CHAPTER XXXV.—ON THE HOME.

HAROLD WYNNE remembered how he had made up his mind to judge whether or not Edmund Airey had been simply playing, in respect of Beatrice, the part which, according to Mrs. Mowbray’s story, had been assigned to him by Helen Craven. He had made up his mind that unless Edmund Airey meant to go much further than—according to Mrs. Mowbray’s communication—Helen Craven could reasonably ask him to go, he would not take the trouble to see Beatrice again.

Helen could scarcely expect him to give up his life to the furtherance of her interests with another man.

Well, he had found that Edmund, so far from showing any intention of abandoning the position—it has already been defined—which he had assumed toward Beatrice, had shown, in the plainest possible way, that he did not mean to lose sight of her.

And for such a man as he was, to mean so much, meant a great deal, Harold was forced to acknowledge.

He spent the remainder of the day which had begun so auspiciously, wondering if his friend, Edmund Airey, meant to tell Beatrice some day that he loved her, and, what was very much more important, that he was anxious to marry her.

And then that unworthy doubt of which he had become conscious, returned to him.

If Edmund Airey, who, at first, had merely been attracted to Beatrice with a view of furthering what Helen Craven believed to be her interests, had come to regard her differently—as he, Harold, assumed that he had—might it not be possible, he asked himself, that Beatrice, who had just admitted that she had always had some sort of admiration for Edmund Airey, would———-

“Never, never, never!” he cried. “She is all that is good and true and faithful. She is mine—altogether mine!”

But his mind was in such a condition that the thought which he had tried to crush down, remained with him to torture him.

It should not have been a torturing thought, considering that, a few days before, he had made up his mind that it was his duty to relinquish Beatrice—to go to her and bid her good-bye for ever. To be sure, he had failed to realize this honourable intention of his; but what was honourable at one time was honourable at another, so that the thought of something occurring to bring about the separation for which he had professed to be so anxious, should not have been a great trouble to him—it should have been just the contrary.

The next day found him in the same condition. The thought occurred to him, “What if, at this very moment, Edmund Airey is with her, endeavouring to increase that admiration which he must know Beatrice entertains for him?” The thought was not a consoling one. Its effect was to make him think very severely of the laxity of Mr. Avon’s ménage, which would make possible such an interview as he had just imagined. It was a terrible thing, he thought, for a father to show so utter a disregard for his responsibilities as to——-

But here he reflected upon something that had occurred to him in connection with tête-à-tête interviews, and he thought it better not to pursue his course of indignant denunciation of the eminent historian.

He put on an overcoat and went to pay a visit to his sister, who, he had heard the previous day, was in town for a short time. In another week she would be entertaining a large party for the pheasant-shooting at her country-house in Brackenshire, and Harold was to be her guest as well as Edmund Airey and Helen Craven. It was to this visit that Lord Fotheringay had alluded in the course of his chamber interview with his son at Castle Innisfail.

Harold had now made up his mind that he would not be able to join his sister’s party, and he thought it better to tell her so than to write to her to this effect.

Mrs. Lampson was not at home, the servant said, when he had knocked at the door of the house in Eaton Square. A party was expected for lunch, however, so that she would probably return within half an hour.

Harold said he would wait for his sister, and went upstairs.

There was one person already in the drawingroom and that person was Lord Fotheringay.

Harold greeted him, and found that he was in an extremely good humour. He had never been in better health, he declared. He felt, he said, as young as the best of them—he prudently refrained from defining them—and he was still of the opinion that the Home—the dear old English Home—was where true and lasting happiness alone was to be found; and he meant to try the Principality of Monaco later on; for November was too awful in any part of Britain. Yes, he had seen the influence of the Home upon exiles in various parts of the world. Had he not seen strong men weep like children—like innocent children—at the sight of an English post-mark—the post-mark of a simple English village? Why had they wept, he asked his son, with the well-gloved forefinger of the professional moralist outstretched?

His son declined to hazard an answer.

They had wept those tears—those bitter tears—Lord Fotheringay said, with solemn emphasis, because their thoughts went back to that village home of theirs—the father, the mother, perhaps a sister—who could tell?

“Ah, my boy,” he continued, “‘’Mid pleasures and palaces’—‘’mid pleasures and’—by the way, I looked in at the Rivoli Palace last night. I heard that there was a woman at that place who did a new dance. I saw it. A new dance! My dear boy, it wasn’t new when I saw it first, and that’s—ah, never mind—it’s some years ago. I was greatly disappointed with it. There’s nothing indecent in it—I will say that for it—but there’s nothing enlivening. Ah, the old home of burlesque—the old home—that’s what I was talking about—the Home—the sentiment of the Home—”

“Of burlesque?” suggested Harold.

“Of the devil, sir,” said his father. “Don’t try to be clever; it’s nearly as bad as being insolent. What about that girl—Helen Craven, I mean? Have you seen her since you came to town? She’s here. She’ll be at Ella’s next week. Perhaps it will be your last chance. Heavens above! To think that a pauper like you should need to be urged to marry such a girl! A girl with two hundred thousand pounds in cash—a girl belonging to one of the best families in all—in all Birmingham. Harold, don’t be a fool! Such a chance doesn’t come every day.”

Just then Mrs Lampson entered the room and with her, her latest discovery, the Coming Dramatist.

Mrs Lampson was invariably making discoveries. But they were mostly discoveries of quartz; they contained a certain proportion of gold, to be sure; but when it came to the crushing, they did not yield enough of the precious metal to pay the incidental expenses of the plant for the working.

She had discovered poets and poetesses—the latter by the score. She had discovered at least one Genius in black and white—his genius being testified by his refusal to work; and she had discovered a pianoforte Genius—his genius being proved by the dishevelment of his hair. The man who had the reputation for being the Greatest Living Atheist was a welcome guest at her house, and the most ridiculous of living socialists boasted of having dined at her table.

She was foremost in every philanthropic movement, and wrote articles to the magazines, lamenting the low tone of modern society in London.

She also sneered (in private) at Lady Innisfail. Her latest discovery, the Coming Dramatist, had had, he proudly declared, his plays returned to him by the best managers in London, and by the one conscientious manager in the United States—the last mentioned had not prepaid the postage, he lamented.

He was a fearful joy to cherish; but Mrs. Lampson listened to his egotism at lunch, and tried to prevent her other guests from listening to him.

They would not understand him, she thought, and she did not make a mistake in this matter.

She got rid of him as soon as possible, and once more breathed freely. He had not disgraced her—that was so much in his favour. The same could not always be said of her discoveries.

The Christian Dynamitard was, people said, the only gentleman who had ever been introduced ta society by Mrs. Lampson.

When Harold found his sister alone, he explained to her that it would be impossible for him to join her party at Abbeylands—Mr. Lampson’s Bracken-shire place—and his sister laughed and said she supposed that he had something better on his hands. He assured her that he had nothing better, only—

“There, there,” said she, “I don’t want you to invent an excuse. You would only have met people whom you know.”

“Of course,” said Harold, “you’re not foolish enough to ask your discoveries down to shoot pheasants. I should like to see some of them in a battue with my best enemies. Yes, I’d hire a window, with pleasure.”

“Didn’t he behave well—the Coming Dramatist?” said she, earnestly. “You cannot say he didn’t behave well—at least for a Coming Person.”

“He behaved—wonderfully,” said Harold. “Good-bye.”

She followed him to the door of the room—nay, outside.

“By the bye,” said she, in a whisper; “do you know anything of a Miss Avon?”

“Miss Avon?” said Harold. “Miss Avon. Why, if she is the daughter of Julius Anthony Avon, the historian, we met her at Castle Innisfail. Why do you ask me, Ella?”

“It is so funny,” said she. “Yesterday Mr. Airey called upon me, and before he left he begged of me to call upon her, and even hinted—he has got infinite tact—that she would make a charming addition to our party at Abbeylands.”

“Ah,” said Harold.

“And just now papa has been whispering to me about this same Miss Avon. He commanded me—papa has no tact—to invite her to join us for a week. I wonder what that means.”

“What what means?”

“That—Mr. Airey and papa.”

“Great Heaven! Ella, what should it mean, except that two men, for whom we have had a nominal respect, have gone over to the majority of fools?”

“Oh, is that all? I was afraid that—ah, good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”