"It's not good of me. It's a simple statement of a simple fact. If it were rubbish I should tell you so plainly-if you were the dearest friend I have in the world. On such matters I have no hesitation; and I think you will confess that this is a matter on which I do know something. Your play's first-rate. If we can agree about terms it shall have an immediate production."

"I hardly know what to say to you."

He did not. On that play he had founded more hopes than he would have cared to mention to that friendly lady. Its success would mean so much to him, and to the woman he loved. It had gone the usual round of the untried dramatist's play. Hope deferred again and again had made his heart sick. He had begun almost to despair that it would ever see the light. Yet now that he was told that if there was only an agreement about terms-as if there was any likelihood of a disagreement! – it should have an immediate production, he was not at all sure that his feelings were what, under the circumstances, he had supposed they would have been. It was perfectly true, he did not know what to say to her. She was glib enough.

"Say? – say nothing. Let's talk business, and stick to that. I mean to. You understand that this is purely a business proposition which I am about to make to you, and absolutely nothing else. If I go into this matter it will be on strictly commercial grounds, and on those only."

"I wish I were sure of it."

"It's not nice of you to doubt my word, Mr. Talfourd; before I have finished you will be sorry for having done so. Before entering into negotiations for the production of your play, do you know what would be one of the preliminary conditions I should be disposed to make?"

"I have not a notion."

"That I should be your leading lady."

"Mrs. Lamb!"

"Mr. Talfourd! I presume you are aware that I can act?"

"I know that you have made some successful appearances in-in amateur theatricals."

"Mr. Winton will inform you that those amateur theatricals were not greatly below the standard of any professional representations you have seen. Apart from that-this is strictly between ourselves-I may mention that once upon a time I was professionally connected with the stage." She did not think it necessary to mention with what branch of it. "Your heroine, Lady Glover-"

"Lady Glover is hardly my heroine."

"She is the leading feminine character-the pivotal character; the one about whom the whole thing turns. To my mind the one creature of real flesh and blood."

"I had hoped that Agnes Eliot was a character of some importance."

"Agnes Eliot? – pooh! – namby-pamby, bread-and-butter miss! She's not bad in her way, and, I suppose, in a pit-and-gallery sense, she's the heroine-and not an ineffective one either; but I assure you I have not the slightest wish to play Agnes Eliot. Susan Stone, who becomes Lady Glover, is a woman who, in the face of all obstacles, achieves success; continually confronted by difficulties, she treats them as so many Gordian knots; she cuts them and walks straight on. Quite indifferent as to the means she employs, she always gets there. Considering the present craze among actresses for what they are pleased to call sympathetic parts, I think you will agree that that is not a character which would appeal to every one."

"Certainly. Winton is of opinion that in casting the play the chief difficulty would be to find an adequate representative. As you say, many actresses don't like to act wicked women."

"I don't know about an adequate representative, but I'm quite willing to act Lady Glover, and, although I say it myself, I think you'll find that I shall be equal to the occasion. Indeed, I am ready to make a sporting bet with you that, in my hands, Lady Glover will take the town by storm. There's a popular fallacy that people don't like wicked women-it is a fallacy. When they're of the right brand, they love 'em-especially men. Give me a chance, and I'll prove it. I'll guarantee that seventy-five per cent, of masculine playgoers shall fall in love with Lady Glover-if I play her. What do you say?"

"I don't understand why you should wish to play her."

"How's that?"

"The answer seems so obvious. You-a lady of position, of fortune, with troops of friends!"

"Change, Mr. Talfourd, is the salt of life. I'm very fond of salt. Before I read your play I had no more idea of doing anything of the kind than I had of flying to the moon. But Lady Glover went straight to my heart. I saw at once what magnificent fun it would be to give to the stage a really adequate representation of the naughty feminine. I knew I could do it-and I can. So why shouldn't I?"

"You understand that Mr. Winton has the refusal of the play, and that I should first have to consult him."

"Of course I understand that Winton has the refusal of the play, and of course I understand that you will have to consult him. I'm not afraid of Winton. He shall be the leading man, and cast the other parts as he pleases. I'll be Lady Glover, and find the money. I'll be an ideal Lady Glover. I believe in your heart you know it. Winton and I between us will make of the play a monstrous success, and so your fortune will be made, and a few shillings added to my own. I should dearly like to make your fortune, if only for one reason-because you don't like me."

"Mrs. Lamb!"

"Which is the more odd, because men generally do. Do you remember our first meeting?"

"I'm never likely to forget it."

"You don't say that in a tone which suggests an unsophisticated compliment. I had read that thing of yours in the Cornhill. Frank Staines said that he had the honour of your acquaintance; that you were clever on quite unusual lines-as he put it, 'a cut above the market'-and that in consequence you'd been having a pretty rough time. You recollect that it was at an early stage of our acquaintance that I offered you the post of private secretary."

"I wonder if, when you did so, you knew that I'd nearly reached my last shilling?"

"I'd an inkling. If you hadn't you'd have said no." This was so literally the truth that he was silent. She understood him so much better than he did her. He had an irritating feeling that she was treating him as if he were some plastic material, which she was gradually fashioning into the shape she desired. "I've done you nothing else than good turns-"

"I know it, quite well."

"And yet, actually, I believe, on that account, you seem to dislike me more and more."

"I do assure you, Mrs. Lamb, that you are wrong. I do hope I'm not the blackguard you seem to imagine."

"I am not wrong, Mr. Talfourd-in a matter of that sort I seldom am. And you're not a blackguard; you're altogether the other way. It's a case of Dr. Fell-the reason why you don't like me you cannot tell. It's not your fault at all-it's sort of congenital. Don't worry! But that being so, since I have already done you one or two good turns, it would be delightful to be able to do you a crowning good turn-to make your fortune; to make you the most successful man of the day-you, the only man I ever met who really did, and does, dislike me.

"Mrs. Lamb, I-I can't tell you how you make me feel."

"I wouldn't try."

He did not. She looked at him and smiled, while he stood before her, with flushed cheeks and downcast eyes, like some shamefaced schoolboy.

CHAPTER XVI
MARGARET IS PUZZLED

Miss Dorothy Johnson, balancing herself on the edge of the table, was playing catch-ball with a pair of gloves.

"Margaret Wallace, you're one of the sillies!"

"Evidently you are not the only person who is of that opinion."

"That's right-put the worst construction on everything I say, and think yourself smart."

"It's just as well that some one should think so. Dollie, sometimes I'm very near to the conviction that it's no good-that nothing's any good, and, especially, that I'm no good; that I might as well own myself beaten right away."

"Well, you are beaten this time, that's sure. What ought to be just as sure is that you don't mean to be beaten every time-there's the whole philosophy of life for you in a nutshell."

"But suppose I'm dragging Harry down? I shouldn't be surprised if it's all through me that his MSS. keep on being returned. I said to him, 'Let me make drawings to illustrate your stories-I'd love to'. And I do love to! 'Then we'll send the stories and the drawings to the editors together.' But they nearly all come back. I've a horrid feeling that it's my drawings which ruin them."

"Stuff! It's Harry's work that's no good."

"No good? How dare you! You've said yourself over and over again that it's splendid."

"That's what's against it-it's splendid." Miss Johnson, stretching her right arm to its extreme length, dangled her gloves between the tips of her fingers. "Margaret Wallace, literature means to me at least three pounds a week, it may be four, if possible, five. I can live on three, be comfortable on four, a swell on five. The problem being thus stated in all its beautiful simplicity, it only remains for me to discover the quickest and easiest solution. I have learned, from experience, that the Home Muddler is willing to give me half a guinea for a column of drivel, and the Hearthstone Smasher fifteen shillings for another. The Family Flutterer prints eight or ten thousand words of an endless serial at five shillings a thousand-one of these days I mean to strike for seven-and-six. But in the meantime there you are-the pursuit of literature has brought me bread and cheese. Why doesn't your Harry tread the same path?"

"The idea!"

"Of course! – the idea! – and that's where he gets left. It's my experience that in literature-"

"Literature!"

"I said literature. I was observing, when you interrupted, that it is my experience that in literature" – Miss Johnson paused, Miss Wallace was contemptuously silent-"men always get paid at least twice as much as the women. I don't know why; it seems to be one of the rules of the game. It therefore follows that if your Harry did as I do he would earn six, eight, ten pounds a week, which, with management, would keep two-not to speak of your drawings, which ought to bring in something. I believe the Family Flutterer pays as much as seven-and-six for a full page."

"My dear Dollie, you know as well as I do that we both of us would rather starve."

"Sweet Meg, I'm not saying you're right or wrong, only, if you have resolved to eschew the easily earned loaves and fishes, don't revile because, having set out on the track of the rarer creatures, you discover-what every one knows, and you know! – that they are difficult to find. My private opinion is that Harry will find them one day-if he keeps on long enough-though I don't know when."

"You're a comforting sort of person."

"I'm a practical sort of person, which is better. Cheer up, Meg! he'll get there-and perhaps you will too-though of course his stories are better than your drawings."

"I don't need you to tell me that."

Miss Johnson, descending from the table, put her arm round the girl who was seated on the other side.

"You poor darling! I'm a perfect pig! I say, Meg, are you hard up?"

"I always am."

"Beyond the ordinary, I mean?"

"If you mean, can you lend me, or give me, any money, you can't-thank you very much. I'm going to hoe my own furrow, right to the end."

"How about Harry? He gets some of his stuff accepted; then there's the three hundred pounds a year certain which he gets for being that party's secretary. I call that practicality, if you like! He ought to be getting on first-rate."

"He doesn't seem to think so, anyhow. As for what you call the three hundred pounds a year certain, I doubt if anything could be more uncertain, the engagement may terminate any day. I believe that Harry is really more worried than I am, and-and that's saying a good deal."

"Then the marriage is not coming off just yet?"

"Marriage! – and you call yourself a practical person! – how can you be so absurd?"

"I am not sure that I am absurd. If I ever loved a man-which I am never likely to do, men are such beings! – really loved him, and knew that he loved me, I shouldn't hesitate to marry him on a pound a week. Marriage, properly understood, is a spur; it's not, necessarily, anything like the clog romantic people like you seem to think it is."

When Miss Johnson had gone Margaret Wallace went and stood before a photograph which hung over the mantelpiece-the photograph of a man.

"I think, Cuthbert Grahame, it's possible that you'll shortly be revenged; if you knew just how things are I fancy you'd be of opinion that you're revenged already. If you'd been even a shadowy semblance of the father you once professed to be, I-I shouldn't be wondering where I'm to get my dinner from."

She examined the physiognomy of the man in front of her as if, instead of being the most familiar of faces, she saw it now for the first time. Going back to her seat at the table, she was examining the drawings which had accompanied the returned MS., as if desirous of learning what improvement she could make in them, when there came a tap at the door.

"Come in." Mr. Talfourd entered. In a moment she was in his arms. "Harry!"

"Meg! – more roses for you." He handed her the La France roses which had been presented to him by Mrs. Lamb. "What are you doing?"

She was eyeing the roses, without any great show of enthusiasm, which was possibly lacking because she knew from whom they had originally come.

"Harry, I've more bad news for you-I never seem to have anything else. The story's back from the Searchlight."

"What does it matter?"

"I don't like to hear you talk like that, because, you see, we both know that it matters, dear. Harry, do you think that it may have been returned because my drawings aren't up to the mark-honestly?"

"Honestly, I am certain it has not. Your drawings are at least as good as my story. I have never met any one who can illustrate me as well as you do."

"You mean that? If I weren't Margaret Wallace would you say so still?"

"I should. I should congratulate myself on having met some one who could illustrate me as I like to be illustrated. You misunderstood me just now. I said what does it matter, because it doesn't matter, in view of something of much greater importance which I have to say to you."

"Harry! what is it?"

"I hardly know how to begin, it's such a queer position. It's this-in a way, my play's accepted."

"'The Gordian Knot'? – by Mr. Winton?"

"No, not by Winton, by Mrs. Lamb."

"Mrs. Lamb? – Harry!" He told her how the play had come into Mrs. Lamb's hands, and how that lady had expressed her willingness to give it immediate production, on the understanding that she was to create Lady Glover. "But I didn't know she could act. Why should she want to anyhow? – she a rich woman! – especially such a part! Lady Glover's a horrible creature! I suppose you think she'd make a mess of it-and of course she would. She must be a very conceited person."

"Sweetheart, shall I tell you, quite frankly, what I really think?"

"You hadn't better tell me anything else."

"Then I'll make you my father confessor. I've a strong feeling, amounting to a positive conviction, that she'd make a magnificent Lady Glover. That's one reason why I hesitate."

"Now I don't understand. If she makes a success of the part, what else do you want?"

"I'll endeavour to explain. For one thing, I think it possible that she'll make it the part of the play, and so put Winton in the shade entirely. In the theatre he proposes to manage I'm certain he's no intention to be overshadowed by any one. Not that, in such a matter, I'm likely to be too sensitive about his feelings-but there it is. What, from my point of view, would be more serious, is that it is extremely probable that, by her rendition of Lady Glover, she'll warp the play out of what I intended to be its setting. As she was talking just now it dawned upon me that, in her hands, the play might become transformed-something altogether different to what I meant it to be."

"But if it's a success?"

"Meg, I find it difficult to put into words just what's in my mind. Of course if it's successful it will mean-"

"It will mean everything."

"It will mean a good deal; but it will mean everything I'd rather it didn't mean if the success is owing to her."

"But it will be your play. In one sense its success will always be dependent upon others. Really, Harry, I don't follow you. What is your objection to Mrs. Lamb? She's never done you any harm."

"No, she hasn't done me any harm-as yet."

"As yet! Do you think she means to? Considering that she proposes to produce your play, and bids fair to make a great success of it, it doesn't look as if she did."

"Meg-you'll laugh at me-I'm afraid of her."

"Afraid of her? – of Mrs. Lamb! – Harry!"

"I've never been comfortable in her presence since the first moment I've met her. When she's there I have the sort of feeling which I imagine a nervous person might have in the neighbourhood of a dangerous lunatic. I don't know when or how she will break out, but I feel that sometime, somehow, she will, and that then I shall have to struggle with her for my life."

"Harry! are you in earnest?"

He laughed oddly.

"Meg, upon my word, I can't tell you. She hypnotises me, that woman-she hypnotises me. Her influence is on me even after I have left her."

"She must be a curious person. I should like to meet her."

"Meet her?"

He shuddered, involuntarily. "Rather than that you should meet her I'd- If I can prevent it you shall not meet her."

"Why not? I know plenty of people who have met her, and who seem to think her a distinctly agreeable person-hospitable, good company, amusing, kindhearted, generous to a degree. Tell me, Harry, has she ever behaved to you in any way as she ought not to have done?"

"She has not, in one jot or tittle."

"To your knowledge has she ever done, or even said, anything wrong?"

"No. Still, I would rather she did not produce my play, especially if she is to act Lady Glover."

"Will she produce it if she doesn't?"

"I doubt it."

"There is something at the back of your mind which you're keeping to yourself. When I think of all that the success of 'The Gordian Knot' would mean to us, of how you've looked forward to its production, of how we've talked and talked of it, your present attitude is incomprehensible. It doesn't follow that because Mrs. Lamb produces your play-and even acts in it! – that you need therefore make of her a bosom friend if you'd rather not. I don't suppose it's only generosity which impels her; I daresay she has an axe of her own to grind."

"You may be sure of it."

"Then so have you. I don't see how it matters if it's A, B, or C who grinds it, so long as it's ground-properly ground; and you seem sure that it will be that."

"I have little doubt of it."

"Then tell me, Harry, what is the real, downright reason why you don't wish Mrs. Lamb to produce your play, and act in it?"

"Because, Meg, I'm afraid of her."

"Afraid of her! – of a woman! – who you yourself admit has never done you anything but good! Harry, you're beyond my comprehension."

Before he could answer there was a knock at the door. A servant entered with a card on a tray.

"A gentleman wishes to see you, miss."

She looked at the card.

"'David Twelves, M.D., Edin.'. It can't be Dr. Twelves of Pitmuir?"

A voice came from the door.

"It's that same man."

CHAPTER XVII
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

In appearance the doctor had altered but little since we saw him last. He was the same little wizened old man, with the slight stoop, and the sunken eyes which looked out so keenly from under the thick, overhanging thatch of his shaggy eyebrows. When she heard his voice, and saw him, Margaret, running to him-before Harry, before the servant-put her arms about his neck (she could easily do it, since he was the shorter), and, after looking at him fixedly, as if to make sure that he was still the same man, kissed him on the lips.

"Dr. Twelves, to think of your coming to see me after all these years!"

"And whose fault is it that I haven't come before? whose fault I'd like to know?"

"It certainly isn't mine."

"Not yours? when I hadn't a notion where to look for you, and you took care that I hadn't? It's only by the grace of God I've chanced upon you now. I was looking in a bit of a magazine, at an illustration which seemed to me to be pretty fair, when I saw your name in the corner-Margaret Wallace-in your own handwriting. I can tell you I jumped-there, in the railway carriage-so that I daresay my fellow-passengers thought that I'd a sudden gouty twinge or, maybe, rheumatism, for none can say that I look like a gouty subject. I went straight to the office where the magazine is published, and I asked them to tell me where you might be found. I believe they thought I'd designs upon your life, or, at least, upon your purse. I had to tell them such a yarn before they'd tell me. Then I took care to follow the girl up the stairs, so that, if you meant to deny yourself, you shouldn't have a chance."

"Deny myself? – to you? – doctor! what a notion! – as if I should!" By now the servant had retired; Miss Wallace, who still retained a hand upon her visitor's shoulder, had brought him into the room. "Harry, this is Dr. Twelves, of whom you have so often heard me speak. Doctor, this is Mr. Talfourd, whose wife I hope one day to be."

"I trust, young gentleman, that your deserts are equal to your good fortune, and that you're properly conscious how great that is. I've known this lassie since the time she seemed all hair and legs, for those were the parts of her you noticed most, and there hasn't been a day on which I haven't wanted her to be my wife."

"Now, doctor, that's contrary to the fact; you know you told me more than once that Providence had marked you out to be a bachelor."

"And wasn't that self-evident, since you wouldn't have me? Now, Margaret Wallace, what have you been doing?"

"Doing? I was talking to Harry when you came in."

"I'll be bound that it's plenty of talking to Harry that you do, and will do-particularly later on, when you're Mrs. Harry."

"Doctor!"

"What I mean was, have you made your fortune? or are you drawing pictures for your daily bread?"

She looked at Mr. Talfourd quizzically.

"I have one eye upon my daily bread."

"And it isn't too much of it you see, by the looks of you. You're peaked, and you're thin."

"Oh, doctor! I'm sure I'm not."

"And I'm sure you are, and by virtue of my profession I ought to know. It's a pretty market to which you've brought your pigs. You might be one of the richest women in England, instead of being half-starved-with white cheeks and tired eyes."

"Doctor, how dare you say such things! It's not true! You've not improved!"

"I'm thinking you've not improved either. You've a stubborn heart. Why, all this time, haven't you let some of us know something about you? – if it was only where a line might reach you."

"You know very well why, and I did go to see Mr. Grahame."

"You went to see Cuthbert Grahame? When?" She mentioned the date. "Girl, you're dreaming. It was the day after that he died."

"The day after that he died? I knew he was dead. I heard of it long afterwards by a side wind; but I have never heard any particulars. You none of you told me anything."

"How were we to, when you'd hidden yourself from us in this great city?"

"Of what did he die?"

"If you ask what was on the certificate I can tell you; but if you want to know how death came to him you must inquire of his wife."

"His wife?"

"When he died he was a married man, according to the law of Scotland."

"Dr. Twelves, are you jesting?"

"I'm not. On the day he died he made a will leaving her all that he had in the world-and she had it."

"Who was she?"

"Beyond saying that she was no better than she ought to be, I can tell you nothing."

"Was she some one from the neighbourhood?"

"She was not; she was from England. She dropped from the clouds. I should say-if I may be allowed to do so in this company-on her road to hell. What passed between you and Cuthbert Grahame when you saw him on that day before he died?"

"I didn't see him. Nannie wouldn't let me."

"Nannie wouldn't let you?"

"She would not. She said that Mr. Grahame had forbidden her to admit me into the house."

"She's never spoken a word to me about it. What's been the matter with the woman? But there's something ails your story. That day, and for many days afterwards, she was lying in bed with a broken leg. Was it from her bedroom that she shouted out to you?"

"From her bedroom? – nothing of the kind. She told me through the front door that Mr. Grahame had forbidden her to let me in. When I said that I would come in, and began to break the window to show that I was in earnest, she went to the window above, and poured two buckets of boiling water over me."

"Margaret Wallace! it's dreaming you must have been."

"It was a curious kind of dream. The water scalded my neck, and left a scar which was visible for weeks-wasn't it?"

She turned to Mr. Talfourd, as if for corroboration.

"It was. When I saw it I was disposed to go straight off to Scotland, and give the old harridan a taste of my quality."

"It's as queer a story as any I've heard. Seeing that Nannie was as if she had been glued to her bed, how could she walk about the house as you say, and pour buckets of boiling water on to you through a window?"

"I only know that she did."

"Did you see her?"

She considered a moment.

"No, I didn't. She took care not to show herself."

"She took care not to show herself?"

"She hadn't the courage to let me see her face, but she let me hear her voice, and plenty of it. It was not necessary for me to see her when I heard her. I've been acquainted with Nannie Foreshaw's voice for too many years to be likely to mistake it for any one else's."

"You're sure? I doubt-" The doctor seemed to be considering in his turn. "I can't put the pieces of the puzzle together so that they just fit, but I've a notion that I'm on the way. Margaret Wallace, I've a suspicion that I've been a greater fool even than I thought. After the chances I've had to get wisdom, to get understanding, that's not a nice feeling to have. Between us-you've had a hand! – we've muddled things to a marvel. I'll communicate with Nannie with reference to that little conversation you say you had with her; when I've heard from her I'll talk to you again." He turned to Mr. Talfourd.

"And you, sir, do you make drawings?"

"No; I write stories."

The doctor looked him up and down as if he were a specimen of a species which was new to him.

"Stories? Oh! and is that a man's work? I come of a good old Scottish stock. My forebears have always held that a man should do a man's work. Is writing stories that?"

"It isn't easy, if that's what you mean."

"Not easy? I should have thought you would have found it as easy as lying. I've written them myself; I didn't find it hard. It's just a waste of time. However, I'm not judging you. Is that all you do, write stories?"

"Just at present I'm doing something else as well. I'm acting as private secretary to a lady."

"Private secretary to a lady? You've your own notions of what's a man's work, Mr. Talfourd."

Harry flushed; Margaret laughed.

"And you country Scotchmen have your own ideas of what you're entitled to say."

"You're Scotch yourself, my lassie, on the best side of you; don't gird at your own birth. I ask your pardon, Mr. Talfourd, if I've said anything I ought not to say; but I've known this lassie all her days. She's been to me as the apple of my eye, and-she tells me that you're to be her husband. Would it be going too far, Mr. Talfourd, if I were to ask you what's the name of the lady to whom you're acting as private secretary?"

"Mrs. Lamb-Mrs. Gregory Lamb."

"Mrs. Gregory Lamb? That's odd."

"How is it odd? I hope there's nothing improper about the name."

"It's not that it's improper; it's that I once met a Gregory Lamb. What sort's your Gregory Lamb?"

"He's about my own age, perhaps a little older; not ill-looking; not, I should imagine, a bad fellow in his way."

"Is he a poor man?"

"I believe his wife is very rich."

"His wife? Of course, there's the wife-and she's very rich. The rich woman who married the Gregory Lamb I know would be a very foolish female."

"Mrs. Lamb is certainly not that."

"Then her Gregory's not mine, though it's an unusual conjunction of names. I'm thinking that none but a fool of a woman would ever have married him."