# Wilmay and Other Stories of Women/The Love Story of a Plain Woman

[pp. 121-181.] Margaret Fayre was thirty-five years of age, and nearly six feet high. She was lame, and walked with an ebony stick. She had an almost masculine face, coarse-featured, with wide mouth, thick lips, bushy eyebrows, strong square jaws. Her expression was kind and intelligent, and her teeth were good and white, but she had no other good points. And her gaunt flat figure wore black cashmere by day and black silk by night, and never jewels or flowers (for she knew it was hopeless). And almost everybody liked her very much, and laughed at her a little, and no man loved her.
THE LOVE STORY OF A PLAIN WOMAN

### Chapter I.

Margaret Fayre wrote a book, with the title "Whatsoever Things are Lovely." Challon & Grice said they would publish it. They wrote to the effect that it would be a thin crown octavo, hand-made paper, gilt top, bound in art linen. Miss Fayre replied that it would not be like that; it would be the size of the pocket edition of Keats, which she enclosed, and bound in white paper, with plain black lettering. Challon & Grice reminded Miss Fayre that it was a first book, and that they were taking the entire risk, and that they had found in their experience that—and so on, and so on. Then Miss Fayre's brougham stopped outside the office, and Miss Fayre limped heavily into Grice's private room. Challon was taking a Saturday-to-Monday. Three minutes later Mr. Grice, rather flustered, was saying, "My dear lady, do put that cheque-book up; we don't do business like that. Whether you read it or whether you did not, we have signed the agreement, and we intend to abide by it. If you did not think that 'risk' meant money risk, what did you think it meant?"
"The risk of publishing a book which the critics did not like."
Mr. Grice smiled. "To that, Miss Fayre, we are accustomed. It does not affect us. But as to the form of the book, you had better really be guided by us. Published in the form you suggest, it would never do. No display—booksellers wouldn't look at it—soiled almost before it was shown! What we say is a thin crown octavo, art linen,—mind you, you can pick your own shade; we don't object to that,—and some sort of allegorical design—say, for instance, water-lilies with—er—fairies. Believe me, that's the kind of thing we always do for a book of that sort."
"But it's not a book of that sort. I know that sort. My book's all kinds of foolishness that I happen to have thought about some thing. It musn't go peacocking about, as if it pretended to be anything. Oh, do let me tell you!"
She told him, and he listened. Challon & Grice were honest men. Challon had a weakness for bringing out extravagantly precious editions of eighteenth-century memoirs; but Grice had no weakness at all. His mind was one white blaze of commercial electric light.
She spoke with enthusiasm. When she had finished, Grice went twice up and down the edge of his Turkey carpet. Then he said, "Have your own way. I didn't read the book, but Mr. Challon did. However, I've heard you, and—if I may speak candidly—either you're a genius or——" Here Mr. Grice paused.
"Well?" said Miss Fayre. "Do, please, speak candidly."
"I know when a book's good of its kind," said Grice rather dolefully, "but I don't know what to do when a book isn't of any kind at all. Mr. Challon read the book, and thought highly of it. I'm going to give in. Bring out your book in any form you like. Dictate the advertisements, and say where they are to appear. I leave it all to you."
"Thank you so much, Mr. Grice," said Miss Fayre. "I will. Good afternoon."
And she limped heavily out, and Mr. Grice put her into her brougham. He came back, and once more trod the edge of that Turkey carpet. Then he said, "After all, it's always worth while to take one to a straight flush." And he sat down to the work which he really did understand.
Then the book appeared (32mo, wrapper), and was sent out for review.
To the first reviewer it was one of a batch which were to be done in two lines each. What is to be reviewed in two lines must be read in two minutes. He wrote: "A sympathetic study of some of the beauties of nature and art from the feminine standpoint," which was not bad in two minutes.
To the second reviewer it was a puzzle. But he had got some phrases, not too much used, in his drawer, and they seemed to fit it fairly well. "Eccentricity rather than originality; … by no means without a curious charm of its own; … sui generis; … certainly reveals a delightful personality; … none of us infallible, not even the youngest, and the author is obviously quite a young girl; she is in love with all beautiful things; … if Miss Fayre could attain to a little more coherence and restraint, she might yet," etc. etc.
The third reviewer was comic. He did not actually review the book, but noticed a child-like note that Margaret Fayre had appended at the end of it. It was a note on bookbinding, with special reference to very small books. It began: "This is a private note. If you have liked my little book, and want to keep it, then you may read this note, but not otherwise." Of course the comic critic parodied this: "If you like this review, and don't want to keep it, you needn't, but not otherwise."
The fourth reviewer was a clever young man, but with a tendency to be enthusiastic. Miss Fayre's book made him very enthusiastic. He said it was the most beautiful and consolatory work that had been written for many years. He became the apostle of Margaret Fayre. He preached her in paragraphs. He preached with persistence. He preached her by direct exposition. He preached her by indirect allusion. Other apostles joined the movement. It spread; the heather was ablaze. "Whatsoever Things are Lovely "was in its fourteenth edition before Christmas.
Margaret Fayre woke one morning to find herself famous; then she cried herself to sleep again.
Mr. Grice, pacing the edge of the Turkey carpet, said to himself, "Took one to a straight flush—and filled it."
The first reviewer (the two-minute man) had no time to imagine anything. But the orthodox reviewer, and the comic man, and the enthusiast had all constructed an imaginary Margaret Fayre from reading her book. And they had all imagined the same—quite a young girl, eighteen or nineteen, black hair, long eyelashes, wonder in her eyes, delicate oval face. In such a home might white innocence and scarlet passion dwell together. Then they got it all in three words—the ideal Juliet.
Margaret Fayre was thirty-five years of age, and nearly six feet high. She was lame, and walked with an ebony stick. She had an almost masculine face, coarse-featured, with wide mouth, thick lips, bushy eyebrows, strong square jaws. Her expression was kind and intelligent, and her teeth were good and white, but she had no other good points. Her hair was scanty and pale brown, her forehead knobby, her grey eyes too far apart. But she had always had considerable private means, and now she had fame as well. And her gaunt flat figure wore black cashmere by day and black silk by night, and never jewels or flowers (for she knew it was hopeless). And almost everybody liked her very much, and laughed at her a little, and no man loved her.

### Chapter II.

"Look here," said Margaret Fayre, "I want you to tell me what this means, Mr. Dirk."
Samuel Dirk was big, bald, fat, lazy, good-tempered, happily married, and always wore his clothes much too large for him. It was he who wrote that comic review of Miss Fayre's book. He often wrote comic things, but he knew a great deal about the eighteenth century, and that attracted Mr. Challon terribly. It was at Mr. Challon's house that Miss Fayre and Samuel Dirk had met one night at dinner, and almost instantaneously become good friends. A year had passed since then, and now they were still better friends.
"My advice is at your service," said Mr. Dirk, raising himself from his easy-chair and taking the letter that Miss Fayre handed him. "Oh, this is easy enough," said Dirk. "It's another cheque from Challon & Grice; send a line of acknowledgment to them, endorse the cheque, and post it to your bank. I know business is not your strong point, but I don't see any difficulty there."
"How can I possibly take more money from them? I've done it twice already, and I can't go on. It's too humiliating. You know, before the book came out, they sent me a document to sign."
"They would," said Samuel; "they would."
"And afterwards, when I found out that they were running some money risk, and I brought my cheque-book, Mr. Grice got almost angry, and wouldn't take anything. I like Mr. Grice, but he has not got nice manners. So why should I take money from them?"
"You don't. It's yours—your money. If they kept it back, they'd be dishonest. And they have taken money from you—heaps of money. Don't ask me to explain, because it's quite easy, and you never understand anything that is not very difficult."
"Well, if that really is so——"
"I give you my word of honour."
She shrugged her shoulders. "Money always comes where it's not wanted. But I'll do as you tell me."
"Do it now, or you'll forget about it."
She obeyed her instructions, occasionally murmuring that she wished she had never written a book.
"It was Edith who sent me," said Samuel Dirk, "and all this time I've been forgetting her message." Edith was his very pretty and rather worldly little wife—by this time a great friend of Margaret Fayre's. "She wants you to dine, before Tristan to-night. Only ourselves. Do come, or I shan't see you."
"Why not? Though, of course. I'll come—many thanks. Aren't you going to Tristan?"
"No, Miss Fayre; I mind the shop, and I mind the shop, and I keep on minding the shop," He said it without the least trace of bitterness—in broad good humour,
"Nor at my aunt's house afterwards?"
"No; I am really very busy just now. Edith will go, I expect. Little brougham-parasite that she is!"
"Oh! What do you mean?"
"She's a creature who lives principally on other people's broughams, and saves cab fares. The least I can do is to stamp these two letters for you and post them. Of course you've got no stamps. You're not the sort of person who would have stamps. Equally, of course, your servants ought to look after you, and don't."
Margaret Fayre laughed. "Why so bad-tempered?" she said.
"Only painfully practical and rather rude."
When he had gone, Margaret sat for a while thinking. Yes, Samuel Dirk was a good kind man; he was rather ugly, and he had married a very pretty woman; he was hopelessly Bohemian, and he had married a dear little snob with social ambitions, and they were perfectly happy. But if the man had been the woman, and the woman the man, that marriage would never have taken place. She thought about that.
Margaret Fayre knew of no woman who worshipped beauty as she herself worshipped it, no woman with her capacity for love and her longing to be loved, no woman so ugly as she seemed to herself, none so loveless.
"I have the wrong soul," she said, "the soul that should have been given only to a beautiful woman." For twenty years she had been a woman, and she had never yet fallen in love with a man. That may have been fate's consolation, for if that awful thing were to happen she did not quite know what she would do. As it was, it was very much a matter of course to herself that she should be as she was, and it was very much a matter of course to everybody else who knew her. But she did not like first introductions to people who had liked her book; they had not always the wit and manners not to appear surprised. And she could not bear people to envy her her money, or her position, or her fame. It reminded her too much of the irony of the situation; she was in a dry and thirsty land where no water was—only useless diamonds and horrible bank accounts.
That was why, on the morning when she woke and found herself famous, she cried herself to sleep again.
But she was not thirsty unto death yet—not dying of thirst—for she had not yet fallen in love. So it was very seldom that she cried. And very often she smiled, and said silly things with a charm in them, that people liked and laughed at.
Edith Dirk liked and respected Margaret Fayre for herself and also for her great kindness to Edith Dirk. She owned that she was a brougham-parasite, and it seemed so good of Margaret to have Lady Tenways for her aunt and share her a little. The first time that little Mrs. Dirk had struggled through Lady Tenways' reception-rooms she had not known a soul there: that fact had assured her that she was now in society, and she had gone away greatly elated. After that, her triumph had been clear. She never forgot a face or a name, and always seemed interested. She was a conversational kleptomaniac, and took any bright epigrams that she found lying about. And she was not without ability of her own, though she was too wise to have any particular accomplishment.
"I don't do anything except be," was a stock sentence with her. She was a dear little snob, the soul of propriety, and loved her husband. They had a small house in Chelsea, where you cannot open a window without the finer perceptions getting in—so full is the place of art and genius.
And there she gave Margaret Fayre an excellent little dinner. Margaret was at her best and foolishest, and they drove off in the brougham to the opera in fine spirits.
Some minutes later. Sir Charles Storre and young Stanley Welborough left their dub, where they had been dining, and drove off in Welborough's private hansom—also to the opera.

### Chapter III.

The first act was just over. Margaret Fayre had remained at the back of the box, because she did not want to spoil the music by the acting. Now she came forward and stood by Mrs. Dirk, surveying the house. Mrs. Dirk dared not say anything about the music to Miss Fayre, and Miss Fayre (who loved it) did not want to say anything about that or anything else to anybody just for the present. She became gradually conscious that Mrs. Dirk was going through the names of people that she recognised. Her floating mind steadied itself at the words "Sir Charles Storre."
"Poor Sir Charles!" said Margaret.
He was literally poor. He was probably the poorest baronet in the United Kingdom. He lived in two rooms in one of the old Inns, bought one suit of clothes a year, considered luncheon a luxury and cigars a sin (though he would accept one now and then if it were offered him), and supplemented his wretched income by hard work at still more wretched journalism. Once—it was a golden day—he had sold a musical composition, one of the many that in the neatest manuscript rested hopelessly in his chambers. He was a musical enthusiast, but he was not a musician.
He belonged to rather an expensive club; it had been his father's club, and he had always felt that to leave it would be to cut the cables altogether. His piano was a beautiful instrument, and had probably cost him a year's income. He could still go everywhere—he was popular in society—and he did sometimes go to some places, if the 'buses served and he was not too busy. But there luxury stopped. He lived a hard life (for he had been richer once), and he did not grumble much, and he was pleasingly simple. One grievance he had. Complimentary tickets for the opera—or for anywhere else-were not sent to the syndicate of (three) small provincial newspapers which he represented. "In the name of heaven, why not?" he would ask furiously. "Don't they know their own business?" He took his journalism very seriously—felt a heavy sense of responsibility about his London Letter.
He was of no particular age. His face was thin and ascetic, with a heavy grey moustache; his figure was tall and soldierly. Simple, poor, sweet-natured people generally have blue eyes; Sir Charles had blue eyes—rather a light blue.
"He will be in heaven to-night," said Mrs. Dirk. "He loves the opera, and he never gets here unless somebody takes him. I wonder whom he's with. It's a remarkably handsome boy, anyhow."
"Yes," said Margaret, "he is very beautiful."
"You say that as if you despised him for it."
"But I don't. I'm inclined to be fond of him for it. Just as I was inclined to be fond of you at the first, before I knew you, because you were beautiful."
Mrs. Dirk sighed. "Oh dear! often I think I'm not beautiful—only perky and neat."
Margaret Fayre laughed. "You sometimes dress that way, but you're really beautiful."
"I'd far sooner be clever, and very, very, very absurdly rich."
"I'm quite clever and quite rich enough," said Margaret. "I made a lovely little book, and it's in its ten-thousand-millionth edition (hooray!), and a man with no mind called me the English Heine. There's the lot, and you can take it—you can have it all, if you'll give me your beautiful hair. You don't really want to be like me."
"I'm quite sure you don't want to be like me."
"One doesn't want to sit on the moon and drink boiling ices out of a gasometer. That is to say, one doesn't want the impossible. But if I had the management of things, you and I would have exchanged souls, my dear."
Later, Sir Charles craved and obtained permission to introduce a very great admirer of Margaret's book and the son of an old friend of Lady Tenways, Stanley Welborough, just returned from ten years' residence abroad. He was very handsome-in an imperial, clean-shaven, strong-chinned way. He talked almost exclusively to Margaret Fayre the whole time that he was in the box: it turned out that they had met once before, when he was a boy of ten.
"And I was a woman of twenty. I don't remember it. What did I do?"
"I was being sent off to my first private school, and you gave me ten shillings, and I was very doubtful whether I ought to take it."
"And did you take it?"
"I have always taken everything I could get"
Sir Charles and young Welborough were not going on after the opera. But the pair were likely to meet again—Welborough very much hoped so. It had been such a pleasure to him. Miss Fayre must be tired of hearing the praises of her book, but—well, there was nothing like it—to him, at least, there was nothing like it.
And all the rest of the evening Margaret was very amusing. There was a group of clever men round her most of the time at Lady Tenways' house. Margaret said once that young men regarded her as a sister, and she liked it, but she wished that old men did not regard her as a mother.
Mrs. Dirk magnanimously refused to be taken home in Margaret Fayre's carriage. "No," she said, "it's time that your two nice horses were put in their little beds and tucked up for the night."
So she took a hansom, and Miss Fayre's coachman's blessing.
Samuel was sitting up for her. He had changed his evening coat for a ragged tweed jacket with a large check pattern, and was smoking a black briar with the bowl much broken down round the edges. He helped Edith with her cloak, overpaid the cabman, locked and bolted the front door, and came back into his writing-room softly whistling a hymn tune. The floor was strewn with sheets of manuscript, and Samuel picked them up, numbered them, and arranged them as he talked.
"You poor dear! You've been working all this time," said Edith from the easy-chair.
Samuel grinned, and held out a handful of manuscript.
"Bread," he said. "Item butter, likewise cab-fares. And all made in our own model factory."
"And is it all very good?"
"No, it's rather dull. But the public won't find it out, and I shan't tell 'em. Had a good evening?"
"Delightful. It's late, and yet I don't feel a bit tired. Sammy, I do like Margaret Fayre immensely."
"I wish you'd get her married to somebody. Sentimentalists with money ought not to be left lying about. She's too good to be victimised. She wants looking after."
"It's not so easy to marry people to people satisfactorily."
"Why not—in her case?"
"She could be married for her money any time; but that's just what you're trying to guard against. I don't know a man who would marry her for herself."
"Why not?"
"She's a dear, but she's not pretty, and she doesn't make the best of herself by a long way. She looks too weird, really."
"Well?"
"Well, suppose there were no me, would you marry her yourself?"
"Bless my soul! I don't know. Probably not. In any case, she'd refuse me; she worships the beautiful, and I'm ordinary and bald."
"But you're a man—that makes all the difference. A nice, comfortable, good-tempered, big, male sort of man like you can always get married. But the big plain woman—ah, it's just as well that Margaret's a genius (I suppose she is a genius, though she often talks like a mad baby), for now she's got something else to think about."
"My dear," said Samuel, "nobody's ever got anything else to think about." And with this grossly inaccurate generalisation he sent Edith upstairs to bed.

### Chapter IV.

Stanley Welborough's father had been the rector of Aldley, Lady Tenways' country-place, but had since retired. His mother was dead.
His father allowed Stanley four hundred a year, and his own way in most things. At the age of fifteen he went abroad with a private tutor. At the age of eighteen he cast off the tutor, and began to look for a profession, and at twenty-five he had returned from wandering, with a thorough knowledge of French, German, and Italian; but he had not found a profession. On arriving in England he stayed for a month with his father, and his father was mildly vexed, for he thought that a young man with Stanley's abilities ought to do something. "It's not so much the money," he said, "as the occupation. Though, if it comes to that, you might want to marry."
"Yes, I had thought about that."
"Well, you can't marry on four hundred a year, and you'll have no more from me till I die, and you can't reasonably expect me to die until I've finished my history of the county. Besides, you're getting on now—already you're too old for a good many things."
"Quite so, quite so; I had realised that. The difficulty is to put one's hand on anything that's really congenial."
The end of it was that he came up to London. He took chambers in Duke Street, and a hansom for the season, and engaged a servant. That was in the morning. In the afternoon he found Sir Charles in the Park. Sir Charles was surreptitiously taking notes on his shirt-cuff of the colour-scheme and arrangement of the flower-beds for the purposes of his London Letter. Stanley recognised Sir Charles, and introduced himself afresh, for they had not met since Stanley was a boy. Soon they were recalling old times, asking and answering innumerable questions; they got to be rather pleased with each other.
"What's your club?" Stanley asked.
Sir Charles told him.
"Mine too; I've belonged to it for years, and never once entered it. It would be so kind of you if you'd dine with me there to-night and show me my way about a little. I'm alone in London, and as I've only just arrived I've not called on a soul yet. My father will be so interested to hear of our chance meeting. You have not been down to Aldley for years, he told me, but he often speaks of you."
"Ah, my work!" said Sir Charles. "This journalism—you have to stick at it, you know. His county history?"
"Going on capitally; he will be pleased that you inquired. What do you say? An early dinner, and the opera afterwards. Come, Sir Charles, have pity on my loneliness."
"I should like to come very much," said Sir Charles, simply. "I love the opera,—it's Tristan to-night,—but, as you know, I'm a poor man."
"And I'm not a rich one myself. This is a little extravagance fully justified by the occasion."
Sir Charles let himself be persuaded, and enjoyed himself immensely.
Stanley Welborough had fallen into the selfish habit of taking a lot of trouble to please people. The habit might, of course, be unselfish, but it was not so with Stanley. It flattered his vanity that people should have a high opinion of him. That high opinion was the easiest to create with people who would only see him for a very short time. He took advantage of the fact that he was a ship that passed in the night, and indulged in the flashiest of flash signalling. And he knew the value of first impressions. He had seen other cities than London, and in beginning London he wished people to speak well of him. He had done his best to please Sir Charles, and he also did his best to please Margaret Fayre. He vaguely recalled a flaming review (the enthusiast had been responsible); Sir Charles let fall the title; tact did the rest. It was worth doing, for she went about a good deal, and she was Lady Tenways' niece, and she was apparently something of an aristocratic lioness. Now, the aristocratic lioness is the rarest kind of lioness; it will neither growl nor look the part. But he pencilled her in his diary that night as "a large bony authoress in a box."
Next morning in his hotel in Albemarle Street (a fortnight was needed to furnish and redecorate those Duke Street chambers) he thought over things, then he sent his servant out. "You're to go to the nearest bookseller," he said, "and get me this." He gave the man a scrap of paper. On it he had written: "A book by Miss Margaret Fayre. The title is 'Beautiful Things,' or something of that sort." And the man presented it to the bookseller, but the bookseller knew better. Soon Stanley Welborough was handling a tiny copy of "Whatsoever Things are Lovely," while the servant went on to execute other commissions.
"It's beastly small print," he murmured to himself. "It's not always easy to understand what she's driving at," he thought a little later. He read the page again, and ejaculated "Good!" He was neither an artist nor a fool. The book had pleased those people best who were a little of both. The book read to him as if it had been written by a phenomenally intelligent child. After the first chapter he saw no reason to change the criticism which he had volunteered before he had begun the book. There really was "nothing like it."
He had no time to read any more. He had to interview two tailors and give some instructions about his chambers before luncheon. In the afternoon he called on Lady Tenways. Margaret Fayre happened to be there.
"I've just been through that delicious first chapter again," he said. "Why did no one ever get just that point of view before?"
She answered him with a monosyllable, and turned to somebody else. He was furious. He was taking trouble to please this quite plain woman, and she refused to be pleased.
Of course she was quite pleased, and only did not want to think that she was pleased; and she did not want to think it, because it seemed somehow humiliating. But he had a bad conscience about that book, and with a bad conscience and worse perceptions one's judgment becomes unreliable. Stanley considered that he had been most unquestionably snubbed, and he conjectured that he was snubbed, because in some way she had discovered that he had not really read her book. So he talked to Lady Tenways with a rather obvious and over-accentuated cynicism, and turned a profile to Margaret Fayre—a profile wherein she detected an emotional and moving nostril and an indignant upper lip.
When he left he bowed to her formally. She left her group and came towards him, with hand outstretched, saying, "Mr. Welborough."
He took her hand, of course, murmuring his good-bye.
"I'm so sorry about—er—just now," she said. "I didn't mean to be rude. But if I'm suddenly praised—it's too stupid of me—I sometimes get shy. Thank you so much."
Then he saw in a flash that he—he of all men, he with his international experiences! had behaved like a sulky schoolboy. But in another flash he had seen that sunny good temper was the only card in his hand, and at once he played it.
"I own it—I have been angry. You see, I have felt so enthusiastic about that little book, and had hoped that you would talk to me about it. It was really impertinent in me; you would have been justified—of course, praise must bore you now even when it comes from those who have more right——"
"Oh, please, please! I love praise. Give me time to gasp, some time, and I could eat praise all day. No, it wouldn't be good for me. The only smart thing about the donkey is that it eats thistles."
"Who is going to give you thistles?"
"Mr. Dirk does occasionally."
"Mr. Dirk?"
"The husband of that charming lady who was with me the other night."
"Of course—I remember. Good-bye, Miss Fayre."
She said good-bye. The words "thanks," "forgive," "delighted," "too charming," bubbled up out of their incoherent farewells.
The verdict in the diary that day was rather more favourable. "The authoress remains not beautiful—but is beginning to impress me with the idea that she is most other things."
When he had gone, and the rest had gone, Margaret said—
"Aunt Jane, are you going to ask Mr. Welborough to dinner?"
"Certainly—his father's quite an old friend,—I'm asking him for the 17th."
"Me too?"
"Of course, if you like. Why?"
"Because I am thinking about falling in love with him."
"Then, by all means——" Lady Tenways laughed. With her, conversational finesse was reduced to its very simplest form. As long as you said exactly what you meant she never believed you.
Yes, Margaret Fayre was thinking about falling in love. On the night of the 17th she actually did fall in love. So also did Stanley Welborough. But then Margaret fell in love with Stanley, and Stanley fell in love with Catherine ("Kitty"), second daughter of Charles Carton-Wright, E.A.
'Tis not uncommon in love—A loves B, and B loves C. Doubtless, here and there in real life, one might trace out such a progression which would exhaust the alphabet, with the numerals added.
But there was in this case one peculiarity perhaps worth mentioning. Margaret made up her mind, on sentimental grounds, that she must not and would not marry Stanley. And Stanley, on certain financial considerations, made up his mind that he must and would marry Margaret,

### Chapter V.

The dinner of the 17th had come and gone, and weeks had passed. The chambers in Duke Street were furnished, and in them sat Stanley Welborough, calculating. On his writing-table lay a copy, exquisitely bound, and read all through by this time, of "Whatsoever Things are Lovely." In a locked drawer of the same table were two foolish letters from Miss Catherine Carton-Wright, a photograph of her in evening dress, and a piece of red ribbon about which there was a history. In an unlocked drawer were bills, which for the time being could wait. These were the materials for the calculation.
Lady Tenways said, "That boy amuses me, but he's been spoiled. He can't really be meaning to marry Margaret. He's playing a game—don't know what it is, but he's certainly playing a game."
Old Mrs. Holly, who had been engaged by Margaret as a chaperon, and called herself a lady-companion, and was in reality a superior housekeeper, noticed nothing—except that Margaret's moods changed very rapidly.
Sir Charles Storre looked about him in crowded rooms, from time to time, and sighted Margaret Fayre, but rarely could get a word with her. Welborough was everywhere.
"It's nothing to me, of course," Sir Charles said to himself. But he went into the minor, and some touch of pessimism crept into his London Letter. Indeed, he began one paragraph with the phrase, "The railway companies, with their customary imbecility." But it was too strong, and not kind; he deleted it.
Edith Dirk, also, was not unobservant.
"Is Mr. Welborough rich?" she asked her husband.
"He means to be," said Samuel, sardonically.
"He does things en prince."
"No—he does them on tick. He hasn't actually the money on him, but he'll be marrying it in the course of a few weeks, and then he'll send a cheque. It's purely a business matter, and I ought to interfere. But she thinks it's pure romance, and doesn't speak, and so I can't. But you might."
"She says nothing to me about it, either. Besides, would it do any good for me to blame him to Margaret?"
"Good heavens—no! Praise him to Kitty Carton-Wright. Throw them together. Haven't you noticed that he's between two?"
"Yes. But—if Margaret cares for him very much—she'll never forgive me,"
"She will ultimately. Kitty won't—if she marries him. But Kitty's a born flirt, and can take care of herself."
Kitty Carton-Wright's demands were more than Samuel Dirk (who knew her but slightly) could have told. She was a dove masquerading as a hawk. She never had the courage of her own audacity. She would have done anything to make a scandal about herself—short of its justification. Defiance of the letter of the conventional law loomed large on her banner, and she waved it. The most intense reverence for the spirit of the same law burned in her heart, but she never knew it until the moment. She consented freely to secret assignations, but nothing ever took place at them which might not (but for the obstruction of traffic) have taken place at Piccadilly Circus at noon before a jury of picked chaperons. A good fool, wishing to be otherwise and failing—the end of the century makes such things.
And Margaret—well might Mrs. Holly have noticed that Margaret Fayre had moods. It had come—she had fallen in love, and she knew it. But it had not come as she had expected—not as a torment, not as a thirst for the unattainable. If she entered a drawing-room where Stanley Welborough was, almost immediately he was by her side. The attitude was respectful, reverential—with Kitty it was all chuckling frivolity. Margaret never expressed the least preference that Stanley did not remember. Did she chance to say that she loved white violets, then white violets and Mr. Stanley Welborough's card waited at her house on her return. She thanked, but protested. "I have so few pleasures," he replied, with a well-shaped melancholy smile. He was no fool, and he had studied her book thoroughly—thence the key to her temperament dropped into his hands, his clever dishonest hands. And she found it delightful, charming, to talk to one who was all sympathy.
She would have been satisfied and happy if things could always have gone on like this. She asked nothing better, nothing more, of fate. Her mood of darkest depression was when she thought that one day he would tell her that he loved her. That would be very sunlight—dazzling, intolerable—but to be followed by—ah, so long a night! For she knew quite well that she must never marry him; she had never doubted nor hesitated about that. She would be old when he was still young, and she had no beauty to give him. The moment that he told her, all would be over; she would leave London—go away with her memory. Self-denial was not the word in her mind; she called it love.
In one respect, perhaps, her conduct contradicted her. It was a little thing—ridiculous if it had not been pathetic. She went to Edith Dirk and said—
"My aunt has been telling me that my dresses are all wrong and my hair's not done properly. She's quite right. Now, I can't be beautiful, but I needn't be a slut. Be kind, and take me in hand."
Edith Dirk was now fully in her element. A few sheets of notepaper were soon covered with designs of dresses, rough but sufficient. Miss Fayre's brougham was outside, and Edith Dirk was impetuous. In five minutes they were on their way to Bond Street. There was much confidential talk in the brougham, broken by rather nervous laughter from Margaret. And afterwards a gradual change came over her. She was dressed with that exquisiteness which is only possible to the perfect taste in conjunction with the long purse. Her hair was done differently and beautifully, and the post of maid to Margaret Fayre ceased to be a sinecure. Her complexion improved, but she would not paint. ("I do sometimes, a very little," Edith Dirk had confessed.) A clever and fashionable doctor stopped day after day at Margaret's house; then her lameness became less noticeable; finally, she gave up her strong stick altogether, and one could hardly see that she was lame at all. "She's not beautiful," said an observer to Sir Charles Storre, "not by a very long way. But, upon my word, of late she has had a kind of fascination—has looked younger." And Sir Charles walked away without replying.
It never occurred to Margaret Fayre that Stanley Welborough would only wish to marry her for her money. She hardly ever thought about money at all; and that was as well, for whenever she did think about money she made gross and unbusinesslike mistakes. Nor did it ever occur to her that Stanley was, according to his lights, in love with Kitty Carton-Wright. Whenever she found Stanley talking to Kitty, in a very few minutes Stanley deserted Kitty to talk to Margaret. Kitty did not mind in the least—she knew that she was very pretty, and that Margaret could not be her rival.
He seemed to say to her, "I have been with you too long, and ill-natured people will chatter. But I know that nobody could be jealous of Margaret Fayre. To spare you anxiety, I talk to her." Poor Margaret Fayre, for the first time in her life counting victories! She was like a mere beginner who sits down with the real chess-player, and wins and wins, and never notices the inscrutable smile of his great opponent. Yet, for the time being, it worked well enough—Kitty was happy, and Margaret was happy.
But Stanley Welborough was not happy. That was his saving grace, and he needs every extenuating circumstance which can be pleaded in his behalf. Some three years before, he had found himself compelled to send his father a large bundle of bills and rather an abject letter. His father had paid the bills, and forwarded the receipts with a very brief note which implied in the most delicate way that he did not respect his son. That had pained Stanley. He was conscious of two necessities: that every one with whom he was constantly brought into contact should respect him; and that—as a kind of corollary—the number of those who were constantly brought in contact with him should be as small as possible. It is with the first of these necessities that we have to deal; and Stanley was so fond of his father that he never made an attempt to eliminate him from the list of those with whom he was constantly brought in contact. Consequently, Stanley had made the stern resolve that he would never thereafter allow his father to come into any evidence that Stanley's expenditure was in excess of his allowance. In his present difficulties, marriage was the only solution. No profession was open to him by which he could make much money in a very little time. Besides, no profession was in the least degree congenial to him. He was going to marry Margaret Fayre; and he told himself constantly that he did not look upon it as any hardship. His admiration for her sweet and gentle disposition was, he felt sure, sincere. If she did not attract by her beauty, neither did she repel by its lack. She had distinction without eccentricity, or with very little eccentricity. He felt sure that she would always love him and praise him. His course would have been smooth and easy enough if Kitty Carton-Wright had not been in the way.
Many times a day he cursed Kitty and cursed himself. There had been moments in her presence when he had been no longer master of himself, had found himself saying what he did not wish to say. His belief that in her baby innocence she did not know the power she had over him served to increase the power. Then her laughter was a constant challenge to him to awaken more serious sentiment. She played the inscrutable to perfection—not from cleverness, but from instinct. For a few hours he would triumph because she loved him, but was always brought back to anger because she was amused at him. When she looked at him inquiringly under long lashes, with "What-do-you-think-of-me?" in her eyes, ruin was near. The only safety was not to see her; he was certain of that. And he never missed a chance of seeing her.
So things went until one summer night. On that night in New York a man died, who had quarrelled with the father of Sir Charles Storre, and left by will to Sir Charles an annual income of five thousand pounds. And on the same night Lady Tenways gave a dance. Stanley was there, and Margaret and Kitty.

### Chapter VI.

Margaret Fayre crept away from Lady Tenways' dance in the dawn, and told herself that she was quite disillusioned, and tried to ridicule herself. When she closed her eyes, she could see it all again—the deep recess, almost in darkness at the farther end of the balcony—the two figures with their backs towards her—Kitty seated, and Stanley bending over her. It was all wretched vulgar farce, meet for ridicule.
But she could not keep awake to ridicule herself; the poor lady was quite worn out.
At seven in the morning she woke, and went on thinking. The scene had lost nothing of its vividness. She could see it all again; she could recall Stanley's voice: "I cannot help it—I am burned up with love of you!"
Then that little fool Kitty had begun to cry, and Margaret had escaped. She had never wished to watch Stanley or Kitty—had never, in fact, had a moment's suspicion—it had all been the merest chance. And they did not know that she had heard and seen them.
That being so, Margaret recognised the practical value of the ridiculous information she had received. It ensured her against surprises. When Stanley or Kitty came to her with the news of their engagement, she would have her friendliest smile and her keenest interest all ready. She had learned one secret—a bitter secret—one that she had never wished to know. But this would save her from blabbing another secret that still less did she wish to tell.
A consideration of the humorous and practical side of the question occupied her until her maid brought in her tea and the letters. Then Margaret's mind turned to think of the very many, very beautiful, very expensive dresses that she had bought recently. There were three which she had never worn at all; perhaps Edith Dirk would like to have them, and the maid could have the rest That was mere instinct, and Margaret's cleverness snubbed it at once. "Why," asked cleverness, "doesn't Margaret Fayre want beautiful dresses any more?" Instinct whispered that it knew, but did not like to tell. "Very well, then," replied cleverness; "if she dressed and acted like a chief mourner, perhaps other people would know as well—people who would not be so particular about telling."
But there seemed to be no reason why Margaret Fayre should not leave London. Some desolate spot was her first desire; further considerations modified this. Brighton was her ultimate choice. She left the devoted Mrs. Holly behind, and took only her maid with her. And the maid packed the wonderful dresses, and was particularly careful not to let Miss Fayre's dressing-bag out of her sight, for there were two thousand pounds' worth of pearls in that bag: Margaret had begun to wear her pearls lately.
It is indecent for a woman to break her heart except for the loss by death of a near relative, and Margaret did not mean to be accused of such indecency. She would give no cause for suspicion. No one could suppose that she would select a big hotel at Brighton wherein to break her heart. Indeed, to the world the selection would deny the breakage. For herself it was not suitable: it was not a romantic solitude; it was not even quiet. It had but one attraction—it was not London. She was some distance away from the deep recess at the farther end of the balcony. She would run but little chance of meeting Stanley or Kitty. And she would have time to think the thing out.
For she was terribly puzzled. Stanley loved Kitty. Why, then, had she not known it before? Why had she never guessed that it was Kitty? Why had she not seen that Stanley's devotion to herself, deeply personal though it had seemed, was in reality but the tribute of an enthusiast to the author of a little book to which he had taken a fancy? She should have seen it—she was to blame.
Second thoughts corrected this. She had met other enthusiasts, but they had not been like Stanley. He had made love to her. It had been done respectfully, but it had certainly been done. He had said things to her that he had had no right to say if he really loved Kitty. He was to blame. She was on the verge of thinking that he had treated her badly. An expiring effort of pride or generosity altered it. "He has treated Kitty badly," she said.
Her third thoughts made further corrections. But then they came in the evening, when she was tired with travelling, and tired with troubling, and felt ill, and would have cried but for the recollection that Kitty cried. Sick at heart, she saw that it was the fault of no one: it had to be so. She looked out on the sea—on such respectable, civilised, almost Hebraic battalion of waters as they have at Brighton. How charming death would be! But it must not be yet, not for two years, not until the world would be unable to assign a reason for the suicide—or, better still, would guess wrong. She could wait two years. She could be patient. "But it will be terribly lonely, for no one loves you," said her poor aching heart, crying out to be loved.
In the afternoon, a few days later, a visiting-card went from the hall porter to a page, and from a page to Miss Fayre's maid, and from the maid to Margaret herself. Margaret looked at it intently, but the hand that held it never shook. She read the name, "Mr. Stanley Welborough." Her first thought was that it was queer that he should have used one of his old cards. It bore the Aldley address, and not that of his London chambers.
"Yes," she said. "Show that gentleman up here, and then come and tell me." She went into her bedroom, and looked at herself in the long glass. She was exquisitely dressed. But one hand touched her hair—one does not look in the glass for nothing.
She thought that she had guessed the situation. Stanley meant to carry out the theory that his affection for her, though strictly brotherly, was deeply sincere, and that he had nothing on his conscience. For that reason he had come down to Brighton to tell her in person of his engagement to Kitty. Thank heaven, she was ready for that now! She would prove that she was ready, for she would have the wedding-present actually in her hands, and the smile on her lips and the serious brightness that best fitted the occasion. Kitty would adore those pearls. She put them carefully in their case, snapped it, and——
The maid tapped at the door. Margaret began to smile: but how her heart beat! Smiling still, with the jewel-case in her hand and the visiting-card that she had forgotten to put down, she came down the corridor.
"Don't think! don't think!" she said to herself. Instinct, in this instance ahead of cleverness, told her that if she was to get through such a meeting brilliantly, she must get through it unconsciously, playing a part, leaving the real Margaret Fayre behind her.
She opened the door of her sitting-room. A man stood in the window, silhouetted against the light, holding a glossy hat.
But the man was not Stanley Welborough.
Being somewhat unprepared for this, she drew a long breath, and dropped a visiting-card and a morocco case containing a valuable pearl necklace.
Sir Charles Storre (for it was he) advancing, picked them up for her and took her hand.

### Chapter VII.

She laughed most happily. "How do you do? I am so glad. But why do you play these practical jokes?"
"I don't understand," said Sir Charles. "What is it?"
"That card—that card—look at it, my dear Sir Charles."
He looked at it, and was all dismay.
"Did I?" he said.
"You did. That was the card which you sent up—Mr. Welborough's card, and thereby almost found me not at home. I'm delighted that I haven't lost a pleasure, as I might have done."
Sir Charles slowly remembered that when young Welborough first came to London he had met Sir Charles in the Park. Sir Charles had not recognised him; Stanley with an amused smile had produced a card; Sir Charles in the confusion of the moment had put it in his own card-case. And now in the natural sequence that card had turned up.
"It is unpardonable," he said.
"Not quite," said Margaret. "I have an idea that in time I shall be able to forgive it. I am always more amiable when I have had some tea—if you would ring, please. In the mean time, it is quite charming of you to have come to see me. I have one or two friends down here, but no old-established friends like you. I was on the point of defying my doctor and returning to London, to escape from my loneliness. But, ah!—how did you know I was here?"
"I called at your house. Mrs. Holly told me.
"Dear Jane! I wish I could have brought her with me, but she cannot bear transportation. The least little railway journey kills her. I wouldn't let her come. You may say what you like, but I have a noble nature."
"You have," said Sir Charles very gravely, meaning what he said.
Margaret laughed nervously. Tea arrived.
"And what brings you to Brighton?" she asked.
"You do," he said, still with gravity, and not without dignity.
"What! you have news for me?"
"A great deal of news."
"Wait I Let me guess. It is about friends of ours. There is an engagement?"
Sir Charles smiled. "I did not come to Brighton to tell you that, but there is an engagement."
"I am a looker-on, and I have seen the game. Kitty Carton-Wright has made up her mind at last."
"She has—I heard it yesterday."
"And Mr. Welborough?"
"You guess wrongly. It is Lord Gastonfield."
Poor Margaret! Surprise followed on surprise; she was dazed, helpless, silent. Sir Charles Storre went on talking, and it seemed an endless time before she could bring herself to understand what he was saying. Her eyes fell on the morocco case on the table—it seemed evidence against her, and she was afraid of it, and wished she could hide it. When her senses fully returned, she heard—
"He was a man whom I did not even know—a man who had quarrelled with my father—and by his death I become rich—or, well, rich enough!"
"I am so glad," she said fervently.
"And I too am glad," said Sir Charles, "not for the money, but for a possibility that it brings." He stood up and paced the room, an erect figure. In his expression, determination saved kindliness from becoming weakness. The chains of wretched dependency that poverty had riveted upon him had fallen. He held his head up. He was free.
"I am glad," he said, "because for many years I have loved you—loved you very dearly—loved you alone. And now I may tell you that, and ask you if you will be my wife."
She put one hand over her eyes. "Oh!" she murmured.
"You had not expected?"
"Never, never, never! Never imagined!"
"I love you—I have always loved you. If you could only know!"
"Why? Why?" She let her hands drop, and looked straight at him with mournful eyes. "I am not beautiful."
"Dear, if I could tell why, I should love less. Of beauty I will only say that—you are all that I desire, and I shall always love you. Are there many more beautiful women?"
"Many—very many. Almost all."
"They do not touch me. To me you are beautiful, and I would have nothing different—nothing that would alter you from my Margaret. Ah! at last I speak."
"Why did you wait so long? Have I been loved all this time and not known it? I can hardly think it yet."
"Think it. Believe it. I waited because you were rich and I was poor."
"So slight a thing? You feared the world's opinion."
"No," said Sir Charles quietly. "With some men and some women it would have been well enough. But there was just the risk that you would not have liked your husband to be dependent for—for paltry things-on any one, even on yourself. And you might have found out that too late—perhaps only recognised it vaguely and at times as a flaw in your happiness. You see what I mean. You would not have shared the world's poor opinion of me, but you might have suffered from it."
"I have always known, though, that you were good," she said reflectively. "Has it been a long time?"
"Very long."
"Let me wait a little until I understand. Tell it me all again. I cannot answer yet."
Miss Fayre's maid entered with a card. It was Mr. Stanley Welborough's card. And the real Stanley Welborough was waiting downstairs in the hall, in an entirely new suit, with a carnation in his buttonhole and a resolution in his heart.
Miss Fayre read the card, and suddenly hated Stanley Welborough. She handed it to Sir Charles.
He smiled, and said nothing. Then Margaret turned to the maid. "Will you please say that I am not at home?"
A month later, Edith Dirk received a long and very happy letter from Margaret Fayre, and showed it to her husband, and he was much pleased. He was so pleased that he said that things did occasionally happen to lead him to believe that the whole world was not absolutely rotten—as, for instance, that Stanley Welborough had been jilted by Kitty and refused by Margaret, and that Margaret was going to marry a good, straight man.
"I wonder if Stanley Welborough will commit suicide," said Edith.
"I don't," said her husband laconically.
Stanley did not commit suicide. He went into the wine trade and married a widow, and both ventures were fairly successful.
"And I wonder," Edith went on, "if she'll keep her old name for the next book, or write as Lady Storre."
"I don't think there will be a next book," said Samuel thoughtfully.
"That will be a great disappointment to you."
"No, my dear, I think not."
"But you once said that if Margaret did not go on writing it would be a loss to art."
"I must have meant a loss to Challon & Grice."
"You said art, my dear."
"Well, very likely. It does sometimes happen that a loss to art is a gain to nature."