CHAPTER XXIII.

PAINFUL DUTIES.

AFTER the two great crimes of "removing the landmarks of the constitution to pander to the masses," and not wiping one's shoes-the one an imperial, the other a domestic sin, yet equally grave-unpunctuality at table was the most heinous offence in the eyes of Horace and Herbert. Without being exactly gourmands they liked their food cooked to a turn. Most bachelors who have turned forty exhibit the same liking. The Talberts took a great deal of trouble about their cuisine, and expected to be rewarded by finding everything, from the salt to the salmon, as it should be. Such a matter as a hard-hearted potato was all but unknown at their table, and would have formed the subject for a court of inquiry, and, if needed, a revision of kitchen utensils.

At their refined dinner-parties it was understood that after a certain time of grace no one was to be waited for. It was their theory that keeping several guests waiting for one laggard was a breach of politeness. There were unkind people who said that the brothers would break this rule for a lord. They wronged our friends. They would have waited for no one under the rank of a duke or at least a marquis.

So that when Whittaker having struck the resonant gong and so proclaimed that lunch was ready, ten minutes passed by without Beatrice's responding to its hospitable summons, it is no wonder that Horace and Herbert began to look grave. The soup was on the table; Whittaker was waiting his masters' commands. He, who from long

association felt the situation as much as they did, looked absolutely sympathetic. Although he had no reason to suppose her stone deaf he ventured to suggest that Miss Clauson had not heard the gong.

The beauty of the Talberts' character was that politeness invariably triumphed over principle. Punctuality was here the principle; it was outraged, yet forced for a while to submit. Horace forbade a repeated summons, and they actually waited another five minutes before they sent Whittaker to inquire for Miss Clauson. Whittaker reported that Miss Clauson, the nurse, and the little boy had gone out immediately after breakfast and had not yet returned.

"Then the nursery dinner will be spoiled too," said Horace sadly, as he seated himself and ladled out the soup. Horace with his kind heart felt for any one who was doomed to suffer from a spoiled dinner.

After a solemn lunch the brothers waited for a while in the dining-room. They expected every moment that Beatrice would appear. They did not of course mean to scold her, but were prepared to say a few words of mild remonstrance; to show her, in fact, how the bad example of unpunctuality must demoralise an establishment.

But as Beatrice did not appear, the well-meant little lecture they were tacitly preparing turned into open expressions of wonder as to why her morning ramble should be so protracted. Perhaps she had gone somewhere to lunch. Perhaps something had happened. Just as they had reached this last stage of supposition, Whittaker brought in a telegram. It was from Beatrice and sent from Oxford Circus. "We are in London "-it ran-"do not be uneasy; will write to-night."

They were greatly surprised, and marvelled on what errand could she have gone to London? No doubt it was all right. She had most likely gone to her father's. Perhaps Sir Maingay was ill. Beatrice might have intercepted a telegram and impulsively started off at once. But why take the child and the nurse? Why There, they were unable to make head or tail of the matter, so could only wait for the morning's post.

Р

"Beatrice might have been more explicit," said Horace, looking at the telegram once more.

Yes," said Herbert, "she had nine words to spare."

"Telegrams are one of the pests of modern life," continued Horace. "People dash off these ill-worded, unpunctuated phrases instead of a proper letter. No one can write a decent letter now."

Horace, who had the gift of writing peculiarly wellconstructed and elegant, if rather too lengthy epistles, felt keenly on the tendency of the age to conduct its correspondence by means of short, snapping sentences after the manner of Mr. Mordle's style of talking.

"I hope she will be back soon," said Herbert.

comes to us the day after to-morrow."

"He is in good health now, isn't he?"

"Splendid, I believe."

"Frank

"Then I think we can give him the '58 this time-the '47 is growing low."

This was not meanness. man exercises over his cellar. of the delicate graduation? prefer it to 1847.

It was but the caution a wise Besides, who could complain 1858 is a fine wine; many

Beatrice's promised letter came in the morning. Horace read it first. His face was a perfect blank. He read it again before he handed it to the anxious Herbert, who, although he saw from his brother's face that something strange had happened, was for once unable to make the slightest guess at the truth. Here is Beatrice's letter :—

"MY VERY DEAR UNCLES-I should be ungrateful for the kindness you have shown me if I left you in any anxiety a moment longer than I could help. I sent you a telegram yesterday afternoon to show you that no evil had befallen

me.

"I scarcely know what to say to you. I can at present offer no excuse for what I am about to do. I can give no explanation. When I came to Hazlewood House I hoped to be able to make it my home for so long as you would keep me. Now, I find, I am forced to leave you and

make a home of my own. Moreover, I am forced for a while at least to keep silence as to where that home may be. At this moment I have not even determined. It will, however, be out of England. I cannot even tell you why this must be so. Will you ever forgive me?

"Please do not fear on my account. I ain growing old and can well take care of myself; besides, Mrs. Miller will be with me, also Harry, so that I shall not be dull.

"If I cannot promise to tell you where I am, I will at least let you hear from me now and then. Please, oh, please do not try and trace me, but do endeavour to think kindly of your loving but unhappy niece,

"BEATRICE."

"What does it mean, Herbert ?" said Horace in sepulchral tones.

"What can it mean ?" echoed Herbert.

They sat staring at one another and feeling that such an unlooked-for catastrophe had never before happened since the world began to be peopled by ladies and gentleTheir niece, the feminine counterpart of themselves; the embodiment, to their minds, of all that a well-bred, well-born woman should be, to be guilty of such an escapade. It was awful, perfectly awful

men.

They read the letter again and again, discussed the meaning of sentences, even of words; but this analysing process helped them nothing. So they turned to reconsider in a new light Beatrice herself as they knew her or fancied they knew her.

Although neither of the Talberts had ever felt the tender passion, it was thought by many that, if either were attacked, Herbert would be the victim. A widow anxious to re-enter the holy estate of matrimony would have directed her attention to the younger man as being of a more malleable material than the elder. There was, indeed, a vague tradition floating about that Herbert had once upon a time looked rather tenderly upon some young lady, and that had not Horace with praiseworthy selfishness promptly interfered and nipped the affair in the bud, he, Horace, might now

be living in solitude with all the cares of Hazlewood House on his shoulders. So it was Herbert who first approached the puzzle from the romantic side.

"You don't think," he said, "that Beatrice could have any-any unfortunate attachment of which we should have disapproved?"

"How could such a thing be possible ?"

"We thought such a thing as her leaving us like this an impossibility."

This argument impressed Horace. He thought the matter carefully over. "No," he said, with the air of a judge giving a decision, "it is impossible. She has given no signs of such a thing. She has seemed quite happy and contented. Her appetite has, I think, been very good." "Yes, very good," said Herbert.

"Besides, who could there be? She is also her own mistress, and if she wished to marry we have no voice in the matter. She is quite capable of having her own way. Witness her leaving all that money idle."

Horace had never got over that present of seven per cent to the bankers.

Herbert, in obedience to his brother's views, dismissed the unfortunate attachment theory and began to look for another. "I wonder," he said sadly, and after a long pause, "I wonder if we have misunderstood Beatrice's character ?" "I am almost afraid it is so," said Horace.

"She seemed so quiet and contented,” sighed Herbert. “True, that affair about those people and the boy upset her."

"Now," said Horace, "I believe you are getting nearer the mark. Can it be possible that any fear that the child would be taken from her induced her to make this foolish flight-I can call it nothing else?"

Herbert objected in his turn. Beatrice had been so certain that the claim would come to nothing, and events had proved her sagacity. So they talked and talked, suggested and reasoned, but never got near the truth. They could not even frame a theory. Nothing in this world is more annoying than to be without a theory.