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DR. MANTON’S arrival in Bulboro was announced with prominence in the current issue of the Bulboro Chronicle. It was one of those suggestive events which the town might reasonably regard as being of first consequence.

Anthony bore a name which was honoured from one end of the county to another, and whether it was in the Club, on “The Chad,” or in the congested little streets which run north-west from the Crescent, it was one of the items of public news which called for repetition.

It is proper that the views of Bulboro should be taken in order of social precedence.

The Hon. and Rev. Heron Wendall had a mansion (it would be absurd to describe it as anything less) half-way up West Hill in the shadow of St. Joseph’s. St. Joseph’s was Bulboro’s one Catholic church, and that the shadow of its square towers should fall across the well-kept lawn of the Church House did not greatly disturb the Rector. Like many another man, he was tolerant where his inclinations ran.

He was not tolerant of the Dissenters, and had St. Joseph’s been the flamboyant structure of the Congregationalists, its presence might very well have irritated him to a point beyond human endurance, but St. Joseph’s was a different matter.

He had considerable respect for the old Church; would even go so far as to admit, if his audience was sufficiently intimate to hear and discreet enough to retain the views he expressed—that it was, perhaps, a pity that Henry VIII had ever lived, or that there should have arisen any difference between Rome and the Court of St. James.

On a morning a few days after the arrival of Anthony Manton, Lady Beatrice Heron Wendall had invited her nominal lord to breakfast with her in her little den. It was an invitation which she did not often extend, and the Hon. and Rev. Heron Wendall had received it with inward quaking.

He was a tall sleek man, rather bald, and inclined to breadth. His face suggested an æsthetic run to fat. There was culture and intellect in the forehead and in the eyes, and a certain refinement in the thin nose. But the mouth was a little too full, and the chin a thought too plump to please your carping physiognomist.

He had a ready smile: a smile which was even and lit up the whole of his face and would deceive the unknowing into complete confidence in its spontaneity.

But those who knew the reverend gentleman, and were sufficiently interested to study all his characteristics, knew exactly which line would crease first, knew how the smile dawned at the edge of the lips, and how the wrinkling eyes immediately followed, might tell you, indeed, the width of every wrinkle, and the duration of every little pucker that went to make the Rector’s geniality.

His voice was rich and sonorous, his hands white and perfectly manicured, his dress invariably irreproachable. He was a model of all that a Rector should be, and might with profit have been sealed by the Ecclesiastical Commissioners as a pattern of habiliment, manner and deportment for all clergymen of the Church of England for all time.

The youngest son of Lord Pershore, he came to Bulboro with the cachet of his aristocratic lineage, and Bulboro received him with open arms as some slight token of the Bishop’s regard.

There were hypercritical people, who complained that the honourable and reverend gentleman was lacking in sympathy, wanting something in humanity, and that he was wooden, heartless and cold. But there are in all probability members of the Church who are everlastingly elbowing in the direction of evangelism; people who are not satisfied with the urgent business of their own and their families’ salvation, but must needs go raking about in unsavoury rag-bags for most undesirable sinners.

There were others who said he was shallow and insincere. Pierce the suavity and the veneer of him, you came upon a cotton-wool filling of stupidity.

Possibly the Hon. and Rev. Heron Wendall heard of these criticisms, but he could afford to ignore them.

He belonged to a class which for generations had chosen not only their own friends but their own enemies.

Outside the circle they had thus drawn, they accepted neither compliment nor rebuke.

A dissatisfied schismatic might cede from the Church and go over to the Wesleyans to the scandal of church-going Bulboro. He might even arise in a public place and denounce the rulers of the church in its relation to the poor, and find himself applauded by a large congregation of another sect, who had troubles of their own but were not averse to receiving recruits to fill the gap which their own schismatics had left.

But the Rev. Heron Wendall went on his way impassive and unmoved, smiled his quick smile, and murmured “how interesting” when the news of such a meeting was brought to him. Thereafter he would dismiss the matter from his mind as being unworthy to discuss even in the privacy of tête-à-tête luncheon with his lady wife. But did General Sir Burton Brown, aged and irascible, on the verge of senility moreover, offer criticism of a service, or present his compliments in his weak old caligraphy, drawing attention to the unseemliness of the choir-boys’ behaviour or the intonation of the curate, then the Hon. and Rev. Heron Wendall sat in his study in judgment, with choir-boys and curates, and choir-masters and organist arraigned before him, and the inquisition might take the greater part of a day and spoil his rest at night.

Of all the critics he had chosen, there was none so potent a factor in his life, and of whose judgment he stood more in awe, than that noble lady whose alliance with his fortune had marked a distinct advancement in his worldly career.

“Tell your lady,” he said to the trim maid who brought the message, “that I shall have pleasure in breakfasting with her.”

He looked at his watch.

“At what time?” he asked.

“At eleven o’clock, sir,” said the maid.

He nodded, and the girl went back with his message.

What did she want? he wondered. He was not usually favoured with such invitations.

Lady Heron Wendall was a convenient invalid who exercised all the privileges and experienced none of the discomforts of sickness. She was the autocrat of the Rectory; dominated not only the limited society of the town, but all that was most exclusive in the county. Most effectively did she dominate the Hon. and Rev. Heron Wendall.

As he sat at his desk preparing his next Sunday’s sermon, he turned over in his mind every possible explanation for the summons, but without securing any great satisfaction, and at three minutes to eleven he tapped at the door of his wife’s room.

Beatrice Heron Wendall was still a beautiful woman. Her pallor gave her an appearance of frailty which was unjustified, for in a sense she was a hearty woman. Her Titian red hair, her delicately pencilled eyebrows, and her long, black lashes may possibly have owed something to artificial aid. As to this, the hairdresser who came weekly from London to “do her up”—the expression was her maid’s—might have supplied information which feminine Bulboro already guessed.

She half lay, half sat, upon a settee drawn up to the window overlooking the lawn and affording a glimpse of Bulboro, half-hidden in the smoky hollow below. She nodded “Good morning” to her husband as he entered.

A chair had been placed for him, but he crossed to her, and bending over her, kissed her on the forehead.

“And how did you sleep last night, Beatrice?” he asked pleasantly. His smile lasted a little longer for her.

“I slept all right,” she said carelessly. “Sit down, will you! Do not wander about the room, Edward, you fidget me.”

He smiled again, pulled up his chair to the little table, and handled an egg rather daintily. He had had his breakfast two hours before, and was never less inclined to a meal than he was at that moment.

“I want you to call on this new Manton man,” she said, looking out of the window.

“Which new Manton man, my love?” smiled the Rector.

“There is only one Manton man I should think of mentioning,” she replied, turning on him the cold and disapproving stare of her blue eyes, “the old doctor’s nephew; he arrived in Bulboro the other night. I want him to call upon me.”

“My dear,” protested the other in terms of genial reproach, “of course he will call upon you.”

“If there was any of course about it,” she said impatiently, “I should not bother you, but I knew old Manton very well, much better than you.”

She might have added that he knew her very well, much better than her husband had ever known her, and that he had probed her character and found the dark places of her life which had remained hidden from the man she had married.

“This Anthony man is a scientist, and the real scientist is never impressed by local big-wigs. You have to see him and make him come here.”

“Why not send for him in the ordinary way, my dear,” suggested the Rector, “the next time you feel——”

“Do not talk like a fool, Edward,” said Lady Heron Wendall calmly. “If I call him in he will confine himself to symptoms, and I do not feel inclined to discuss my digestive organs with a perfect stranger.”

“To-day?” Her husband pursed his lips in thought.

“To-day,” said Lady Heron Wendall; “I want to see him particularly.”

The Rector bowed.

“Of course, if you want him I will see that he comes,” he said easily.

He had no doubt in his mind as to the alacrity with which such an invitation would be accepted. An invitation from the Rectory was tantamount to a royal command.

She must have read what was passing in his mind, for suddenly she said:

“Please don’t harbour any stupid ideas about this young man desiring to come. I had a letter from Bexley to-day. He says it is the talk of London that a man of Anthony Manton’s abilities should bury himself in a hole like Bulboro.”

Edward Heron Wendall demurred.

“I would not call Bulboro a hole,” he said. “To my mind the town is rather a microcosm of England. We have all the same conditions, the same opportunities, the same scope——”

She arrested his eloquence with a weary lift of her hand.

“For God’s sake, do not preach at me, Edward,” she said. “I have heard all this so often.”

“My dear,” he protested mildly.

At that moment the door opened without any ceremony, and a girl came into the room. She was tall and straight, and exquisitely gowned. But it was her face which arrested those who beheld her for the first time. You might search all England for a face as beautiful as hers. Hair, eyes, colouring, all contributed to her loveliness. Geraldine Brand at nineteen was the most beautiful woman in England. Whenever society functions offered eager editors an excuse, her face looked down from the bookstalls from Aberdeen to Truro.

Though she was only nineteen at the time, she had received, possibly, more offers of marriage than has been the lot of any girl of her class. Often the stories concerning her were a little exaggerated. There was not in the whole of Burke a sufficiently large number of unmarried dukes to justify all the stories which were told, but that she might have been the Countess of Winboro or Lady Pierce de Vernon admits of no doubt.

She was the spoilt child of a fond and, be it confessed, unscrupulous father.

Sir William Brand had a reputation which extended beyond the confines of his country; he was a notorious bon viveur, a good fellow to people who confound virtue with exuberance, a generous and a lax father.

No less than an indulgent parent had susceptible, eligible England contributed to her spoiling. There were people who found Geraldine Brand unbearable, but in justice to the girl, it may be said that they were mainly feminine.

The arrogance of youth is particularly trying, but to none is it more a source of irritation than to the parents and guardians, to the brothers and lovers, of other youth.

She came with a run across the room.

“Good morning, Edward,” she called gaily in her high, sweet voice, and leaning over the couch where Lady Beatrice lay, she gave her a hug. The elder woman returned the caress warmly. She was very fond of the girl, and perhaps she saw in her something of her own youth and was jealous for her to secure the opportunities which had been denied to herself.

“Well, Jerry, where have you been?” she asked.

“I have been down to High Street,” said the girl, seating herself perilously on one end of the settee. “I went to ‘The Chad,’ a grisly hole, Edward.”

Edward Heron Wendall was her first cousin, and she exercised a cousin’s privilege, often to his embarrassment, for there was a disparity in their ages which seemed to call for more respect and deference than she felt called upon to extend to him.

“I wonder why they allow St. Peter’s to stand right in the middle of that very valuable place?” she asked. “The old Chad itself looks jolly, but there is nothing beautiful or lovely or jolly about St. Peter’s.” She shook her head ruefully. “It is the most abominable building that has ever been erected in Bulboro.”

“Now, now,” said her cousin with solemn humour, “you must not say that kind of thing, Jerry; remember that the church was erected to commemorate a most solemn——”

The girl snapped her fingers.

“I know all about it, it was one of those awful Jubilee things which were put up all over England.”

“Why did you go to the Chad?” asked Lady Wendall curiously. “It is rather early, isn’t it?”

The girl hesitated, then smiled.

“If I must be honest,” she said, “I went to see the new doctor.”

Lady Beatrice raised her eyebrows.

“To see which new doctor?” she asked.

“Dr. Anthony thingumy,” said the girl carelessly. “He is a new-comer, and I have heard all sorts of queer stories about him.”

“Like——?”

The girl hesitated.

“Well,” she smiled, “they say that he is half a barbarian, and that he is very good-looking, and Bexley says——”

Lady Beatrice laughed.

“He has written to you, too, has he? I wonder what is his object in booming our dear Dr. Manton’s nephew.”

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

“You know Bex,” she said. “He is full of weird fads, he gets so awfully keen on people—I think he met this doctor man on the Congo when he was out shooting there.”

“I can tell you this”—Edward thought it an opportune moment to express his presence. “I can tell you this,” he said with the gravity which the statement demanded, “our young man is an authority upon tropical diseases, and in his way is quite famous.”

The girl looked at her cousin with a little twinkle in her lovely eyes.

“There is one question,” she said solemnly, “that is distressing me. Does he church?”

The Rector frowned, and turned the frown with admirable dexterity into his rigid smile.

“That is a question I cannot answer,” he said; “if he is like his uncle he will probably attend all the places of worship in Bulboro, and, in the course of time, be buried by them all.”

He had some work to do in his study, and made a ceremonious exit, relieved to escape from an atmosphere which was never especially friendly to himself.

His relief was not unshared by the women he left behind. Geraldine pulled off her hat and flung it on to a distant chair with a sure aim, despite the murmured protest of her hostess.

“You are a perfectly extravagant girl,” smiled Lady Beatrice. “I shall be rather sorry for the man you marry.”

The girl looked at her.

“I will be rather sorry myself,” she said quietly, “but it will be such a long time before that tragedy, that I can well afford to postpone my reformation. Edward is rather keen on my marrying,” she went on, settling herself in a corner of the settee as Lady Beatrice drew up her feet to give her room; “he positively gloats over the prospect of marrying me to some worthy young gentleman before the congregation of the elect. It would be awfully tough on Edward if I married a Catholic.”

The elder woman looked up sharply. “Do you mean Bexley?” she asked.

The girl nodded.

“What do you think?” she invited.

Lady Beatrice looked past her.

“He is a very nice boy,” she said slowly, “of course he has a lot of money, and is a sort of a baronet. You might do worse. Is he keen?”

The girl nodded again, and there was laughter in her eyes.

“They are all keen,” she said. “I wish I could imbibe some of their enthusiasm for the blessed state.”

There was a little pause. Lady Beatrice was looking thoughtfully out of the window, and the girl was occupied with her own fancies.

Beatrice withdrew her gaze from the lawn suddenly and asked: “I suppose you will include him amongst your victims?”

“I wonder,” said the girl, then asked quickly: “whom do you mean?”

Lady Beatrice smiled.

“I think we are both thinking of the same man, this new doctor.”

Jerry pouted.

“I do not know that I am very keen on those people,” she said, “especially the too clever ones; they want to talk about themselves and microbes, and to discuss abstract questions which, under ordinary circumstances, one can escape by avoiding the higher-priced quarterlies. I saw Mrs. Gilby in town,” she went on; “she tells me that she went down with her daughter to the dispensary last night, and they had a view of our young man.”

“What was Mrs. Gilby’s verdict?” asked the other with a smile.

“Mrs. Gilby was very empathetic”—the girl nodded her head seriously—“she said the young doctor is a bear, and had none of the manners of his uncle.”

“I do not remember his uncle’s manners,” said Lady Beatrice dryly. “My recollection of the dear old man was that he was something of a bear himself.”

The girl rose and came over to the table and poured out a cup of tea.

“I will ring for some more,” said Lady Beatrice. “For goodness’ sake don’t drink cold tea!”

“Don’t bother, please,” smiled Geraldine. “I like this. I had rather a thick time last night.”

“That sounds pretty alarming,” said Lady Beatrice; “exactly what does it mean?”

“We danced till four,” said Geraldine carelessly, “and I was bored to tears.”

“Where was this?”

“At the Colebrookes.”

“Who was there?”

“Nobody of note; that little Jewish gentleman, Cohen, was one of the family—Billy Colebrooke is rather keen on him. You see, Billy wants to float his mines. Oh yes,” she said, as a sudden thought struck her, “and that Harburn woman is starting a new league.”

Lady Beatrice frowned; she was suspicious of new leagues. Bulboro was the home of quasi-philanthropic societies, in the formation of which she herself had generally taken the initiative. She did not readily forgive anything which was suggestive of rivalry, and the Harburn woman had not once, but many times, set herself in opposition to Church House.

“What is the league?” she asked.

Jerry threw back her head and laughed, a wholesome joyous laugh of genuine amusement.

“It is the league of good advice,” she said. “It is so like the Harburn woman. You see, the idea is that a lot of us shall band ourselves together and we shall make a systematic tour through Bulboro looking for somebody who really needs help. We shan’t give blankets, or coal or food tickets, or anything which costs money—but we shall give”—she paused dramatically—“advice. Yes, yes,” she went on, eagerly, “it is the greatest fun. We shall lay our soothing hands upon their distressed brows and tell them just how and what they have to do.

“If they want money we shall tell them who to get it from; if they want clothes we will recommend them good tailors; if they want advice on any subject under the sun, which does not cost money, we shall tell them. Billy wants to be a member; he has an idea, I think, that he might be able to work off some of those awful shares of his.”

“But, seriously?” asked Lady Beatrice.

“It is perfectly true,” the girl nodded, “they hope to enlist the sympathies and services of the Manton man just as soon as he gets acquainted with his uncle’s patients.”

Lady Beatrice rose.

“What a weird creature the woman is,” she said irritably. “She is not content to pull an oar with the rest of us but she wants to captain every boat she rows in.”

There was a little tap at the door, and the maid came in. She looked at Lady Beatrice and then at her visitor and hesitated.

“What is it, Rachel?” asked her ladyship.

“It’s a man, m’lady,” stammered the girl.

Lady Beatrice Wendall’s eyes narrowed, and for the space of a second there was a hardness about the mouth that the girl had never remembered seeing before.

“Who is the mysterious man?” she asked.

She could take that liberty, for they had very few secrets from one another.

Lady Beatrice shrugged her shoulders.

“It is a man I am helping, a man from the town,” she said. “And he is rather a nuisance. Tell him I will see him in a few minutes,” she said to the girl, and when the door closed behind her:

“You would not think anybody would have the audacity to attempt to convert me to Nonconformity?” she asked.

Jerry laughed.

“You do not mean that?”

“I do, indeed,” Lady Beatrice nodded. “That is the truth,” she said.

“And pray what argument is he using?” asked Geraldine.

A little frown settled between the eyes of the other.

“A rather harsh one,” she said shortly.