Will Warburton

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIV, Issue 14, 8 April 1905, Page 8

Will Warburton

A Romance of Real Life

By

GEO. GISSING,

author of “ Demos,” " The Nether World," etc.

CHAPTER XL. With curiosity winch had in it a toucn of amusement, will was watting to li.ar from Norbert 1-ranks. lie waited for nearly a month, and was oiginu.ng to feel rather hurt at his irieud’s neglect, perhaps a little uneasy on a.iot..er score, when there arrived an Italian postcard, stamped Venice. "We have been tempted as far as this,” ran the hurried scrawl. “-Must be nome in ten days. Shall be delighted to see you again.” Warburton puckered his brows and wondered whether a previous letter or card had failed to reach him. But probably not. At the end of Septem er, Eranks wrote from his London address, brieuy but cordially, with an invitation to luncheon on the next day, which was Sunday. And Warburton went. He was nervous as he knocked at th.• door; he was rather more nervous as he walked into the studio. Norbert advanced to him with a shout of welcome, and from a chair in the background rose Mrs Franks. Perceptibly changed, both of them. The artist’s look was not quite so ingenuous as formerly; his speech, resolute in friendliness, hail not quite the familiar note. Rosamund already more mature of aspect, smiled somewhat too persistently, seemed rather too bent on showing herself unembarrassed. They plunged into talk of Tyrol, of the Dolomites, of Venice, and, so talking, passed into the dining-room. “Queer little house this, isn’t it?” said Mrs Franks as she sat down to table. “Everything is sacrificed to the studio; there’s no room to turn anywhere else. We must look at onee for more comfortable quarters.” “It’s only meant for a man living alone," said the artist, with a laugh. Franks laughed frequently, whether what he said was amusing or not. “Yes, we must find something roomier.” “A score of sitters waiting for you, I suppose ?” said Warburton. “Oh, several. One of them such an awful phiz that I'm afraid of her. If I make her presentable, it’ll be my greatest feat yet. But the labourer is worthy of his hire, you know, and this bit

of beauty-making will have its price.” “You know how to interpret that, Mr Warburton,” said Rosamund with a discreetly confidential smile. “Norbert asks very much less than any other portrait painter of his reputation would.” “He’ll grow out of that b. <1 habit/' Will replied. His note was <ne of joviality, almost of bluffness. “I’m not sure that I wish him to.” said the painter's wife, her eyes straying ,as if in a sudden dreaminess. “It’s a distinction nowadays not to care for money. Norbert jokes about in iking an ugly woman beautiful,” she went on earnestly, “but what he wilt really do is to discover the very best aspect of the face, and so make something much more than an ordinary likeness.” Franks fidgeted, his head b nt over his plate. “That’s the work of the great artist,” exclaimed Warburton, boldly flattering. “Humbug!” growded Frank.--, but at once he laughed and glanced nervously at his wife. Though this was Rosamund's only direct utterance on the subject. Warburton discovered from the e urse of th ■ conversation that she wislsed to be known as her husband’s fervent admirer, that she took him with the utmost seriousness. and was resolved that everybody else should do so. The “great ar fist” phrase gave her genuine pleasure; she rewarded Will with the kindest look .of her beautiful eyes, and from that moment appeared to experience a relief, so that her talk flowed mor,e ndurally. Lun ch dp n over, they returned to the studio, where the men lit their pipes, while Rosamund, at her husband’s en

treaty, exhibited the sketches she had brought home. “Why didn’t you let me hear from you?” asked Warburton. "I go. nothing but that flimsy postcard from Ven ice.” “Why, 1 was always meaning to write,” answered the artist. "I know it was too bad. But time goes so quickly—” “With you, no doubt. But if you stood behind a counter all day—” Will saw the listeners exchange a startled glance, followed by an artificial smile. 1 here was an instant’s dead silence. “Behind a counter —?” fell from Norbert, as if he failed to understand. “The counter; my counter!” shouted Will blusterously. “You know verywell what 1 mean. Your wife has told you all about it.” Rosamund flushed, and could not raise her eyes. “We didn’t know,” said Franks, with his nervous little laugh, "whether y-ou cared—to talk about it—” “I’ll talk about it with anyone you like. So you do know? That’s all right. 1 still owe my apology to Mrs Franks for having given her such a shock. The disclosure was really too sudden.” “It is I who should beg you to forgive me, Mr Warburton,” replied Rosamund, in her sweetest accents. “I behaved in a very silly way. But my friend Bertha Cross treated me as I deserved. She declared that she was ashamed of me. But do not, pray do not, think me worse than I was. 1 ran away really because 1 felt 1 had surprised a secret. 1 was embarrassed —I lost my head. I’m sure you don’t think me capable of really- mean feelings?” "But, old man,” put in the artist, in a half-pained voice, “what the deuce does it all mean? Tell us the whole story, do.” Will told it. jestingly, effectively. “I was quite sure,” sounded, at the close, in Rosamund’s voice of tender sympathy, “that you had some noble motive. I said so at once to Bertha.”

“I suppose,” said Will, “Miss Cross will never dare to enter the shop again?” “She doesn’t come?” “Never since.” he answered laughing ly. “Her mother has been once or twice, and seems to regard me with a very suspicious eye. Mrs Cross was told, no doubt?” “That 1 really can’t say.” replied Rosamund, averting her eyes. “But doesn’t it do one good to hear such a story, Norbert?” she added impulsively. “Yes, that’s pluck.” replied her husband, with the old spontaneity in his eyes the old honest look which hitherto had somehow been a little obscured. “I know very well that I couldn’t have done it.” "Warburton had not looked at Rosamund since her explanation and apology. He was afraid of meeting her eyes; afraid as a generous man who shrinks from inflicting humiliation. For was it conceivable that Rosamund could support his gaze without feeling humiliated? Remembering what had preceded that discovery at the shop; bearing in mind what had followed upon it; he reflected with astonishment on the terms of her self reproach. It sounded so genuine; t<> the ears of her husband it must have been purest, womanliest sincerity. As though she could read his thoughts. Rosamund addressed him again in the most naturally playful tone. “And you have been in the Basque country since we saw you. I’m so glad you really took your holiday there at last; you often used to speak of doing

so. And you met my sister—Winifred wrote to me all about it. The Coppingers were delighted to see you. Don't you think them nice people? Did poor Mrs Coppinger seem any better?”

In spite of himself, Will encountered her look, met the beautiful eyes, felt their smile envelop him. Never till now had he known the passive strength of woman, that characteristic which at times makes her a force of Nature rather than an individual being. Amazed, abashed, he let his head fall—and mumbled, something about Mrs Cop-, pinger’s state of health. He did not stay much longer. When lie took his leave, it would have seemed natural if b'ranks had come out to walk a little way with him, but his friend bore him company only to the door. "Let us see you as often as possible, old man. 1 hope you’ll often come and lunch on Sunday; nothing could please us better.”

Franks’ handgr ip was very cordial, the look and tone were affectionate, but Will said to himself that the old intimacy was at an end; it must now give place to mere acquaintanceship. He suspected that Franks was afraid to come out and walk with him, afraid that it might not please his wife. That Rosamund was to rule—very sweetly, of course, but unmistakably—no one could doubt who saw the tw-o together for five minutes. It would be, in all likelihood, a happy subjugation, for Norbert was of anything but a rebellious temper; his bonds would be of silk; the rewards of his docility would be such as many a self-assertive man might envy. But when Warburton tried to imagine himself in such a posi-

tion a choked laugh of humorous disdain heaved his chest. He wandered homeward in a dream. He relived those moments on the enbankment at Chelsea, when his commonsense, his reason, his true emotions, were defeated by an impulse now scarcely intelligible; he saw himself shot across Europe, like a parcel despatched by express; and all that fury and rush meaningless as buffoonery at a pantomime!

Vel this was how the vast majority of men "fcil in love” —if ever they did at all. This was the prelude to marriages innumerable, marriages destined to be dull as ditchwater or sour as verjuice. •tn love, forsooth! Rosamund at all events knew the value of that, and had saved him from his own infatuation. He owed her a life long gratitude. That evening he re-read a long letter from Jane which had reached him yesterday. His sister gave him a full description of the new home in Suffolk,and told of the arrangement she had made with Miss Winter, whereby, in a twelvemonth, she would be able to begin earning a little money, and, if all went well, before long would become self-supporting. Could he not run down to see themf Their mother had borne the removal remarkably well, and seemed, indeed, to have a new vigour; possibly the air might suit her better than at The Haws. Will mused over this, but had no mind to make the journey just yet. It would be. a pain to him to see hi* mother in that new place; it would shame him to see his sister at work, and to think that all this change was on his account. So he wrote to mother and sister, with more of expressed tenderness than usual, begging them to let him put off his visit yet a few weeks. Presently they would be more settled. But of one thing let them be sure; his daily work was no burden whatever to him, and he hardly knew whether he would care to change it for what was called the greater respectability of labour in an office. His health was good; his spirits could only be disturbed by ill news from those he loved. He promised that at all events he would spend Christmas with them. September went by. One of the Sundays was made memorable by n visit to Ashtead. Will had requested Franks to relate in that quarter the story of Mr Jollyman, and immediately after hearing it Ralph Pomfret wrote a warm-hearted letter which made the recipient in Fulham chuckle with contentment. At 'Ashtead he enjoyed himself in the old way.gladdened by the pleasure with which his friends talked of Rosamund’s marriage. Mrs Pomfret took an opportunity of speaking to him apart, a bright smile on her good face. "Of course, we know who did much, if not everything, to bring it about. Rosamund came and told the how beautifully you had pleaded Nobert’s cause, and Norbert confided to my husband that, but for you, he would most likely have married a girl he really didn't care about at all. I doubt whether a ‘mere man’ ever did such a thing so discreetly and successfully before!” In October Will began to waver in his resolve not to go down into Suffolk before Christmas. There came a letter from his mother which deeply moved him; she spoke of old things as well as new, and declared that in her husband and in her children no woman had ever known truer happiness. Thia was at tha middle of the week; Will all but made up his mind to take an early train on the following Sunday. On ’Friday he wrote to Jane, telling her to expect him, and, as he walked home from the shop that evening he felt glad that he had overcome the feelings which threatened to make this first visit something of a trial to his self-respect. ‘‘There’s a telegram a waiting for you, sir,” said Mrs. Wick, aa he entered. The telegram contained four words: ‘‘Mother ill. Please come.”

CHAPTER XIJ. Happen what might in the world beyond her doors, Mrs. Cross led the Wonted life of domestic discomfort and querulousness. An interval there had been this summer, a brief uncertain interval, when something like good-temper seemed to struggle with her familiar mood; it was the month or two during which Norbert Franks resumed bis friendly visi tings. Fallen out of Mrs. Cross’ good graces since his failure to become her tenant a couple of years ago. the artist had but to present himself again to be forgiven, and when it grew evident that ho came to the house on Bertha's account, he rose into higher favour than ever. But this promising slate of things abruptly ended. One morning. Bertha, with a twinkle in her eyes, announced the fact of Franks’ marriage. Her mother was stricken with indignant amaze. “And you laugh about it?”

‘‘lt’s so amusing," answered Bertha. ! Mrs. Cross examined her daughter. “I don’t ’ understand you,” she exclaimed, in a tone of irritation. “I do

‘not’ understand you, Bertha! All I can sny is, behaviour more disgraceful 1 ‘never’——”

The poor lady’s feelings were too much for her. She retreated to her bedroom, and.there passed the greater part of the day. But in the evening curiosity overcame her siillennea*. Having obtained a* much information about the artist’s marriage as Bertha could give her. she relieved herself in an acrimonious criticism of him and Miss El van. “I never liked to say what I really thought of that girl,’’ were her concluding words. "Now your eyes are opened. Of course you’ll never see her again ’’’ “Why, mother?” asked Bertha. “I’m very glad she has married Mr. Franks. I always hoped she would, and felt pretty sure of it.” “And you rneau to be friends with them both?” “Why not? But don’t let us talk about that,” Bertha added good-humour-edly. “I should only vex you. There's something else I want to tell you—something you'll really be amused to hear.” “Your ideas of amusement, Bertha ’’ “Yes. yes; but listen. “It’s about Mr. Jollyman. Who do you think Mr. Jollymari really is?” Mrs. Cross heard the story with bent brows and lips severely set. “And why didn’t you tell me this before, pray?” “I hardly know,” answered the girl, thoughtfully smiling. “Perhaps because I waited to hear more to make the revelation mofe complete. But ” “And this.” exclaimed Mrs. Cross, “is why you wouldn’t go to the shop yesterday ?” “Yes,” was the frank reply. “I don’t think I shall go again.” “And, pray, why not?” Bertha was silent. “There’s one very disagreeable thing in your character. Bertha,” remarked her mother severely, “and that is your habit of hiding and concealing. To think that you found this out more than a week ago! You’re very, very unlike your fa; ther. ‘He’ never kept anything from me. never for an hour. But you are always ‘full’ of secrets. It isn’t nice—it isn’t at all nice.” Since her husband’s death Mrs. Cross had never ceased discovering bis virtues. When he lived, one of the reproaches with which she constantly soured his existence was that of secretiveness. And Bertha, who knew something and suspected more ef the truth in this matter, never felt it so hard to bear with her mother as whan Mrs. Cross bestowed such retrospective praise. “I "nave thought it over,” she said quietly, disregarding the reproof, “and on the whole I had rather not go again to the shop.” Thereupon Mrs. Gross grow angry, and for half an hour clamoured as to the disadvantage of leaving Jo’lyman's for another grocer’s. In the end she did not leave him, but either went to the shop herself or sent the. servant. Great was her curiosity regarding the disguised Mr. Warburton, with whom, after a significant coldness, she gradually resumed her old chatty relations. At length, one day in autumn, Bertha announced to her that she could throw more light on the Jollyman mystery; she had learnt the full explanation of Mi-. Warburton’s singular proceedings. “From those people, I suppose?" said Mrs. Cross, who by this phrase signified Mr. and Mrs. Franks. “Then I don't wish fp hear one word of it.” But as though .she had not heard this remark, Bertha began her narrative. She seemed to repeat what had lieen told her with a quiet pleasure. “Well, then,” was her mother’s comment. “after all, there’s nothing disgraceful.” “I never thought there was.” “Then why have you refused to enter his shop?” “It was awkward,” replied Bertha. “No more awkward for you than for me,” said Mrs. Cross. “But I’ve noticed, Bertha, that you are getting rather selfish in some things—l don’t of course say in everything—and 1 think it isn’t difficult to guess where that comes from.” Soon after Christmas they were left, by a familiar accident, without a servant; the girl who had been with them for the last six mi nths somehow contrived to get her l>ox secretly out of the house, mid disappeared (having just been paid her wages) without warning. Long and loudly did Mrs. Cross rail against this infamous behaviour.

The next morning a young woman came to the house and inquired for Mrs. Cross; Bertha, who had opened the door, led her into the dining-room, and retired. Half an hour later Mrs. Cross came into the parlour, (learning.

“There now! If that wasn't a good idea! Who do you think sent that girl, Bertha?—Mr. Jollyman." Bertha kept silence.

“I had to go into the shop yesterday, and I happened to speak to Mr. Jollyman of the trouble I had in finding a good sen-ant. It occurred to me that he might just possibly know of someone. He promised to make inquiries, and hero at once comes the nicest girl I’ve seen for a long time. She had to leave her last place because it was too hard; just fancy, a shop where she had to cook for sixteen people, and see. to live bedrooms; no wonder she broke down, poor thing. She's been resting for a month or two; and she lives iu the same house, as a person named Mrs. Hopper, who is the sister of the wife of Mr. Jollyman's assistant. And she’s quite content with fifteen pounds—quite.” As she listened Bertha wrinkled her forehead, and grew rather absent. .She made no remark, until, after a long account of the virtues she had already descried in Martha—this was the girl’s name—Mrs. Cross added that of course she must go al onee and thank Mr. Jollyman.

“I suppose you still address him by that name?” fell from Bertha. “That name? Why, I’d really almost forgotten that it wasn’t his real name. In any case, I couldn’t use the other in the shop, could I ? ’ “Of course uot; no.” “Now you speak of it, Bertha,” pursued Mrs. Cross; “I wonder whether he knows that I know who he is?’’ “Certainly he does.” “When one thinks of it, wouldn’t it be better, Bertha, for you to go to the shop again now and then? I’m afraid the poor may may feel hurt. He must have noticed that you never went again after that discovery, and one really wouldn’t like him to think that you were offended.” “Offended?” echoed the girl with a laugh. “Offended at what’” “Oh. some people, you know, might think his behaviour strange—using a name that’s not his own, and—and so on.” “Some people might, no doubt. But the poor man. as you call him, is probably quite indifferent as to what we think of him.” “Don’t you think it would lie well if you went in and just thanked him for sending the servant?” “Perhaps,” replied Bertha, carelessly. But she did not gio to Mr Jollyimm’s, and Mirs Cross soon forgot the suggestion. Martha entered upon her duties, and discharged them with such zeal, such docility, that her mistress never tired of lauding her. She was a young woman of rother odd appearance-, slim and meagre and red-bended, with a neverfailing simper on her loose lips, and blue eyes that frequently watered; she had somehow an ‘air of lurking gentility in faded youth. Undeniable as were the good qualities she put forth on this scene of innumerable domestic failures, Bertha could not altogether like her. Submissive to the point of slavishness, she had at times a look which did not harmonise ait all with this de-

mcanour—a something in her eyes disagreeably suggestive of mocking insolence. Bertha particularly noticed this on the day after Martha had received her first wages. Leave having been given her to go out in the afternoon to make sonic purchases, she was rafher late in returning, and Bertha, meeting her as she entered, asked her to be as quick as possible in getting ten; whereupon the domestic threw up her head and regarded the speaker under her eyelids with ajt extraordinary smile; then, with a“Yes, miss; this minute, miss," scampered upstairs to take hat things off. All that evening her behaviour was strange. As sba waited nt the supper table, she seemed to bo •subduing laughter, aud in clearing away she for the first time broke a plate; whereupon she burst into tears, and l»eggcd forgiveness so long and so wearisomely that she had at la.st to be ordered out of the room.

Gn the morrow all was well again; but, Bertha could not help watching that singular countenance, and, the more she observed, the less she liked it. The more “willing” a servant, the more toil did Mrs Cross exact from her. When occasions of rebuke or of dispute were locking, the day would have been long and wearisome for her had she not ceaselessly plied Die domestic drudge with tasks, aud narrowly watched their execution. The spectacle of this slave-driving was a constant trial to Bertha’s nerves; now and then she ventured a mild protest, but only with the result of exciting her m'other’s indignation. In her mood of

growing moral discontent, Bertha began *o aek herself whether acquiescence in this sordid tyranny was not a culpable Weakness, and one day early in the ytor —a wretched day of east wind —• when she saw Martha pcrehed on an outer windowsill, cleaning panes, she found courage to utter resolute disapproval. "I don’t understand yon, Bertha,” replied Mrs Cross, the muscles of her face quivering as they did when she felt her dignity outraged. “What do we engage a servant for? Are the windows to get so dirty we can’t see through them?” “They were cleaned not many days ago,” said her daughter, "and I think we eould manage to see till the weather’s less terrible.”

“My dear, if we managed so as to give the servant no trouble at all, the house would soon be in a pretty state. Be so good as not to interfere. It’s really an extraordinary thing that, as soon as I find a girl who almost suits Die, you begin to try to spoil her. One would think you took a pleasure in making nry life miserable ” Overwhelmed with floods of reproach, Bertha liad either to combat or retreat. Again her nerves failed her, and she left the room. ..At dinner that day there was a roast leg of mutton, and, as her habit was, Mrs Cross carved the portion which Martha was to take away for herself. One very small and thin slice, together ■with one unwholesome little potato, represented the servant’s meal. As soon as the door had closed, Bertha spoke in an ominously quiet voice: "Mother, this won’t do. lam very sorry to annoy you, but if you call that a dinner for a girl who works hard ten or twelve hours a day, I don’t. How she supports life, I can t understand. You have only to look into her face to see she’s starving. 1 can bear the sight of it no longer.” This time she held firm. The conflict lasted for half an hour, during which Mrs Cross twice threatened to faint. Neither of them ate anything, and in the end Bertha saw’ herself, if not defeated, at all events no better oft’ than at the beginning, for her mother clung fiercely to authority, and would obviously live in perpetual strife rather than yield an ineh. For the next two days, domestic Jife was very unpleasant indeed; mother and daughter exchanged few words; meanwhile Martha was tasked, if possible, more vigorously than ever, and fed mysteriously, meals no longer doled out to her under Bertha’s eyes. The third morning brought another crisis. "I have a letter from Emily,' said Bertha at breakfast, naming a friend of hers who lived in the far north of London. “I’m going to see her to-day.” “Very well,” answered Mrs Cross, between rigid lips. “She says that, in the house where she lives, there’s a bed-sitting-room to let. I think, mother, it might be better for me to take it.” “You will do just as you please, Bertha.” .. "I will have dinner to-day witn Emily, and be back about tea-time.” "J have no doubt,” replied Mrs Cross, "that Martha will be so obliging as to have tea ready for you. If she doesn t feel strong enough, of course, 1 will see to it myself.”

CHATTER XLII. On the evening before, Martha had received her month’s wages, and had been promised tile usual afternoon of liberty to-day; but, as soon as Bertha had left the house, Mrs Cross summoned the domestic, and informed her bluntly that the holiday must be postponed. •Tm very sorry, mum,” replied Martha, with an odd, half-frightened look in her Watery eyes. ‘T’d promised to go and ace my brother as has just lost his wife; but of course, if it isn’t convenient, mum—” "It really is not, Martha. Miss Bertha will be out all day. and I don’t like being left alone. You shall go to-morrow instead.” Half an hour later, Mrs Cross went ant shopping, and was away till noon. Ou returning, she found the house full »f the odour of something burnt. “What's this smell, Martha?'* she Biked at the kitchen door, “what is burning?”

“Oh, it’s only a dish cloth as was dryEg and caught fire, answered A servant.

"Only! What do you mean?” cried the mistress, angrily. "Do you wish to burn the house down?” Martha stood with her arms akimbo, on her thin, dongh-pale face the most insolent of grins, her teeth gleaming, and her eyes wide. “What do you mean?” cried Mrs Cross. “Show me the burnt cloth at once.” “There you are, muni!” And Martha, with a kiek, pointed to something on the floor. Amazed and wrathful, Mrs Cross saw a long rollertowel, half a yard of it burnt to tinder, nor eould any satisfactory explanation of the accident be drawn from Martha, who laughed, sobbed, and sniggered by turns as if she was demented. “Of course you will pay for it exclaimed Mrs Cross for the twentieth time. “Go on with your work at once, and don’t let me have any more of this extraordinary behaviour. I can't think what has come to you.” But Martha seemed incapable of resuming her ordinary calm. Whilst serving the one o'clock dinner—which was very badly cooked —she wept and sighed, ami when her mistress had risen from the table, she stood for a long time staring vacantly before she could bestir herself to clear away. About three o’clock, having several times vainly rung the sitting-room bell, Mrs Cross went to the kitchen. The door was shut, and, on trying to open it. she found it locked. She called “Martha,” again and again, and had no reply, until, all of a sudden, a shrill voice cried from within

—“Go away! go away!” Beside herself with wrath and amazement, the mistress demanded admission; for answer, there came a. violent thumping on the door at the other side, and again the voice screamed —“Go away! Go away!” “What’s the matter with you Martha?” asked Mrs Cross, beginning to feel alarmed.

“Go away!” replied the voice fiercely. “Either you open the door this moment, or I call a policeman!” This threat had an immediate effect, though not quite of the kind that Mrs Cross hoped. The key turned with a, snap, the door was flung open, and there stood Martha, in a Corybantie attitude, brandishing a dinner-plate in one hand, a poker in the other; her hair was dishevelled, her face red, and fury blawtd in her eyes.

“You won’t go away?” she screamed. “There, then—there goes one of your plates!” She dashed it to the floor.

“You won’t go awav?—There goes one of your dishes!—and there goes a basin! —And there goes a tea-cup!” One after another, the things she named perished upon the floor. Mrs Cross stood paralvsed, horror-stricken. “You think you’ll make me pay for them?’ cried Martha frantically. “Not me not me! It’s you as owes me money—money for all - the work I’ve done as wasn't in my wages, and for the food as I haven’t had, when I’d ought to. What do you call that?” She pointed to a plate of something on the kitchen table. “Is that a dinner for a human being, or is it a dinner for a beetle? D’you think I’d eat it, and me with money in my pocket to buy better? You want to make a walkin’ skeleton of me. do you?—but I’ll have it out of you, I will—There goes another dish! And there goes a sugar-basin! And here gees your tea-pot!” With a shriek of dismay, Mrs Cross sprang forward. She was” too late to save the cherished object, and her aggressive movement excited Martha to yet jnore alarming behaviour. “You’d hit me, would you? Two can play at that game—you old skinflint, you! Come another - step nearer, and I’ll bring this poker on your head! You thought you’d got somebody you eould do as you liked with, didn’t you? You thought because I was willing, and tried to do my best, as I could be put upon to any extent, did you? It’s about time you learnt your mistake, you old cheese-parer! Y’ou and me has an account to settle. Let me get at you—let me get at you—” Mie brandished the poker so menacingly that Mrs Cross turned and fled. Martha pursued, yelling abuse and threats. The mistress vainly tried to shut the sitting-room door against her; in broke the furious maid, and for a moment so handled her weapon that Mrs Cross with difficulty escaped a dangerous blow. Round and round the table they went, until, the cloth having been dragged off, Martha’s feet caught in it, ami she fell heavily to the floor- To escape from the room, the terrified lady

must have stepped over her. For a moment, there was silence. Then Martha made an attempt to rise, fell again, again struggled to her knees, and finally collapsed, lying quite still and mute. Trembling, panting, Mrs Cross moved cautiously nearer, until she could see the girl’s face. Martha was asleep, unmistakably asleep; she had even begun to snore. Avoiding her contact with as much disgust as fear, Mrs Cross got out of the room, and opened the front door of the house. This way and that she looked along the street, searching for a policeman, but none was in sight. At this moment approached a familiar figure, Mr Jollyman’s errand boy, basket on arm; he had parcels to deliver here. “Are you going back to the shop at once?” asked Mrs Cross, after hurriedly setting down her groceries in the passage. "Straight back, mum.”

“Then run as quickly as ever you can, and tell Mr Jollyman that 1 wish to see him immediately—immediately. Run! Don’t lose a moment.” Afraid to shut herself in with the sleeping fury, Mrs Cross remained standing near the front door, which every now and then she opened to look for a policeman. The day was cold; she shivered, she felt weak, wretched, ready to sob in her squalid distress. Seme twenty minutes passed, then, just as she opened the door to look about again, a rapid step sounded on the pavement, and there appeared her grocer.

“Oh, Mr Jollyman!” she exclaimed. “What I have just gone through! That girl has gone raving mad —she has broken almost everything in the house, and tried to kill me with the poker. Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come! Of course, there's never a policeman when they’re wanted. Do please come in ”

Warburton did not at once understand who was meant by “that girl.” but when Mrs Cross threw open the sittingroom door, and exhibited her domestic prostrate in disgraceful slumber, tho facts of the situation broke upon him. This was the girl so strongly recommended by Mrs Hopper. “But I thought she had been doing very well ”

"So she had, so she had, Mr Jollyman —except for a few little things—though! there was always something strange about her. It’s only to-day that she broke out. She is mad, I assure you, raving mad!” •

Another explanation suggested itself to Warburton.

"Don’t you notice a suspicious odour ?” he asked significantly.

"You think it’s that!” said Mrs. Cross, in a horrified whisper. “Ob, I daresay you’re right. I’m too agitated to notice anything. Oh, Mr Jollyman! Do, do help me to get the creature out of th. house. How shameful that people gave her a good character. But everybody deceives me —everybody treats me cruelly, heartlessly. Don’t leave me alone with that creature, Mr Jollyman! Oh, if you knew what I have been through with servants! But never anything so bad as this—never! Oh, I feel quite ill —1 must sit down—”

Feaful that his situation might become more embarrassing than it was, Warburton supported Mrs Cross into the dining-room, and by dint of loud cheerful talk in part composed her. She consented to sit with the door locked, whilst; her rescuer hurried in search of a policeman. Before long, a constable’s tread sounded In the hall; Mrs Cross told her. story, exhibited the ruins of her ercckery on the kitchen floor, and demanded instant expulsion of the dangerous rebel. Between them, Warburton and the man in authority shook Martha into consciousness, made her pack her box, put her into a cab, and sent her off to the house where she had lived when cut of service; she all tb» time weeping copiously- and protesting that there was no one in the world so dear to her as her outraged mistress. About an hour, was thus consumed. When at length! the policeman had withdrawn, and sudden quiet reigned in the house, Mrs Cross seemed again on the point of fainting.

“How can I ever thank you, Mr. Jollyman!” she exclaimed, half hysterically, as she let herself sink into the armchair. “Without you, what would have become of mel Oh, I feel

■o weak, if I had strength to get mySelf a cup of tea— * “Let me get it for you.” cried Warburton. “Nothing easier. I noticed the kettle by the kitchen fire.” “Oh, 1 cunnot allow you, Mr Jollyman —you are too kind —I feel so ashamed —”

But Will was already in tho kitchen, where he bestirred himsolf so effectually that in a few minutes the kettle had begun to sing. Just as he went back to the parlour, to ask where tea could be found, the front door opened, and in walked Bertha.

“Your daughter is here, Mrs Cross,” said Will, in an undertone, stepping .towards the limp and pallid lady. “Bertha,” she cried. “Bertha, are you there? Oh, come and thank Mr Jollymau! If you knew what has happened whilst you were away!” At the room door appeared the girl’s astonished face. Warburton’s eyes felt .upon her. “It’s a wonder you find me alive, dear,” pursued the mother. “If one of those blows had fallen on my head —■’ “Let me explain,” interposed Warburton quietly. And in a few words be related the events of the afternoon. “And Mr Jollyman was just getting me a cup of tea, Bertha,” added Mrs Cross. “I do feel ashamed that he should have had such trouble.” “Mr Jollyman has been very kind indeed,” said Bertha, with look and tone of grave sincerity. “I’m sure uc cannot thank him enough.** Warburton smiled as he met her glance. “I feel rather guilty in the matter,” he said, “for it was I who suggested the servant. If you will let me I will do my best to atone by trying io find another and a better.” “Run and make the tea, my dear,” said Mrs Cross. “Perhaps Mr Jollyman will have a cup with its—” This invitation was declined. Warburton sought for his hat, and took leave of the ladies, Mr? Cross overwhelming him with graAtudo, and Bertha murmuring a few embarrassed words. As soon as he was gone, mother and daughter took hands affectionately, then embraced with more tenderness than for a long, long time. “I shall never dare to live alone with a servant,” sobbed Mrs Crosi. “If you leave me, I must go into lodgings, dear.” “Hush, hush, mother! ' replied the girl, in her gentlest voice. “Of course I shall not leave you.”

“Oh, the dreadful tilings I have been through! It was drink, Bertha; that * creature was a drunkard of the most dangerous kind. She did Iter best to murder me. I wonder lam not at this moment lying dead. Oh, but the kindness of Mr. Jollyman! What a good thing I sent for him! And he speaks of finding us another servant; but, Bertha, I shall never try to manage a servant again—never! I shall always be afraid of them; I shall dread to give the simplest order. You, my dear, must be the mistress of the house; indeed you must. I give over everything into your hands. I will never interfere; I won’t say a word, whatever fault I may have to find; not a word. Oh, that creature; that horrible woman, will haunt my dreams. Bertha, you don’t think she’ll hang about the house, and lie in wait for me, to be revenged? Wc must tell the policeman to look out for her. I’m sure I shall never venture to go out alone, and if you leave me in tho house with a new servant, even for an hour, I must be in a room with the door locked. My nerves will never recover from this shock. Oh, if you knew how ill I feel! I’ll have a cup of tea, and then go straight to bed.” Whilst she was refreshing herself she •poke again of Mr. Jollvman. “'Do you think I ought to have pressed him to stay, dear? I didn’t feel sure.” “No, no, you were quite right not to do so,” replied Bertha. “He of course understood that it was better for us to be alone." “I thought he would. Really, for a grocer he is so very gentlemanly.” “That’s not surprising, mother.” “No, no; I’m always forgetting that he isn’t a grocer by birth. I think, Bertha, it will only be right to ask him to come to tea some day before long.” Bertha reflected, a half-smile about her lips. “Certainly," she said, “If you would like to.” “I really should. He was so very kind to ine. And perhaps—what do you think? —ought we to invite him in his proper ■UN!”

“No, I think not,” answered Bertha, after a moment’s reflection. “We arc not supposed to know anything about that.” “To be sure not. Oh, that dreadful creature, I see her eyes, glaring at ine, like a liger’s. Fifty time at least did she chase me round this table. I thought I should have dropped with exhaustion; and if I had, one blow of that poker would have finished me. Never speak to inc of servants, Bertha. Engage anyone you like, but do, do be careful to make inquiries about her. 1 shall never wish even to know her name; I shall never look at her face; I shall never speak a word to her. I leave all tho responsibility to you, dear. And now, help me upstairs. I’m sure I could never get up alone. I tremble in every limb ”

CHAPTER XLIII. Warburton’s mother was dead. The first effect upon him of the certainty that she could not recover from the unconsciousness in which lie found her when summoned by Jane’s telegram was that of an acute remorse; it pierced him to the heart, that she should have abandoned the home of her lifetime, for tho strangeness and discomfort of the new abode, and here have fallen, stricken by death—tho. cause of it, he himself, he so unworthy of the least sacrifice. He had loved her; but what assurance had he been wont to give her of his love? Through many and many a year it was much if he wrote at long intervals a hurried letter. How seldom had ho cared to go down to St. Neots, and, when there, how soon had he felt impatient of the little restraints imposed upon him by his mother’s ways and prejudices. Yet not a moment had she hesitated, ill and aged, when, at so great a cost to herself, it seemed possible to make life a little easier for him. This reproach was the keenest pain with which nature had yet visited him.

Something of the same was felt by his sister, partly on her own, partly on his account, but as soon as Jane became aware- of his self torment, her affection and her good sense soon brought succour to them both. She spoke of the life their mother had led since coming into Suffolk, related a hundred instances to prove how full of interest and contentment it. had been, bore witness to the seeming improvement of health, and the even cheerfulness of spirits which had accompanied it. Moreover, there the medical assurance that life could nob in any case have been prolonged; that change of place and habits counted for nothing in the sudden end which some months ago had been foretold. Jane confessed herself surprised at the ease with which so great and sudden a change was borne; the best proof that could have been given of their mother’s nobleness of mind. Once only had Mrs Warburton seemed to think regretfully of the old home; it was ou coining out of church one morning, when, having stood for a moment to look at the graveyard, she murmured to her daughter that she would wish to be buried at St. Neots. This, of course, was done; it would have been done even had she not spoken. And when, on the day after the funeral, brother and sister parted to go their several ways, the sadness they bore* with them hud no embitterment of brooding regret. A little graver than usual, Will took his place behind the counter, with no word to Allchin concerning the cause of his absence. He wrote frequently to Jane, and from her received long letters, which did him good, so redolent were they of the garden life, even in midwinter, and so expressive of a frank, sweet, strong womanhood, like that of her who was no more.

Meanwhile, his business flourished. Not. that lie much exerted himself, or greatly rejoiced to see his till more heavily laden night after night, by natural accretion custom flowed to the shop in fuller stream; Jollyman’s had established a reputation for quality and cheapness, and began seriously to affect the trade of small rivals in the district. An Allchin had foretold, the hapless grocer with the sunken wife sank defeated before the end of the year; one morning his shop did not open, and in a few days the furniture of the house was carried off by some brisk creditor. It made Warburton miserable to think of the man’s doom; when Allchin, frank barbarian as lie was, loudly exulted, Wilt turned away in shame and anger. Hail the thing been practicable he would have given money out of hia own pocket to the ruined struggler. lie saw himself os a merciless victor; h« seemed

to have his heel on the other man’s head, and to crush, crush— At Christmas he was obliged to engage a second assistant. Allchin did not conceal his dislike of this step, but he ended by admitting it to be necessary. At first, the new state of things did not work quite smoothly; Allchin was inclined to an imperious manner, which the new-comer, by name Goff, now and then plainly resented. But in a day or two they were on fair terms, and ere long they became cordial. Then befell the incident of Mrs Cross’ Martha.

Not without uneasiness had Warburton suggested a servant on the recommendation of Mrs Hopper, but credentials seemed to be fairly good, and when, after a week or two, Mrs Cross declared herself more than satisfied, he blessed his good luck. Long ago he had ceased to look for the reappearance at the shop of Bertha Cross; he thought of the girl now and then, generally reverting in memory to that day when he had followed her and her mother into Kew Gardens— a recollection which had lost all painfulness, and shone idyllically in summer sunlight; but it mattered nothing to him that Bertha showed herself no more. Of course she knew his story from Rosamdnd, and in all likelihood she felt her self-respect concerned in hold aloof from an acquaintance of his ambiguous standing. It mattered not a jot.

Yet when the tragi-comedy of Martha’s outbreak unexpectedly introduced him to the house at Walham Green, ho experienced a sudden revival of the emotions of a year ago. After his brief meeting with Bertha, lie did not go straight Lack to the shop, but wandered a little quiet by ways thinking hard and smiling. Nothing more grotesque than the picture of Mrs Cross amid her shattered crockery, Mrs Cross pointing to the prostrate Martha, Mrs Cross panting forth the chronicle of her. woes; but Mrs Cross’ daughter was not involved in thia scene of pantomime.; she walked across the stage, but independently, with a simple dignity proof against paltry or ludicrous circumstance. If anyone could see the laughable side of such domestic squalor, assuredly it was Bertha herself; of that, Will felt assured. Did he not remember her smile when she had to discuss prices and qualities in the shop? Not many girls smile with so much implication of humorous comment.

He had promised to look out for another servant, but hardly knew how to go to work. First of all, Mrs Hopper was summoned to an interview in the parlour behind the shop, and Martha s case was fully discussed. With much protesting and circumlocution. Mrs Hopper brought herself at length to own that Martha had been known to “take too much,” hut that was so long ago, and the girl had solemnly declared, etc., etc. However, as luck would have it, she did know of another girl, a really good general servant, who had only just

been thrown out of a place by the death of her mistress, and who was living at home in Kentish Town. Thither sped Warburton; he saw the girl and her mother, and, on returning, sent n note to Mrs Cross, in which he detailed all lie had learnt concerning the new applicant. At the close he wrote: "You arc -vre, I think, that the name under which I do business is not my own. Permit me, in writing to you on a private matter, to use my own signature”—which accordingly followed. Moreover, be dated the letter from his lodgings, not from Hie shop.

The next day brought him a reply; be found it on his breakfast table, and broke the envelope with amused curiosity. Mrs Cross wrote that “Sarah Walker” had been to see her, and if inquiries proved satisfactory would be engaged. “We are very greatly obliged for the trouble you have taken. Many thanks for your kind inquiries ns to my health. I am glad to say that the worst of tho shock has passed away, though I fear that I shall long continue to feel its effects.” A few remarks followed on the terrible difficulties of the servant question; then “Should you be disengaged on Sunday next, we shall be glad if you will take a cup of tea with us.” Over his coffee and egg, Will pondered this invitation. It pleased him. undeniably, but caused him no undue excitement. He would have liked to know in what degree Mrs Cross’s daughter was a consenting party to the step. Perhaps she felt that, after the services he had rendered, the least one could do was to invite him to tea. Why should ho refuse? Before going to business he wrote a brief acceptance. During the day a doubt now and then troubled him as to whether lie had behaved discreetly, but on the whole he looked forward to Sunday with pleasant expectation.

How should ho equip himself? Should lie go dressed as he would have irone to the Pomfret's, in his easv walking attire, jacket, and soft felt? Or did tins circumstances dictate chimiw-nnl and frock-coat? He scoffed nt himself fnr fidgetting over the point: yet nerh»n» it had a certain importance. After deciding for the informal costume, at the last moment he altered his mind, and went arrayed as society demands. W'th the result that, on entering the little parlour—that name suited it much better than drawing-room—he felt overdressed, pompous, generally nbsnqj. His cylinder seemed to lie about three feet high; his gloves stared their newness; the tails of his coat felt as though they wrapped several times round his legs, end still left enough to trail upon the floor as lie sat on a chnir too low for h’m. Never since the most awkward stage of boyhood had ho felt, so little at ease “in company.” And ho hail a conviction that Bertha Cress was laughing nt him. Her smile was too persistent; it could only be explained as a compromise » h threatening merriment.

(To be Continued.)