A Change of Air

The gentleman to whom they referred sat looking on at them with no great pleasure, though they found one another entertaining enough to prevent them noticing him. Dale Bannister said that his new friend took life seriously, and the charge was too true for the Doctor's happiness. Dale Bannister had taken hold of his imagination. He expected Dale to do all he would give his life to see done, but could not do himself. The effect of Dale was to be instantaneous, enormous, transforming Denborough and its inhabitants. He regarded the poet much as a man might look upon a benevolent volcano, did such a thing exist in the order of nature. His function was, in the Doctor's eyes, to pour forth the burning lava of truth and justice, wherewith the ignorance, prejudice, and cruelty of the present order should be consumed and smothered; let the flood be copious, scorching, and unceasing! The Doctor could do little more than hail the blessed shower and declare its virtues; but that he was ready to do at any cost. And the volcano would not act! The eruptions were sadly intermittent. The hero, instead of going forth to war, was capering nimbly in a lady's chamber, to the lascivious pleasing of a lute; that is to say, he was talking trifles to Tora Smith, with apparent enjoyment, forgetful of his mission, ignoring the powers of darkness around. No light-spreading saying, no swordflash had come from him all the evening. He was fiddling while Rome was – waiting for the burning it needed so badly.

Perhaps it was a woebegone look about the Doctor that made Philip Hume take the chair next him after dinner, while Dale was, still as if in play, emitting anarchist sparks for the Colonel's entertainment.

"Is it possible," asked the Doctor in low, half-angry tones, "that he thinks these people are any good – that they are sincere or thorough in the matter? He's wasting his time."

"Well, well, my dear fellow, we must all dine, whatever our opinions."

"Oh, yes; we must dine, while the world starves."

"The bow can't be always stretched," said Philip, with a slight smile.

"You don't think, Hume, do you, that he's getting any less – less in earnest, you know?"

"Oh, he wrote a scorcher this very morning."

"Did he? That's good news. Where is it to appear?"

"I don't know. He didn't write it on commission."

"His poems have such magnificent restlessness, haven't they? I can't bear to see him idle."

"Poor Dale! You must give him some holidays. He likes pleasure like the rest of us."

The Doctor sighed impatiently, and Philip looking at him anxiously, laid a hand on his arm.

"Roberts," he said, "there is no need that you should be ground to powder."

"I don't understand."

"I hope you never will. Your wife doesn't look very strong. Why don't you give her a change?"

"A change? How am I to afford a change? Besides, who wants a change? What change do most workers get?"

"Hang most workers! Your wife wants a change."

"I haven't got the money, anyhow."

"Then there's an end of it."

The Colonel rose, and they made for the drawing room.

Philip detained his companion for a moment.

"Well?" said the Doctor, feeling the touch on his arm.

"For God's sake, old fellow, go slow," said Philip, pressing his arm, and looking at him with an appealing smile.

CHAPTER VII.

"To a Pretty Saint."

When Mrs. Delane came back from London, she was met with a question of the precise kind on which she felt herself to be no mean authority. It was a problem of propriety, of etiquette, and of the usages of society, and Mrs. Delane attacked it with a due sense of its importance and with the pleasure of an expert. It arose out of Dale Bannister's call at the Grange. Dale had been accustomed, when a lady found favor in his eyes, to inform her of the gratifying news through the medium of a set of verses, more or less enthusiastic and rhapsodic in their nature. The impulse to follow his usual practice was strong on him after meeting Janet Delane, and issued in the composition of that poem called "To a Pretty Saint," the title of which Nellie had seen. He copied it out fair, and was about to put it in the post when a thought suddenly struck him. Miss Delane was not quite like most of his acquaintances. It was perhaps possible that she might think his action premature, or even impertinent, and that she might deem it incumbent on her to resent being called either a saint or pretty by a friend of one interview's standing. Dale was divided between his newborn doubt of his own instinct of what was permissible and his great reluctance to doom his work to suppression. He decided to consult Philip Hume, who was, as he knew, more habituated to the social atmosphere of places like Denshire.

"Eh? what?" said Philip, who was busily engaged in writing a newspaper article. "Written a poem to a girl? All right. I'll listen presently."

"I don't want you to listen. I want your advice as to whether to send it or not."

"If you've wasted your time writing the thing, – by the way, take care the Doctor doesn't hear of it, – you may as well send it."

"The question is, whether she'll be offended."

"I'm glad it isn't more important, because I'm busy."

"Look here! Stop that anonymous stabber of yours and listen. It's to Miss Delane."

Philip stopped in the middle of a particularly vicious paragraph of the "stabber," and looked up with amusement on his face.

"It's a perfectly – you know – suitable poem," pursued Dale. "The only question is, will she think it a liberty?"

"Oh, send it. They like getting 'em;" and Philip took up his pen again.

"You don't know the sort of girl she is."

"Then what the deuce is the good of asking me? Ask Nellie."

"No, I shan't," said Dale shortly.

Thus thrown, by his friend's indifference, on his own judgment, Dale made up his mind to send the verses, – he could not deny himself the pleasure, – but, half alarmed at his own audacity, which feeling was a new one in him, he "hedged" by inclosing with them a letter of an apologetic character. Miss Delane was not to suppose that he took the liberty of referring to her in the terms of his title: the little copy of verses had merely been suggested by a remark she made. He had failed to find an answer on the spot. Would she pardon him for giving his answer now in this indirect way? – and so forth.

The verses, with their accompanying letter, were received by Janet, and Janet had no doubt of what she did feel about them, but some considerable doubt as to what she ought to feel; so she carried them to her mother. Mrs. Delane put on her pince-nez and read the documents in the case.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to be – anything but what's nice, mamma," said Janet.

"I dare say not, my dear. The question is, whether the young man knows his manners. Let's see."

After careful perusal, during which Janet watched her mother's face with some anxiety, Mrs. Delane delivered judgment.

"There's no positive harm in them," she said, "and I don't think we need take any actual steps. Still, Janet, he is evidently to be treated with discretion."

"How do you mean, mamma?"

"Well, he isn't in need of encouragement, is he? He's not backward in making friends."

"I suppose not. May I keep them?"

"Keep them? Do you want to keep them?"

"Not particularly, dear," answered Janet. "I – I thought he meant me to."

"No doubt. Write a civil note, dear, thank him for letting you see them, and return them inclosed."

Janet was a little reluctant to part with her autograph manuscript, – not because of its pecuniary value, though that was more than a trifle, had she known, but because such things are pleasant possessions to show to envious friends, – but she did as she was told. She did not, however, feel herself bound altogether to smother her pride or to make a secret of the tribute she had received. Tora Smith heard the story with evident amusement, and, thinking that others would share her appreciation of it, relieved the somewhat uphill course of Mrs. Hodge's call by a repetition of it: whereby it happened that Nellie Fane came to know, not only that Dale had written verses to Miss Delane and sent them, but also that Miss Delane had returned the offering. She told Philip the latter fact, and the two ventured to rally the poet on the occurrence. Dale took their action very badly, and his displeasure soon reduced Nellie to apologies. Philip was less sensitive.

"D. W. T., by Jove!" he remarked. "Quite like old times, Dale!"

Dale muttered something about "infernal chatter."

"You will soon be in a position to publish a volume of 'Rejected Addresses.'"

"Not at all," said Dale. "It's simply that she didn't understand I meant her to keep them."

"Oh, that's her delicate way of snubbing you, my boy."

"What the deuce do you know about it, Phil? You never wrote verses in your life. Don't you agree with me, Nellie?"

"Miss Smith said Miss Delane thought she had better not keep them."

"I knew that girl was a gossip directly I set eyes on her."

"You're naturally hurt, old fellow, but – "

"Go to the deuce! Look here, I'll bet you a fiver she takes them back and keeps them."

"Done!" said Philip, and Dale seized his hat.

"Why does he want her to take them?" asked Nellie.

"Vanity, my dear, vanity. I suppose he's accustomed to having his verses laid up in lavender. Is that what you do with yours?"

"He never wrote me any," answered Nellie in a tone of superlative indifference.

It being only two o'clock, Dale felt he could not yet go to the Grange. He made a detour by the town, on pretense of buying stamps; and, the stars fighting with him, outside the Mayor's shop he saw Janet talking to the Mayor himself.

"Thank you, Miss Delane, miss," said the Mayor. "Mrs. Hedger is doin' nicely. She had a bit of feverishness about her, but Dr. Spink's treated her wonderful."

"Dr. Spink? I thought you went to Dr. Roberts?"

"I did, miss, but – Well, things come round to me, miss, being a center like."

"What things?"

"Well, you may not have heard, miss, of the things that – Good-mornin', Mr. Bannister, sir, good-mornin'. A fine day. Anything in our line, sir?"

"Good-morning, Mr. Mayor," said Dale. "Ah, Miss Delane, how do you do?"

His coming interrupted Janet's investigations into the affairs of the Doctor, and she took her leave of the Mayor, Dale assuming permission to walk with her. He ought to have asked, no doubt, thought Janet, but it would be making too much of it to tell him so.

They had hardly started when he turned to her:

"Why did you send back my verses?"

"I could hardly venture to keep them, could I?"

"Why not?"

"On so slight an acquaintance! It was very kind of you to let me see them before they were published."

"They're not going to be published."

"Oh, you must publish them. They're so very pretty."

"Didn't you think I meant you to keep them?"

"I should have been very conceited if I had, shouldn't I?"

"Well, they were for you – not to be published. If you don't like them, they'll be burned, that's all."

Janet stole a glance at his face; he looked like a petulant Apollo – so she thought.

"That would be a pity," she said gravely; "but I don't think I ought to keep them."

"Why not?"

Socrates is reported to have said that nothing is reasonable which cannot be stated in a reasonable form. Miss Janet Delane would have dissented.

"Of course I like them very much. But – well, we haven't known each other very long, Mr. Bannister."

"You mean it was impertinent?"

"Oh, no. I thought your letter perfect – I did really. But mamma thought – "

"Oh!" said Dale, with brightening face. "You would have kept them?"

"That's not the question," said Janet, smiling. It was pleasant to see Apollo looking less petulant. "But what would people say if they heard I had poems of Mr. Dale Bannister's about me? I should be thought a dangerous person."

"I'll write some which you would like to have."

"I am sure you could, if you only would. Fancy, if you wrote really noble verses – worthy of you!"

"Well, I will, if it will please you."

"Nonsense, Mr. Bannister! There's no question of pleasing me: it doesn't matter – well, I mean, then, the great thing is to do justice to yourself."

"I ought to have some encouragement in well-doing," said Dale plaintively.

She shook her head with a smile, and he went on:

"I wish you'd come to Littlehill and see the house. I've improved it tremendously."

"Oh, you must invite mamma."

"Would Mrs. Delane come?"

This question was a little awkward, for Mrs. Delane, after cross-examining Tora Smith closely as to Mrs. Hodge and her daughter, had announced that she would not go.

"A bachelor doesn't entertain ladies, does he?"

"I should like to; and there are some ladies – " A sudden thought struck him, and he stopped. He looked so pointedly at Janet that, to her intense annoyance, she felt herself blushing. She made the grave mistake of changing the conversation abruptly.

"How did you like the Smiths?"

"Oh, pretty well."

"I should have thought you would have got on tremendously well together."

"Oh, I don't know. I think I like people to be one thing or the other, and the Smiths are halfway housers."

"You're very ungrateful."

"Oh, they only asked us as a demonstration," said Dale, who had some acuteness.

Janet laughed, but her companion was moodily prodding the ground with his stick as he walked along.

They reached a cottage where she had a visit to pay, and she bade him good-by.

"Then you won't have the verses?"

"I think not."

"Very well, then, here goes;" and he took the paper out of his pocket and tore it to bits. The fragments fluttered to the ground.

"How foolish!" she said. "I dare say they were worth a lot of money – but, then, you can write them out again."

"Do you think I shall?" he asked, grinding the fragments into the mud.

"I'm afraid you will do nothing wise," she said, giving him her hand. Yet the extravagance rather pleased her.

Until Dale reached his own house it did not strike him that he had lost his bet. Philip quickly reminded him, and laughed mercilessly when a crumpled five-pound note was thrown at his head by his angry friend.

"I tell you she wanted to keep them," said Dale unjustifiably.

"Then why didn't she?" asked Nellie.

"Mrs. Delane didn't approve of it."

"I expect Mrs. Delane doesn't approve of you at all," remarked Philip.

"No, nor of my friends either," answered Dale, flinging himself into a chair.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Hodge, who sat by, "her opinion will neither make us nor mar us."

"How have we had the misfortune to offend the lady?" inquired Philip. "She has never seen us."

"Here's your tea, Dale," said Nellie. "Are you tired?"

"Yes, a little. Thanks, Nellie."

"Was she looking nice, Dale?"

"I didn't see her."

"I mean Miss Delane."

"Oh, yes, I suppose so. I didn't look much."

CHAPTER VIII.

An Indiscreet Disciple

Summer wore away, and autumn came in brief, calm radiance, and passed; winter began to threaten. At Denborough one quiet day followed another, each one noticeable for little, but in the aggregate producing some not unimportant changes at Littlehill. Dale Bannister had begun to work hard and to work in solitude; the inspiration of Nellie's eyes seemed either unnecessary or ineffectual. Moreover, his leisure hours were now largely spent in visiting at houses in the neighborhood. He did not neglect his guests, but whenever their engagements occupied them, instead of wandering about alone or enjoying the humors of the High Street, as he had been prone to do in the early days of his sojourn, he would go over to Mount Pleasant, or to the Grange, or to Sir Harry Fulmer's, and he was becoming learned in country lore and less scornful of country ways. The Doctor was a rare visitor now, and, when he came, it generally fell to Philip Hume's lot to entertain him. Philip did his duty loyally, but it was dreary work, for Roberts' conversation, at their meetings, consisted, in the main, of diatribes against Dale Bannister. He would declare that Dale's conduct, in maintaining friendly relations with the gentry of the neighborhood, was in flagrant contradiction to the views he had proclaimed in his writings. Philip shrugged his shoulders, and said that some men were better than their writings, some worse, but no man the same as his writings; the prose must ever be allowed for: and at this the angry man often turned his back on the house with an imprecation on half-heartedness. For the rest, Philip's hands were not very full, and he and Nellie Fane found time for long expeditions together, which would have been more cheerful had it not been for Nellie's scrupulous determination to ignore the absence of the third member of the old trio. One day Philip's idle steps led him through the town on the search for matter of amusement. He was caught in a shower, and took refuge in the Mayor's shop, knowing that his Worship always had time for a gossip. He was not disappointed. The Mayor entertained him with a graphic account of the last assault on Mr. Delane's position as member for the Denborough division, and of his own recent re-election to his high office. Philip congratulated him on the latter event, and asked in curiosity:

"And what are your politics, Mr. Mayor?"

"I hold as a man in my position should have no politics, not party politics, Mr. Hume, sir."

"Well, there's something to be said for that."

"After all, we know what they are, sir. One out and the other in – that's what they are, sir."

"But you said Mrs. Hedger canvassed for the Squire."

"So she did, sir. Now, my daughter is on the Liberal side; she and Miss Smith used to go a-drivin' round together."

"A sad division of opinion, Mr. Mayor."

"Well, we can differ without disagreein', sir. Besides," he added, with something like a wink, "customers differ too."

"Most true."

"Business is business, sir, especially with a growin' fam'ly. I always think of my fam'ly, Mr. Hume, and how I should leave 'em if I was took – taken."

"A man's first duty, Mr. Mayor."

"You wouldn't catch me goin' on like this young Roberts."

"Why, what's he been up to now?" asked Philip uneasily.

"You aint seen the Standard, sir?" The Mayor, of course, meant the East Denshire Standard, not the London paper of the same name.

"No."

"Well, last week they printed the Vicar's sermon on 'The Work of Christianity in the World.' A fine sermon it was, sir. I heard it, being a Church of England man. Mrs. Hedger goes to Chapel."

"'Customers differ too,'" thought Philip, smiling.

"Well, as I was sayin', Jones of the Standard got the Vicar to give it 'im, and it came out, with a leadin' article of Jones' crackin' it up."

"But how does the Doctor – "

"This week, sir," continued the Mayor, shaking an impressive forefinger, "in the Chronicle– that's the Liberal paper, sir – there's a letter from the Doctor – two columns – just abusin' the Church and the parsons, and the 'ole – whole thing, fit to – well, I never did!"

"Hum! Rather rash, isn't it?"

"Rash, Mr. Hume, sir? It's madness, that's what it is, sir. He talks about 'pestilent priests,' and I don't know what all, sir, and ends with quotin' thirty or forty lines from a poem called, I think, 'The Arch Apostates' – would that be it, sir? – by Mr. Bannister."

"No! does he, by Jove?" said Philip, slapping his thigh.

"And the po'try, sir, is worse than the Doctor's own stuff, sir, beggin' your pardon as a friend of Mr. Bannister."

"I know the lines. They're some of the hottest he's ever done."

"Mr. Bannister, of course, can afford it, sir, – his opinions are what he pleases, – but the Doctor, sir!"

"So the fat's in the fire?"

"Just the very worst time it could ha' come out, sir. The Guardians over at Dirkham meet to-morrow to elect their medical officer. I'm afraid as they won't re-elect Dr. Roberts, sir, and there was more than one down at the Delane Arms sayin' they'd had the last to do with him."

Philip parted from his informant in much concern for Roberts, and in no small amusement at the public placarding of "The Arch Apostates." "Surtout, point de zele," he could imagine Dale saying to his infatuated disciple.

On returning home, however, he found the poet saying much harder things of, if not to, Mr. Roberts. Dale had been calling at the Smiths'. The Colonel, while shaking his head over Roberts' impudence, had applauded his opinions, and was, above all, enchanted with the extract from Dale's poem, which he had never hitherto read. His pleasure was, as he told Dale, greatly increased by finding that the letter and the quotation had fallen like a bombshell on the Grange household.

"The Squire was furious. Mrs. Delane said she had no idea you had done anything so bad as that; and little Janet sat and looked as if someone had knocked down the Archbishop of Canterbury. It was splendid! Gad, sir, you've waked 'em up."

These congratulations had the effect of reducing the poet almost to a frenzy. "What business," he demanded, "has the fellow to quote me in support of his balderdash without my leave?"

"My dear fellow, your works are the possession of the nation," said Philip, smiling, as he lit a cigar.

"It's an infernal liberty!" fumed Dale.

"You light the fire, and blame it for blazing," said Philip.

"One doesn't want to shove one's views down people's throats."

"Doesn't one? One used to."

"I shall write and disclaim any responsibility."

"For the poem?"

"For its publication, of course."

"That won't do you much good."

The Mayor's forecast, based on a lifelong observation of his neighbors, proved only too correct. Dr. Spink entered the lists against Roberts, and was elected by every vote save one. Sir Harry Fulmer, in blind and devoted obedience to Tora Smith, voted for Roberts; the rest, headed by the Squire, installed his rival in his place; and the Squire, having sternly done his duty, sat down and wrote a long and friendly letter of remonstrance and explanation to his erring friend.

As misfortune followed misfortune, the Doctor set his teeth, and dared fate to do her worst. He waited a few days, hoping to be comforted by a word of approval from his master; none came. At last he determined to seek out Dale Bannister, and was about to start when his wife came in and gave him the new issue of the Chronicle. Ethel Roberts was pale and weary-looking, and she glanced anxiously at her husband.

"I am going up to Littlehill," he said.

"Have you done your round, dear?"

"My round doesn't take long nowadays. Maggs will give me fifteen pounds for the pony: you know we don't want him now."

"No, Jim, and we do want fifteen pounds."

"What's that?"

"The Chronicle, dear. There's – a letter from Mr. Bannister."

"Is there? Good! Let's see what Bannister has to say to these bigoted idiots."

He opened the paper, and in the middle of the front page read:

A DISCLAIMER FROM MR. BANNISTER

Sir: I desire to state that the use made by Mr. James Roberts of my poem in your last issue was without my authority or approbation. The poem was written some years ago, and must not be assumed to represent my present view on the subject of which it treats.

I am, sir, your obedient servant,Dale Bannister.

The Doctor stared at the letter.

"Bannister – Dale Bannister wrote that!" and he flung the paper angrily on the floor. "Give me my hat."

"You're not going – "

"Yes, I am, Ethel. I'm going to find out what this means."

"Hadn't you better wait till you're less – "

"Less what, Ethel? What do you mean?"

"Till the rain stops, Jim, dear; and it's just baby's time for coming down."

"Hang – no, I beg your pardon, Ethel. I'm very sorry, but I must see the end of this."

He rushed out, and the baby found a dull, preoccupied, almost tearful, very unamusing mother to play with that day.

The Doctor marched into Dale's room with a stern look on his face.

"Well, Roberts, how are you?" asked Dale, not graciously.

"What does this mean, Bannister?"