Good Heavens, no! we are not in love with one another. Can you believe
that I would marry for such a frivolous reason? No. The subject turned
up accidentally, and the advantage of a match between us struck me
forcibly. I was fortunate enough to convert her to my opinion."

"Yes; she wanted a lot of pressing, I dare say," said Jane, glancing at
Gertrude, who was smiling unmeaningly.

"As you imply," said Trefusis coolly, "her reluctance may have been
affected, and she only too glad to get such a charming husband. Assuming
that to be the case, she dissembled remarkably well."

Gertrude took off her bonnet, and left the room without speaking.

"This is my revenge upon you for marrying Brandon," he said then,
approaching Jane.

"Oh, yes," she retorted ironically. "I believe all that, of course."

"You have the same security for its truth as for that of all the foolish
things I confess to you. There!" He pointed to a panel of looking glass,
in which Jane's figure was reflected at full length.

"I don't see anything to admire," said Jane, looking at herself with no
great favor. "There is plenty of me, if you admire that."

"It is impossible to have too much of a good thing. But I must not look
any more. Though Agatha says she does not love me, I am not sure that
she would be pleased if I were to look for love from anyone else."

"Says she does not love you! Don't believe her; she has taken trouble
enough to catch you."

"I am flattered. You caught me without any trouble, and yet you would
not have me."

"It is manners to wait to be asked. I think you have treated Gertrude
shamefully--I hope you won't be offended with me for saying so. I blame
Agatha most. She is an awfully double-faced girl."

"How so?" said Trefusis, surprised. "What has Miss Lindsay to do with
it?"

"You know very well."

"I assure you I do not. If you were speaking of yourself I could
understand you."

"Oh, you can get out of it cleverly, like all men; but you can't
hoodwink me. You shouldn't have pretended to like Gertrude when you were
really pulling a cord with Agatha. And she, too, pretending to flirt
with Sir Charles--as if he would care twopence for her!"

Trefusis seemed N little disturbed. "I hope Miss Lindsay had no
such--but she could not."

"Oh, couldn't she? You will soon see whether she had or not."

"You misunderstood us, Lady Brandon; Miss Lindsay knows better.
Remember, too, that this proposal of mine was quite unpremeditated. This
morning I had no tender thoughts of anyone except one whom it would be
improper to name."

"Oh, that is all talk. It won't do now."

"I will talk no more at present. I must be off to the village to
telegraph to my solicitor. If I meet Erskine I will tell him the good
news."

"He will be delighted. He thought, as we all did, that you were cutting
him out with Gertrude."

Trefusis smiled, shook his head, and, with a glance of admiring homage
to Jane's charms, went out. Jane was contemplating herself in the glass
when a servant begged her to come and speak to Master Charles and Miss
Fanny. She hurried upstairs to the nursery, where her boy and girl,
disputing each other's prior right to torture the baby, had come to
blows. They were somewhat frightened, but not at all appeased, by Jane's
entrance. She scolded, coaxed, threatened, bribed, quoted Dr. Watts,
appealed to the nurse and then insulted her, demanded of the children
whether they loved one another, whether they loved mamma, and whether
they wanted a right good whipping. At last, exasperated by her own
inability to restore order, she seized the baby, which had cried
incessantly throughout, and, declaring that it was doing it on purpose
and should have something real to cry for, gave it an exemplary
smacking, and ordered the others to bed. The boy, awed by the fate of
his infant brother, offered, by way of compromise, to be good if Miss
Wylie would come and play with him, a proposal which provoked from his
jealous mother a box on the ear that sent him howling to his cot. Then
she left the room, pausing on the threshold to remark that if she heard
another sound from them that day, they might expect the worst from her.
On descending, heated and angry, to the drawing-room, she found Agatha
there alone, looking out of window as if the landscape were especially
unsatisfactory this time.

"Selfish little beasts!" exclaimed Jane, making a miniature whirlwind
with her skirts as she came in. "Charlie is a perfect little fiend. He
spends all his time thinking how he can annoy me. Ugh! He's just like
his father."

"Thank you, my dear," said Sir Charles from the doorway.

Jane laughed. "I knew you were there," she said. "Where's Gertrude?"

"She has gone out," said Sir Charles.

"Nonsense! She has only just come in from driving with me."

"I do not know what you mean by nonsense," said Sir Charles, chafing.
"I saw her walking along the Riverside Road. I was in the village road,
and she did not see me. She seemed in a hurry."

"I met her on the stairs and spoke to her," said Agatha, "but she didn't
hear me."

"I hope she is not going to throw herself into the river," said Jane.
Then, turning to her husband, she added: "Have you heard the news?"

"The only news I have heard is from this paper," said Sir Charles,
taking out a journal and flinging it on the table. "There is a paragraph
in it stating that I have joined some infernal Socialistic league, and
I am told that there is an article in the 'Times' on the spread of
Socialism, in which my name is mentioned. This is all due to Trefusis;
and I think he has played me a most dishonorable trick. I will tell him
so, too, when next I see him."

"You had better be careful what you say of him before Agatha," said
Jane. "Oh, you need not be alarmed, Agatha; I know all about it. He told
us in the library. We went out this morning--Gertrude and I--and when we
came back we found Mr. Trefusis and Agatha talking very lovingly to one
another on the conservatory steps, newly engaged."

"Indeed!" said Sir Charles, disconcerted and displeased, but trying to
smile. "I may then congratulate you, Miss Wylie?"

"You need not," said Agatha, keeping her countenance as well as she
could. "It was only a joke. At least it came about in a jest. He has no
right to say that we are engaged."

"Stuff and nonsense," said Jane. "That won't do, Agatha. He has gone off
to telegraph to his solicitor. He is quite in earnest."

"I am a great fool," said Agatha, sitting down and twisting her hands
perplexedly. "I believe I said something; but I really did not intend
to. He surprised me into speaking before I knew what I was saying. A
pretty mess I have got myself into!"

"I am glad you have been outwitted at last," said Jane, laughing
spitefully. "You never had any pity for me when I could not think of the
proper thing to say at a moment's notice."

Agatha let the taunt pass unheeded. Her gaze wandered anxiously, and at
last settled appealingly upon Sir Charles. "What shall I do?" she said
to him.

"Well, Miss Wylie," he said gravely, "if you did not mean to marry him
you should not have promised. I don't wish to be unsympathetic, and I
know that it is very hard to get rid of Trefusis when he makes up his
mind to act something out of you, but still--"

"Never mind her," said Jane, interrupting him. "She wants to marry
him just as badly as he wants to marry her. You would be preciously
disappointed if he cried off, Agatha; for all your interesting
reluctance."

"That is not so, really," said Agatha earnestly. "I wish I had taken
time to think about it. I suppose he has told everybody by this time."

"May we then regard it as settled?" said Sir Charles.

"Of course you may," said Jane contemptuously.

"Pray allow Miss Wylie to speak for herself, Jane. I confess I do
not understand why you are still in doubt--if you have really engaged
yourself to him."

"I suppose I am in for it," said Agatha. "I feel as if there were some
fatal objection, if I could only remember what it is. I wish I had never
seen him."

Sir Charles was puzzled. "I do not understand ladies' ways in these
matters," he said. "However, as there seems to be no doubt that you and
Trefusis are engaged, I shall of course say nothing that would make it
unpleasant for him to visit here; but I must say that he has--to say
the least--been inconsiderate to me personally. I signed a paper at his
house on the implicit understanding that it was strictly private,
and now he has trumpeted it forth to the whole world, and publicly
associated my name not only with his own, but with those of persons of
whom I know nothing except that I would rather not be connected with
them in any way."

"What does it matter?" said Jane. "Nobody cares twopence."

"_I_ care," said Sir Charles angrily. "No sensible person can accuse
me of exaggerating my own importance because I value my reputation
sufficiently to object to my approval being publicly cited in support of
a cause with which I have no sympathy."

"Perhaps Mr. Trefusis has had nothing to do with it," said Agatha. "The
papers publish whatever they please, don't they?"

"That's right, Agatha," said Jane maliciously. "Don't let anyone speak
ill of him."

"I am not speaking ill of him," said Sir Charles, before Agatha could
retort. "It is a mere matter of feeling, and I should not have mentioned
it had I known the altered relations between him and Miss Wylie."

"Pray don't speak of them," said Agatha. "I have a mind to run away by
the next train."

Sir Charles, to change the subject, suggested a duet.

Meanwhile Erskine, returning through the village from his morning ride,
had met Trefusis, and attempted to pass him with a nod. But Trefusis
called to him to stop, and he dismounted reluctantly.

"Just a word to say that I am going to be married," said Trefusis.

"To--?" Erskine could not add Gertrude's name.

"To one of our friends at the Beeches. Guess to which."

"To Miss Lindsay, I presume."

"What in the fiend's name has put it into all your heads that Miss
Lindsay and I are particularly attached to one another?" exclaimed
Trefusis. "YOU have always appeared to me to be the man for Miss
Lindsay. I am going to marry Miss Wylie."

"Really!" exclaimed Erskine, with a sensation of suddenly thawing after
a bitter frost.

"Of course. And now, Erskine, you have the advantage of being a poor
man. Do not let that splendid girl marry for money. If you go further
you are likely to fare worse; and so is she." Then he nodded and walked
away, leaving the other staring after him.

"If he has jilted her, he is a scoundrel," said Erskine. "I am sorry I
didn't tell him so."

He mounted and rode slowly along the Riverside Road, partly suspecting
Trefusis of some mystification, but inclining to believe in him, and,
in any case, to take his advice as to Gertrude. The conversation he had
overheard in the avenue still perplexed him. He could not reconcile it
with Trefusis's profession of disinterestedness towards her.

His bicycle carried him noiselessly on its india-rubber tires to the
place by which the hemlock grew and there he saw Gertrude sitting on the
low earthen wall that separated the field from the road. Her straw bag,
with her scissors in it, lay beside her. Her fingers were interlaced,
and her hands rested, palms downwards, on her knee. Her expression was
rather vacant, and so little suggestive of any serious emotion that
Erskine laughed as he alighted close to her.

"Are you tired?" he said.

"No," she replied, not startled, and smiling mechanically--an unusual
condescension on her part.

"Indulging in a day-dream?"

"No." She moved a little to one side and concealed the basket with her
dress.

He began to fear that something was wrong. "Is it possible that you have
ventured among those poisonous plants again?" he said. "Are you ill?"

"Not at all," she replied, rousing herself a little. "Your solicitude is
quite thrown away. I am perfectly well."

"I beg your pardon," he said, snubbed. "I thought--Don't you think it
dangerous to sit on that damp wall?"

"It is not damp. It is crumbling into dust with dryness." An unnatural
laugh, with which she concluded, intensified his uneasiness.

He began a sentence, stopped, and to gain time to recover himself,
placed his bicycle in the opposite ditch; a proceeding which she
witnessed with impatience, as it indicated his intention to stay and
talk. She, however, was the first to speak; and she did so with a
callousness that shocked him.

"Have you heard the news?"

"What news?"

"About Mr. Trefusis and Agatha. They are engaged."

"So Trefusis told me. I met him just now in the village. I was very glad
to hear it."

"Of course."

"But I had a special reason for being glad."

"Indeed?"

"I was desperately afraid, before he told me the truth, that he had
other views--views that might have proved fatal to my dearest hopes."

Gertrude frowned at him, and the frown roused him to brave her. He lost
his self-command, already shaken by her strange behavior. "You know that
I love you, Miss Lindsay," he said. "It may not be a perfect love, but,
humanly speaking, it is a true one. I almost told you so that day when
we were in the billiard room together; and I did a very dishonorable
thing the same evening. When you were speaking to Trefusis in the avenue
I was close to you, and I listened."

"Then you heard him," cried Gertrude vehemently. "You heard him swear
that he was in earnest."

"Yes," said Erskine, trembling, "and I thought he meant in earnest in
loving you. You can hardly blame me for that: I was in love myself; and
love is blind and jealous. I never hoped again until he told me that he
was to be married to Miss Wylie. May I speak to you, now that I know I
was mistaken, or that you have changed your mind?"

"Or that he has changed his mind," said Gertrude scornfully.

Erskine, with a new anxiety for her sake, checked himself. Her dignity
was dear to him, and he saw that her disappointment had made her
reckless of it. "Do not say anything to me now, Miss Lindsay, lest--"

"What have I said? What have I to say?"

"Nothing, except on my own affairs. I love you dearly."

She made an impatient movement, as if that were a very insignificant
matter.

"You believe me, I hope," he said, timidly.

Gertrude made an effort to recover her habitual ladylike reserve, but
her energy failed before she had done more than raise her head. She
relapsed into her listless attitude, and made a faint gesture of
intolerance.

"You cannot be quite indifferent to being loved," he said, becoming more
nervous and more urgent. "Your existence constitutes all my happiness.
I offer you my services and devotion. I do not ask any reward." (He was
now speaking very quickly and almost inaudibly.) "You may accept my love
without returning it. I do not want--seek to make a bargain. If you need
a friend you may be able to rely on me more confidently because you know
I love you."