A Change of Air

"I am going to skate, but I am not going to Mr. Bannister's," said Tora coldly.

"Why not?"

The Colonel was told why not with explicitness and vehemence. He tugged his white whisker in some perplexity: he did not mind much about the poems, though, of course, no excess of scrupulousness could be too great in a girl like Tora; but if she were right about the other affair! That must be looked into.

The Colonel was one of those people who pride themselves on tact and savoir faire; he aggravated this fault by believing that tact and candor could be combined in a happy union, and he determined to try the effect of the mixture on Dale Bannister. It would go hard if he did not destroy this mare's nest of Tora's.

All the neighborhood was skating on the Grange lake under a winter sun, whose ruddy rays tinged the naked trees, and drew an answering glitter from the diamond-paned windows of the house. The reeds were motionless, and the graze of skaters on the ice sounded sharp in the still air, and struck the ear through the swishing of birch brooms and the shuffle of sweepers' feet. From time to time a sudden thud and a peal of laughter following told of disaster, or there grated across the lake a chair, carrying one who preferred the conquest of men to the science of equilibrium. Rosy cheeks glowed, nimble feet sped, and lissom figures swayed to and fro as they glided over the shining surface, till even the old and the stout, the cripples and the fox hunters, felt the glow of life tingling in their veins, and the beauty of the world feeding their spirits with fresh desire. "It is not all of life to live," but, at such a moment, it is the best part of it.

Dale Bannister was enjoying himself; he was a good skater, and it gave him pleasure that, when people turned to look at the famous poet, they should see an athletic youth: only he wished that Janet Delane would give him an opportunity of offering his escort, and not appear so contented with the company of a tall man of military bearing, who had come down to the water with the Grange party. He was told that the newcomer was Captain Ripley, Lord Cransford's eldest son, and he did not escape without witnessing some of the nods and becks which, in the country, where everybody knows everybody, accompany the most incipient stages of a supposed love affair. Feeling, under these circumstances, a little desolate, for Philip was engrossed in figures and would not waste his time talking, he saw with pleasure Tora Smith and Sir Harry coming toward him. He went to meet them, and, at a distance of a few yards from them, slackened his pace and lifted his hat, not doubting of friendly recognition. Sir Harry returned his salute with a cheery "How are you?" but did not stop, for Tora swept on past Dale Bannister, without a glance at him. In surprise, he paused. "She must have seen me," he thought, "but why in the world – " Bent on being sure, he put himself right in her path as she completed the circle and met him again. There was no mistaking her intention; she gave him the cut direct, as clearly and as resolutely as ever it was given.

Sir Harry had remonstrated in vain. In Tora's uncompromising mind impulse did not wait on counsel, and her peremptory "I have my reasons" refused all information and prevented all persuasion. He felt he had done enough for friendship when he braved her disapproval by declining to follow her example. He did not pretend to understand the ways of women, and Dale Bannister might fight his own battles.

While Dale was yet standing in angry bewilderment, – for who had received him with more cordiality than she who now openly insulted him? – he saw the Colonel hobbling toward him across the slippery expanse. The Colonel fell once, and Dale heard him swear testily at the sweeper who helped him to rise. He thought it kind to meet him halfway; perhaps the Colonel would explain. The Colonel was most ready to do so; in fact, he had come for the very purpose of warning Bannister that some silly idea was afloat, which it only needed a word to scatter.

"Is there?" said Dale. "Possibly that is why Miss Smith failed to see me twice just now?"

"Your poems have shocked her, my boy," said the Colonel, with a knowing look – the look that represented tact and savoir faire.

"Is that all? She takes rather severe measures, doesn't she?"

"Well," answered the Colonel, with the smile which brought candor into play, "that isn't quite all."

"What in the world else is there?"

"You know how censorious people are, and how a girl takes alarm at the very idea of anything – you know?"

Dale chafed at these diplomatic approaches.

"If there's anything said against me, pray let me know."

"Oh, it's nothing very definite," said the Colonel uneasily. He did not find what he had to say so simple as it had seemed.

"Indefinite things are most hopeless."

"Yes, yes, quite so. Well, if you really wish it – if you won't be offended. No doubt it's all a mistake."

"What do they say?"

"Well, we're men of the world, Bannister. The fact is, people don't quite understand your – your household."

"My household It consists of myself alone and the servants."

"Of course, my dear fellow, of course! I knew it was so, but I am glad to be able to say so on your own authority."

The aim of speech is, after all, only to convey ideas; the Colonel had managed, however clumsily, to convey his idea. Dale frowned, and pretended to laugh.

"How absurd!" he said. "I should resent it if it were not too absurd."

"I'm sure, Bannister, you'll acquit me of any meddling."

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry my guests have given rise, however innocently, to such talk."

"It's most unfortunate. I'm sure nothing more is needed. I hope the ladies are well?"

"Yes, thanks."

"I don't see them here."

"No, they're not here," answered Dale, frowning again.

"I hope we shall see some more of them?"

"You're very kind. I – I don't suppose they – will be staying much longer."

As Dale made his way to the bank to take off his skates, Janet and Tora passed him together. Tora kept her eyes rigidly fixed on the chimneys of the Grange. He made no sign of expecting recognition, but Janet, as she drew near, looked at him, blushing red, and bowed and smiled.

"That girl's a trump," said Dale Bannister. "She sticks to her friends."

CHAPTER XI.

A Fable about Birds

Mrs. Hodge and Nellie, being left to their own resources, had employed the afternoon in paying a visit to Ethel Roberts, and nothing was wanting to fill Dale's cup of vexation to overflowing, unless it were to have Nellie flying open-mouthed at him, as he grumblingly expressed it, with a tale of the distress in the Doctor's household. Ethel Roberts had the fortitude to bear her troubles, the added fortitude to bear them cheerfully, but not the supreme fortitude which refuses to tell a tale of woe to any ear, however sympathetic. She did not volunteer information, but she did allow it to be dragged out of her, and the barriers of her reserve broke down before Mrs. Hodge's homely consolations and Nellie's sorrowful horror. They were reduced, she admitted, in effect to living on little else than her own wretched income; the practice brought in hardly more than it took out, for, while the rich patients failed, the poor remained; the rent was overdue, bills were unpaid, and the butcher, the milkman, and the coal merchant were growing sulky.

"And while," said Mrs. Hodge, "that poor young creature is pinching, and starving, and crying, the man's thinking of nothing but Nihilists and what not. I'd Nihilist him!"

Dinner was served to Dale with sauce of this sort.

"Can I prevent fools suffering for their folly?" he asked.

"The baby looks so ill," said Nellie, "and Mrs. Roberts is worn to a shadow."

"Did you see Roberts?" asked Philip.

"For a minute," said Nellie, "but he was very cold and disagreeable."

"Thought you were tarred with the same brush as Dale, I suppose?"

"Can't you do anything for 'em, Dale?" asked Mrs. Hodge.

"I can send him a check."

"He'll send it back," remarked Philip.

"I wish he'd get out of the place."

"Yes, he might as well be miserable somewhere else, mightn't he?"

Dale glared at his friend, and relapsed into silence. Nevertheless, in spite of Philip's prediction, he sat down after dinner and wrote to Roberts, saying that he had heard that he was in temporary embarrassment, and urging him to allow Dale to be his banker for the moment; this would, Dale added, be the best way of showing that he bore no malice for Dale's letter. He sent a man with the note, ordering him to wait for an answer.

The answer was not long in coming; the man was back in half an hour, bringing the Doctor's reply:

Three months ago I should have thought it an honor to share my last crust with you, and no shame to ask half of all you had. Now I will not touch a farthing of your money until you come back to us. If your friends pay my wife further visits, I shall be obliged if they will look somewhat less keenly at my household arrangements.

James Roberts.

"There is the snub you have brought on me!" exclaimed Dale angrily, flinging the letter to Nellie. "I might have known better than to listen to your stories."

"Dale, Dale, it was every word true. How selfish he is not to think of his wife!"

"Many people are selfish."

"Is anything the matter, Dale?"

"Oh, I'm infernally worried. I never get any peace."

"Hadn't you a good time skating?"

"No. I'm beginning to hate this place."

"Oh, Dale, I've enjoyed my visit so much!"

"Very glad to hear it, I'm sure."

"You must have seen it; we've stayed so long. I've often told mamma we ought to be going."

Dale lit a cigarette.

"Indeed we have had no mercy on you, Dale; but the country and the rest are so delightful."

"Hum – in some ways."

"But I must be back at work. Mamma thought next Saturday would do."

"As soon as that?" said Dale, with polite surprise.

"Think how long we have been here."

"Oh, don't go on Saturday!"

Nellie's face brightened.

"Don't you want us to?" she asked, with an eager little smile. Dale was going to be kind after all.

"No. Why shouldn't you stay till Monday?"

The face fell, the smile disappeared; but she answered, saving her self-respect:

"Saturday is more convenient for – for arriving in town. I think we had better fix Saturday, Dale."

"As you like. Sorry to lose you, Nell."

He sauntered off to the smoking room to join Philip. When Philip came into the drawing room half an hour later in search of a book, he found Nellie sitting before the fire. He took his stand on the hearthrug, and looked steadily down on her.

"Once upon a time," he said, "there was a very beautiful bird who, as it chanced, grew up with a lot of crows. For a long while he liked the crows, and the crows liked him – very much, some of them. Both he and the crows were pleased when the eagles and all the swell birds admired him, and said nice things about him, and wanted to know him – and the crows who liked him most were most pleased. Presently he did come to know the eagles and the other swell birds, and he liked them very much, and he began to get a little tired of the old crows, and by and by he left their company a good deal. He was a polite bird and a kind bird, and never told them that he didn't want them any more. But they saw he didn't."

There was a little sob from the armchair.

"Whereupon some of them broke their hearts, and others – didn't. The others were wisest, Nellie."

He paused, gazing down at the distressful little heap of crumpled drapery and roughened gleaming hair.

"Much wisest. He was not a bad bird as birds go – but not a bird to break one's heart about, Nellie: what bird is?"

There was another sob. Philip looked despairingly at the ceiling and exclaimed under his breath:

"I wish to God she wouldn't cry!"

He took his book from the mantelpiece where he had laid it and moved toward the door. But he came back again, unable to leave her like that, and walked restlessly about the room, stopping every now and then to stand over her, and wonder what he could do.

Presently he took a feverish little hand in his, and pressed it as it lay limp there.

"The old crows stood by one another, Nellie," he said, and he thought he felt a sudden grip of his hand, coming and timidly in an instant going.

It seemed to comfort her to hold his hand. The sobs ceased, and presently she looked up and said, with a smile:

"I always used to cry at going back to school."

"Going back to work," said Philip, "is one of the few things in the world really worth crying about."

"Yes, isn't it?" she said, unblushingly availing herself of the shelter of his affected cynicism. She was afraid he might go on talking about crows, a topic which had been all very well, and even a little comforting, when she was hidden among the cushions, but would not do now.

"And London is so horrid in winter," she continued. "Are you going back soon?"

"Oh, I shall wait a little and look after Dale."

"Dale never tells one what is happening."

"I'll keep you posted, in case there's a revolution in Denborough, or anything of that sort."

A step was heard outside. With a sudden bound Nellie reached the piano, sat down, and began to play a lively air. Dale came in, looking suspiciously at the pair.

"I thought you'd gone to bed, Nellie."

"Just going. Mr. Hume and I have been talking."

"About the affairs of the nation," said Philip.

"But I'm off now. Good-night, Dale."

Dale looked closely at her.

"What are your eyes red for? Have you been crying?"

"Crying, Dale? What nonsense! I've been roasting them before the fire, that's all; and if they are red, it's not polite to say so, is it, Mr. Hume?"

"Rightly understood, criticism is a compliment, as the reviewers say when they slate you," remarked Philip. "He might not have noticed your eyes at all."

"Inconceivable," said Dale politely, for he was feeling very kindly disposed to this pretty girl, who came when he wanted her, and went when – well, after a reasonably long visit.

"Good-night, Dale. I'm so sorry about – Mr. Roberts, you know."

Dale, having no further use for this grievance, was graciously pleased to let it be forgotten.

"Oh, you couldn't know he'd be such a brute. Good-night, Nellie."

The two men returned to the smoking room. Philip, looking for a piece of paper wherewith to light his pipe, happened to notice a little bundle of proof-sheets lying on the table.

"Ah, the spring bubbling again?" he asked.

Dale nodded.

"My dear fellow, how are the rest of us to get our masterpieces noticed? You are a monopolist."

"It's only a little volume."

"What's it about? May I look?"

"Oh, if you like," answered Dale carelessly; but he kept his eye on his friend.

Philip took up the first sheet, and read the title-page; he smiled, and, turning over, came to the dedication.

"You call it 'Amor Patriæ?'"

"Yes. Do you like the title?"

"Hum! There was no thought of pleasing me when it was christened, I presume. And you dedicate it – "

"Oh, is that there?"

"Yes, that's there – 'To her that shall be named hereafter.'"

Dale poked the fire before he answered.

"Yes," he said, "that's the dedication."

"So I see. Well, I hope she'll like them. It is an enviable privilege to confer immortality."

"I'll confer it on you, if you like."

"Yes, do. It will be less trouble than getting it for myself."

"Under the title of 'The Snarler.'"

Philip stood on the hearthrug and warmed himself.

"My dear Dale," he said, "I do not snarl. A wise author pleases each section of the public in turn. Hitherto you have pleased me and my kind, and Roberts and his kind, and Arthur Angell and his kind – who are, by the way, not worth pleasing, for they expect presentation copies. Now, in this new work, which is, I understand, your tribute to the nation which has the honor to bear you, you will please – " He paused.

"I always write to please myself," said Dale.

"Yourself," continued Philip, "this mysterious lady, and, I think we may add, the Mayor of Market Denborough."

"Go to the devil!" said the poet.

CHAPTER XII.

A Dedication – and a Desecration

A few weeks later the Mayor stood at his door, one bright morning in January, holding a parley with Alderman Johnstone.

"I dessay, now," said the Mayor, "that you aint been in the way of seein' the Squire lately?"

"I see him last when he signed my lease," answered the Alderman, with a grim smile, "and that's a month come to-morrow."

"I had a conversation with him yesterday, and after touchin' on the matter of that last pavin' contract, – he'd heard o' your son-in-law gettin' it, Johnstone, – he got talkin' about Mr. Bannister."

"Aye? did he?"

"And about his noo book. 'It's a blessin',' he says, 'to see a young man of such promise shakin' himself free of that pestilential trash.' He meant your opinions by that, Johnstone."

"Supposing 'e did, what then? I don't label my opinions to please the customers like as some do their physic."

The Mayor was not in a fighting mood; his mind was busy with speculations, and he ignored the challenge.

"Queer start Mr. Bannister showin' up at the church bazaar, eh? Spent a heap o' money, too. I met Mr. Hume, and asked him about it, and he said – "

"It wan't no business o' yours, didn't he?"

"Mr. Hume – he's a gentleman, Johnstone," remarked the Mayor in grave rebuke.

"Well, what did 'e say?"

"That where the carcass was, the eagles 'ud be gathered together."

Mr. Johnstone smiled a smile of pity for the Mayor's density.

"Well, what do you suppose he meant?" asked the Mayor in reply to the smile.

"Where the gells is, the lads is," said the Alderman, with a wink, as he passed on his way.

This most natural, reasonable, and charitable explanation of Dale's conduct in identifying himself with the Vicar's pastoral labors had, oddly enough, suggested itself to no one else, unless it might be to Captain Gerard Ripley. His presence had been hailed on the one side, and anathematized on the other, as an outward sign of an inward conversion, and his lavish expenditure had been set down to a repentant spirit rather than a desire to gratify any particular stall-holder. The Vicar had just read "Amor Patriæ," and he remarked to everyone he met that the transition from an appreciation of the national greatness to an adhesion to the national church was but a short step.

Unhappily, in a moment of absence, he chanced to say so to Colonel Smith, who was at the bazaar for the purpose of demonstrating his indifferent impartiality toward all religious sects.

"You might as well say," answered the Colonel in scorn, "that because a man stands by the regiment he's bound to be thick with the chaplain."

Captain Ripley alone, with the penetration born of jealousy, attributed Dale's presence simply and solely to the same motive as had produced his own, to wit, a desire to be where Miss Delane was. The Captain was a little sore; he had known Janet from childhood, they had exchanged many children's vows, and when he was sixteen and she thirteen she had accepted a Twelfth Night cake ring from him. The flirtation had always proceeded in its gentle, ambling course, and the Captain had returned on long leave with the idea that it was time to put the natural termination in the way of being reached. Janet disappointed him; she ridiculed his tender references to bygone days, characterizing what had passed as boy-and-girl nonsense, and perseveringly kept their intercourse on a dull level of friendliness. On the other hand, whatever might be the nature of her acquaintance with Dale Bannister, it was at least clear that it was marked by no such uneventful monotony. Sometimes she would hardly speak to him; at others she cared to speak to no one else. The Captain would have profited ill by the opportunities a residence in garrison towns offers if he had not recognized that these changeful relations were fraught with peril to his hopes.

At the bazaar, for example, he was so much moved by a long conversation between Janet and Dale, which took place over the handing of a cup of tea, that he unburdened himself to his friend Sir Harry Fulmer. Now Sir Harry was in a bad temper; he had his object in attending as the Captain had, and Colonel Smith had just told him that Tora was not coming.

"Who is the fellow?" demanded Captain Ripley.

"Writes poetry."

"I never heard of him."

"I dare say not. It's not much in your line, is it?"

"Well, he's a queer-looking beggar."

"Think so? Now I call him a good-looking chap."

"Why the deuce doesn't he get his hair cut?"

"Don't know. Perhaps Janet Delane likes it long."

"I hate that sort of fellow, Harry."

"He's not a bad chap."

"Does the Squire like him?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. How beastly hot this room is! I shall go."

"I say, Harry, I've only just come back, you know. Is there anything on?"

"Well, if you want to take a hand, I should cut in pretty sharp," said Sir Harry, elbowing his way to the door.

Captain Ripley, impatiently refusing to buy a negro doll which the Vicar's daughter pressed on his favorable notice, leaned against the wall and grimly regarded Dale Bannister.

The latter was just saying:

"Have you looked at the verses at all, Miss Delane?"

"I have read every one, over and over. They are splendid."

"Oh, I'm new to that sort of thing."

"Yes, but it's so – such a joy to me to see you doing what is really worthy of you."

"If there is any credit, it's yours."

"Now why do you say that? It isn't true, and it just spoils it."

"Spoils it?" said Dale, who thought girls liked compliments.

"Yes. If you had really only done it to please – an individual, it would be worth nothing. You couldn't help doing it. I knew you couldn't."

"At any rate, you must accept the responsibility of having put it into my head."

"Not even that, Mr. Bannister."

"Oh, but that's the meaning of the dedication."

No one is quite free from guile. Janet answered:

"The dedication is rather mysterious, Mr. Bannister."

"I meant it to be so to all the world."

"Oh, did you?"

"Except you."

Janet blushed and smiled.

"I wonder," pursued Dale, "if I shall ever be allowed to name that lady?"

"That will depend on whether she wishes it."

"Of course. Do you think she will – hereafter?"

"Won't you have another cup? It's only half a crown."

"Yes, two more, please. Do you think she will?"

"How thirsty you seem to be!"

"Will she?"

"Now, Mr. Bannister, I mustn't neglect all my customers. See, Mrs. Gilkison is selling nothing."

"But will she?"

"Certainly not – unless you go and buy something from Mrs. Gilkison."

Now whether Janet were really concerned for Mrs. Gilkison, or whether she had caught sight of Captain Ripley's lowering countenance, or whether she merely desired to avoid pledging herself to Dale, it is immaterial, and also impossible to say. Dale felt himself dismissed, with the consolation of perceiving that his dedication had not been unfavorably received in the quarter to which it was addressed.

Accordingly it was in a cheerful frame of mind that he set out for home, scattering most of his purchases among the children before he went.

He was in a kindly mood, and when he saw James Roberts coming up High Street, he did not, as he had once or twice lately, cross the road to avoid meeting him, but held on his path, determined to offer a friendly greeting.

When the Doctor came up, he stopped and took from his breast pocket the little green volume which contained Dale's latest poems. He held it up before the author's eyes.

"Ah, Roberts, I see you have the new work. How do you like it?"

He tried to speak easily, but the Doctor did not appear to be in a conciliatory temper.

"Are these things really yours?" he asked.

"Of course they are."

"This wretched jingo doggerel yours?"

Dale felt this unjust. The verses might not express the Doctor's views, but an immortal poet's works are not lightly to be called doggerel.