n^Tlfiiv of KpvleKn. IjlljOG. 



In the Days of the Gontet. 



1 hat qiietr little document! I can see it now for 

 the childish, simple thing it was, but at the time I 

 read it in a suppressed anguish of rage. It plunged 

 me into a pit of hopeless shame ; there seemed to 

 remain no pride for me in life until I had revenge. 

 I stood staring at those rounded, upstanding letters, 

 not trusting mvself to speak or move. At last I 

 stole a glance at Stuart. 



'' You can't even tell where she is," he said, turn- 

 ing the envelope in a hopeless manner, and then 

 desisting. " It's hard on us, Willie. Here she is ; 

 she hadn't anything to complain of ; a sort of pet 

 for all of us. Not even made to do her share of 

 the 'ousework. And she goes off and leaves us like 

 a bird that's learnt to fly. Can't iriisi us, that's 



what takes me. Puts 'erself But there ! 



What's to happen to her?" 



"What's to happen to him?" 



He shook his head to show that problem was 

 beyond him. 



'■ You'll go after her," I saii] in an even voice ; 

 " \ou'll make him marry her?" 



'' Where am I to go ?" he asked helplesslv, and 

 held out the envelope with a gesture ; " and what 

 could I do ? Even if I knew — how could I leave 

 the gardens?" 



" Great God !" I cried, ' not leave these gardens ! 

 It's your honour, man ! If she was my daughter — if 

 she was my daughter — I'd tear the world to pieces 1" 

 I choked. "You mean to stand it?" 



" What can I do?" 



" Make him marry her I Horsewhip him I Horse- 

 whip him, I say ! I'd strangle him 1" 



He scratched slowly at his hairy cheek, opened 

 his mouth, and shook his head. Then, with an 

 intolerable note of sluggish, gentle wisdom, he said, 

 "People of our sort, Willie, can't do things like that." 



I came near to raving. I had a wild impulse io 

 strike him in the face. Once in my boyhood I hap- 

 pened upon a bird terribly mangled bv some cat, 

 and killed it in a frenzv of horror and pity. I had 

 a gust of that same emotion now, as this shameful, 

 mutilated soul fluttered in the dust before me. 

 Then, you know, I dismissed him from the case. 



" May I look ?" I asked. 



He held out the envelope relurtantlv. 



" There it is," he said, and pointing with his 

 garden-rough forefinger. " I. .^. P. A.M. P. What can 

 you make of that?" 



I took the thing in my hands. The adhesive 

 stamp customary in those days was defaced by a 

 circular postmark, which bore the name of the 

 office of departure and the date. The impact in this 

 particular case had been light or made without suffi- 

 cient ink, and half the letters of the name had left 

 no impression. I could distinguish — 



HAP AMB 

 and very faintly below, D.S.O. 



[ guessed the name in an instant flash of in- 

 tuition. It was Shaphambury. The very gaps 



shaped that to my mind. Perhaps, in a sort of semi- 

 visibility, other letters were there, at least hinting 

 themsehes. It was a place somewhere on the east 

 ciiast, 1 knew, either in Norfolk or Suffolk. 



'■ Why !'' cried I — and stopped. 



What was the good of telling him? 



Old Stuart had glanced up sharply, I am inclined 

 to think almost fearfully, into my face. " You — 

 you haven't got it?" he said. 



Shaphambury — I should remember that. 



I handed the envelope back to him. 



He replaced the letter in it and stood erect to 

 put this back in his breast pocket. 



I did not mean to take any risks in this affair. 

 I drew a stump of pencil from my waistcoat pocket, 

 turned a little away from him and wrote '' Shap- 

 h:imbury " verv quickly on my frayed and rather 

 grimy cuff. 



" Well,'' said t, with an air of having done no- 

 thing remarkable. 



I turned to him with some unimportant observa- 

 tion — I have forgotten what. 



I ne\er finished whatever vague remark I com- 

 menced. 



I looked up to see a third person waiting at the 

 greenhouse door. 



VII. 



It was old Mrs. Verrall. 



I wonder if I can convey the effect of her to you. 

 She was a little old lady with extraordinary flaxen 

 hair. Her weak, aquiline features were pursed up 

 into an assumption of dignity, and she was richly 

 dressed. I would like to underline that "richly 

 dressed," or have the word printed in florid old 

 English or Gothic lettering. No one on earth is 

 now quite so richly dressed as she was ; no one, old 

 or voung, indulges in so quiet and yet so profound 

 a sumptuosity. But you must not imagine any ex- 

 travagance of outline or anv beauty or richness of 

 colour. The predominant colours were black and 

 fur-brawns, and the effect of richness was due en- 

 tirely to the extreme costliness of the materials 

 employed. She affected silk brocades with rich and 

 elaborate patterns, priceless black lace over creamy 

 or purple satin, intricate trimmings through which 

 threads and bands of velvet wriggled, and in the 

 winter rare furs. Her gloves fitted exquisitely ; and 

 ostentatiously simple chains of fine gold and pearls, 

 and a great number of bracelets, laced about her 

 little person. One was forced to feel that the 

 slightest article she wore cost more than all the 

 wardrobes of a dozen girls like Nettie ; her bonnet 

 affected the simp'icity that is bevond rubies. Rich- 

 ness, that is the first quality about this old lady 

 that I would like to convey to you, and the second 

 was cleanliness. You felt that old Mrs. Verrall was 

 exquisitely clean. If you had boiled my poor, dear 

 old mother in soda for a month you couldn't have 

 got her so clean as Mrs. Verrall constantly and 

 manifestly was. And, pervading all her presence, 



