"It is not wisdom in this case, it is cowardice. He is afraid of her vulgarity."
"No wonder. She was a tradesman's daughter, wasn't she?"
"Well," with some fire, "wasn't he a tradesman's son?"
"Still consider!"
"Oh, you to consider!" the girl interrupted her vehemently— "you who lay so much stress on 'family'; you who will hardly acknowledge the Firs-Robinsons because they cannot swear to a grandfather."
"What I was going to say was that Dr. Darkham must be pitied about his marriage, to a certain degree. He has risen out of the mire of his birth and his original surroundings. She has sunk deeper into hers. I think," said Mrs. Greatorex, who had a fond fancy that she was a sympathetic soul, "that, of all harrowing afflictions, the worst must be that of a man tied for life to an uncongenial companion."
"I think it must be infinitely worse for a woman to be tied for life to a thoroughly bad husband."
"My dear Agatha! You will end by representing Dr. Darkham as a modern Bluebeard. As for me, I pity him. And there are so many cases just like his. A young man of his parentage—nobody at all, in facts—starts in life, very naturally, by marrying somebody in his own class. Some dreadful person! Then he, being clever—a man—rises. She stands rootedly still. She is a millstone round his neck, weighing him down, keeping him back from the goal to which he would attain—the goal of equality with his superiors which he feels ought to be his, because of the intellect that ennobles him. Now we all know Mrs. Darkham. No wonder he hates her."
"For all that, if a man marries a woman of his own free-will he should deal fairly by her," said Agatha thoughtfully.
"Of course. But there are always exceptional cases. And surely Mrs. Darkham is one of them."
"I don't think so. She is very vulgar, and very fat, and unutterably dull; but one must remember that she was all that when he married her. What, then, does he look for now?"
"Perhaps for the 'h's' she is always dropping," said Mrs. Greatorex, with a laugh. "You say she never goes anywhere, that he keeps her in durance vile; but she is going to this dance to-morrow night at the Firs-Robinsons', and I saw her yesterday at the Poynters'. What is it about her that jars so dreadfully? She started the subject of that idiot son of hers, and wore it to tatters, whilst we all sat aghast, and wished ourselves dead. I was quite thankful Dr. Darkham wasn't there. I really think if he had been, he would have been quite justified in murdering her."
"Oh no!" The words seemed to fall from Agatha unconsciously. There was horror in them—she shuddered. "Aunt Hilda, how dreadful! To murder her!"
Mrs. Greatorex laid down her knitting.
"It wasn't so much that she was vulgar—had bad taste—but that she was so—so oppressive. And rude, too—very rude."
"I could fancy," said the girl slowly, "that she is very unhappy. I have often thought it."
"You are prejudiced. I could fancy that she is very nearly as much out of her mind as that terrible son of hers."
"Poor Edwy! I met him yesterday in the wood. He came crash through it like a young Samson. Poor, poor boy! To be deaf and dumb and idiotic seems—well, a cruel sentence."
"Strange how people like that live on! Useless—mere burdens— creatures one shrinks from. Why, he must be almost grown up now."
"He is sixteen; but he looks a mere child. His body has grown, but his face has not; it is so young—pathetically young—and at times almost beautiful."
"Not when he is excited."
"No, no! And not when he laughs. What a frightful sound it is! You know, I suppose, that he can say one word. At least, not a word, but a noise that has a meaning."
"Mr. Blount told me about it. 'Sho' is the sound, is it not?"
"Yes; and it always means his mother. He calls to her in that way. It is very remarkable. You know he adores her. After all, I think she can't be without some good quality, when that poor stricken boy loves her so much."
"Like to like," said Mrs. Greatorex carelessly. "Really she is nearly as dull as he is. Let us forget her. What of to-morrow night? Did you hear who was likely to be there?"
"At the Firs-Robinsons'? Everybody, as far as I can see."
"Quite right, too. They are 'nobody,' if you like."
"I think Elfrida is charming," said Agatha quietly.
"Elfrida!" Mrs. Greatorex sniffed. "Elfrida, with Robinson at the end of it! Firs-Robinson because of the society craze for double names. Well, and so every one is to be there. What do they mean by every one?"
"Why"—laughing—"I suppose every one. And I hear Lord Stilton and his party, and Lord Ambert."
"Ambert!" Mrs. Greatorex let the sock fall to the floor this time. "Can it be true that he wants to marry that girl? I can't imagine Miss Robinson—a countess! But he is very hard up, and she has a great deal of money. Money is everything nowadays!" Then suddenly, leaning forward, and letting her brilliant eyes rest upon her niece's face, as if indignant with her, "Why haven't you money?" said she.
The uncontrollable ambition that ruled her whole life betrayed itself in these words. If Agatha had been an heiress she might have married Lord Ambert.
CHAPTER IV
"Late as usual, and all your partners in hysterics!" said a quick voice—a voice a little sharp, perhaps, and decided, but clear as a bell. Agatha, who had just entered the dancing-room with her chaperon, turned quickly round and smiled at Miss Firs-Robinson.
"I couldn't help it. Aunt Hilda was afraid to come out, and so Mrs. Poynter has kindly brought me."
"Oh, if it is Mrs. Poynter, thank Heaven you are here at all! Her wild determination to be 'fashionable,' as she calls it, makes her slow in many ways. But here you are, anyway."
"What a charming gown!" said Agatha, looking at her friend.
Certainly the gown was not more charming than its wearer. Miss Firs-Robinson was looking her very best to-night—small, fairy-like, refined, in spite of her parentage, which, indeed, was not all it might have been. Her grandfather had been a store boy in America, had got on, and become the head of a store himself.
Anyway, Miss Firs-Robinson was as delicately formed as though the blood of all the Howards had run through her veins. A little thing—small—vivacious. Her father, the moment he felt himself above the whims of Fortune's vilest efforts, came to England and died.
That was five years ago. Elfrida, who had been sent home at an early age for educational purposes, and who remembered but slightly her American experiences, had lived all these years with her father's sister, the elder Miss Firs-Robinson. She was a most estimable woman, and full of prejudices.
Elfrida was as lovely as the dawning day. Her pretty fair hair covered in tiny curls a head as patrician in shape as though its owner had been the daughter of a hundred earls. And in this head to-night some diamond stars were glittering, sparkling gaily as its owner moved and spoke. Her mouth was small, but not too small. And her nose was not Greek. It was pretty and very lovable, for all that. Her eyes were blue, and so easy to read, said the tyro; so difficult, said the expert.
"If you hadn't come," said Miss Firs-Robinson, "there would have been murder presently. Dr.—"
Agatha's face changed and whitened; she made an impulsive movement.
"Dr. Dillwyn has been wandering round aimlessly for the last hour, seeking