The incomplete amorist

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Title:TheIncompleteAmorist
Author:E.Nesbit
Illustrator:ClarenceF.Underwood
PostingDate:March22,2013[EBook#9385]
ReleaseDate:November,2005
FirstPosted:September28,2003
Language:English

***STARTOFTHISPROJECTGUTENBERGEBOOKTHEINCOMPLETEAMORIST***

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To
RichardReynoldsandJustusMilesForman
"Fairenaitreundésir,lenourrir,ledévelopper,legrandir,lesatisfaire,c'estun
poemetoutentier."
—Balzac.

wfrontis.jpg(144K)

CONTENTS
BOOKI.THEGIRL
ChapterI.
TheInevitable
ChapterII.
TheIrresistible
ChapterIII.
Voluntary
ChapterIV. Involuntary
ChapterV.
ThePrisoner
ChapterVI.
TheCriminal
ChapterVII.
TheEscape

BOOKII.THEMAN
ChapterVIII.
TheOneandtheOther
ChapterIX.
TheOpportunity
ChapterX.
SeeingLife
ChapterXI.
TheThought
ChapterXII.
TheRescue
ChapterXIII. Contrasts
ChapterXIV.
Renunciation

BOOKIII.THEOTHERWOMAN
ChapterXV.
ChapterXVI.
ChapterXVII.

OnMountParnassus
"LoveandTupper"
Interventions


ChapterXVIII. TheTruth
ChapterXIX.
TheTruthwithaVengeance
ChapterXX.
Waking-upTime

BOOKIV.THEOTHERMAN
ChapterXXI.
TheFlight
ChapterXXII. TeLunatic
ChapterXXIII. Temperatures
ChapterXXIV. TheConfessional
ChapterXXV. TheForest
ChapterXXVI. TheMiracle
ChapterXXVII. ThePinkSilkStory
ChapterXXVIII. "Andso—"


PEOPLEOFTHESTORY

EustaceVernon.
TheIncompleteAmorist
BettyDesmond
TheGirl
TheRev.CecilUnderwood
HerStep-Father
MissJuliaDesmond
HerAunt
RobertTemple
TheOtherMan
LadySt.Craye
TheOtherWoman
MissVoscoe
TheArtStudent
MadameChevillon
TheInn-KeeperatCrez
PaulaConway
ASoulinHell
MimiChantal
AModel
VillageMatrons,Concierges,ArtStudents,Etc.


LISTOFILLUSTRATIONS
"'Oh,whatapity,'saidBettyfromtheheart,'thatwearen't
introducednow!'"
"'Ah,don'tbecross!'shesaid."
"Bettystaredathimcoldly."
"Bettylookednervouslyaround—thescenewasagitatingly
unfamiliar."

"Unfinished,butadisquietinglikeness."
"'No,thankyou:it'salldonenow.'"
"Onthefurtherarmofthechairsat,laughingalso,avery
prettyyoungwoman."
"Thenextmorningbroughthimaletter."


Book1.—TheGirl

CHAPTERI.
THEINEVITABLE.
"No.Thechemisesaren'tcutout.Ihaven'thadtime.Thereareenoughshirtsto
goonwith,aren'tthere,Mrs.James?"saidBetty.
"We can make do for this afternoon, Miss, but the men they're getting blowed
out with shirts. It's the children's shifts as we can't make shift without much
longer."Mrs.James,habituallydoleful,punctuatedherspeechwithsniffs.
"That'sajoke,Mrs.James,"saidBetty."Howcleveryouare!"
"Itrytobewhat'sfitting,"saidMrs.James,complacently.
"Talkoffitting,"saidBetty,"IfyoulikeI'llfitonthatblackbodiceforyou,Mrs.
Symes.Iftheotherladiesdon'tmindwaitingforthereadingalittlebit."
"I'd aslief talk asread,myself,"saidared-facedsandy-hairedwoman;"books
ain'twhattheywasinmyyoungdays."
"Ifit'sthesametoyou,Miss,"saidMrs.Symesinathickrichvoice,"I'llnotbe
triedonaforearoomfull.Ifwearepoorwecanallbeclean'swhatIsay,andI
keeps my unders as I keeps my outside. But not before persons as has real
imitationlaceontheirpetticoatbodies.IseethemwhenIwasa-nursingherwith
herfourth.No,Miss,andthankingyoukindly,butbeggingyourpardonallthe
same."
"Don't mention it," said Betty absently. "Oh, Mrs. Smith, you can't have lost
yourthimblealready.Whywhat'sthatyou'vegotinyourmouth?"

"So it is!" Mrs. Smith's face beamed at the gratifying coincidence. "It always


wasmyhabit,fromachild,toputthingsthereforsafety."
"Thesecheapthimblesain'tfittoputinyourmouth,nomorethancoppers,"said
Mrs.James,hermouthfullofpins.
"Oh, nothing hurts you if you like it," said Betty recklessly. She had been
readingtheworksofMr.G.K.Chesterton.
Ashockedmurmurarose.
"Oh, Miss, what about the publy kows?" said Mrs. Symes heavily. The others
noddedacquiescence.
"Don'tyouthinkwemighthaveawindowopen?"saidBetty.TheMaysunshine
beatontheschoolroomwindows.Theroom,crowdedwiththestoutmembersof
the"Mother'sMeetingandMutualClothingClub,"wasstuffy,unbearable.
Amurmurarosefarmoreshockedthanthefirst.
"Iwasjusta-goin'tosaywhynotclosethedoor,thatbeingwhatdoorsismade
for,afterall,"saidMrs.Symes."Ifeelasortofdraughta-creepingupmylegsas
itis."
Thedoorwasshut.
"You can't be too careful," said the red-faced woman; "we never know what a
chill mayn't bring forth. My cousin's sister-in-law, she had twins, and her aunt
comeinandsaysshe,'You'reabitstuffyhere,ain'tyou?'andwiththatsheopens
the window a crack,—not meaning no harm, Miss,—as it might be you. And
withinayearthatpoorunfortunatewomanshepoppedoff,whenleastexpected.
Gasulsters,thedoctorsaid.Whichit'swhatyoucallchills,ifyou'readoctorand
can'tspeakplain."
"Mypoorgrandmothercometoherendthesameway,"saidMrs.Smith,"only
withheritwastheBiblereaderasdidn'tshutthedoorthroughbeingsoseton
shewingoffherreading.Andmygranny,aclotofbloodwenttoherbrain,and
herbrainwenttoherheadandshewasacorpseinsideoffiftyminutes."

Everywomanintheroomwaswaiting,feverishlyalert,forthepausethatshould
allowhertobeginherowndetailednarrativeofdisease.


Mrs.Jameswaseasilyfirstinthecompetition.
"Them quick deaths," she said, "is sometimes a blessing in disguise to both
partiesconcerned.Mypoorhusband—yearsuponyearshelingered,andhehad
a bad leg—talk of bad legs, I wish you could all have seen it," she added
generously.
"Was it the kind that keeps all on a-breaking out?" asked Mrs. Symes hastily,
"becausemyyoungestbrotherhadalegthatnothingcouldn'tstop.Breakoutit
woulddowhattheymight.I'msurethebandagesI'vetookoffhiminamorning
—"
Bettyclappedherhands.
Itwasthesignalthatthereadingwasgoingtobegin,andthematronslookedat
herresentfully.Whatcallhadpeopletostartreadingwhenthetalkwasflowing
sofreeandpleasant?
Betty, rather pale, began: "This is a story about a little boy called Wee Willie
Winkie."
"Icallthatasillysortofname,"whisperedMrs.Smith.
"Didhemakeagoodend,Miss?"askedMrs.Jamesplaintively.
"You'llsee,"saidBetty.
"Ilikeitbestwhentheydiesforgivingofeverybodyandsinginghymnstothe
last."
"And when they says, 'Mother, I shall meet you 'ereafter in the better land'—
that'swhatmakesyoucrysopleasant."
"Doyouwantmetoreadornot?"askedBettyindesperation.
"Yes,Miss,yes,"hummedthevoicesheavyandshrill.
"It's her hobby, poor young thing," whispered Mrs. Smith, "we all 'as 'em. My
ownisalightcaketomytea,andalwayswas.Ush."

Bettyread.
Whenthemothershadwordilygone,shethrewopenthewindows,proppedthe
doorwidewithachair,andwenttotea.Shehaditalone.
"YourPa'souta-parishing,"saidLetitia,bumpingdownthetrayinfrontofher.
"That'salet-offanyhow,"saidBettytoherself,andsheproppedupaStevenson
againstthetea-pot.
After tea parishioners strolled up by ones and twos and threes to change their
booksattheVicaragelendinglibrary.Thebookswerecoveredwithblackcalico,
andsmeltofroomswhosewindowswereneveropened.
Whenshehadwashedthesmellofthebooksoff,shedidherhairverycarefully
inanewwaythatseemedbecoming,andwentdowntosupper.
Her step-father only spoke once during the meal; he was luxuriating in the
thought of the Summa Theologiae of Aquinas in leather still brown and
beautiful,whichhehadprovidentiallydiscoveredinthewash-houseofanailing
Parishioner.Whenhedidspeakhesaid:
"Howextremelyuntidyyourhairis,Lizzie.Iwishyouwouldtakemorepains
withyourappearance."
When he had withdrawn to his books she covered three new volumes for the
library:theblackcameoffonherhands,butanywayitwascleandirt.
Shewenttobedearly.
"Andthat'smylife,"shesaidassheblewoutthecandle.
SaidMrs.JamestoMrs.Symesoverthelastandstrongestcupoftea:
"Miss Betty's ailing a bit, I fancy. Looked a bit peaky, it seemed to me. I
shouldn'twonderifshewastogooffinadeclinelikeherfatherdid."
"Itwasn'tnodecline,"saidMrs.Symes,droppingherthickvoice,"'ewascutoff
inthemidstofhiswickedcourses.Ajudgmentifevertherewasone."

Betty'sblamelessfatherhadbeenkilledinthehuntingfield.
"I daresay she takes after him, only being a female it all turns to her being
pernickety in her food and allus wanting the windows open. And mark my
words,itmayturnintoadeclineyet,Mrs.Symes,mydear."
Mrs.Symeslaughedfatly."Thatain'tnodecline,"shesaid,"youtakeitfromme.
WhatMiss Bettywantsisayoungman.Itisbutnatureafterall,andwhatwe
mustallcometo,gentleorsimple.Giveherayoungmantowalkoutwithand
you'llseethedifference.Declineindeed!Ayoungman'swhatshewants.Andif
Iknowanythingofgellsandtheirwaysshe'llgetone,nomatterhowclosethe
oldchapkeepsher."
Mrs.Symeswasnotsowrongasthedelicatemindedmaysuppose.
Bettydidindeeddesiretofallinlove.Inallthestorybooksthemaininterestof
the heroine's career began with that event. Not that she voiced the desire to
herself.Onlyonceshevoiceditinherprayers.
"Oh,God,"shesaid,"dopleaseletsomethinghappen!"
That was all. A girl had her little reticences, even with herself, even with her
Creator.
Next morning she planned to go sketching; but no, there were three more
detestablebookstobeputintonastylittleblackcottoncoats,thedrawing-room
tobedusted—allthehatefulchina—thepeastobeshelledfordinner.
She shelled the peas in the garden. It was a beautiful green garden, and lovers
couldhavewalkedveryhappilydownthelilac-borderedpaths.
"Oh,howsickIamofitall!"saidBetty.Shewouldnotsay,eventoherself,that
whatshehatedwastheframewithoutthepicture.
As she carried in the peas she passed the open window of the study where,
amongshelvesofdullbooksanddustypamphlets,herstep-fatherhadasusual
forgottenhissermoninachainofreferencestotheFathers.Bettysawhisthin
white hairs, his hard narrow face and tight mouth, the hands yellow and clawlikethatgrippedthethinvellumfolio.

"I suppose even he was young once," she said, "but I'm sure he doesn't
rememberit."
Hesawhergoby,youngandalertinthesunshine,andtheMayairstirredthe
curtains.Helookedvaguelyabouthim,unlockedadrawerinhiswriting-table,
andtookoutaleathercase.Hegazedlongatthefacewithin,ayoungbrightface
withlongringletsabovetheformalbodiceandslopingshouldersofthesixties.
"Well,well,"hesaid,"well,well,"lockeditaway,andwentbacktoDePoenis
Parvulorum.
"Iwillgoout,"saidBetty,asshepartedwiththepeas."Idon'tcare!"
It was not worth while to change one's frock. Even when one was properly
dressed, at rare local garden-party or flower-show, one never met anyone that
mattered.
Shefetchedhersketchingthings.Ateighteenonedoessopatheticallytrytofeed
the burgeoning life with the husks of polite accomplishment. She insisted on
withholdingfromtheclutchesoftheParishthetimetopractiseBeethovenand
Sullivanforanhourdaily.Daily,forhalfanhour,shereadanimprovingbook.
JustnowitwasTheFrenchRevolution,andBettythoughtitwouldlasttillshe
wassixty.ShetriedtoreadFrenchandGerman—TélémaqueandMariaStuart.
She fully intended to become all that a cultured young woman should be. But
self-improvementisadullgamewhenthereisnoonetoapplaudyourscore.
What the gardener called the gravel path was black earth, moss-grown. Very
pretty,butBettythoughtitshabby.
Itwassoftandcool,though,tothefeet,andthedustofthewhiteroadsparkled
likediamonddustinthesunlight.
Shecrossedtheroadandpassedthroughtheswinggateintothepark,wherethe
grasswasupforhay,withredsorrelandbuttercupsandtalldaisiesandfeathery
flowered grasses, their colours all tangled and blended together like ravelled
endsofsilkonthewrongsideofsomegreatsquareoftapestry.Hereandtherein
the wide sweep of tall growing things stood a tree—a may-tree shining like
silver, a laburnum like fine gold. There were horse-chestnuts whose spires of

blossomshewedlikefatcandlesonaChristmastreeforgiantchildren.Andthe
sunwaswarmandthetreeshadowsblackonthegrass.


Bettytoldherselfthatshehateditall.Shetookthenarrowpath—thegrassesmet
aboveherfeet—crossedthepark,andreachedtherabbitwarren,wherethechalk
breaksthroughthethindryturf,andthewildthymegrowsthick.
Amaybush,overhangingalittleprecipiceofchalk,caughthereye.Awildrose
wastangledroundit.Itwas,withoutdoubt,themostdifficultcompositionwithin
sight.
"Iwillsketchthat,"saidEighteen,confidently.
For half an hour she busily blotted and washed and niggled. Then she became
awarethatshenolongerhadtherabbitwarrentoherself.
"Andhe'sanartist,too!"saidBetty."Howawfullyinteresting!IwishIcouldsee
hisface."
ButthishisslouchedPanamaforbade.Hewasinwhite,thesleeveandbreastof
hispaintingjacketsmearedwithmanycolours;hehadacamp-stoolandaneasel
andlooked,shecouldnothelpfeeling,muchmorelikearealartistthanshedid,
hunchedupasshewasonalittlemoundofturf,inhershabbypinkgownand
thathatefulgardenhatwithlastyear'sdustyflattenedrosesinit.
She went on sketching with feverish unskilled fingers, and a pulse that had
actuallyquickeneditsbeat.
Shecastlittleglancesathimasoftenasshedared.Hewascertainlyarealartist.
She could tell that by the very way he held his palette. Was he staying with
people about there? Should she meet him? Would they ever be introduced to
eachother?
"Oh,whatapity,"saidBettyfromtheheart,"thatwearen'tintroducednow!"

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Hersketchgrewworseandworse.
"It'snogood,"shesaid."Ican'tdoanythingwithit."
Sheglancedathim.Hehadpushedbackthehat.Shesawquiteplainlythathe
wassmiling—averylittle,buthewassmiling.Alsohewaslookingather,and
acrossthefifteenyardsofgrayturftheireyesmet.Andsheknewthatheknew
thatthiswasnotherfirstglanceathim.
Shepaledwithfury.
"He has been watching me all the time! He is making fun of me. He knows I
can'tsketch.OfcoursehecanseeitbythesillywayIholdeverything."Sheran
herknifearoundhersketch,detachedit,andtoreitacrossandacross.
Thestrangerraisedhishatandcalledeagerly.
"I say—please don't move for a minute. Do you mind? I've just got your pink
gown. It's coming beautifully. Between brother artists—Do, please! Do sit still
andgoonsketching—Ah,do!"
Betty'sattitudepetrifiedinstantly.Sheheldabrushinherhand,andshelooked
down at her block. But she did not go on sketching. She sat rigid and three
delicious words rang in her ears: "Between brother artists!" How very nice of
him!Hehadn'tbeenmakingfun,afterall.Butwasn'titratherimpertinentofhim
toputherinhispicturewithoutaskingher?Well,itwasn'tshebutherpinkgown
hewanted.And"betweenbrotherartists!"Bettydrewalongbreath.
"It'snouse,"hecalled;"don'tbotheranymore.Theposeisgone."
Sherosetoherfeetandhecametowardsher.
"Letmeseethesketch,"hesaid."Whydidyoutearitup?"Hefittedthepieces
together."Why,it'squitegood.YououghttostudyinParis,"headdedidly.
Shetookthetornpapersfromhishandwithabow,andturnedtogo.
"Don'tgo,"hesaid."You'renotgoing?Don'tyouwanttolookatmypicture?"
NowBettyknewaswellasyoudothatyoumusn'tspeaktopeopleunlessyou've

been introduced to them. But the phrase "brother artists" had played ninepins
withherlittleconventions.
"Thankyou.Ishouldliketoverymuch,"saidBetty."Idon'tcare,"shesaidto
herself,"andbesides,it'snotasifhewereayoungman,oratourist,oranything.
Hemustbeeversoold—thirty;Ishouldn'twonderifhewasthirty-five."
Whenshesawthepictureshemerelysaid,"Oh,"andstoodatgaze.Foritwasa
picture—a picture that, seen in foreign lands, might well make one sick with
longingforthedryturfandthepaledogvioletsthatlovethechalk,forthehum
of the bees and the scent of the thyme. He had chosen the bold sweep of the
brownuplandagainstthesky,andlowtotheleft,wherethelinebroke,thedim
violetoftheKentishhills.Inthegreenforegroundthepinkfigure,justroughly
blockedin,wasblockedinbyahandthatknewitstrade,andwasartisttothe
tipsofitsfingers.
"Oh!"saidBettyagain.
"Yes,"saidhe,"IthinkI'vegotitthistime.Ithinkit'llmakeaholeinthewall,
eh?Yes;itisgood!"
"Yes,"saidBetty;"oh,yes."
"Doyouoftengoa-sketching?"heasked.
"Howmodestheis,"thoughtBetty;"hechangesthesubjectsoasnottoseemto
wanttobepraised."
Aloud she answered with shy fluttered earnestness: "Yes—no. I don't know.
Sometimes."
His lips were grave, but there was the light behind his eyes that goes with a
smile.
"Whatunnecessaryagitation!"hewasthinking."Poorlittlething,Isupposeshe's
neverseenamanbefore.Oh,thesecountrygirls!"Aloudhewassaying:"Thisis
suchaperfectcountry.Yououghttosketcheveryday."
"I'venoonetoteachme,"saidBetty,innocentlyphrasingalong-feltwant.

Themanraisedhiseyebrows."Well,afterthat,heregoes!"hesaidtohimself."I
wishyou'dletmeteachyou,"hesaidtoher,beginningtoputhistrapstogether.
"Oh,Ididn'tmeanthat,"saidBettyinrealdistress.Whatwouldhethinkofher?
Howgreedyandgraspingshemustseem!"Ididn'tmeanthatatall!"
"No;butIdo,"hesaid.
"But you're a great artist," said Betty, watching him with clasped hands. "I
suppose it would be—I mean—don't you know, we're not rich, and I suppose
yourlessonsareworthpoundsandpounds."
"Idon'tgivelessonsformoney,"hislipstightened—"onlyforlove."
"That means nothing, doesn't it?" she said, and flushed to find herself on the
defensivefeeblyagainst—nothing.
"Attennis,yes,"hesaid,andtohimselfheadded:"Vieuxjeu,mydear,butyou
diditveryprettily."
"ButIcouldn'tletyougivemelessonsfornothing."
"Whynot?"heasked.AndhiscalmnessmadeBettyfeelashamedandsordid.
"I don't know," she answered tremulously, "but I don't think my step-father
wouldwantmeto."
"Youthinkitwouldannoyhim?"
"I'msureitwould,ifheknewaboutit."
Bettywasthinkinghowlittleherstep-fatherhadevercaredtoknowofherand
herinterests.Butthemancaughttheballashesawit.
"Thenwhylethimknow?"wasthenextmove;anditseemedtohimthatBetty's
moveofrejoindercamewithareadinessbornofsomepracticeatthegame.
"Oh,"shesaidinnocently,"Ineverthoughtofthat!Butwouldn'titbewrong?"
"She'sgotthewholethingstereotyped.Butit'sdaintytypeanyhow,"hethought.
"Ofcourseitwouldn'tbewrong,"hesaid."Itwouldn'thurthim.Don'tyouknow


thatnothing'swrongunlessithurtssomebody?"
"Yes,"shesaideagerly,"that'swhatIthink.Butallthesameitdoesn'tseemfair

thatyoushouldtakeallthattroubleformeandgetnothinginreturn."
"Well played! We're getting on!" he thought, and added aloud: "But perhaps I
shan'tgetnothinginreturn?"
Her eyes dropped over the wonderful thought that perhaps she might do
something for him. But what? She looked straight at him, and the innocent
appealsentatinythornofdoubtthroughhisarmourofcomplacency.Wasshe—
afterall?No,nonovicecouldplaythegamesowell.Andyet—
"I would do anything I could, you know," she said eagerly, "because it is so
awfullykindofyou,andIdosowanttobeabletopaint.WhatcanIdo?"
"Whatcanyoudo?"heasked,andbroughthisfacealittlenearertothepretty
flushed freckled face under the shabby hat. Her eyes met his. He felt a quick
relenting,anddrewback.
"Well,foronethingyoucouldletmepaintyourportrait."
Bettywassilent.
"Come,playup,youlittleduffer,"heurgedinwardly.
Whenshespokehervoicetrembled.
"Idon'tknowhowtothankyou,"shesaid.
"Andyouwill?"
"Oh,Iwill;indeedIwill!"
"Howgoodandsweetyouare,"hesaid.Thentherewasasilence.
Bettytightenedthestrapofhersketchingthingsandsaid:
"IthinkIoughttogohomenow."
Hehadtheappropriatecounterready.


"Ah,don'tgoyet!"hesaid;"letussitdown;see,thatbankisquiteintheshade
now,andtellme—"
"Tellyouwhat?"sheasked,forhehadmadetheartisticpause.
"Oh,anything—anythingaboutyourself."
Bettywasasincapableofflightasanybirdonalimedtwig.

Shewalkedbesidehimtothebank,andsatdownathisbidding,andhelayat
herfeet,lookingupintohereyes.Heaskedidlequestions:sheansweredthem
with a conscientious tremulous truthfulness that showed to him as the most
finishedart.Anditseemedtohimaveryfortunateaccidentthatheshouldhave
foundhere,inthisunlikelyspot,soaccomplishedaplayerathisfavoritegame.
Yetitwasthevarietyofhisgameforwhichhecaredleast.Hedidnotgreatly
relish a skilled adversary. Betty told him nervously and in words ill-chosen
everythingthatheaskedtoknow,butallthewhiletheundercurrentofquestions
rang strong within her—"When is he to teach me? Where? How?"—so that
whenatlasttherewasleftbutthebarefifteenminutesneededtogetonehomein
timeforthemiddaydinnershesaidabruptly:
"AndwhenshallIseeyouagain?"
"Youtakethewordsoutofmymouth,"saidhe.Andindeedshehad."Shehasno
finesseyet,"hetoldhimself."Shemighthaveleftthatmovetome."
"Thelessons,youknow,"saidBetty,"and,andthepicture,ifyoureallydowant
todoit."
"IfIwanttodoit!—YouknowIwanttodoit.Yes.It'slikethenurserygame.
How,whenandwhere?Well,astothehow—Icanpaintandyoucanlearn.The
where—there'sacircleofpinesinthewoodhere.Youknowit?Asortofgiant
fairyring?"
Shedidknowit.
"Nowforthewhen—andthat'sthemostimportant.Ishouldliketopaintyouin
theearlymorningwhenthedayisyoungandinnocentandbeautiful—like—like
—" He was careful to break off in a most natural seeming embarrassment.
"That's a bit thick, but she'll swallow it all right. Gone down? Right!" he told


himself.
"Icouldcomeoutatsixifyouliked,or—orfive,"saidBetty,humblyanxiousto
doherpart.

Hewasalmostshocked."Mygoodchild,"hetoldhersilently,"someonereally
oughttoteachyounottodoalltherunning.Youdon'tgiveamanachance."
"Thenwillyoumeetmehereto-morrowatsix?"hesaid."Youwon'tdisappoint
me,willyou?"headdedtenderly.
"No,"saiddownrightBetty,"I'llbesuretocome.Butnotto-morrow,"sheadded
withundisguisedregret;"to-morrow'sSunday."
"Mondaythen,"saidhe,"andgood-bye."
"Good-bye,and—oh,Idon'tknowhowtothankyou!"
"I'mverymuchmistakenifyoudon't,"hesaidashestoodbareheaded,watching
thepinkgownoutofsight.
"Well,adventurestotheadventurous!Aclergyman'sdaughter,too!Imighthave
knownit."

CHAPTERII.
THEIRRESISTIBLE.
Bettyhadtorunallthewayhome,andthenshewaslatefordinner.Herstepfather'sdryfaceanddustyclothes,thesolidcomfortofthemahoganyfurnished
diningroom,thewarmwetscentofmutton,—theseseemedneededtowakeher
fromwhatwas,whenshehadawakened,adream—theopensky,thesweetairof
theMayfieldsandHim.AlreadythestrangerwasHimtoBetty.But,then,she
didnotknowhisname.


Sheslippedintoherplaceatthefootofthelongwhitediningtable,atablebuilt
to serve a dozen guests, and where no guests ever sat, save rarely a curate or
two,andmorerarelyeven,anaunt.
"Youarelateagain,Lizzie,"saidherstep-father.
"Yes,Father,"saidshe,tryingtohideherhandsandthefactthatshehadnothad
time to wash them. A long streak of burnt sienna marked one finger, and her
nailshadlittleslicesofvariouscoloursinthem.Herpaint-boxwasalwayshard
toopen.

Usually Mr. Underwood saw nothing. But when he saw anything he saw
everything.Hiseyewascaughtbythegreensmudgeonherpinksleeve.
"Iwishyouwouldcontrivetokeepyourselfclean,orelsewearapinafore,"he
said.
Bettyflushedscarlet.
"I'mverysorry,"shesaid,"butit'sonlywatercolour.Itwillwashout."
"Youarenearlytwenty,areyounot?"theVicarinquiredwiththedrysmilethat
always infuriated his step-daughter. How was she to know that it was the only
smileheknew,andthatsmilesofanysorthadlonggrowndifficulttohim?
"Eighteen,"shesaid.
"Itisalmosttimeyoubegantothinkaboutbeingalady."
This was badinage. No failures had taught the Reverend Cecil that his stepdaughter had an ideal of him in which badinage had no place. She merely
supposedthathewishedtobedisagreeable.
Shekeptamutinoussilence.Theoldmansighed.Itisone'sdutytocorrectthe
faultsofone'schild,butitisnotpleasant.TheReverendCecilhadnotthehabit
ofshirkinganydutybecausehehappenedtodislikeit.
Themuttonwastakenaway.
Betty,herwholebeingtransfiguredbytheemotionsofthemorning,stirredthe


stewedrhubarbonherplate.Shefeltrisinginherasortofwildforlorncourage.
Whyshouldn'tshespeakout?Herstep-fathercouldn'thatehermorethanhedid,
whatevershesaid.Hemightevenbegladtoberidofher.Shespokesuddenly
andratherloudlybeforesheknewthatshehadmeanttospeakatall.
"Father,"shesaid,"Iwishyou'dletmegotoParisandstudyart.Notnow,"she
hurriedlyexplainedwithasuddenvisionofbeingtakenatherwordandpacked
offtoFrancebeforesixo'clockonMondaymorning,"notnow,butlater.Inthe
autumnperhaps.Iwouldworkveryhard.Iwishyou'dletme."
Heputonhisspectaclesandlookedatherwithwistfulkindness.Shereadinhis
glanceonlyafrozencontempt.

"No,mychild,"hesaid."Parisisasinkofiniquity.Ipassedaweekthereonce,
many years ago. It was at the time of the Great Exhibition. You are growing
discontented, Lizzie. Work is the cure for that. Mrs. Symes tells me that the
chemisesfortheMother'ssewingmeetingsarenotcutoutyet."
"I'll cut them out to-day. They haven't finished the shirts yet, anyway," said
Betty;"butIdowishyou'djustthinkaboutParis,orevenLondon."
"Youcanhavelessonsathomeifyoulike.Ibelievethereareexcellentdrawingmistresses in Sevenoaks. Mrs. Symes was recommending one of them to me
onlytheotherday.WithcertificatesfromtheHighSchoolIseemtoremember
hersaying."
"Butthat'snotwhatIwant,"saidBettywithacouragethatsurprisedherasmuch
as it surprised him. "Don't you see, Father? One gets older every day, and
presentlyIshallbequiteold,andIshan'thavebeenanywhereorseenanything."
Hethoughthelaughedindulgentlyatthefollyofyouth.Shethoughthislaugh
themostcontemptuous,thecruelestsoundintheworld."Hedoesn'tdeservethat
IshouldtellhimaboutHim,"shethought,"andIwon't.Idon'tcare!"
"No, no," he said, "no, no, no. The home is the place for girls. The safe quiet
shelterofthehome.Perhapssomedayyourhusbandwilltakeyouabroadfora
fortnightnowandthen.Ifyoumanagetogetahusband,thatis."
Hehadseen,throughhisspectacles,herflushedprettiness,andoldashewashe
remembered well enough how a face like hers would seem to a young man's


eyes.Ofcourseshewouldgetahusband?Sohespokeinkindlyirony.Andshe
hatedhimforawantoninsult.
"Trytodoyourdutyinthatstateoflifetowhichyouarecalled,"hewenton:
"occupy yourself with music and books and the details of housekeeping. No,
don'thavemystudyturnedout,"headdedinhaste,rememberinghowhisadvice
about household details had been followed when last he gave it. "Don't be a
discontentedchild.Goandcutoutthenicelittlechemises."Thisseemedtohim
almostatouchofkindlyhumour,andhewentbacktoAugustine,pleasedwith

himself.
Bettysetherteethandwent,blackrageinherheart,tocutoutthehatefullittle
chemises.
She dragged the great roll of evil smelling grayish unbleached calico from the
schoolroom cupboard and heaved it on to the table. It was very heavy. The
scissorswerebluntandleftdeepred-blueindentationsonfingerandthumb.She
wasratherpleasedthatthescissorshurtsomuch.
"Fatherdoesn'tcareasinglebit,hehatesme,"shesaid,"andIhatehim.Oh,I
do."
She would not think of the morning. Not now, with this fire of impotent
resentmentburninginher,wouldshetakeoutthosememoriesandlookatthem.
Those were not thoughts to be dragged through the litter of unbleached cotton
cuttings. She worked on doggedly, completed the tale of hot heavy little
garments, gatheredupthepiecesinto thewaste-paperbasketandputawaythe
roll.
Nottillthepainthadbeenwashedfromherhands,andthecrumbledprintdress
exchanged for a quite respectable muslin did she consciously allow the
morning'smemoriestocomeoutandmeethereyes.Thenshewentdowntothe
arbourwhereshehadshelledpeasonlythatmorning.
"It seems years and years ago," she said. And sitting there, she slowly and
carefullywentovereverything.Whathehadsaid,whatshehadsaid.Therewere
some things she could not quite remember. But she remembered enough.
"Brotherartists"werethewordsshesaidoftenesttoherself,butthewordsthat
sankthemselveswere,"youngandinnocentandbeautifullike—like—"


"Buthecouldn'thavemeantme,ofcourse,"shetoldherself.
AndonMondayshewouldseehimagain,—andhewouldgiveheralesson!
Sundaywasincrediblywearisome.HerSunday-schoolclasshadneverbeenso
tiresome nor so soaked in hair-oil. In church she was shocked to find herself

watching,fromherpewinthechancel,theentryoflatecomers—ofwhomHe
wasnotone.Noafternoonhadeverbeenhalfsolong.Shewroteupherdiary.
Thursday and Friday were quickly chronicled. At "Saturday" she paused long,
pen in hand, and then wrote very quickly: "I went out sketching and met a
gentleman,anartist.Hewasverykindandisgoingtoteachmetopaintandheis
goingtopaintmyportrait.Idonotlikehimparticularly.Heisratherold,andnot
reallygood-looking.Ishallnottellfather,becauseheissimplyhatefultome.I
amgoingtomeetthisartistat6to-morrow.Itwillbedreadfulhavingtogetup
soearly.IalmostwishIhadn'tsaidIwouldgo.Itwillbesuchabother."
Thenshehidthediaryina drawer,underherconfirmationdressandveil,and
lockedthedrawercarefully.
Hewasnotatchurchintheeveningeither.Hehadthoughtofit,butdecidedthat
itwastoomuchtroubletogetintodecentclothes.
"Ishallseehersoonenough,"hethought,"cursemyimpulsivegenerosity!Six
o'clock,forsooth,andalltopleaseaclergyman'sdaughter."
Shecamebackfromchurchwithtiredsteps.
"IdohopeI'mnotgoingtobeill,"shesaid."Ifeelsoodd,justasifIhadn'thad
anythingtoeatfordays,—andyetI'mnotabithungryeither.IdaresayIshan't
wakeupintimetogettherebysix."
Shewasawakebeforefive.
Shewokewithaflutteroftheheart.Whatwasit?Hadanythinghappened?Was
anyone ill? Then she recognized that she was not unhappy. And she felt more
thaneverasthoughitweredayssinceshehadhadanythingtoeat.
"Oh, dear," said Betty, jumping out of bed. "I'm going out, to meet Him, and
haveadrawing-lesson!"


Shedressedquickly.Itwastoosoontostart.Notforanythingmustshebefirstat
the rendezvous, even though it were only for a drawing-lesson. That "only"
pulledherupsharply.

Whenshewasdressedshedugoutthediaryandwrote:
"This is terrible. Is it possible that I have fallen in love with him? I don't
know. 'Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?' It is a most frightful
tragedytohappentoone,andatmyagetoo.Whatalonglifeofloneliness
stretchesinfrontofme!Forofcoursehecouldnevercareforme.Andif
thisislove—well,itwillbeonceandforeverwithme,Iknow.
"That'smynature,I'mafraid.ButI'm not,—Ican'tbe. But Ineverfelt so
unlike myself. I feel a sort of calm exultation, as if something very
wonderfulwasverynearme.DearDiary,whatacomfortitistohaveyouto
telleverythingto!"
Itseemedtoherthatshemustcertainlybelate.Shehadtocreepdownthefront
stairs so very slowly and softly in order that she might not awaken her stepfather.Shehadsocarefullyandsilentlytounfastenawindowandcreepout,to
close the window again, without noise, lest the maids should hear and come
runningtoseewhytheiryoungmistresswasoutofherbedatthathour.Shehad
to go on tiptoe through the shrubbery and out through the church yard. One
couldclimbitswall,andgetintotheParkthatway,soasnottomeetlabourers
ontheroadwhowouldstaretoseeheralonesoearlyandperhapsfollowher.
Onceintheparkshewassafe.Hershoesandherskirtswerewetwithdew.She
madehaste.Shedidnotwanttokeephimwaiting.
Butshewasfirstattherendezvous,afterall.
Shesatdownonthecarpetofpineneedles.Howprettytheearlymorningwas.
Thesunlightwasquitedifferentfromtheeveningsunlight,somuchlighterand
brighter.Andtheshadowsweredifferent.Shetriedtosettleonapointofview
forhersketch,thesketchhewastohelpherwith.
Her thoughts went back to what she had written in her diary. If that should be
trueshemustbevery,verycareful.Hemustneverguessit,never.Shewouldbe
verycoldanddistantandpolite.Nothail-fellowwell-metwitha"brotherartist,"


likeshehadbeenyesterday.Itwasallverydifficultindeed.Evenifitreallydid

turnouttobetrue,ifthewonderfulthinghadhappenedtoher,ifshereallywas
inloveshewouldnottryabittomakehimlikeher.Thatwouldbeforwardand
"horrid." She would never try to attract any man. Those things must come of
themselvesornotatall.
Shearrangedherskirtinmoreeffectivefolds,andwonderedhowitwouldlook
asonecameupthewoodlandpath.Shethoughtitwouldlookratherpicturesque.
It was aniceheliotrope colour. It would looklikeagiant Parmaviolet against
the dark green background. She hoped her hair was tidy. And that her hat was
not very crooked. However little one desires to attract, one may at least wish
one'shattobestraight.
Shelookedforthetwentiethtimeatherwatch,theserviceablesilverwatchthat
hadbeenhermother's.Half-pastsix,andhehadnotcome.
Well,whenhedidcomeshewouldpretendshehadonlyjustgotthere.Orhow
woulditbeifshegaveupbeingaParmavioletandwentalittlewaydownthe
path and then turned back when she heard him coming? She walked away a
dozenyardsandstoodwaiting.Buthedidnotcome.Wasitpossiblethathewas
not coming? Was he ill—lying uncared for at the Peal of Bells in the village,
withnoonetosmoothhispilloworputeau-de-cologneonhishead?
Shewalkedahundredyardsorsotowardsthevillageonthespurofthisthought.
Or perhaps he had come by another way to the trysting place? That thought
droveherback.Hewasnotthere.
Well, she would not stay any longer. She would just go away, and come back
eversomuchlater,andlethimhaveatasteofwaiting.Shehadhadhershare,
she told herself, as she almost ran from the spot. She stopped suddenly. But
supposehedidnotwait?Shewentslowlyback.
Shesatdownagain,schooledherselftopatience.
Whatanidiotshehadbeen!Likeanyschool-girl.Ofcoursehehadnevermeant
tocome.Whyshouldhe?Thatpageinherdiarycalledouttohertocomehome
andburnit.Careforhimindeed!Notshe!Whyshehadn'texchangedtenwords
withtheman!