There was not much said of the plans and doings in Mrs. Polkington's letter, but a little crept in almost without the writer's knowledge, enough to rouse Julia's suspicions. Why, she asked herself, was her mother suddenly enamoured with the beauty of Chippendale furniture? How did she know that Sturt's (the tailor's) prices were lower for costumes this season? And in what way had she become aware what the Ashton's last parlour-maid thought, if she had not engaged that young woman for her own service? Julia was at once uneasy and disgusted; the last alike with the proceedings themselves and the attempt to deceive her about them. And another letter she received at the same time did not make her any more satisfied; it was from Johnny Gillat, about as silly and uninforming a letter as ever man wrote, but it contained one piece of information. Mr. Gillat was going to have a great excitement in the early autumn—Captain Polkington was coming to London, perhaps for as long as three months. Johnny did not know why; he thought perhaps to have some treatment for his rheumatism; Mrs. Polkington had arranged it. Julia did know why, and the short-sightedness of the policy roused her contempt. To thus put the family drawback out of the way, and leave him to his own devices and Mr. Gillat's care, seemed to her as unwise towards him as it was unkind to Johnny. She would have written that minute to expostulate with her mother if she had not just then been called away.

These two disturbing letters arrived on the day that Joost came home from Germany, after the English mail for the day had gone. Julia comforted herself with this last fact when she was called before she had time to write to her mother; she could write when she went to bed that night; the letter would go just as soon as if it was written now; so she went to answer Mevrouw's summons to admire the carved crochet hook her son had brought her as a present from Germany. Joost had brought several small presents besides the crochet hook, a pipe for his father, and two other trifles—a small vase and a photograph of a plant which was the pride of the Berlin gardens that year—an aloe, no yucca, but one of the true rare blooming sort, in full flower. Julia was asked to take her choice of these two; she chose the photograph because it seemed to her much more characteristic of the giver, and also because it was easier to put away. She had no idea of pleasing Joost by so doing; to tell the truth she hardly felt desirous of pleasing him, for though she had refrained from taking his blue daffodil and was in a way satisfied that she had done so, she did not feel exactly grateful to him for unconsciously standing between her and it, from which some may conclude that virtue was not an indigenous plant with Julia.

When Denah arrived after dinner she was given the vase. Before Joost went away she had expressed in his hearing a wish that she had something from Berlin; she had said it rather pronouncedly as one might express a desire for a bear from the Rocky Mountains, or a ruby from Burmah; she could hardly have received one of those with more enthusiasm than she did the vase. She admired it from every point of view and thanked Joost delightedly; the delight, however, was a little modified when Mijnheer let slip the fact that Julia also had a present from Berlin.

"Have you?" she asked suspiciously. "What is it? Show me."

Julia fetched the photograph and exhibited it with as little elation as possible. Denah did not admire it greatly, she said she much preferred her own present.

At this Joost smiled a little; it was only what he expected, and Julia began tactfully to talk about the beauties of the vase; but Denah was not to be put off her main point.

"Do you not prefer mine; really and truly, would you not rather it had been yours?" she asked.

Julia could have slipped out of the answer quite easily; the Polkingtons were all good at saying things to be interpreted according to taste; but Joost, with signal idiocy, stepped in and prevented.

"No," he said, "she preferred the photograph; she chose it of the two."

At this intelligence Denah's face was a study; Julia could not but be amused by it although she was sorry. She did not want to make the girl jealous, it was absurd that she should be; but absurdity never prevents such things, and would not now, nor would it make her pleasanter if she were once fairly roused. Julia smoothed matters over as well as she could, which was very well considering, though she failed to entirely allay Denah's suspicions.

As soon after as she could she set out for the village, leaving the field to the Dutch girl, and carrying with her enough unpleasant thoughts on other things to prevent her from giving any more consideration to the silly spasm of jealousy. She had thrust her two letters from England into her pocket, and as she went she kept turning and turning their news in her mind though without much result. There seemed very little she could do except prevent the banishing of her father to London. She would write to her mother about that, and, what might be rather more effective, to Mr. Gillat. She could tell him it must not happen, and instruct him how to place obstacles in the way; he would do his best to fulfil her requests, she was sure, even to going down to Marbridge and establishing himself there about the time of her father's intended departure. But with regard to the rest of her mother's plans, or Cherie's, whichever it might be, there seemed nothing to be done. To write would be useless; to go home, even if she swallowed her pride and did so, very little better; of course she had not anything very definite to go upon, only a hint here and there, yet she guessed pretty well what they were doing, what spending, and what they thought to get by it. The old, long-headed Julia feared for the result; Mrs. Polkington, clever though she undoubtedly was, had never succeeded in big ventures; she had not the sort of mind for it; she had never made a wholly successful big stride; her real climbing had been done very slowly, so the old Julia feared for her. And the new one, who had grown up during the past months, revolted against the whole thing, finding it sordid, despicable, dishonourable even, somehow all wrong. And perhaps because the old cautious Julia could do nothing to avert the consequences, the newer nature was in the ascendant that evening, and consequences were in time forgotten, and disgust and weariness and shame—which included self and all things connected with it—took possession of the girl.

By and by she heard a step behind her—Rawson-Clew. She had forgotten his existence; she was almost sorry to be reminded of it; she felt so ashamed of herself and her people, so conscious of the gulf between them and him. So very conscious of this last that she suddenly felt disinclined for the effort of struggling to hide or bridge it.

He caught up with her. "How has the crochet progressed this week under your care?" he asked her lightly.

"It has not progressed," she answered; "there are enough mistakes in it now to occupy Denah for a long time."

He took her basket from her, and she looked at him thoughtfully. He was just the same as usual, quiet, drawling voice, eyeglass, everything—she wondered if he were ever different; how he would act, say, in her circumstances. If they could change bodies, now, and he be Julia Polkington, with her relations, needs and opportunities, what would he do? Would he still be impassive, deliberate, equal to all occasions? Would he find it easy to keep his inviolable laws of good-breeding and honour, and so forth?

"There is something I should like to ask you," she said suddenly.

"Yes?" he inquired.

"Is it much trouble to you to be honest?"

He was a little surprised, though not so much as he would have been earlier in their acquaintance. "That," he said, "I expect rather depends on what you mean by honest. I imagine you don't refer to lying and stealing, and that sort of thing, since nobody finds it difficult to avoid them."

"They are not gentlemanly?" she suggested.

"I don't know that I ever looked at it in that way," he said; "or, indeed, any way. One does not think about those sort of things; one does not do them, that's all."

She nodded. The careless change of pronoun, which in a way included her with himself, was not lost upon her.

"In the matter of half-truths," she inquired; "how about them?"

"I don't think I have given that subject consideration either," he answered, rather amused; "there does not seem any need at my age. One does things, or one does not; abstractions don't appeal to most men after thirty."

Again Julia nodded. "It looks to me," she said, "as if you take your morality, like your dinner, as a matter of course; it's always there; you don't have to bother after it; you don't really know how it comes, or what it is worth."

Now and then Rawson-Clew had observed in his acquaintance with Julia, she said things which had a way of lighting him up to himself; this was one of the occasions. "Possibly you are right," he said, with faint amusement. "How do you take yours? Let us consider yours; I am sure it would be a great deal more interesting."

"There would be more variety in it," she said significantly.

"What is your opinion about half-truths?" he inquired, with grave mimicry of her.

"'Half a truth, however small, Is better than no truth at all,'"

she quoted. "That is so; it is better, safer to deal with—to explain away if it is found out, to deceive with if it is not. But it is not half so easy as the whole truth; that is the easiest thing in the world; it takes no ingenuity, no brains, no courage, no acting, no feeling the pulse of your people, no bolstering up or watching or remembering. If I wanted to teach the beauty of truth, I would set my pupils to do a little artistic white lying on their own account, to make things look four times as good as they really were, and not to forget to make them square together, that would teach them the advantage of truth."

"Do you think so?" Rawson-Clew said. "It is not the usual opinion; fools and cowards are generally supposed to be the great dealers in deceit and subterfuge."

"May be," Julia allowed; "but I don't happen to have come across that sort much; the other I have, and I am just about sick of it—I am sick of pretending and shamming and double-dealing, of saying one thing and implying another, and meaning another still—you don't know what it feels like, you have never had to do it; you wouldn't, of course; very likely you couldn't, even. I am weary of it; I am weary of the whole thing."

Rawson-Clew screwed the glass into his eye carefully but did not look at her; he had an idea she would rather not. "What is it?" he asked kindly. "What has gone wrong to-night? Too much pudding again?"

"No," she answered, with a quick, if partial, recovery; "too much humbug, too much self. I have seen a great deal of myself lately, and it's hateful."

"I cannot agree with you."

"Do you like having a lot of yourself?"

"No; I like yourself."

She laughed a little; in her heart she was pleased, but she only said, "I don't; I know what it really is."

"And I do not?"

"No," she answered; then, with a sudden determination to tell him the worst, and to deal in this newly admired honesty, she said, "I will tell you, though. You remember my father? You may have politely forgotten him, or smoothed out your recollections of him—remember him now; he is just about what you thought him."

"Indeed?" the tone was that one of polite interest, which she had come to know so well. "Your shoe is unfastened; may I tie it for you? The question is," he went on, as he stooped to her shoe, "what did I think of your father? I'm sure I don't know, and I hardly think you are in a position to, either."

She moved impatiently, so that the shoelace slipped out of his hand, and he had to begin all over again. It was a very shabby shoe; at another time she might have minded about it, and even refused to have it fastened on that account; to-night she did not care, which was perhaps as well, for Rawson-Clew knew long ago all about the shabbiness—the only thing he did not know before was the good shape of the foot inside.

"I know perfectly well what you thought my father," she said; "if you have forgotten, I will remind you. You did not think him an adventurer, I know; of course, you saw he had not brains enough."

But here the shoe tying was finished, and Rawson-Clew intimated politely that he was not anxious to be reminded of things he had forgotten. "You began by saying you would tell me about yourself," he said; "will you not go on?"

"I have more brains than my father," she said, "and no more principles."

"Ergo—you succeed where he falls short; in fact, you are an adventuress—is that it? My dear child, you neither are, nor ever could be; believe me, I really do know, though, as you have indicated, my morality is rather mechanical and my experience much as other men's. You see, I, too, have graduated in the study of humanity in the university of cosmopolis; I don't think my degree is as high as yours, and I certainly did not take it so young, but I believe I know an adventuress when I see one. You will never do in that walk of life; I don't mean to insinuate that you haven't brains enough, or that you would ever lose your head; it isn't that you would lose, it's your heart."

"I haven't;" Julia cried hotly. "I have not lost my heart; that has nothing to do with it."

"I did not say that you had," Rawson-Clew reminded her; "of course not, you have not lost it, and could not easily. I did not mean that; I only meant that it would interfere with your success as an adventuress."

"It would not," Julia persisted; "I don't care about people a bit; it isn't that, it is simply that I am sick of deception, that is why I am telling you the truth. And as for the other thing—the daffodil"—she forgot that he did not know about it—"I couldn't take it from any one so silly, so childish, so trusting."

"Of course not," Rawson-Clew said. "I don't know what the daffodil thing is, nor from whom you could not take it—please don't tell me; I never take the slightest interest in other people's business, it bores me. But, you see, you bear out what I say; you are of those strong who are merciful; you would make no success as an adventuress. Besides, your tastes are too simple; I have some recollections of your mentioning corduroy—er—trousers and a diet of onions as the height of your ambition."

Julia laughed in spite of herself. "That is only when I retire," she said. "I haven't retired yet; until I do I am—"

"The incarnation of the seven deadly sins?" Rawson-Clew finished for her, with a smile in his eyes. "No doubt of it; I expect that is what makes you good company."

So, after all, it came about that she did not get her confession made in full. But, then, there hardly seemed need for it; it appeared that Rawson-Clew already knew a great deal about her, and did not think the worse of her for it. Rather it seemed he thought better than she had even believed; he, himself, too, was rather different—there had crept a note of warmth and personality into their acquaintance which had not been there before. Julia had pleasant thoughts for company on her homeward walk, in spite of the worry of the letters she carried with her; she even for a moment had an idea of putting the matter they contained before Rawson-Clew and asking his advice; that is, if the friendship which had begun to dawn on their acquaintance that evening grew yet further. It did grow, but she did not ask him, loyalty to her family prevented; there were, however, plenty of other things to talk about, and the friendship got on well until the end came.

The end came about the time of the annual fair. This fair was a great event in the little town; it only lasted three days, and only the middle one of the three was important, or in the least provocative of disorder; but—so Mijnheer said—it upset business very much. After inquiry as to how this came about, Julia learnt that it was found necessary to give the workmen a holiday on the principal day. They got so drunk the night before, that most of them were unfit for work, and a few even had the hardihood to stop away entirely, so as to devote the whole day to getting drunk again. Under these circumstances, Mijnheer made a virtue of necessity, and gave a whole holiday to the entire staff.

"Does the office have a holiday too?" Julia asked.

Mijnheer nodded. "These young fellows," he said, "are all for holidays; they are not like their fathers. Now it is always 'I must ride on my wheel; I must row in my boat; I must play my piano; let us put the work away as soon as we can, and forget it.' It was not so in my young days; then we worked, or we slept; playing was for children. There were some great men of business in those days."

Julia was not in a position to contradict this; she only said, "It is a real holiday, then, like a bank holiday in England?"

"A real holiday, yes," he answered her; "a holiday for you too, if you like. Would you like a real English bank holiday?" He called to his wife: "See here," he said, "here is an English miss who would like an English holiday; when the workmen have theirs she shall have hers too, is it not so?"

Mevrouw nodded, laughing. "But what will you do with it?" she asked.

"I should go out," Julia answered; "if it is fine I should go out all day."

"To the fair?" Mijnheer asked. "You would not like that alone; it would be very rough."

"I should go out into the country," Julia said. "I should make an excursion all by myself."

They seemed a good deal amused by her taste, but the idea suggested in fun was really determined upon; Julia, so Mijnheer promised, should have a holiday when every one else did, and do just what she pleased.

"You shall do as you like," he said; "even though it is not to go to the fair and eat pooferchjes. It is only once in a year one can eat pooferchjes, or three times rather; they are to be had on each of the three days."

"What are they?" Julia asked. "I have never heard of them."

"Never heard of them," the old man exclaimed. "They do not have them, I suppose, on an English bank holiday? Then certainly you must have them here; we will go and eat them on the first day of the fair, when everything is nice and clean, and there are not too many people about. I will find a nice quiet place, and we will go and eat them together, after tea, before there are great crowds. Will you come with me? I shall be taking my young lady to the fair like a gay dog."

He chuckled at the idea, and Julia readily agreed. "I shall be delighted," she said.

When Denah came, a little later, it seemed she would be delighted too, although she was not specially asked. But when she heard of the plan, she announced that her father had promised to take Anna and herself, and what could be better than that the parties should join? Mijnheer quite approved of this, so did Julia; and she, on hearing Denah's proposal, at once saw that Joost was included as he had not been before. Joost did not like fairs; he objected to noise, and glare, and crowds, and all such things; neither did he care for pooferchjes; they were too bilious for him. Nevertheless he agreed to join the party; Denah was quite sure it was entirely on her account.

On the morning of the first day of the fair, Julia went into the town to buy cakes to take with her on to-morrow's excursion. She had not changed her mind about that; she was still fully determined to go and spend a long day in the Dunes. She had not told the Van Heigens of the place chosen; she and Mijnheer had much fun and mystery about it, he declaring she was going to the wood to ride donkeys with the head gardener's fat wife. There was another thing she also had not told the Van Heigens—a slight alteration there had been in her plans; she was not, as she had first intended, going alone. It had somehow come about that Rawson-Clew was going with her; he had never seen the Dunes, and he had nothing to do that day, and he was not going to Herr Van de Greutz in the evening, it seemed rather a good idea that he should go for a holiday too; Julia saw no objection to it, but also she saw that it would not do to tell her Dutch employers. She had never mentioned Rawson Clew to them—there had not seemed any need; she never met him till she was clear of the town and the range of reporting tongues there, and she usually parted from him before she reached the village and the observers there, so nothing was known of the evening walks. Which was rather a pity, for, as Julia afterwards found out, it is often wisest to tell something of your doings, especially if you cannot tell all, and they are likely to come in for public notice.

Julia bought her cakes, and went about the town feeling as holiday-like as the gayest peasant there, although she had no wonderful holiday head-dress of starched lace and gold plates. She did not see any one she knew, except old Marthe, Herr Van de Greutz's housekeeper. She had met the old woman several times when she was marketing, and was on speaking terms with her now, so she had to stop and listen to her troubles. They were only the same old tale; her newest young cook had left suddenly, and she had come to the town to see if she could get another from among the girls who had come in for the fair. She had no success at all, and was setting out for home, despondent, and not at all comforted to think that she would have to trudge in and try all over again the day after to-morrow. To-morrow, itself, the great day, it was no good trying; no girl would pay attention to business then.

In the evening Julia went again into the town, but this time with Mijnheer and Joost, and dressed in her best dress. It was not at all a new dress, nor at all a grand one, but it was well chosen, well made and well fitted, and certainly very well put on; the gloves and hat, too, accorded with it, and she herself was in a humour of gaiety that bordered on brilliancy. Was she not going to have a holiday to-morrow, and was she not going to spend it in company with a man she liked, and in despite of Dutch propriety, which would certainly have been thoroughly and outrageously shocked thereby? Denah knew nothing of the causes at work, but she was not slow to discern the result when she and her father and sister met the Van Heigen party that evening. She smoothed the bow at the neck of her best dress, and looked at her gloves discontentedly; she did not altogether admire Julia's clothes, they were not at all Dutch; but she had an intuitive idea that they came nearer to Paris, the sartorial ideal of the nations, than her own did. She looked suspiciously at the English girl, her eyes were shining and sparkling like stars; they were full of alert interest and half-suppressed mischief. She looked at everything, and overlooked nothing, though she was talking to Mijnheer in a soft, purring voice, that was full of fun and wickedness. Now she turned to Joost, and her voice took another tone; she was teasing him, making fun of him in a way that Denah decided was scandalous, although his father was there, aiding and abetting her. Joost did not seem to resent it a bit; he listened quite serenely, and even turned a look on her as one who has another and private interpretation of the words. Anna saw nothing of this; she only thought Julia very nice, and her dress pretty, and her talk gay. But Denah, though not always so acute, was in love, and she saw a good deal, and treasured it up for use when the occasion should offer.

They ate pooferchjes, sitting in a funny little covered stall; at least, the top and three sides were covered, the fourth was open to the street. A long, narrow table, with clean white calico spread on it, ran down the centre of the place, and narrow forms stood on either side of it. It was lighted by a Chinese lantern hung from the roof, and also, and more especially, by a flare outside of the charcoal fire, where the pooferchjes were cooked. A powerful brown-armed peasant woman made them, beating the batter till it frothed, and dropping it by the spoonful into the little hollows in the great sheet of iron that glowed on the stove without. The glow of the fire was on her too, on her short skirt and her fine arms, and the flaring light, that flickered in the breeze, danced on her strong, brown face, with its resolute lines, and splendid gold-ringed head-dress. People kept passing to and fro all the time, or stopping sometimes to look in; solemnly-gay holiday people, enjoying themselves after their own fashion. The light flickered on them, too, and on the brick pavement, and on the trees, plentiful almost as canals in the town. Julia leaned forward and looked, and listened to the guttural Dutch voices, and the curious patois to be heard now and then, and the distant notes of music that blended with it. And the flickering lights and shadows danced across her mind, and the simple holiday feeling of it all got to her head.

Then the pooferchjes were done and brought in, little round, crisp things, smoking hot, and very greasy; something like tiny English pancakes—at least one might say so if one had not tasted them. And then more people came in and sat at the opposite side of the table, a gardener of another bulb grower, and his two daughters. He raised his hat to the Van Heigen party, and received a similar salutation in return, though he and they were careful to put their hats on again, a draught being a thing much feared. Mijnheer shook hands with the father, and they entered into conversation about the weather; the girls looked across at Denah and Anna, and more still at Julia, whose small, slim hands they evidently admired.

But at last the pooferchjes were all eaten and paid for. To do the latter the notary, Mijnheer and Joost all brought out large purses and counted out small coins with care, and the party came out, making way for new-comers. They did not go straight home again, as was first intended, Julia's interest and gaiety seemed to have infected the others—all except Denah, and they walked for a little while among the booths of toys, and sweets, and peepshows, and entertainments. And as they went, Denah grew more and more silent, watching Julia, who was walking with Joost; the arrangement was not of the English girl's seeking, but Denah took no account of that. The thing of which she did take account was that they two talked as they walked together, he as well as she, but both with the ease and quick comprehension of people who have talked together often.

Mijnheer stopped to look at the merry-go-round; he admired the cheerful tune that it played. He was not a connoisseur of music; a barrel-organ was as good to him as the organ in the Groote Kerk. The others stopped too; Anna exclaimed on the life-like and clever appearance of the bobbing horses, whereupon her father suggested that perhaps the girls would like to try a ride on the machine, and then befel the crowning mischief of the evening. Julia and Anna accepted the proposal readily. Denah declined; she felt in no humour for it; also she thought a refusal showed a superior mind—one likely to appeal to a serious young man, who had no taste for the gaudy, gay, or fast, and who also had a tendency towards seasickness. But, alas, for the fickleness of man! While Denah stood with her father and Mijnheer, Julia rode round the centre of lighted mirrors on a prancing wooden horse, and Joost—the serious, the sometimes seasick—rode beside her on a dappled grey, to the familiar old English tune, "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-a."



CHAPTER IX

THE HOLIDAY

The Dunes lay some little distance from the town, a low, but suddenly-rising hill boundary, that shut in the basin of flat land. They were all of pure sand, though in many places so matted with vegetation that it was hardly recognisable as such. Trees grew in places, especially on the side that fronted towards the town; the way up lay through a dense young wood of beech and larch, and a short, broad-leafed variety of poplar. There was no undergrowth, but between the dead leaves one could see that a dark green, short-piled moss had managed to find a hold here and there, though so smooth was it that it looked more like old enamel than a natural growth. The trees had the appearance of high summer, deeply, intensely green, so that they seemed almost blackish in mass. There was no breeze among them; even the dapples of sunlight which found their way through the roof of leaves hardly stirred, but lay in light patches, like scattered gold upon the ground. Flies and gnats moved and shimmered, a busy life, whose small voices were the only sound to be heard; all else was very still, with the glorious reposeful stillness of full summer; not oppressive, without weariness or exhaustion, rather as if the whole creation paused at this zenith to look round on its works, and beheld and saw that they were all very good.

There were no clear paths, apparently few people went that way; certainly there was no one about when Julia and Rawson-Clew came. It is true they saw a kind of little beer-garden at the foot of the slope, but there was no one idling about it.

"We shall have to come back here for lunch," Julia said.

And when he suggested that it was rather a pity to have to retrace their steps, she answered, "It doesn't matter, we are not going anywhere particular; we may just as well wander one way as another. When we get to the top this time we will explore to the right, and when we get there again after lunch, we will go to the left; don't you think that is the best way? This is to be a holiday, you know."

"Is a real holiday like a dog's wanderings?" Rawson-Clew inquired; "bounded by no purpose except dinner when hungry?"

Julia thought it must be something of the kind. "Though," she said, "dogs always seem to have some end in view, or perhaps a dozen ends, for though they tear off after an imaginary interest as if there was nothing else in the world, they get tired of it, or else start another, and forget all about the first."

"That must also be part of the essence of a holiday," Rawson-Clew said; "at least, one would judge it to be so; boys and dogs, the only things in nature who really understand the art of holiday-making, chase wild geese, and otherwise do nothing of any account, with an inexhaustible energy, and a purposeful determination wonderful to behold. Also, they forget that there is such a thing as to-morrow, so that must be important too."

"I can't do that," Julia said.

"You might try when you get to the top," he suggested. "I will try then; I don't think I could do anything requiring an effort just now."

Julia agreed that she could not either, and they went on up straight before them. It is as easy to climb a sand-hill in one place as in another, provided you stick your feet in the right way, and do not mind getting a good deal of sand in your boots. So they went straight, and at last got clear of the taller trees, and were struggling in thickets of young poplars, and other sinewy things. The sand was firmer, but honeycombed with rabbit holes, and tangled with brambles, and the direction was still upwards, though the growth was so thick, and the ground so bad, that it was often necessary to go a long way round. But in time they were through this too, and really out on the top. Here there was nothing but the Dunes, wide, curving land, that stretched away and away, a tableland of little hollows and hills, like some sea whose waves have been consolidated; near at hand its colours were warm, if not vivid, but in the far distance it grew paler as the vegetation became less and less, till, far away, almost beyond sight, it failed to grey helm grass, and then altogether ceased, leaving the sand bare. Behind lay the trees through which they had come, sloping downwards in banks of cool shadows to the map-like land and the distant town below; away on right and left were other groups of trees, on sides of hills and in rounded hollows, looking small enough from here, but in reality woods of some size. Here there was nothing; but, above, a great blue sky, which seemed very close; and, underfoot, low-growing Dune roses and wild thyme which filled the warm, still air with its matchless scent; nothing but these, and space, and sunshine, and silence.

Julia stopped and looked round, drawing in her breath; she had found what she had come to see—what, perhaps, she had been vaguely wanting to find for a long time.

"Isn't it good?" she said at last. "Did you know there was so much room—so much room anywhere?"

Rawson-Clew looked in the direction she did; he had seen so much of the world, and she had seen so little of it—that is, of the part which is solitary and beautiful. Yet he felt something of her enthusiasm for this sunny, empty place—than which he had seen many finer things every year of his life.

Perhaps this thought occurred to her, for she turned to him rather wistfully: "I expect it does not seem very much to you," she said; "you have seen such a great deal."

"I do not remember to have seen anything quite like this," he answered; "and if I had, what then? One does not get tired of things."

Julia looked at him thoughtfully. "I wonder," she said, "if one would? If one would get weary of it, and want to go back to the other kind of life?"

She was not thinking of Dune country, rather of the simple life it represented to her just then. Rawson-Clew caught the note of seriousness in her tone and reminded her that thought for the past or future was no part of a holiday. "Remember," he said, "you are to-day to emulate dogs and boys."

She laughed. "How am I to begin?" she asked. "How will you?"

"I shall sit down," he said; "I feel I could be inconsequent much better if I sat down to it; that is no doubt because I am past my first youth."

"No," she said, sitting down and putting her hat beside her; "it is because your folly-muscles are stiff from want of use; you have played lots of things, I expect—it is part of your necessary equipment to be able to do so, but I doubt if you have ever played the fool systematically. I don't believe you have ever done, and certainly never enjoyed anything inconsequent or foolish in your life."

"If you were to ask me," he returned, "I should hardly say you excelled in that direction either. How many inconsequent and foolish things have you done in your life?"

"Some, and I should like to do some more. If I were alone now, do you know what I should do? You see that deep hollow of sparkling white sand? I should take off my clothes and lie there in the sun."

Rawson-Clew turned so that his back was that way. "Do not let me prevent you," he said.

Julia made use of the opportunity to empty the sand out of her boots.

He looked round as she was finishing fastening them. "But why put them on again?" he asked.

"Because I haven't retired from the world, yet," she answered, "and so I can't do quite all I like."

"When you do retire, will this ideal summer costume also be included in the programme? Your taste in dress grows simpler; quite ancient British, in fact."

"The ancient Britons wore paint, and probably had fashions in it; I don't think of imitating them. Tell me," she said, turning now to gather the sweet-scented wild thyme, "did you ever really do anything foolish in your life? I should like to know."

He answered her that he had, but without convincing her. Afterwards, he came to the conclusion that, whatever might have been the case before, he that day qualified to take rank with any one in the matter.

All the same, it was a very pleasant day, and they both enjoyed it much; it is doubtful if any one in the town or its environs enjoyed that holiday more than these two, who, from different reasons, had probably never had so real a holiday before. They wandered over the great open tract of land, meeting no one; once they came near enough to the seaward edge to see the distant shimmer of water; once they found themselves in the part where there has been some little attempt at cultivation, and small patches of potatoes struggle for life, and a little railway crosses the sandhills. Twice they came upon the road along which, on working days, the peasant women bring their fish to market in the town. But chiefly they kept to the small, dense woods, where the sunlight only splashed the ground; or to the open solitary spaces where the bees hummed in the wild thyme, and the butterflies chased each other over the low rose bushes.

A good deal after mid-day, at a time dictated entirely by choice, and not custom, they made their way back to the beer garden. It was a very little place, scarcely worthy of the name; the smallest possible house, more like a barn than anything else, right in the shadow of the wood. The fare to be obtained was bad beer, excellent coffee, new bread, and old cheese; but it was enough, supplemented by the cakes bought yesterday in the town; Julia knew enough of the ways of the place to know one can bring one's own food to such places without giving offence. As in the morning, when they first passed it, there was no one about, every one had gone to the fair, except one taciturn old woman who brought the required things and then shut herself in the house. The meal was spread under the trees on a little green-painted table, with legs buried deep in sand; there were two high, straight chairs set up to the table, and a wooden footstool put by one for Julia, who, seeing it, said this was certainly a picnic, and it was really necessary to eat the broodje in the correct picnic way. Rawson-Clew tried, with much gravity, but she laughed till the taciturn old woman looked out of window, and wondered who they were, and how they came to be here.

When the meal was done, they went back again up the steep slope, and then away on the left. The country on this side was less open, and more hilly, deeper hollows and larger woods, still there was not much difficulty in finding the way. The latter part of the day was not so fine as the earlier, the sky clouded over, and, though there was still no wind, the air grew more chilly. They hardly noticed the change, being in a dense young wood where there was little light, but Julia lost something of the holiday spirit, and Rawson-Clew became grave, talking more seriously of serious things than had ever before happened in their curious acquaintanceship. They sat down to rest in a green hollow, and Julia began to arrange neatly the bunch of short-stemmed thyme flowers that she carried. They had been quiet for some little time, she thinking about their curious acquaintance, and wondering when it would end. Of course it would end—she knew that; it was a thing of mind only; there was very little feeling about it—a certain mutual interest and a liking that had grown of late, kindness on his part, gratitude on hers, nothing more. But of its sort it had grown to be intimate; she had told him things of her thoughts, and of herself, and her people too, that she had told to no one else; and he, which was perhaps more remarkable, had sometimes returned the compliment. And yet by and by—soon, perhaps—he would go away, and it would be as if they had never met; it was like people on a steamer together, she thought, for the space of the voyage they saw each other daily, saw more intimately into each other than many blood relations did, and then, when port was reached, they separated, the whole thing finished. She wondered when this would finish, and just then Rawson-Clew spoke, and unconsciously answered her thought.

"I am going back to England soon," he said.

She looked up. "Is your work here finished?" she asked.

"It is at an end," he answered; "that is the same thing."

Then she, her intuition enlightened by a like experience suddenly knew that he, too, had failed. "You mean it cannot be done," she said.

He opened his cigarette case, and selected a cigarette carefully. "May I smoke?" he asked; "there are a good many gnats and mosquitoes about here." He felt for a match, and, when he had struck it, asked impersonally, "Do you believe things cannot be done?"

"Yes," she answered; "I know that sometimes they cannot; I have proved it to myself."

"You have not, then, much opinion of the people who do not know when they are beaten?"

"I don't think I have," she answered; "you cannot help knowing when you are beaten if you really are—that is, unless you are a fool. Of course, if you are only beaten in one round, or one effort, that is another thing; you can get up and try again. But if you are really and truly beaten, by yourself, or circumstances, or something—well, there's an end; there is nothing but to get up and go on."

"Just so; in that case, as you say, there is not much going to be done, except going home."

Julia nodded. "But I can't even do that," she said. "I am beaten, but I have got to stay here all the same, having nowhere exactly to go."

This was the first time she had spoken even indirectly of her own future movements. "But, perhaps," he suggested, "if you stay, you may find a back way to your object after all."

She shook her head. "It is the back way I tried. No, there is no way; it is blocked. I know, because it is myself that blocks it."

"In that case," he said, "I'm afraid I must agree with you; there is no way; oneself is about the most insurmountable block of all. I might have known that you were hardly likely to make any mistake as to whether you were really beaten or not."

"I should not think it was a mistake you were likely to make either," she observed.

"You think not? Well, I had no chance this time; the fact has been made pretty obvious to me."

She did not say she was sorry; in her opinion it was an impertinence to offer condolence to failure. "I suppose," she said, after a pause, "there is not a back way—a door, or window, even, to your object?"

"Unfortunately, no. There are no windows at the back; and as to the door—like you, it was that which I tried, with the result that recently—yesterday, in fact—I was metaphorically shown out."

Julia had learnt enough by this time, though she had not been told for certain, that her first suspicions were right; to be sure, it was the explosive which took Rawson-Clew to the little village evening after evening. She had gathered as much from various things which had been said, though she did not know at all how he was trying to get it, nor in what way he had introduced himself to Herr Van de Greutz. Whatever method he had tried it was now clear he had failed; no doubt been found out, for the chemist, unlike Joost Van Heigen, was the very reverse of unsuspecting, and thoroughly on the look-out for other nations who wanted to share his discovery. For a moment Julia wished she had been in Rawson-Clew's place; of course she, too, might have failed—probably would; she had no reason to think she would succeed where he could not; but she certainly would not have failed in this for the reason she had failed with the blue daffodil. The attempt would have been so thoroughly well worth making; there would have been some sport in it, and a foe worthy of her steel. In spite of her desire for the simple life, she had too much real ability for this sort of intrigue, and too much past practice in subterfuge, not to experience lapses of inclination for it when she saw such work being done, and perhaps not done well. Of this, however, she naturally did not speak to Rawson-Clew; she rearranged her flowers in silence for a little while, at last she said—

"It is hateful to fail."

"It is ignominious, certainly; one does not wish to blazon it from the housetops; still, doubtless like your crochet work, it is good discipline."

"Maybe," Julia allowed, but without conviction. "Yours seems a simple failure, mine is a compound one. If it is ignominious, as you say, to fail, it would have been equally ignominious in another way if I had succeeded. I could not have been satisfied either way."

"That sounds very complicated," Rawson-Clew said; "but then, I imagine you are a complicated young person."

"And you are not."

"Not young, certainly," he said, lighting another cigarette.

"Nor complicated," she insisted; "you are built on straight lines; there are given things you can do and can't do, would do and would not do, and might do in an emergency. It is a fine kind of person to be, but it is not the kind which surprises itself."

Rawson-Clew blew a smoke-ring into the air; he was smiling a little.

"How old are you?" he said. "Twenty? Almost twenty-one, is it? And until you were sixteen you knocked about a bit? Sixteen is too young to come much across the natural man—not the artful dodging man, or the man of civilisation, but the natural, primitive man, own blood relation to Adam and the king of the Cannibal Islands. You may meet him by and by, and if you do he may surprise you; he is full of surprises—he rather surprises himself, that is, if his local habitat is ordinarily an educated, decent person."

"You have not got a natural man," Julia said shortly; she was annoyed, without quite knowing why, by his manner.

"Have I not? Quite likely; certainly, he has never bothered me, but I should not like to count on him. Since we have got to personalities, may I say that you have got a natural woman, and plenty of her; also a marked taste for the works of the machine, in preference to the face usually presented to the company?"

"The works are the only interesting part; I don't care for the drawing-room side of things; they are cultivated, but they are too much on the skin. I would much rather be a stoker, or an engineer, than sit on deck all day and talk about Florentine art, and the Handel Festival, and Egyptology, and the gospel of Tolstoy, and play cricket and quoits, and dance a little, and sing a little, and flirt a little, ever so nicely. Oh, there are lots of girls who can do all those things, and do them equally well; I know a few who can, well off, well-bred girls—you must know a great many. They are clever to begin with, and they are taught that way; it is a perfect treat to meet them and watch them, but I never want to imitate them, even if I could—and there is no danger of that. I would rather be in the engine-room, with my coat off, a bit greasy and very profane, and doing something. There would be more flesh and blood there, even if it were a bit grubby; I believe I'm more at home with people who can do—well, what's necessary, even if it is not exactly nice."

Rawson-Clew knew exactly the kind of woman she had described for the deck—he met them often; charming creatures, far as the poles asunder from the girl who spoke of them; he liked them—in moderation, and in their place, much as his forebears of fifty years ago had liked theirs, the delicate, sensitive creatures of that era. He had never regarded Julia in that light; he found her certainly more entertaining as a companion, though also very far short of the standard as a woman and an ornament.

"The people in the engine-room," he observed, "would certainly be more useful in an emergency; still, life is not made up entirely of emergencies."

"No," Julia answered; "and in between times such people are better not on show—I know that; that is why I do not care for the drawing-room side of things, I don't know enough to shine in them."

"Do you think it is a matter of knowledge?" he asked, "or inclination? If it comes to knowledge I should say you had a rather remarkable stock of an unusual sort, and at first hand. That may not be what is required for a complete drawing-room success, though I am not sure that it is not more interesting—say for an excursion—than a flitting glance at the subjects you mention, and about eighteen or twenty more that you did not."

Julia looked up, half pleased, doubtful as to whether or not to interpret this as a compliment; she never knew quite how much he meant of what he said; his manner was exactly the same, whether he was in fun or in earnest. But if she thought of asking him now she was prevented, for at that moment Mr. Gillat's watch slipped out of her belt into her lap, and she saw the time.

"How late is it!" she exclaimed. "We ought to have started half-an-hour ago; it will take me two hours, and more, to get home from here, even if I go by the tram in the town."

She rose as she spoke, and he rose more slowly.

"Shall I take your flowers for you?" he asked. "They seem rather inclined to tumble about; don't you think they would be safer in my pocket? As you say you are going to dry them, it won't matter crushing them."

She gave them to him, and he put the sweet-smelling bunch into his pocket, then they started for the edge of the wood.

"It is much colder," Julia said; "and the sun is all gone; I suppose the clouds have been coming gradually, but I did not notice before. If it is going to rain, we shall get decidedly wet before we get back."

"I am afraid so," he agreed; "you have no coat."

She told him that did not matter, she did not mind getting wet, and she spoke with a cheerful buoyancy that carried conviction.

When they reached the outskirts of the wood, however, they saw there was not much chance of rain, but a much worse evil threatened. All the distance on the seaward side was blotted out, a fine white mist shut out the curving land in that direction. It was blowing up towards them, rolling down the little hills in billowy puffs, and lying filmy, yet dense, in the hollows, moved by a wind unfelt here.

"A sea fog," Julia said; "I wonder how far it is coming."

Rawson-Clew wondered too; he thought, as she did, that there was every chance of its coming far and fast, but it did not seem necessary to either of them to say anything so unpleasantly and obviously probable.

They set out homewards as fast as they could; it was a long way to the place where they had climbed up, unfortunately all across open country, entirely without roads or definite paths, and the drifting sea fog was coming up fast, bound, it would seem, the same way. Soon it was upon them; they felt its advance in the chill that, like cold fingers, laid hold on everything; it came quite silently up from behind, without noticeable wind, eerily creeping up and enfolding everything, putting a white winding-sheet not about the earth only, but the very air also. The cotton blouse that Julia wore became limp and wet as if it had been dipped in water; she could see the fog condensing in beads on her companion's coat almost like hoar frost; it lay on every low-growing rose bush and bramble that they stepped upon, a curious transformer of all near objects, a complete obliterator of all more distant ones.

They pushed on as quickly as might be, climbing little hills, descending into hollows; stumbling among rabbit holes, threading their way through thickets; apparently finding something amusing in the patriarchal colonies of rabbit burrows that tripped them up, and stopping to argue, though hardly in earnest, as to whether they had passed that way or not, when some white-barked tree, or other landmark, loomed suddenly out of the thickening mist. Once it seemed the fog was going to lift; Julia thought she saw the outline of a distant hill, but either it was closed in again directly, or else she mistook a thicker fold of cloud for a more solid object, for it was lost almost before she pointed it out.

For something over two hours they walked and stumbled, and went up small ascents and came down small declines; then suddenly they came upon the white-barked tree again. It was the same one that they had seen more than an hour and a half ago; Rawson-Clew recognised it by a peculiar warty growth where the branches forked; they had now approached it from the other side, but clearly it was the same one, and they had come round in a circle.

He stopped and pointed it out to her. "I am afraid," he said, "we had better do what is recommended when the clouds come down on the mountains."

"And that is?" Julia asked.

"Sit down and wait till they shift."

She could not but see the advisability of this, also she was very tired, the going for these two hours had not been easy, and it had come at the end of a long day. She would not admit, even to herself, that she was tired, but she was, so she agreed to the waiting; after all, it was impossible to pretend longer that they were going to get home easily, and were not really hopelessly astray.

"We will go a little way in among the trees," Rawson-Clew said; "it is more sheltered, and we shall be able to find the way quite as easily from one place as another when the fog lifts."

They found as sheltered a spot as they could, and sat down under a big tree; as they did so his hand came in contact with Julia's wet sleeve and cold arm. "How cold you are!" he said. "You have nothing on."

"Oh, yes, I have," she assured him. "I did not avail myself of your permission this morning."

He took off his coat and put it round her.

But she threw it off again. "That won't do at all," she said; "now you have nothing on, and that is much more improper; women may sit in their shirt sleeves, men may not."

"Don't be absurd!" he said authoritatively; "you are to keep that on," and he wrapped it about her with a decision that brought home to her her youth and smallness.

"You are shutting all the damp in," she protested, shifting her point of attack, "and that is very unwholesome. I shan't get warm; I haven't any warmth to start with; you are wasting what you have got to no purpose."

But he did not waste it, for eventually it was arranged that they sat close together under the tree, with the coat put as far as it would go over both of them. Rawson-Clew was not given to thinking how things looked, he did what he thought necessary, or advisable, without taking any thought of that kind; so it did not occur to him how this arrangement might look to an unprejudiced observer, had there been any such. But Julia, with her faculty for seeing herself as others saw her, was much, though silently, amused as she thought of the Van Heigens. Poor, kind folks, they were doubtless already wondering what could have become of her; if they could only have seen her sitting thus, with an unknown man, what would their Dutch propriety have said?

"Do you suppose this fog will be in the town?" Rawson-Clew said, after a time.

"No," she answered, "I should think not; from what I have heard, I think it is very unlikely."

"Then the Van Heigens won't know what has become of you?"

"Not a bit in the world; they don't even know where I was going to-day. I did not tell them; I am afraid they will be rather uneasy about me, but perhaps not so very much, they know by this time I can take care of myself; besides, I shall be home before bed-time, if the fog lifts."

Rawson-Clew agreed, and they talked of other things. Julia held the opinion that when an evil has to be endured, not cured, there is no good in discussing it over and over again; she had a considerable gift for making the best of other things besides opportunities.

But the fog did not lift soon; it did not grow denser, but it did not grow less; it just lay soft and chilly, casting a white pall of silence on all things, closing day before its time, and making it impossible to say when evening ended and night began. Gradually the two who waited for its lifting fell into silence, and Julia, tired out, at last dropped asleep, her head tilted back against the tree-trunk, her shoulder pressed close against Rawson-Clew under the shelter of his coat.

He did not move, he was afraid of waking her; he sat watching, waiting in the eerie white stillness, until at last the space before him altered, and gradually between the trees he saw the faint outline of a hill, dark against the dark sky. Slowly the white mist rolled from it, a billowy, ghostly thing, that left a black, vague world, only dimly seen. He looked at the sleeping girl, then at the hill; the fog was clearing, there was no doubt about that; soon it would be quite gone, but it would be a very dark night, the stars would hardly show, and the moon was now long down. He was not at all sure of being able to find his way across this undulating country, so entirely devoid of prominent features, in a very dark night. Rather he was nearly sure that he could not do it; and though he had a by no means low opinion of Julia's abilities, he did not think that she could either. Also, with a sense of dramatic fitness equal to that of the girl's he thought their arrival in the town would be rather ill-timed if they started now. It would be wiser to wait till after it was light, though dawn was not so very early now, the summer being far advanced. So he decided, and Julia slept peacefully on, her head dropping lower and lower, till finally it reached his shoulder. But he did not move; he left it resting there, and waited, thinking of nothing perhaps, or anything; or perhaps of that unknown quantity, the natural man, which has a way of stirring sometimes even in the most civilised, at night time. So he sat and watched for the dawn.



CHAPTER X

TO-MORROW

It was a bright sunny morning, and, though the third and last day of the fair, people went to their business as usual. The Dutch are early risers, and set about their day's work in good time; but even had they been the reverse, the latest of them would have been about before Julia and Rawson-Clew reached the outskirts of the town. They had stopped for breakfast at the first village they came to after leaving the Dunes, this on the principle of being hung for a sheep rather than a lamb. It did not seem to matter being a little later considering the necessarily unreasonable hour of their return; also Julia, with the instinct of her family for detail; preferred to set herself to rights so as to present the best appearance possible when she arrived at the Van Heigens'. It was not natural, of course, that a person should appear too neat and orderly after a night of adventure, lost on the Dunes; but the reverse was not becoming. Julia hit the medium between the two with a nicety which might have cost one not a Polkington some thought, but to one of them was merely the natural thing.

Together Julia and Rawson-Clew walked to the outskirts of the town. Their ways parted there—his to the left, hers to the right; it was the port of which she had thought yesterday, the place of final separation. He had proposed to go with her to the Van Heigens, so as to bear testimony to what had befallen, and to assure them that she was quite safe; but she would not have this, she felt she could manage very much better without him, his presence would only require a good deal of extra explanation, none too easy to give. He guessed the reason of her refusal and saw the wisdom of it, although he felt annoyed that she had, as he now perceived she must, concealed their earlier acquaintance. It might have been advisable, seeing Dutch notions of propriety; but it placed the matter in a rather invidious light, and also began to bring home to him the fact, which grew very much more evident before the day was over, that he had distinguished himself by an act of really remarkable folly.

They had almost reached the town, in fact had passed some small houses, the dwelling-places of carriage proprietors and washerwomen, when a girl stepped out of a doorway some distance ahead of them. She glanced in their direction, then stared.

"There's Denah," Julia said; she did not speak with consternation though Denah was about the last person she wanted to see just then. Consternation is a waste of time and energy when you are found out, a bold face and immediate actions are usually best. Julia waved her hand in cheerful greeting to the Dutch girl.

But Denah did not return the greeting; instead, after her stare of astonished recognition, she turned and set off up the road towards where it joined a more important street with trams, which ran into the town.

"Hulloah?" Julia said softly, and quick as thought she turned too, and the hand that had waved to Denah was signaling to a carriage which at that moment drove out of a stable-yard near. A light had come into her eyes, a dancing light like the gleam on a sword-blade. There was a little wee smile about her lips, too, which somehow brought to Rawson-Clew's mind a man he once knew who had sung softly to himself all the time he prepared for the brigands who were known to be about to rush his camp.

"She'll take a tram," Julia said gaily, looking towards the speeding figure; "she is too careful to waste her money even to spite any one of whom she is jealous."

The cab drew up, and Julia, not failing to see Denah fulfil her words at the junction of the street, got in. Rawson-Clew followed her. She would have prevented him.

"Don't come," she said; "I don't want you. Good-bye."

But he insisted. "I certainly am coming," he said, and ordered the man to drive on into the town, telling Julia to give the address.

She did so, weighing in her mind the while the chances of Rawson-Clew's knowledge of Dutch being equal to following all that was said when three people spoke at once, all of them in a great state of excitement. She thought it was possible he would not master every detail, but at the same time she did not wish him to try; it would be insupportable to have him dragged into this, and in return for his kindness to her have a dozen vulgar and ridiculous things said and insinuated.

"Look here," she said, "there is not any need for you to come, I can do better without you, I can indeed. I have got to explain things, of course, but, as I told you before, I have had some practice at dodging and explaining. I shall reach the Van Heigens' before Denah, so I shall get the first hearing, that's all I want, I can explain beautifully."

"You cannot explain me away," Rawson-Clew answered. "I know I was not to have figured in the original account, that is obvious, but it is equally obvious that I must figure in this one. I prefer to give it myself."

"Oh, but that won't do at all!" Julia said. "Please leave it to me, it would be nothing to me, I am used to tight places, and it would be an insufferable annoyance to you. I really don't want you to suffer for your kindness to me—you have no idea what absurd and ridiculous things they will say."

Rawson-Clew had been polishing his eyeglass, he put it back in his eye before he spoke. "My dear child," he said; "in spite of the sheltered life with which you credit me, I assure you I have a very clear idea of the kind of things they will say."

"Then for goodness sake, leave it to me," Julia said, losing her temper; "I can do it a great deal better than you can; I'm not honest, and you are, and that's a handicap."

"In these cases," Rawson-Clew answered imperturbably, "honesty requires the consideration of the lady first and truth afterwards—a long way after. Let me know what you want told and I will tell it—with evidence—I suppose you are equal to evidence?"

Julia laughed, but without much mirth. "I do wish you would not come," she said.

But he did, and they drove together through the town, past the bulb gardens, to the wooden house with the dark-tiled roof. There Rawson-Clew paid the coachman and dismissed the carriage while Julia rang the bell.

In time the servant came to the door. "Ach!" she cried at the sight of Julia, and, "G-r-r-r!" and other exclamations, uttered very gutturally and with upraised hands. She was a country girl from some remote district, and she spoke a very unintelligible patois; at least Rawson-Clew found it so, his companion, apparently, was used to it.

Julia listened to the exclamations, and apparently to congratulations on her safe return, said in a friendly manner that she had a terrible adventure, and then asked where Mevrouw was.

Mevrouw was out, and Mijnheer was out too; a torrent more information followed, but Julia did not pay much attention to it, she turned to Rawson-Clew with the smile on her lips with which she laughed at herself.

"Denah saved her money and won her move," she said; "it serves me right. I under-rated her—this is what always comes of under-rating the enemy."

"Do you mean she knew where these people are?" Rawson-Clew asked.

"That is about it, she knew and I did not."

"What are you going to do?"

"Wait till they come back, there is nothing else."

He moved as if he thought to follow her into the house, but she did not approve of that. "You cannot wait with me," she said; "it is one thing to bring me home, quite another to wait with me here."

He, however, thought differently, but he did not argue the point. "Thank you," he said, "I prefer to wait; I consider I am conducting this now, not you."

He was a little annoyed by her ridiculous persistence, but she looked at him with the dancing lights coming back in her eyes. "Oh, well, if you prefer to wait," she said, "but I'm afraid you must do it alone." And before he realised what she was doing, she had run off, down the path, across an empty flower-bed and among some brushes behind.

In considerable anger he turned to follow her, but he pulled himself up; there was very little use in that and no need for it either; he was sure she was far too skilful a tactician to imperil an affair by unwise flight; this was a blind merely—unless, of course, she thought of setting out to find these Dutch people, wherever they might be. He asked the staring servant where her master and mistress were; it took time for him to make out her answers, but at last he did. Mijnheer was at a place (or house) with a name he had never before heard, and would have been puzzled to say now from this one hearing. It was a distant bulb farm, and Mijnheer had gone there on business; the fact that Julia had not returned home naturally did not keep the good man from his work. These details Rawson-Clew did not know; the name only was given to him, and that conveyed nothing. Joost, he was told, was somewhere in the bulb gardens, where, seemed unknown; Mevrouw was at the house of the notary. Who the notary was, and where he lived, and why she had gone there were alike as obscure to this inquirer as was Julia's probable destination. He felt that she might have set out to find any one of these three people, or she might be lying in wait, like a foolish child, till he had gone. He went down the drive; outside the gate he saw some idlers who had been there when he drove in a little while back; he asked them if any one answering to the girl's description had come out. They told him "ja," and they also told him which direction she had taken; it was the way that led to the market, not the residential part of the town.

He was no better off for this information; there seemed nothing to be done. It would have been little short of absurd, if, indeed, it had not been seriously compromising to Julia, for him to present himself at the house of the notary—when he could find it—and tell Vrouw Van Heigen he had brought Julia home and she was afraid to appear with him. Either he and she must act together and appear together, or else he must, as she desired and now made necessary, keep out of it altogether. Considerably annoyed with the girl, but at the same time uneasy about her, he went to his hotel.

As the morning wore on, the annoyance lessened and the uneasiness grew. After all he was not sure that Julia had thrown away much by refusing to have the support of his company; had they two been there waiting for the Van Heigens' return, or had they set out together to find them, he was not sure his presence would have been any help in the face of the jealous Dutch girl's accusations. A jealous woman, even an ordinarily foolish one, is a very dangerous thing when she is attacking a fancied rival with a chance of encompassing her overthrow. Denah would have got her tale told, her case proven, indignation aroused and sympathy with her before the Van Heigens even saw Julia. He wondered what she would do alone and wished he knew how she fared; he thought over the explanations possible and the various ways out that might suggest themselves to a fertile brain. They were not many, and they were not good; the simple truth would probably be best, and that would be so exceedingly compromising under the circumstances that the Van Heigens were hardly likely to find it palatable. Indeed, he began to see that, even if they two could have presented themselves, as they had first intended, to the anxious family before Denah arrived, it was very doubtful if the matter could have been satisfactorily cleared up to a suspicious and prudish Dutch mind. The girl was only a companion, a person of no importance, easy to replace; and, no matter how the fact might be explained, it still remained that she had been out all night with an unknown man; one, who, if he were known, would show to be of a position to make the proceeding more compromising still.

At this point Rawson-Clew got up and walked to the window. It was then that it struck him that he had, in these his mature years, committed an act of stupendous folly, the like of which his youth had never known.

But the girl, what would become of the girl? In England, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, she would have been dismissed; in Holland that one last hope did not exist. She would be dismissed with her character considerably damaged and her chance of getting another situation entirely gone. What would she do? She had told him yesterday she could not leave, but was obliged to stay on at the Van Heigens'; although she had failed in the first object of her coming, and so had no motive for remaining, she had nowhere else to go. Perhaps she had quarrelled with her relatives; perhaps they could not afford to keep her—they were poor enough he knew. She had once said her eldest sister had lately married the nephew of a bishop; he remembered that, and he also remembered that, after his unfortunate visit to Captain Polkington, he had heard they were people with some good connections. But that did not mean that they could afford to help this girl, or would be delighted to receive her home under the present conditions. Rather it indicated that their position was too precarious for them to be able to do it. They would be bitterly hard on her—these aspiring people of gentle birth and doubtful shifts, clinging to society by the skin of their teeth, were the hardest of all. The girl could not go back to them; she could not get anything to do in Holland, or elsewhere—in Heaven's name what could she do?

He asked himself the question with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the street. But the answer did not seem forthcoming.

There was no good blinking the matter; the fact was obvious; the girl was hopelessly and utterly compromised; and he, aided certainly by untoward circumstances—for the sardonic interference of which, in such circumstances, a man of sense usually allows—he had done it. They had had their "holiday," without taking thought for the morrow, in the way approved by boys and dogs and creatures without experience. And here was to-morrow, knocking at the door and demanding the price—as experience showed that it usually did. The question was, who was going to pay, he or she? She had taken it upon herself as a matter of course; it seemed natural to her that the burden should be the woman's, but it did not seem so to him; among his people it was the man who was expected, and who himself expected, to pay. When he had grasped the situation fully and saw how she must inevitably stand he also saw at the same time and equally plainly, that he must marry her; nothing else was possible.

He walked away from the window and began to search for writing materials. He could not go and see her, it was out of the question under the circumstances; he would have to write, and, on the whole, perhaps, it was easier that way. He sat down to the table, but he did not at once begin, for between him and the paper there rose up the vision of a stately old Norfolk house. It was his; he had not lived there for years, but he supposed he would some day; all his people had; he remembered his grandfather there and his grandmother—a tall, stately woman, a woman of parts. He thought of her, and his mother, a graceful, gracious woman—he thought of her standing in the drawing-room between the long windows, receiving company. And then he thought of Julia.

He turned away from the vision abruptly, and dated his letter. But soon he had lain down his pen again. He was conservative, and Julia was not of the breed of the women he had recalled; she had no kinship with them or their modern prototypes, one of whom he vaguely supposed he should marry some day—when he went to live in the old Norfolk house. Hers was not a stately or a gracious or an all pervading feminine presence; she demanded no court, no care, no carpet for her way; she could come and go unnoticed and unattended; you could overlook her—though she never overlooked you or anything else. She had her points certainly, she was loyal to the core—she would be loyal to him, he was sure, in this scrape, with a silly wrong-headed loyalty, more like a man's to a woman than a woman's to a man. She was loyal to her none too reputable family—that family was a bitter thing to his pride of race. She was courageous, too, cheerfully enduring, laughing in the face of disaster, patient when action was impossible and when it was possible—he found himself smiling when he recalled her—surely there was never one more gay, more ready, more steady, more quietly alert than she when there was a struggle with men or matters in the wind. She had brains of a sort, there was no doubt of that; it was possible to imagine one would not grow tired of her undiluted company as one would of the other sort of woman. Only of course a man did not have the undiluted company of his wife—perhaps if he were a small shop-keeper or an itinerant organ-grinder—if night and day they lived together and worked together and looked out on the world together—if it was the simple life of which she dreamed—

Rawson-Clew picked up his pen and began to write; it was not a case of whether he would or would not, liked or disliked; he had simply to make a girl he had compromised the only restitution in his power.

In the meantime Julia had set out for the market-place as the idlers had said. But her business there did not take long and she was home again, as she intended, before Mevrouw got back from the Snieders. But she had not been in much more than five minutes before the old lady, supported by Vrouw Snieder and Denah, arrived. Mijnheer came home not long after, and, hearing news of the return of the truant, went to the house to join the others.

Julia waited to receive the attack in the dim sitting-room. She knew as well as Rawson-Clew, or better, that she had not a ghost of a chance of clearing herself; dismissal was inevitable; that was why she went to the market-place. She had not largely assisted her family in living by their wits without having those faculties in exceeding good working order; she had already seen and seized the only thing open to her when the end should come. But the fact that she knew how it would end did not prevent her from giving battle; the knowledge only made her change her tactics, and, as there was no use in defending her position (and companion) she was able to concentrate her forces in harassing the enemy.

In these circumstances it is not wonderful that Denah did not derive the satisfaction she expected from the affair. Julia, unrepentant and reckless because of her known fate, unhampered by Rawson-Clew's presence, and flatly declining to give any particulars about him, would have been an awkward antagonist for one cleverer than the Dutch girl. Poor Denah lost her temper, and lost her head, and lost control of her tongue and her tears. Julia did not lose anything, but again and again winged shafts that went unerringly home. She was genuinely sorry to have upset and disappointed Mevrouw, but for Denah she did not care in the least, and the old lady soon contrived to soften some of the regret, for she was far too angry and shocked at the impropriety to have any gentler feelings of sorrow or to believe what she was told. Vrouw Snieder acted principally as chorus of horror; she was shocked and angry too, on Mevrouw's account and on her own and her daughter's; she seemed to think they had all been outraged together.

When Mijnheer came in they were all talking at once and Denah was weeping copiously. Julia's part in the conversation was small; she just shot a word in here and there, but apparently never without effect, for her utterances, like drops of water on hot metal, were always followed by fresh bursts of excitement. The good man tried in vain to make out what was the matter and what had happened. At last, after his fifth effort elsewhere, he turned to Julia, and she told him briefly. She told the truth, only suppressing Rawson-Clew's name and all details concerning him, saying merely that he was a man she had met before she left England. The two elder sisters gradually became silent to listen; Denah listened too, only sniffing occasionally.

"You pretended you did not know him the day we went the excursion," she said vindictively; "I saw you; I knew you were not to be trusted then. Why did you pretend, and how do you know him? He is a man of family; he has the air of it, very distinguished, and you are nothing at all, nobody—"

"Hush!" said Mijnheer; "that is not the point; it is of no importance who the man may be, he is a man, that is enough; and she was out with him—alone—a whole day and night; it is certainly very bad indeed; shocking, if it is true—is it true?"

He looked at Julia, and she answered, "Yes."

She was sorry, very sorry, but more on his account than her own; she could see how heinous he thought it, how she had fallen in his esteem, and she was sorry for it. But at the same time she knew her conduct really had been no more than indiscreet; and she did not repent; she regretted nothing but being found out, and that not so much as she ought now that the joy of battle was upon her. As for the women, they suspected far worse than Mijnheer believed; but even if they had not, if they had believed no more than the truth, that would have been enough for condemnation; her offence—the real one—was past forgiveness; she must go. She received the sentence meekly; she knew she deserved no less from these kind if narrow-minded people. Denah smiled triumphantly; Julia felt she deserved that too; moreover, Denah's nose was so pink and her face so swelled with tears, that the smile was more amusing than exasperating.

"I am sorry," she said; "I am sorry you should all have to think so ill of me, and that I should deserve it. You have been very kind to me while I have been here, and made my service easy; I am ashamed to have deceived you and behaved in such a way as you must condemn."

Unfortunately Vrouw Snieder snorted here; she did not believe in these protestations and she said so, inducing Vrouw Van Heigen to do the same. Mijnheer looked doubtfully at Julia for a moment, then he came to the conclusion that if she was not too abandoned a person to be really repentant, it would be as well to take advantage of her professed state of mind and drive home some moral lessons. Accordingly he and the two elder ladies drove them home, with the result that Julia's regret dwindled to nothing.

"Mijnheer," she said at last, quietly yet effectually breaking in upon his words; "Mijnheer, you are a very good man, Mevrouw is a virtuous woman, and Vrouw Snieder also, all of you. I have often admired your goodness; when you were least conscious of it it preached to me, making me ashamed of my wickedness. But now that you, in your goodness, have taken to preaching to me yourselves, I am no longer ashamed, for it is clear that your goodness dares to do a thing that no man's wickedness would; it turns the foolish and indiscreet into sinners and sinners into devils; it makes the way of wrong-doing very easy. You are so good," she went on, putting aside an interruption; "perhaps you do not know wickedness when you see it; you cannot distinguish between sin and sin; you are like those who would hang a man for stealing bread as soon as for killing a child. What! Are you indignant, Mevrouw, at such a charge? Are you not turning out, with no character and no chance—a good enough imitation of hanging—a girl who has been no more than foolish, just the same as if she had committed the greatest sin?"

Vrouw Heigen broke in angrily, and Vrouw Snieder and Denah, inexpressibly shocked; Mijnheer was also shocked, but he, and they too, were vaguely uneasy under the reproach. Julia was satisfied; more especially as her experience of them led her to expect they would, though never persuaded they had made a mistake, yet feel more uneasy by and by.

She rose from her chair. "Yes," she said, "it is a shame to speak of such things, as you observe; do not let us speak of them any more. Perhaps Mijnheer you would like to pay me, then I can go."

Mijnheer agreed rather hastily; then, realising the suddenness of the step, he paused with his purse in his hand. "But can you go now?" he asked. "Nothing is arranged; you had better wait a day or two."

"No," Julia answered, "I think not; it would be well to get the thing over and done with; you would rather and so would I."

No one contradicting this, Mijnheer counted the money and gave it to Julia.

"Thank you," she said; "now I will set the table for coffee drinking. You will stay, of course, Mevrouw," she went on, turning to Vrouw Snieder—"and Miss Denah, that will be two extra—Mijnheer Joost will be in, Denah; you can tell him about it."

Denah flushed indignantly, and Vrouw Snieder could only say "You—You—"

"Oh, I will not sit down with you, of course," Julia answered sweetly; "I will take my coffee in the little room; is it not so, Mevrouw?"

Vrouw Van Heigen nodded; she did not know what else to do, and Julia went away, leaving them as awkward and at a loss for words as if they were the delinquents, not she. Denah felt this and resented it; the elders felt it too, and for a moment or two looked at one another ill at ease. However, in a little they recovered and began to talk over Julia and her wrong doings till they felt quite comfortable again. Denah did not join very much in the discussion; after she had once again, by request, repeated what she had seen and what deduced therefrom, she was left rather to herself. She went to the window and sat there looking out for Joost; he was certain to come in soon, and she found consolation in the thought. Joost, the model of modesty and decorous serious propriety, would know the English girl in her true colours now, and be justly disgusted and shocked to think that he had ever ridden beside her on a merry-go-round.

Just then Julia passed carrying a tray of cups. "Denah," she said, pitching her voice soft and low in the tone the Dutch girl hated most, "I will give you a piece of advice; take care how you tell Joost about my wickedness; you want to be ever so clever to abuse another girl to a man; it is one of the most difficult things in the world—and you are not very clever, you know, not even clever enough to take my advice."

Denah was not clever enough to take the advice nor in any humour to do so; she stared angrily at Julia, who unconcernedly put the cups on the table and vanished into the kitchen.

Joost came in for coffee drinking, and the whole party with one accord told him the tale; Julia heard them through the closed door as she sat sipping her coffee in the little room. She did not hear him say anything at all except just at first, "I won't believe it!" in a tone which roused again, and with added strength, the regret she had felt before for repaying belief and kindness by such disillusioning. Afterwards he seemed to say nothing more; presumably they had convinced him with overwhelming evidence. She wondered how he looked; she could picture his serious blue eyes uncomfortable well; poor Joost, who had such high opinions of her, who thought she, seeing the low, chose the high path always in the greatness of her knowledge and strength; who had called her a lantern, sometimes dimmed, but always a beacon! The lantern was obscured just now, very badly obscured. She rose and went up to her room; she would clear the table after Joost had gone back to work.

She did so, coming down when he and Mijnheer were safely in the office. When she had done she went to Mevrouw, who had betaken herself to her room worn out by the morning's excitement.

"Would you prefer that I went at once?" she inquired, "or that I waited till after dinner? I will stay till six if you wish it, or I will go now without waiting to attend to the dinner."

Vrouw Van Heigen preferred the waiting; it would be so very much better for the dinner, and really it hardly seemed as if propriety could suffer much; accordingly she said with what dignity she could that the girl had better stay till the evening.

Julia went down-stairs again and set to work preparing the dinner, and it was perhaps only natural that she took pains to make that dinner a memorably good one. It was while she was busy in the kitchen that a note was brought to her.

"Put it on the table," she said to the servant girl; her hands just then were too floury to take it, but she looked at it as it lay on the table beside her. She did not recognise the writing, though she saw at once that it was not that of a Dutchman. "Who brought it?" she asked, beginning to clean her hands.

The servant could not say, but from her description Julia gathered that it must have been a special messenger of some sort. On hearing this, she did not trouble to clean her hands any more, but opened the letter at once, making floury finger-prints upon it.

"DEAR MISS POLKINGTON, (it ran),

"There is one subject I did not mention to you yesterday; you might perhaps have thought it too serious for holiday consideration; nevertheless, it is a question that I feel I must ask before I leave Holland. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? I know there is rather a difference in years between us, but if you can overlook the discrepancy, and consent, you will give me the utmost satisfaction. I honestly believe it will make for the happiness of us both; I have a feeling that we were meant to continue our 'excursion' together.