Princess Puck

It is an old saying, and doubtless a good one, that two is company and three none; yet the presence of a third person who stands somewhat apart from the other two is frequently a great assistance to domestic happiness and a great preventive of domestic friction. Polly took Bill to London during the first week in October and Theresa missed her at every turn. There was no one to play bézique with Robert in the long dull evenings; Theresa hated cards, and though she tried to play from a sense of duty her skill was so small that her efforts were a failure. There was no one to talk and amuse him when he came in at odd times; Theresa was somewhat silent by nature, and she did not seem to have grasped the details of his work. She could not remember the points of his horses or the names of his dogs; it all came natural to Bill who, Theresa reflected, had less on her mind and so of course might be expected to remember better. She missed the girl herself, too, in the dairy and store-room, in the house and orchard and garden. She missed her when the late apples fell, and when the dead leaves gathered thick in the garden; she missed the all-pervading sunshine of her nature, and she missed the regular visits Gilchrist Harborough used to pay on Bill’s account.

Of course she had nothing but the most impersonal interest in Gilchrist,—no one, not even Polly had suggested otherwise, though Theresa flushed as she remembered what Polly had suggested—still it was pleasanter when he used to come. If Bill had been here he would have come to-night; it was one of his evenings. Robert had gone to a political meeting at Wrugglesby and would not be home till late, and Theresa sighed a little, to think of the weary number of hours before her. She wondered a little, over her sewing, if Gilchrist had gone too.

But Gilchrist had not gone to the political meeting; he did not even know Robert had gone, for he came to Haylands that evening to speak to him, and finding he was not at home, came in to leave a message with Theresa. She was sincerely glad to see him, and he, to judge from his manner, was sincerely glad to be there again. To tell the truth he too missed those pleasant evenings at Haylands, the refinement and indescribable femininity of the house appealing to him in a way that surprised even himself.

“One needs a woman about a place,” he reflected that evening when he went once more to the house and found that though Bill was gone, the femininity remained,—flowers, needlework, delicate womanly atmosphere, all as before, all as attractive. It must be admitted that he did not expect otherwise, for to him Bill did not suggest such things; she could arrange flowers as well as grow them, and she often sat at needlework when he saw her, sewing very strongly, very intently; yet to him there was something unfeminine in the very energy with which she did the smallest things. Theresa,—he did not think much about Theresa, except to decide that it was an advantage to be sure what a woman meant, and sometimes what she thought, advantages he did not feel he possessed with regard to Bill.

She, it is true, had been surprisingly docile of late, but her docility was flat and uninteresting, and there was besides an uneasy feeling in Gilchrist’s mind that he did not know what lay behind. He did not feel that he had grasped Bill at all. He had been exceedingly angry on the occasion of Mr. Harborough’s funeral, and there had followed an interview with Bill which should have been stormy. It was not, however; Bill was truly sorry for having annoyed him so much, confessed her sins, and promised more respect for his wishes in future. She was honestly trying to do her duty now, and to behave in the way she ought. Gilchrist did not altogether believe in her repentance, which was perhaps not unnatural; and when she confessed herself wrong, he agreed with her and accepted her self-accusations as a matter of course. It is sometimes a pity to accept another’s self-accusations so readily; just it may be, but it is not always encouraging. Fortunately it mattered less to Bill than to most people and peace was patched up between them, though things were not perhaps in the most satisfactory state when she left for London. Had the engagement not rested on something more reliable than mutual affection it would hardly have been wise of Polly to take the girl to London, for in spite of her faults, she had a species of fascination for Gilchrist when she was present, and when she was absent there was Theresa to consider.

However, about that time Gilchrist did not give much attention to either Theresa or Bill, for the opening of the Harborough lawsuit occupied most of his thoughts. It also occupied the thoughts of his neighbours, and was looked upon as a matter of tremendous local interest; Ashelton even split into factions over the question of the justice or injustice of the claim, of which, by the way, very little was generally known. Mr. Stevens was much pressed for information, or at least for his opinion as to the probable issue, but though he had no professional connection with either party he maintained a discreet silence. He once went so far as to say that a lot of good money would be wasted by two young men who could ill afford it, and that without knowing a great deal more than he now knew he should be sorry to bet on either. This discreet opinion was more moderate than those held by most of his neighbours.

Theresa knew little more than the rest of the village on the great subject of the Harborough claim, for Gilchrist had not had time to explain it to her since the case opened, and before that time he had thought it wiser to keep silence even with members of Bill’s family.

“Not that I minded you knowing,” he said to Theresa the night Robert went to the political meeting. “I had not the least objection to that, only I was afraid if Bill told you she would also tell Miss Hains, and she, you know, is perhaps not quite so discreet. I am sure she would not mean to betray a confidence, but she talks a good deal, and people who do that often say more than they intend.”

In this he scarcely did Polly justice, for though she might betray a secret it was not by accident or through foolishness. But Theresa said she understood, and led him to talk of his chances of success. He was very cautious and would not commit himself at all, but she persisted in speaking as if a favourable issue were certain.

“Fancy little Bill mistress of such a place as Wood Hall!” she said, when at last she had in her own mind brought all to a satisfactory conclusion. She was evidently delighted with the idea, but this particular side of the termination was exactly what Gilchrist did not fancy; however, he only replied to Theresa by saying with a smile: “Things have not quite reached that point yet, and I almost doubt if Bill expects them to do so; she hardly seems to quite realise what the position would be if they did.”

“I expect not. She little thought when once or twice she went to see old Mr. Harborough that she herself might one day live at Wood Hall. It will take her a long time to get used to the idea; she is such a child.”

That was not her worst complaint in Gilchrist’s eyes, but he only said, “Time will cure that.”

It was just then that there came the sound of a stumble in the passage. Theresa started from her chair. “I did not hear Robert’s horse,” she exclaimed. “I—you—I’m afraid—”

Gilchrist had heard that heavy stumble, that muttered oath before; he had reached the door as soon as she and put out his hand to open it first.

“I am afraid Robert is not well;” she faced him unflinchingly with the lie. “Will you excuse me? I must go to him—good-night;” and she passed out leaving him alone.

Bill had been right; she had found him out, and she stood between him and all the world, hiding his fall with her pitiful little pretence. And he—Gilchrist ground his teeth in impotent rage as he walked home through the darkness that night—what was he to receive such loyalty, such service!

It was perhaps fortunate for Gilchrist Harborough that he had a good deal to think of just now; the lawsuit absorbed a large proportion of his time and interests, and it was just as well that it did, for, although it prevented him from paying much attention to Bill, it also prevented him from paying much to other subjects which were better let alone. After the evening when he saw Theresa he devoted himself more assiduously than ever to the matter of the suit, and so really absorbing did he find it that, though he was in town pretty often that autumn, he was not once able to spare an hour to go to Bayswater to see Bill. However, about the beginning of December he fancied he should be able to manage it, and wrote to tell her that he hoped to come.

Bill and Polly had been well established now for some time, for they did not take long settling down, though the process had not been all that Polly had anticipated. If the truth must be known, her position now was not altogether unlike that of the old magician who, having raised a spirit to help him in his schemes, finds the obliging goblin to be of such unexpected magnitude that it proves not only embarrassing but likely to constitute itself master instead of servant. Polly’s spirit, very obliging, very hard-working and even-tempered, presented one serious drawback,—it would rule. It was useless for Polly to attempt any of the little shifts dear to her heart; Bill, who knew her, was equal to them all, and forestalled her in the pleasantest but completest way possible. Once or twice at the beginning of the partnership Polly threatened to turn her all too active partner out, but she never did it. Probably she never seriously thought of it, for Bill was very useful; there was no need to employ a girl with Bill in the house, no need to have either a boot-boy or a charwoman; no need for Polly herself to do more than a very moderate share of the work. Bill also got on well with the lodgers and with the tradespeople, and, when once they two had got to understand their relative positions, excellently well with Polly herself.

Bill had altered in several ways besides in this development of the ruling spirit. Polly found her quieter than she used to be, on the whole more a woman and less a child, though she occasionally lapsed into her old ways. She had shut a door in her mind, and was trying hard to do well the thing which came next. It was easy enough when it was housework or cooking; she did them to the best of her ability, too well, in fact, according to Polly, who was no advocate for superfluous thoroughness. But there were other things she tried to do which were not easy; she was trying under somewhat adverse circumstances to be more of a lady, more like Theresa to please Gilchrist, more like the gentlewoman of Mr. Dane’s definition to please herself.

On the whole the cousins lived happily and let their rooms with a fair amount of success. Polly’s lot was occasionally brightened by a hamper from Haylands, or shaded by the loss of a paying lodger or the all too previous departure of one who had not paid. But in the beginning of December when Gilchrist came to town things were not very prosperous; the rooms had been empty some time, the cold weather had set in early, and the fog, which preceded and sometimes accompanied the frost, was both depressing and likely to be expensive in gas. Polly economised in candle-ends, bemoaning her fate, and then indulged in buttered muffins “to cheer us up.” It was on the occasion of the muffins that Bill received Gilchrist’s letter.

“I wonder if he is going home again the same night,” Polly speculated. “He had much better stay here,—there is plenty of room. I shall ask him; it will be more correct for me to do it than for you.”

Bill did not know why it was more correct, but knowing Polly liked these small details she raised no objection, and in due time the invitation was given and accepted. Polly was much pleased, being genuinely hospitable and moreover very proud of her dingy little house; she also thought a great deal of Gilchrist since the matter of Wood Hall had come to her knowledge, and she prepared for his reception accordingly. The best bedroom was made ready, the best sitting-room set in order. Bill did most of that, but Polly, with an eye to effect, brought their work-baskets and books from the kitchen, where they were usually kept.

“We must make it look as if we sat here always,” she said, as she put a reel of cotton on the mantelpiece.

“Then we must bring the cat,” Bill replied, “for he always sits with us. But it is rather nonsense; why should not Gilchrist know we live in the kitchen? He knows that somebody must do the work, and he won’t think the worse of us for doing it.”

But Polly thought otherwise. “It was different when he was only a working farmer,” she said. “Now, since all this about Wood Hall has happened, he won’t look at it in quite the same way.”

“I don’t see any reason for pretending, when he knows that we work.”

“He knows it in a general way, but it is one thing to know it and quite another to see it being done.”

With which incontestable opinion Polly closed her remarks and carried her point, and when Gilchrist came soon after six o’clock the best sitting-room looked as snug as though it were the family’s habitual living-room. Bill had on her best frock and her best manners, and everything was as pleasant as possible. Polly was delighted; she had been a little afraid that Gilchrist, in his position of claimant to the Wood Hall estate, might wish to make a more advantageous marriage than the one in prospect. She was very much afraid that he might use the private and not very binding nature of the engagement as an excuse to repudiate it, or to induce Bill to release him. But on that December evening she was perfectly satisfied, he and Bill evidently understanding one another, and Bill was behaving beautifully; she was so gentle and submissive, she might almost have been anybody.

Polly, in spite of her low financial ebb, had prepared what she called a “tasty supper” in honour of the guest. It was not altogether unlike her millinery—an ingenious “do-up” finished off with a few new trimmings, but it was undeniably successful. She was very gratified by its success and by things in general, and it was with a cheerful countenance that she withdrew after the meal.

“I know you must have a lot to talk about,” she said, beaming upon the other two; “and as I have some letters to write, I think I will go and do them down-stairs.”

So she went, though the letters resolved themselves into the supper-things which she washed, while up-stairs Gilchrist told Bill all about Wood Hall and the progress of the case, which was not rapid, and his opinion of the rival claimant, which was not enthusiastic. Bill listened and answered as sympathetically as she could, though it is possible she would rather have been washing dishes in the kitchen. Still she did her share in the conversation admirably, and when they spoke of things other than those concerning Wood Hall she was really splendid in her efforts to be like Theresa. Nevertheless Gilchrist did not commend her improvement; perhaps he was not satisfied with it, nor with the submissive girl, who was trying so hard to please him.

Bill felt the failure when she went to bed that night. “I expect it did not ring true,” she thought; “I must try to feel like Theresa as well as behave like her. I’ll do it in time; I believe I could be anything if I tried long enough.” And so she fell asleep, resolutely trying to school herself to what she conceived to be Theresa’s attitude of mind. She woke next morning with the same thought uppermost and continued her practice of what she called “Theresaing” her mind while she cleaned the guest’s boots in the basement.

At breakfast that morning Gilchrist said he should not leave for Wrugglesby until the six o’clock train. Bill felt a pleasurable expectancy; perhaps he would suggest that they two should go for a walk somewhere; she knew where they would go, the British Museum was free to all comers and they would go there and look at all the mummies. There was so little work to do now, Polly would not mind, and it would be very nice.

Gilchrist said he had business which would occupy him during the morning. That was natural, but the afternoon—Polly supposed, with an affable smile, that he “would want her to spare Bill part of the afternoon.” But Gilchrist, looking out of the window, said it did not promise to be a very nice day, adding that he probably would not be back before four, when it would be quite dark.

“Just as if it is not possible to go out after dark and enjoy it too!” Polly observed indignantly later on in the day. The cousins were clearing up after their mid-day dinner and Polly slammed the plates into the rack in a dangerous manner as she spoke, her disgust with Gilchrist having been simmering all the morning.

But Bill hardly glanced round. “I don’t care,” she said indifferently; “I did not want to go so very much.”

“Oh, I dare say!” Polly snorted indignantly. “He ought to have taken you all the same; I don’t think it is at all nice behaviour on his part. He has not brought you a present or anything, in spite of all his fuss about Wood Hall.”

“I don’t want presents. He is no richer than he was, and he has no time to think of it, and—and—I don’t want things.”

Bill’s face was rosy and her tone hurt, but Polly went on volubly: “Look at Jack Dawson; besides a lovely engagement-ring (which you have not got through Theresa’s nonsense) he has given Bella—”

“I tell you, Polly, I don’t want presents; I won’t have you say any more about it!”

“Oh, well, of course I can quite understand you don’t like to have it mentioned, but I must say I don’t think it is at all nice of him. You haven’t cost him much, in fact nothing at all; I suppose he thought, as he could have you for the asking, he need not trouble, but it isn’t very flattering. I do think he might have taken you out—might have taken us both out—after all the trouble we have had too, that lovely supper last night, and fried bacon for breakfast this morning, and all.”

Bill laughed. “A truly commercial mind!” she said. “But perhaps Gilchrist will leave a tip for our invisible servant; if so, you could take that in payment for the supper.”

But Polly was much annoyed with the guest, more than was just, for he was really too busy to think of anything at present, and he certainly had not intended to slight or wound either of the cousins. Nevertheless he had wounded Polly’s pride; as for Bill, no one knew what she thought, for which reason, if for no other, Polly reflected that she had done very foolishly to speak as she had done. She was herself dressing to go out now because she “felt so upset that she could not stay in.” While she dressed she came to the conclusion that she had been most indiscreet, for if it were true that Gilchrist had been neglectful it was her place to pour balm on Bill’s wounds, not to point out Gilchrist’s misdemeanours. She had certainly been foolish, and accordingly, before going out, she went to the kitchen and apologised for what she had said.

“I didn’t mean anything,” she explained. “I was annoyed by that butcher sending in his bill as he did, and I was put out and cross altogether. Of course I would not say a word against Gilchrist. You know what a lot I think of him; he’s worth twenty of Jack Dawson; nobody would expect him to waste his money on silly presents.”

Bill said it was “all right,” and Polly went out leaving her young cousin cleaning the kitchen-hearth. And possibly it would have been all right but for what followed. Bill had not thought of receiving presents from Gilchrist, nor yet of going out with him; she did not expect either, and though she was disappointed about the mummies, she did not regard his actions as an index of his affections.

It was when she had almost finished the hearth that there came a ring at the front door. It was not much after three yet, and Polly had said she would be home at half-past so as to be ready by the time Gilchrist returned at four. Bill came to the conclusion that it must be the baker who rang, and since the summons sounded peremptory, she went up-stairs without waiting to take off the sacking apron she had put on for cleaning the hearth. She wore her oldest frock, which she had put on as soon as their visitor went out; it was short as well as old, and her disreputable shoes showed well below it. It was not wonderful that Gilchrist looked at her blankly for a moment when she opened the door to him and his friend Ferguson. Only for a moment he looked, and then Bill, withdrawing herself behind the door after the manner of maids-of-all-work, spoke: “Miss ’Ains is out,” she said; “but walk in, won’t yer, sir?”

Gilchrist walked in, half paused, and then went on without speaking. It was impossible to present her to Ferguson as his future wife, more especially impossible in the light of her stupidly unrecognising look; she herself made the introduction impossible by the very perfection with which she had assumed her part. So the introduction was not made, and the two men went up to the sitting-room to examine a document Gilchrist had left there, while Bill, with a clatter of ill-shod feet, went back to the kitchen.

By-and-bye the street door was closed, and soon after, the work being done, Bill went up-stairs to change her dress. She thought Gilchrist had gone out with his friend, but she was mistaken. As she passed the half-open door of the sitting-room she saw him standing before the fireplace, where, for economy’s sake, the fire had been allowed to go out after he had left that morning. Bill paused: Polly had told her to re-light the fire before half-past three. It must be done; moreover, she in her own character never hesitated about going through with any difficulty into which she might have blundered; in the character of Theresa it was impossible to know how to act, for Theresa never got into these difficulties. Consequently the character of Theresa was forgotten, and it was the original Bill who walked into the room with genuine regret for what had occurred, but not entirely without a little amusement too.

“I’ll light the fire,” she said, turning back the hearth-rug before she knelt down and beginning to arrange paper in the grate. “I am very sorry, Gilchrist,” she went on penitently as she glanced up at the young man’s gloomy face. “I never expected you back so early; I thought it was the baker.”

“Are you in the habit of going to the baker like that?”

“Oh, yes, sometimes, if I am in a hurry or he is. I thought the ring sounded like a hurry. I really am sorry, but Mr. Ferguson didn’t know me, so there’s not much harm done.”

“I think there is a great deal of harm done.” Gilchrist’s face did not relax. “Don’t trouble about the fire just now, I want to talk to you. Tell me, is it necessary for you to get in this condition?”

Bill obediently left laying the fire and answered apologetically: “I am afraid I am a dirty worker.”

“But surely it is hardly necessary to do this work. What have you been doing? What do you do?”

“I was cleaning the kitchen-stove when you rang,” Bill answered meekly, though something in the masterfulness of his tone was rousing the old Bill whom it was not easy to drive. “Perhaps,” she went on with a spark of fun in her eyes, “it was hardly necessary to do the stove, but I don’t know; it is a point open to discussion; the same with the knives which I have cleaned since; but your boots, which I did earlier in the day, really were necessary, don’t you think so?”

“Did you clean my boots?”

“I cleaned your honour’s noble boots,” and she swept him a courtesy and then looked up with a dawning smile.

But he did not smile. “You ought not to have done it,” he said.

“Why? I did not mind.”

“I mind.”

Yet his tone somehow told her that he minded because she was his future wife and the possible mistress of Wood Hall, rather than because she was herself.

“I told you I should be a general servant,” she said. “Do you remember that night we went to the Dawsons and Miss Dawson was so contemptuous?” and she set her mobile face into Miss Dawson’s supercilious stare. But Gilchrist did not seem pleased by the recollection, and the imp in Bill getting the upper hand, she went on somewhat recklessly. “Well, I am a general servant now, though not a very good one. What a queer little slavey you’ve got here, Harborough,” and her change of tone made the man start, and for a moment almost think Ferguson was back. “Who the devil is she? I believe I know her face—by Jove, she’s like the plum girl I met near your place last summer. But I don’t think Gilchrist told her name.”

“No”—his tone was cold with suppressed anger—“I did not tell your name; I was not exactly proud of my future wife.”

The smile died out of her face. “I am very sorry,” she said penitently, and the penitence was genuine, but Gilchrist was not mollified.

“You do not show it,” he said; “mimicking my friends and making fun of what you have done hardly suggests regret. I think under the circumstances it would be as well if we said no more about it. Perhaps you had better go and change your dress; talking will not make matters any better.”

She began to move towards the door humbled by his words, but half turned before she opened it. “Are matters very bad?” she asked wistfully.

“Can you think them very good? Do you think your life, or ways, or,—or anything at all fitting to the position you may have to occupy? I don’t mean to blame you, but things do not promise to be quite the same as they were, and I wish you would try to remember the difference.”

She turned fully now, and unconsciously both tone and manner had changed, becoming quiet and firm. “You mean,” she said, “that what was fitting for your wife when you were only Harborough of Crows’ Farm is not fitting now? You are quite right; I agree with you.”

“Then I wish you would act upon it.”

“I cannot, the unfitness goes too deep, for it is I myself who was fit to be your wife then but am not now.”

“Bill! What nonsense is this? I am no different from what I was: the case is not decided, may never be decided in my favour; and if it were it would make no difference. I have never suggested such a thing and I never meant it.”

“You did not say it, but I do; it is true. Listen a minute—I have tried to be ladylike, as I thought you would wish me to be, and sometimes I think I succeed a little,—this afternoon doesn’t count, it was an accident—but my ladylikeness, even if it were more successful, is not what is wanted. It is I, my real self, who am unfit to be your wife under the present circumstances.”

“I don’t know what right you have to say such a thing; I suppose you are angry because of what I said this afternoon.” If she were angry the young man could not help thinking she had a strange way of showing it, for her whole manner suggested clear-sighted calmness; the excitement was his. “I own I spoke sharply,” he went on, “and I am sorry for it, but I was annoyed.”

“You had a right to be,” she told him; “I deserved it and I am not angry at all. It is not what you said just now that makes me say this, it is the whole thing; I cannot help seeing I am not fit for you now.”

“Yes, you are; the position has not altered, and if it did you are as fit for the new as the old if you choose to be.”

But the girl shook her head. “No,” she said, “I am not. I was fit for Crows’ Farm; that life would have drawn out a good side of me, just as it drew out a side of you which wanted me. Wood Hall acts differently. Oh, I know you have not got it yet, may never have it; but the fact that you have claimed it, that you have a close acknowledged connection with the other Harboroughs has altered your position, has altered you and your ideas. No matter what happens now you cannot be only the working farmer of Crows’ Farm who wants a working wife.”

“You mean to say you believe I don’t think you good enough?”

“No, oh no; it is not that exactly; I think it is that we don’t fit now.”

“Do you want to fit?” Gilchrist eyed her sternly as he asked the question.

“I did want to,” she told him. “I tried hard to be what you would like while I thought you wanted to marry me—”

“You think I don’t want to marry you now?”

“Yes,” she answered simply, and her school companions Carrie and Alice would have told her that she had not yet acquired a sense of decency, for she certainly did not know how to mince matters. “You did want to marry me,” she said, “and I would have married you; but the new position makes you and your wants different and would make me different too. The whole thing had better end.”

“In plain terms, you won’t marry me now?”

“Yes, I will,” she said meeting his eyes bravely. “I will marry you if you can truthfully say you still wish it.”

He hesitated a moment. “Of course I do,” he answered.

But that was not what Bill meant and she said so.

“You don’t believe me?” he said rather stiffly. “You must please yourself about that, but if you wish to be free of course you can be; our engagement was on those terms; you are not bound.”

“I am bound by my own word,” she answered; “so long as you want me I am bound. But you don’t really want me. Look at me; am I suited to be your wife? Tell me—you know me now—do you wish it?”

She stood at the end of the room, the murky light of the winter dusk falling upon her, intensifying not concealing the faults in her dress, her shoes, her sacking apron. A small, odd, shabby figure she looked in that cheerless little parlour with its empty grate, small and odd, not alluring at all in the gloom. The man saw each detail, and seeing, wondered how she had ever bewitched him.

He could not but look at her, and as he looked he moved slightly. “You are talking nonsense,” he said, turning to the empty grate; “to-morrow you will think better of all this.”

He glanced at her as he ceased speaking, but it was too late. He should have met her eyes before if he wished to convince her.

“Thank you,” she said simply; “now you have told me.”

“I—told you?”

“Yes; you need not mind, you did it quite honourably. Don’t mind. See here, I will square it with Polly and Theresa; it will be better so; they will only think I have changed my mind. Theresa will be sorry and Polly angry, but they won’t say anything to you; they won’t know about you: they will think it is all me.”

“Do you mean to tell me you consider our engagement at an end and you will tell your cousins so?”

“Yes.”

“You shall do no such thing!”

“I shall tell Polly to-day; she is not in yet, but she will be soon. I shall tell her as soon as she comes.”

“Then you do it against my will.”

“Yes,”—Bill spoke doubtfully—“telling is against the grain I dare say, but the breaking off is not. It is no good, Theo; don’t let us pretend any more. I know you would have honourably gone through with it because you gave your word, and I would have honourably done the same because I gave mine and believed you wished it; and we should have both done what we could to make the best of it afterwards. But all through me getting so grubby this afternoon I have found out the truth, and you are freed from your word, and it is all over; so let us say so, and be friends.”

Five minutes later Polly found the street door ajar and entered the house mentally abusing Bill’s carelessness. She went up-stairs and seeing the sitting-room door open, she looked into the room. Neither fire nor gas was lighted; in the cold twilight she saw the small figure by the window.

“Bill,” she exclaimed, “not dressed yet! And the fire not laid, nothing done and Gilchrist will be here directly. This is nice!”

“Gilchrist is not coming; he has gone away altogether.”

“Not coming! Not coming back, do you mean? And I have bought two lovely tea-cakes and half-a-pound of fresh butter!”