"Oh, Freddy, surely--surely there must be some way----"

"Not one. I spoke about breaking the entail. You know I--his death, poor fellow. I----"

"Yes, yes, dear."

"But they wouldn't hear of it. My mother was very angry, even in her grief, when I proposed it. They hope that by strict retrenchment, the property will be itself again; and they spoke about Tommy. They said it would be unjust to him----"

"And to you," quickly. She would not have him ignored any longer.

"Oh, as for me, I'm not a boy, you know. Tommy is safe to inherit as life goes."

"Well, so are you," said she, with a sharp pang at her heart.

"Yes, of course. I am only making out a case. I think it was kind of them to remember Tommy's claim in the midst of their own grief."

"It was, indeed," says she remorsefully. "Oh, it was. But if they give up everything where will they go?"

"They talk of taking a cottage--a small house somewhere. They want to give up everything to pay his infamous----There!" sharply, "I am forgetting again! But to see them makes one forget everything else." He begins his walk up and down the room again, as if inaction is impossible to him. "My mother, who has been accustomed to a certain luxury all her life, to be now, at the very close of it, condemned to----It would break your heart to see her. And she will let nothing be said of him."

"Oh, no."

"Still, there should be justice. I can't help feeling that. Her blameless life, and his----and she is the one to suffer."

"It is so often so," says his wife in a low tone. "It is an old story, dearest, but I know that when the old stories come home to us individually they always sound so terribly new. But what do they mean by a small house?" asks she presently in a distressed tone.

"Well, I suppose a small house," said he, with just a pa.s.sing gleam of his old jesting manner. "You know my mother cannot bear the country, so I think the cottage idea will fall through."

"Freddy," says his wife suddenly. "She can't go into a small house, a London small house. It is out of the question. Could they not come and live with us?"

She is suggesting a martyrdom for herself, yet she does it unflinchingly.

"What! My aunt and all?" asks he, regarding her earnestly.

"Oh, of course, of course, poor old thing," says she, unable this time, however, to hide the quaver that desolates her voice.

"No," says her husband with a suspicion of vehemence. He takes her suddenly in his arms and kisses her. "Because two or three people are unhappy is no reason why a fourth should be made so, and I don't want your life spoiled, so far as I can prevent it. I suppose you have guessed that I must go over to Nice--where he is--my father could not possibly go alone in his present state."

"When, must you go?"

"To-morrow. As for you----"

"If we could go home," says she uncertainly.

"That is what I would suggest, but how will you manage without me? The children are so troublesome when taken out of their usual beat, and their nurse--I often wonder which would require the most looking after, they or she? It occurred to me to ask Dysart to see you across."

"He is so kind, such a friend," says Mrs. Monkton. "But----"

She might have said more, but at this instant Joyce appears in the doorway.

"We shall be late," cries she, "and Freddy not even dressed, why----Oh, has anything really happened?"

"Yes, yes," says Barbara hurriedly--a few words explains all. "We must go home to-morrow, you see; and Freddy thinks that Felix would look after us until we reached Kensington or North Wall."

"Felix--Mr. Dysart?" The girl's face had grown pale during the recital of the suicide, but now it looks ghastly. "Why should he come?" cries she in a ringing tone, that has actual fear in it. "Do you suppose that we two cannot manage the children between us? Oh, nonsense, Barbara; why Tommy is as sensible as he can be, and if nurse does prove incapable, and a prey to seasickness, well--I can take baby, and you can look after Mabel. It will be all right! We are not going to America, really.

Freddy, please say you will not trouble Mr. Dysart about this matter."

"Yes, I really think we shall not require him," says Barbara. Something in the glittering brightness of her sister's eye warns her to give in at once, and indeed she has been unconsciously a little half-hearted about having Felix or any stranger as a travelling companion. "There, run away, Joyce, and go to your bed, darling; you look very tired. I must still arrange some few things with Freddy."

"What is the matter with her?" asks Monkton, when Joyce has gone away.

"She looks as if she had been crying, and her manner is so excitable."

"She has been strange all day, almost repellant. Felix called--and--I don't know what happened; she insisted upon my leaving her alone with him; but I am afraid there was a scene of some sort. I know she had been crying, because her eyes were so red, but she would say nothing, and I was afraid to ask her."

"Better not. I hope she is not still thinking of that fellow Beauclerk.

However----" he stops short and sighs heavily.

"You must not think of her now," says Barbara quickly; "your own trouble is enough for you. Were your brother's affairs so very bad that they necessitate the giving up of everything?"

"It has been going on for years. My father has had to economize, to cut down everything. You know the old place was let to a Mr.--Mr.--I quite forget the name now," pressing his hand to his brow; "a Manchester man, at all events, but we always hoped my father would have been able to take it back from him next year, but now----"

"But you say they think in time that the property will----"

"They think so. I don't. But it would be a pity to undeceive them. I am afraid, Barbara," with a sad look at her, "you made a bad match. Even when the chance comes in your way to rise out of poverty, it proves a thoroughly useless one."

"It isn't like you to talk like that," says she quickly. "There, you are overwrought, and no wonder, too. Come upstairs and let us see what you will want for your journey." Her tone had grown purposely brisk; surely, on an occasion such as this she is a wife, a companion in a thousand.

"There must be many things to be considered, both for you and for me.

And the thing is, to take nothing unnecessary. Those foreign places, I hear, are so----"

"It hardly matters what I take," says he wearily.

"Well, it matters what I take," says she briskly. "Come and give me a help, Freddy. You know how I hate to have servants standing over me.

Other people stand over their servants, but they are poor rich people. I like to see how the clothes are packed." She is speaking not quite truthfully. Few people like to be spared trouble so much as she does, but it seems good in her eyes now to rouse him from the melancholy that is fast growing on him. "Come," she says, tucking her arm into his.

CHAPTER XLI.

"It is not to-morrow; ah, were it to-day!

There are two that I know that would be gay.

Good-by! Good-by! Good-by!

Ah I parting wounds so bitterly!"

It is six weeks later, "spring has come up this way," and all the earth is glad with a fresh birth.

"Tantarara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms; not a bird Of evil augury is seen or heard!

Come now, like Pan's old crew we'll dance and sing, Or Oberon's, for hill and valley ring To March's bugle horn--earth's blood is stirred."