slander, meanest spawn of hell; and women's slander is the worst.

mrs. agar was a person incapable of awaiting that vague result called the development of things.

arthur had never been forced to wait for anything in his life. no longer at least than tradespeople required, and in many cases not so long, for mrs. agar had an annoying way of refusing to listen to reason. she never allowed that laws applying to ordinary people, served more or less faithfully by tailor or dressmaker, applied to herself or to arthur. and tradespeople, one finds are not always of the same mind as the medes and persians—they square matters quietly in the bill. they had to do it very quietly indeed with mrs. agar, who endeavoured strenuously to get the best value for her money all through life; a remnant of jaggery house, clapham common, which the placid wealth of stagholme never obliterated.

after the luncheon, specially prepared and laid before the rector, this second rebecca awaited the result impatiently. but nothing came of it. although mrs. agar now looked upon dora as the latest whim of the not-to-be-denied arthur, she could hardly consider mr. glynde in the light of a tradesman retailing the said commodity, and, therefore, to be bullied and harassed into making haste. she reflected with misgiving that mr. glynde was an exponent of the tiresome art of talking over and thinking out matters which required neither words nor thought, and saw no prospect of an immediate furtherance of her design.

with a mistaken and much practised desire of striking when the iron was hot, mrs. agar, like many a wiser person, began, therefore, to bang about in all directions, hitting not only the iron but the anvil, her own knuckles and the susceptibilities of any one standing in the neighbourhood. she could not leave things to mr. glynde, but must needs see dora herself. she had in her mind the nucleus of a simple if scurrilous scheme which will show itself hereafter. her opportunity presented itself a few days later.

a neighbouring family counting itself county, presumably on the strength of never being able to absent themselves from the favoured neighbourhood on account of monetary incapacity, gave its annual garden-party at this time. to this entertainment the whole countryside was in the habit of repairing—not with an idea of enjoying itself, but because everybody did it. to be bidden to this garden-party was in itself a cachet of respectability. this indeed was the only satisfaction to be gathered from the festivity. if the honour was great, the hospitality was small. if the condescension was vast, the fare provided was verging on the stingy. here were served by half-starved domestic servants, in the smallest of tumblers, “cups” wherein were mixed liquors, such as cider, usually consumed by self-respecting persons in the undiluted condition and in mugs. upon cucumber-cup, taken in county society, as on a dinner of herbs, one hardly expects the guest to grow convivial. therefore at this garden-party those bidden to the feast were in the habit of wandering sadly through the shrubbery seeking whom they might avoid, and in the course of such a perambulation, with a young man conversant of himself, dora met mrs. agar. even the mistress of stagholme was preferable to the young man from london, and besides—there were associations. so dora drew mrs. agar into her promenade, and presently the young man got his congé.

at first they talked of local topics, and mrs. agar, who had a fine sense of hospitality, said her say about the cider-cup. then she gave an awkward little laugh, and with an assumption of lightness which did not succeed she said:

“i hope, dear, you do not intend to keep my poor boy in suspense much longer?”

“do you mean arthur?” asked dora.

“yes, dear. i really don't see why there should be this absurd reserve between us.”

“i am quite willing,” replied the girl, “to hear what you have to say about it.”

“yes, but not to talk of it.”

“well, i suppose arthur has told you all there is to tell. if there is anything more that you want to know i shall be very glad to tell you.”

“well, of course, i don't understand it at all,” burst out mrs. agar eagerly. this was quite true; neither she nor arthur could understand how any one could refuse such a glorious offer as he had made.

“perhaps i can explain. arthur asked me to marry him. i quite appreciated the honour, but i declined it.”

“yes, but why? surely you didn't mean it?”

“i did mean it.”

“well,” explained mrs. agar, with a little toss of the head, “i am sure i cannot see what more you want. there are many girls who would be glad to be mistress of stagholme.”

and it must be remembered that she said this knowing quite well that jem was probably alive. there are some crimes which women commit daily in the family circle which deserve a greater punishment than that meted out to a legal criminal.

“that is precisely what i ventured to point out to arthur,” said dora, unconsciously borrowing her father's ironical neatness of enunciation.

“but why shouldn't you take the opportunity? there are not many estates like it in england. your position would be as good as that of a titled lady, and i am sure you could not want a better husband.”

“i like arthur as a friend, but i could never marry him, so it is useless to discuss the question.”

“but why?” persisted mrs. agar.

“because i do not care for him in the right way.”

“but that would come,” said mrs. agar. it was only natural that she should use an argument which is accountable for more misery on earth than mothers dream of.

“no, it would never come.”

mrs. agar gave a cunning little laugh, and paused so as to lend additional weight to her next remark.

“that is a dangerous thing for a girl to say.”

“is it?” inquired dora indifferently.

“yes, because they can never be sure, unless—”

“unless what? i am quite sure.”

“unless there is some one else,” said mrs. agar, with an exaggerated significance suggestive of the servants' hall.

dora did not answer at once. they walked on for a few moments in silence, passing other guests walking in couples. then dora replied with a succinctness acquired from her father:

“generalities about women,” she said, “are always a mistake. indeed, all generalities are dangerous. but if you and arthur care to apply this to me, you are at liberty to do so. whatever generalities you apply and whatever you say will make no difference to the main question. moreover, you will, perhaps, be acting a kinder part if you give arthur to understand once for all that my decision is final.”

“as you like, dear, as you like,” muttered mrs. agar, apparently abandoning the argument, whereas in reality she had not yet begun it.

“how do you do, dear mrs. martin?” she went on in the same breath, bowing and smiling to a lady who passed them at that moment.

“of course,” she said, returning in a final way to the question after a few moments' silence, “of course i do not believe all i hear; in fact, i contradict a good deal. but i have been told that gossips talked about you a good deal last year, at the time of jem's death. i think it only fair that you should know.”

“thank you,” said dora curtly.

“of course, dear, i didn't believe anything about it.”

“thank you,” said dora again.

“i should have been sorry to do so.”

then dora turned upon her suddenly.

“what do you mean, aunt anna?” she asked with determination.

“oh, nothing, dear, nothing. don't get flurried about it.”

“i am not at all flurried,” replied dora quietly. “you said that you would be sorry to have to believe what gossips said of me last year at the time of jem's death—”

“dora,” interrupted mrs. agar, “i never said anything against you in any way; how can you say such a thing?”

“and,” continued dora, with an unpleasant calmness of manner, “i must ask you to explain. what did the gossips say, and why should you be sorry to have to believe it?”

mrs. agar's reluctance was not quite genuine nor was it well enough simulated to deceive dora.

“well, dear,” she said, “if you insist, they said that there had been something between you and jem—long, long ago, of course, before he went out to india.”

dora shrugged her shoulders.

“they are welcome to say what they like.”

mrs. agar was silent, awaiting a second question.

“and why should you be sorry to believe that?” inquired the girl.

“i—i hardly like to tell you,” said mrs. agar, in a low voice.

dora waited in silence, without appearing to heed mrs. agar's reluctance.

“i am afraid, dear,” went on the elder lady, when she saw that there was no chance of assistance, “that we have been all sadly mistaken in jem. he was not—all that we thought him.”

“in what way?” asked dora. she had turned quite white, and her lips were suddenly dry and parched. she held her parasol a little lower, so that mrs. agar could not see her face. she was sure enough of her voice. she had had practice in that.

“in what way was jem not all that we thought him?” she repeated evenly, like a lesson learnt by heart.

mrs. agar stammered. she tried to blush, but she could not manage that.

“i cannot very well give you details. perhaps, when you are older. you know, dear, in india people are not very particular. they have peculiar ideas, i mean, of morals—different from ours. and perhaps he saw no harm in it.”

“in what?” inquired dora gravely.

“well, in the life they lead out there. it appears that there was some unfortunate attachment. i think she was married or something like that.”

“who told you this?” asked dora, in a voice like a threat.

“a man told arthur at cambridge—one of poor jem's fellow-officers. the man who brought home the diary and things.”

having once begun mrs. agar found herself obliged to go on. she had not time to pause and reflect that she was now staking everything upon the possibility of jem's death subsequent to the disaster in which he was supposed to have perished.

dora did not believe one word of this story, although she was quite without proof to the contrary. jem's letters had not been frequent, nor had they been remarkable for minuteness of detail respecting his own life. mrs. agar had done her best to put a stop to this correspondence altogether, and had succeeded in bringing about a subtle reserve on both sides. she had persistently told jem that dora was evidently attached to arthur, and that their marriage was only the question of a few years. of this jem had never found any confirmatory hint in dora's letters, and from some mistaken sense of chivalry refrained from writing to ask her point-blank if it were true.

“and why,” said dora, “do you tell me this? in case what the gossips said might be true?”

“ye-es, dear, perhaps it was that.”

“so as to save me from cherishing any mistaken memory?”

“yes, it may have been that.”

and mrs. agar was surprised to see dora turn her back upon her as if she had been something loathsome to look upon, and walk away.