A Change of Air. Hope Anthony

hitherto been engaged in an animated discussion with the Doctor.

      Laughing, and only half resisting, the Doctor allowing himself to be hoisted on to the billiard-table, sat down, and announced in a loud voice:

      "'Blood for Blood': by Dale Bannister."

      The poem which bore this alarming title was perhaps the most outrageous of the author's works. It held up to ridicule and devoted to damnation every person and every institution which the Squire respected and worshiped. And the misguided young man declaimed it with sparkling eyes and emphasizing gestures, as though every wicked word of it were gospel. And to this man's charge were committed the wives and families of the citizens of Denborough! The Squire's self-respect demanded a protest. He rose with dignity, and went up to his host.

      "Good-by, Mr. Bannister."

      "What? you're not going yet? What? Does this stuff bore you?"

      "It does not bore me. But I must add – excuse an old-fashioned fellow – that it does something worse."

      "What? Oh, you're on the other side? Of course you are!"

      "Whatever side I was, I could not listen to that. As an older man, let me give you a word of advice."

      Dale lifted his hands in good-humored protest.

      "Sorry you don't like it," he said. "Shut up, Roberts! If I'd known, we wouldn't have had it. But it's true – true – true."

      The Doctor listened with sparkling eyes.

      "I must differ utterly; I must indeed. Good-by, Mr. Bannister. Hedger?"

      The Mayor started.

      "I am walking into the town. Come with me."

      The Mayor wavered. The Squire stood and waited for him.

      "I didn't think of goin' yet, Mr. Delane, sir."

      Dale watched the encounter with a smile.

      "Your wife will expect you," said the Squire. "Come along."

      The Mayor rose, ignoring Johnstone's grin and the amusement on the faces of the company.

      "I'll come and look you up," said Dale, pressing the Squire's hand warmly. "Oh, it's all right. Tastes differ. I'm not offended. I'll come some day this week."

      He showed them out, and, returning, said to the Doctor, "Roberts, you'll get into trouble."

      "Nonsense!" said the Doctor. "What business is it of his?"

      Dale had turned to Johnstone.

      "Good-by," said he abruptly. "We close at five."

      "I've 'ad a pleasant afternoon, sir."

      "It will be deducted from your bill," answered Dale.

      After ejecting Johnstone, he stood by the table, looking moodily at the floor.

      "What's the matter, Dale?" asked Miss Fane.

      "I suppose he thought we were beasts or lunatics."

      "Probably," said Philip Hume. "What then?"

      "Well, yes," answered Dale, smiling again. "You're quite right, Phil. What then?"

      CHAPTER V.

      The Necessary Scapegoat

      If men never told their wives anything, the condition of society would no doubt be profoundly modified, though it is not easy to forecast the precise changes. If a guess may be hazarded, it is probable that much less good would be done, and some less evil said: the loss of matter of interest for half the world may be allowed to sway the balance in favor of the present practice – a practice so universal that Mr. Delane, the Mayor, and Alderman Johnstone, one and all, followed it by telling their wives about their Sunday afternoon at Littlehill. Dr. Roberts, it is true, gave a meager account to his wife, but the narratives of the other three amply filled the gaps he left, and, as each of them naturally dwelt on the most remarkable features of their entertainment, it may be supposed that the general impression produced in Market Denborough did not fall short of the truth in vividness of color. The facts as to what occurred have been set down without extenuation and without malice: the province of Market Denborough society was to supply the inferences arising therefrom, and this task it fulfilled with no grudging hand. Before eight-and-forty hours had passed, there were reports that the Squire had discovered a full-blown Saturnalia in process at Littlehill – and that in these scandalous proceedings the Mayor, Alderman Johnstone, and Dr. Roberts were participators.

      Then ensued conduct on the part of the Mayor and the Alderman deserving of unmeasured scorn. They could not deny that dreadful things had been done and said, though they had not seen the deeds nor understood the words: their denial would have had no chance of credit. They could not venture to say that Squire Delane had done anything except manfully protest. They began by accusing one another in round terms, but each found himself so vulnerable that by an unholy tacit compact they agreed to exonerate one another. The Mayor allowed that Johnstone was not conspicuous in wickedness; Johnstone admitted that the Mayor had erred, if at all, only through weakness and good-nature. Public opinion demanded a sacrifice; and the Doctor was left to satisfy it. Everybody was of one mind in holding that Dr. Roberts had disgraced himself, and nobody was surprised to hear that the Squire's phaeton had been seen standing at his door for half an hour on Wednesday morning. The Squire was within, and was understood to be giving the Doctor a piece of his mind.

      The Doctor was stiff-necked.

      "It is entirely a private matter," said he, "and no one has a right to dictate to me."

      "My dear Roberts, I spoke merely in your own interest. It would ruin you if it became known that you held those atrocious opinions; and become known it must, if you openly ally yourself with this young man."

      "I am not the servant of the people I attend. I may choose my own opinions."

      "Yes, and they may choose their own doctor," retorted the Squire.

      The two parted, almost quarreling. Perhaps they would have quite quarreled had not the Squire thought of Mrs. Roberts and the baby. He wondered that the Doctor did not think of them, too, but he seemed to Mr. Delane to be under such a spell that he thought of nothing but Dale Bannister. It was not as if Roberts were the only medical man in the place. There was young Doctor Spink – and he was a real M. D. – up the street, ready and eager to snap up stray patients. And Doctor Spink was a churchwarden. The Squire did not like him overmuch, but he found himself thinking whether it would not be well to send for him next time there was a case of illness at the Grange.

      The Squire meditated, while others acted. On her walk the same afternoon, Ethel Roberts heard news which perturbed her. The Vicar's wife was ill and Dr. Spink had been sent for. The Vicar was a well-to-do man. He had a large family, which yet grew. He had been a constant and a valuable client of her husband's. And now Dr. Spink was sent for.

      "Jim," she said, "did you know that Mrs. Gilkison was ill?"

      "Ill?" said the Doctor, looking up from "Sluggards." "No, I've heard nothing of it."

      She came and leaned over his chair.

      "They've sent for Dr. Spink," she said.

      "What?" he exclaimed, dropping his beloved volume.

      "Mrs. Hedger told me."

      "Well, they can do as they like. I suppose his 'Doctor' is the attraction."

      "Do you think it's that, dear?"

      "What else can it be? – unless it's a mere freak."

      "Well, Jim, I thought – I thought perhaps that the Vicar had heard about – about – Littlehill. Yes, I know it's very stupid and narrow, dear – but still – "

      The Doctor swore under his breath.

      "I can't help it if the man's an ass," he said.

      Ethel smiled patiently.

      "It's a pity to offend people, Jim, dear, isn't it?"

      "Are you against me too, Ethel?"

      "Against you? You know I never would be, but – "

      "Then do