They were standing by one of the old monks' fish stews, which made such a charming feature of the yew-set formal garden, when a step was heard on the path and they turned to see a cheerful-looking gentleman approaching them, with a smile of welcome on his handsome features. He was a tall man of middle-age, dressed in almost exaggerated country fashion, in rough home-spun, very neat about the gaitered legs, and was followed by a bull-dog of ferocious but endearing aspect. "Ah!" he exclaimed, in a loud and breezy voice as he approached them, "I thought it must be you when I saw your name on the order. If you've forgotten me I shall never forgive you."
Grafton was at a loss for a moment. Then his face cleared. "Jimmy Worthing," he said. "Of course. They did mention your name. Cara, this is Mr. Worthing. We were at school together a hundred years or so ago. My eldest daughter, Caroline."
Worthing was enchanted, and said so. He was one of those cheerful voluble men who never do have any difficulty in saying so. With his full but active figure and fresh clean-shaven face he was a pleasant object of the countryside, and Caroline's heart warmed tohim as he smiled his commonplaces and showed himself so abundantly friendly. It appeared from the conversation that followed that he had been a small boy in George Grafton's house at Eton when Grafton had been a big one, that they had not met since, except once, years before at Lord's, but were quite pleased to meet now. Also that Worthing had been agent to the Abington property for the past twelve years, and to the Wilborough property adjoining it for about half that time. A good deal of this information was addressed to Caroline with friendly familiarity. She was used to the tone from well-preserved middle-aged men. It was frankly accepted in the family that all three of the girls were particularly attractive to the mature and even the over-ripe male, and the reason given was that they made such a pal of their father that they knew the technique of making themselves so. Caroline had even succeeded in making herself too attractive to a widowed Admiral during her first season, and had had the shock of her life in being asked to step up a generation and a half at the end of it. She was inclined to be a trifle wary of the 'my dears' of elderly gentlemen, but she had narrowly watched Worthing during the process of his explanations and would not have objected if he had called her 'my dear.' He did not do so, however, though his tone to her implied it, and she answered him, where it was necessary, in the frank and friendly fashion that was so attractive in her and her sisters.
They all went over the stables and outhouses together,and then Worthing suggested a run round the estate in the car, with reference chiefly to the rearing and eventual killing of game.
"We promised to go to tea at the Vicarage," said Caroline, as her father warmly adopted the suggestion. "I suppose we ought to keep in with the Vicar. I don't know his name, but he seems a very important person here."
She had her eye on Worthing. She wanted an opinion of the Vicar, by word or by sign.
She got none. "Oh, you've seen him already, have you?" he said. "I was going to suggest you should come and have tea with me. We should be at my house by about half-past three, and it's a mile further on your road."
"We might look in on the Vicar—what's his name, by the by?—and excuse ourselves,"—said Grafton, "I want to see the coverts, and we haven't too much time. I don't suppose he'll object, will he?"
"Oh, no, we'll go and put it right with him," said Worthing. "He won't mind. His name is Mercer—a very decent fellow; does a lot of work and reads a lot of books."
"What kind of books?" asked Caroline, who also read a good many of them. She was a little disappointed that Worthing had not expressed himself with more salt on the subject of the Vicar. She had that slight touch of malice which relieves the female mind from insipidity, and she was quite sure that a more critical attitude towards the Vicar would havebeen justified, and might have provided amusement. But she thought that Mr. Worthing must be either a person of no discrimination, or else one of those rather tiresome people, a peacemaker. She reserved to herself full right of criticism towards the Vicar, but would not be averse from the discovery of alleviating points about him, as they would be living so close together, and must meet occasionally.
"What kind of books?" echoed Worthing. "Oh, I don't know. Books." Which seemed to show that Caroline would search in vain among his own amiable qualities for sympathy in her literary tastes.
They all got into the big car and arrived at the Vicarage, where they were introduced to Mrs. Mercer, and allowed to depart again after apologies given and accepted, and the requisite number of minutes devoted to polite conversation.
The Vicar and his wife stood at the front door as they packed themselves again into the car. "Oh, what delightful people!" the little lady exclaimed as they drove off, with valedictory waving of hands from all three of them. "Theywillbe an acquisition to us, won't they? I have never seen a prettier girl than Miss Grafton, andsuchcharming manners, andsonicely dressed. Andheis so nice too, and how pretty it is to see father and daughter so fond of one another! Quite an idyll, I call it. Aren't you pleased, Albert dear?Iam."
Albert dear was not pleased, as the face he turned upon her showed when she had followed him into hisstudy. "The way that Worthing takes it upon himself to set aside my arrangements and affect a superiority over me in the place where I should be chief is really beyond all bearing," he said angrily. "It has happened time and again before, and I am determined that it shall not happen any further. The very next time I see him I shall give him a piece of my mind. My patience is at an end. I will not stand it any longer."
Mrs. Mercer drooped visibly. She had to recall exactly what had happened before she could get at the causes of his displeasure, which was a painful shock to her. He had given, for him, high praise to the new-comers over the luncheon-table, and she had exulted in the prospect of having people near at hand and able to add so much to the pleasures of life with whom she could make friends and not feel that she was disloyal to her husband in doing so. And her raptures over them after she had met them in the flesh had not at all exaggerated her feelings. She was of an enthusiastic disposition, apt to admire profusely where she admired at all, and these new people had been so very much worthy of admiration, with their good looks and their wealth and their charming friendly manners. However, if it was only Mr. Worthing with whom her husband was annoyed, that perhaps could be got out of the way, and he would be ready to join her in praise of the Graftons.
"Well, of course, it was rather annoying that they should be whisked off like that when we had hoped tohave had them to talk to comfortably," she said. "But I thought you didn't mind, dear. Mr. Grafton only has a few hours here, and I suppose it is natural that he should want to go round the estate. We shall see plenty of them when they come here to live."
"That is not what I am objecting to," said her husband. "Mr. Grafton made his excuses in the way a gentleman should, and it would have been absurd to have kept him to his engagement, though the girl might just as well have stayed. It can't be of the least importance thatsheshould see the places where the high birds may be expected to come over, or whatever it is that they want to see. I don't care very much for the girl. There's a freedom about her manners I don't like."
"She has no mother, poor dear," interrupted Mrs. Mercer. "And her father evidently adores her. Shewouldbe apt to be older than her years in some respects. She wasverynice to me."
"As I say," proceeded the Vicar dogmatically, "I've no complaint against the Graftons coming to apologise for not keeping their engagement. But Ihavea complaint when a man like Worthing comes into my house—who hardly ever takes the trouble to ask me into his—and behaves as if he had the right to over-ride me. I hate that detestable swaggering high-handed way of his, carrying off everything as if nobody had a right to exist except himself. He's no use to anybody here—hardly ever comes to church, and takes his own way in scores of matters that he ought to consult me about;even opposes my decisions if he sees fit, and seems to think that an insincere word or smile when he meets me takes away all the offence of it. It doesn't, and it shan't do so in this instance. I shall have it out with Worthing once and for all. When these new people come here I am not going to consent to be a cipher in my own parish, or as a priest of the church take a lower place than Mr. Worthing's; who is after all nothing more than a sort of gentleman bailiff."
"Well, hehasgot a sort of way of taking matters into his own hands," said Mrs. Mercer, "that isn't always very agreeable, perhaps. But he is nice in many ways, and I shouldn't like to quarrel with him."
She knew quite well, if she did not admit it to herself, that it would be impossible to quarrel with Worthing. She herself was inclined to like him, for he was always excessively friendly, and created the effect of likingher. But shedidfeel that he was inclined to belittle her husband's dignity, in the way in which he took his own course, and, if it conflicted with the Vicar's wishes, set his remonstrances aside with a breezy carelessness that left them both where they were, and himself on top. Also he was not regular in his attendance at church, though he acted as churchwarden. She objected to this not so much on purely religious grounds as because it was so uncomplimentary to her husband, which were also the grounds of the Vicar's objections.
"I don't wish to quarrel with him either," said the Vicar. "I don't wish to quarrel with anybody. Ishall tell him plainly what I think, once for all, and leave it there. It will give him a warning, too, that I am not to be put aside with these new people. If handled properly I think they may be valuable people to have in the parish. A man like Grafton is likely to want to do the right thing when he comes to live in the country, and he is quite disposed, I should say, to do his duty by the church and the parish. I shall hope to show him what it is, and I shall not allow myself to be interfered with by Mr. Worthing. I shall make it my duty, too, to give Grafton some warning about the people around. Worthing is a pastmaster in the art of keeping in with everybody, worthy or unworthy, and if the Graftons are guided by him they may let themselves in for friendships and intimacies which they may be sorry for afterwards."
"You mean the Manserghs," suggested Mrs. Mercer.
"I wasn't thinking of them particularly, but of course they aremostundesirable people. They are rich and live in a big house, and therefore everything is forgiven them. Worthing, of course, is hand in glove with them—with a man with the manners of a boor and a woman who was divorced, and an actress at that—a painted woman."
"Well, she is getting on in years now, and I suppose people have forgotten a lot," said Mrs. Mercer. "And her first husband didn't divorce her, did he? She divorced him."
"What difference does that make? You surely arenot going to stand up for her, are you? Especially after the way in which she behaved to you!"
"No," said Mrs. Mercer doubtfully. It was Lady Mansergh's behaviour to her husband that had hitherto been the chief cause of offence, her 'past' having been ignored until the time of the quarrel, or as the Vicar had since declared, unknown. "Oh, no, Albert, I think she is quite undesirable, as you say. And it would be a thousand pities if that nice girl, and her younger sisters, were to get mixed up with a woman like that. I think you should give Mr. Grafton a warning. Wilborough is the nearest big house to Abington, and I suppose it is natural that they should be friendly."
"I shall certainly do that. Mr. Grafton and Sir Alexander can shoot together and all that sort of thing, but it would be distinctly wrong for him to allow young girls like his daughters to be intimate with people like the Manserghs."
"The sons are nice, though. Fortunately Lady Mansergh is not their mother."
"Richard is away at sea most of the time, and Geoffrey isnotparticularly nice, begging your pardon. I saw him in the stalls of a theatre last year with a woman whose hair I feel sure was dyed. He is probably going the same way as his father. It would be an insult to a young and pure girl like Miss Grafton to encourage anything like intimacy between them."
"I expect they will make friends with the Pembertons.There are three girls in their family and three in that."
"It would be a very bad thing if they did. Three girls with the tastes of grooms, and the manners too. I shall never forget the insolent way in which that youngest one asked me if I didn't know what a bit of ribbon tied round a horse's tail meant when I was standing behind her at that meet at Surley Green, and when I didn't move at once that young cub of a brother who was with her said: 'Well, sir, if youwantto be kicked!' And then they both laughed in the vulgarest fashion. Really the manners of some of the people about here whooughtto know better are beyond belief. The Pembertons have never had the politeness to call on us—which issomethingto be thankful for, anyhow, though it is, of course, a slight on people in our position, and no doubt meant as such. Of course they will call on the Graftons. They will expect to get something out of them. But I shall warn Grafton to be careful. He won't want his daughters to acquire their stable manners."
"No; that would be a pity. I wish Vera Beckley had been as nice as we thought she was at first. She would have been a nice friend for these girls. I never quite understood why she suddenly took to cutting us dead, and Mrs. Beckley left off asking us to the house, when they had asked us so often and we seemed realfriends. I have sometimes thought of asking her. I am sure there is a misunderstanding, which could be cleared up."
The Vicar grew a trifle red. "You will not do anything of the sort," he said. "If the Beckleys can do without us we can do very well without them."
"You used to be so fond of Vera, Albert," said Mrs. Mercer reflectively, "and she of you. You often used to say it was like having a daughter of your own. I wonder what itwasthat made her turn like that."
"We were deceived in her, that was all," said Albert, who had recovered his equanimity. "She is not a nice girl. A clergyman has opportunities of finding out these things, and——"
"Oh, then therewassomething that you knew about, and that you haven't told me."
"I don't wish to be cross-examined, Gertrude. You must be content to leave alone the things that belong to my office. None of the Beckleys shall ever darken my doors again. Let that be enough. If we have to meet them sometimes at the Abbey we can be polite to them without letting it go any further. There are really very few people hereabouts whom I should like to see the Graftons make friends with, and scarcely any young ones. Denis Cooper is a thoughtful well-conducted young fellow, but he is to be ordained at Advent and I suppose he will not be here much. Rhoda and Ethel are nice girls too. I think a friendship might well be encouraged there. It would be pleasant for them to have a nice house like Abington to go to, and their seriousness might be a good thing for the Grafton girls, who I should think would be likely to beaffected by their father's evident wealth. It is a temptation I should like to see them preserved from."
"Rhoda and Ethel are a little old for them."
"So much the better. Yes; that is a friendship that I think might be helpful to both parties, and I shall do my best to encourage it. I should like to see the Grafton girls thoroughly intimate at Surley Rectory before Mrs. Carruthers comes back. She has behaved so badly to the Coopers that she would be quite likely to prevent it if she were here, out of spite."
"Well, I must stand up alittlefor Mrs. Carruthers," said Mrs. Mercer. "Rhoda and Ethel are good girls, I know, and do a lot of useful work in the parish, but they do like to dominate everything and everybody, and it was hardly to be expected that Mrs. Carruthers in her position would stand it."
"I don't agree with you at all," said her husband. "She was a mere girl when she married and came to live at Surley Park; she is hardly more than a girl now. She ought to have been thankful to have their help and advice, as they had practically run the parish for years. Actually to tell them to mind their own business, and practically to turn them out of her house, over that affair of her laundry maid—well, I don't say what I think about it, but I amentirelyon the side of Rhoda and Ethel; and so ought you to be."
"Well, I know they acted for the best; but after all theyhadmade a mistake. The young man hadn't come after the laundry maid at all."
"So it was said; but we needn't discuss it. They were most forgiving, and prepared to be all that was kind and sympathetic when Mrs. Carruthers lost her husband; and how did she return it? Refused to see them, just as she refused to see me when I called on Cooper's behalf—and in my priestly capacity too. No, Gertrude, there is nothing to be said on behalf of Mrs. Carruthers. She is a selfish worldly young woman, and her bereavement, instead of inclining her towards a quiet and sober life, seems to have had just the opposite effect. A widow of hardly more than two years, she goes gadding about all over the place, and behaves just as if her husband's death were a release to her instead of——"
"Well, I must say that I think itwasrather a release, Albert. Mr. Carruthers had everything to make life happy, as you have often said, but drink was his curse, and if he had not been killed he might have spoilt her life for her. You said that too, you know, at the time."
"Perhaps I did. I was terribly upset at the time of the accident. It seemed so dreadful for a mere girl to be left widowed in that way, and I was ready to give her all the sympathy and help I could. But she would have none of it, and turned out hard and unfeeling, instead of being softened by the blow that had been dealt her, as a good woman would have been. She might have reformed her husband, but she did nothing of the sort; and now, as I say, she behaves as if there was nothing to do in the world except spend moneyand enjoy one's self. She would be a bad influence for these young girls that are coming here, and I hope they will not have too much to do with her. If we can get them interested in good things instead of amusements, we shall only be doing our duty. Not that healthy amusement is to be deprecated by any means. It isn't our part to be kill-joys. But with ourselves as their nearest neighbours, and nice active girls like the Coopers not far off, and one or two more, they will have a very pleasant little society, and in fact we ought all to be very happy together."
"Yes. Itisnice looking forward to having neighbours that we can be friends with. I do hope nothing will happen to make it awkward."
"Why should anything happen to make it awkward? We don't know much about the Graftons yet, but they seem to be nice people. At any rate we can assume that they are, until it is proved to the contrary. That is only Christian. Just because so many of the people round us are not what they should be is no reason why these new-comers shouldn't be."
"Oh, I am sure they are nice. I think I should rather like to go and tell Mrs. Walter and Mollie about them, Albert. It will be delightful forthemto have people at the Abbey—especially for Mollie, who has so few girl friends."
"We might go over together," said the Vicar. "There are one or two little things I want Mollie to do for me. Yes, it will be nice for her, if the Grafton girls turn out what they should be. We shall have togive the Walters a little advice. They haven't been used to the life of large houses. I think they ought to go rather slow at first."
"Oh, Mollie is such a dear girl, and has been well brought up. I don't think she would be likely to make any mistakes."
"I don't know that she would. But I shall talk to her about it. She is a dear girl, as you say. I look upon her almost as a daughter, though she has been here such a short time. I should like her to acquit herself well. She will, I'm sure, if she realises that this new chance for making friends comes through us. Yes, let us go over to the cottage, Gertrude. It is early yet. We can ask Mrs. Walter for a cup of tea."
The Abbey was ready for occupation early in April. Caroline, Barbara, and Miss Waterhouse went down on Monday. Grafton followed on Friday for the week-end and took Beatrix with him. She had announced that the dear boy couldn't be left by himself in London, or he'd probably get into mischief, and she was going to stay and look after him. As she had thought of it first, she had her way. Beatrix generally did get her way, though she never made herself unpleasant about it. Nor did she ever wheedle, when a decision went against her, though she could wheedle beautifully.
If any one of the three girls could be said to be spoilt, it was Beatrix. She had been frail as a child, with a delicate loveliness that had put even Caroline's beauty into the shade, although Caroline, with her sweet grey eyes and her glowing health, had been a child of whom any parents might have been inordinately proud. The young mother had never quite admitted her second child to share in the adoration she felt for her first-born, but Beatrix had twined herself round her father's heart, and had always kept first place in it, though not so much as to make his slight preference apparent. As a small child, she was more clinging thanthe other two, and flattered his love and sense of protection. As she grew older she developed an unlooked-for capriciousness. When she was inclined to be sweet and loving she was more so than ever; but sometimes she would hardly suffer even a kiss, and had no caresses for anybody. She often hurt her father in this way, especially in the early days of his bereavement, but he was so equable by nature that he would dismiss her contrariety with a smile, and turn to Caroline, who always gave him what he wanted. As the children grew older he learnt to protect himself against Beatrix's inequalities of behaviour by a less caressing manner with them. It was for them to come to him for the signs and tokens of love, and it was all the sweeter to him when they did so. Even now, when she was grown up, it thrilled him when Beatrix was in one of her affectionate moods. She was not the constant invariable companion to him that Caroline was, and their minds did not flow together as his and Caroline's did. But he loved her approaches, and felt more pleased when she offered him companionship than with any other of his children. Thus, those who advance and withdraw have an unfair advantage over those who never change.
Caroline and Barbara met them in the big car which had been bought for station work at Abington. It was a wild wet evening, but they were snug enough inside, Caroline and Barbara sitting on either side of their father, and Beatrix on one of the let-down seats. Beatrix was never selfish; although she liked to haveher own way she seldom took it at the expense of others. She had had her father's sole companionship, and it was only fair that she should yield her place to her younger sister. So she did so of her own accord.
Caroline and Barbara were full of news. "Everything is ready for you, darling," said Caroline, her arm tucked into his. "You'll feel quite at home directly you get into the house; and there are very few more arrangements to make. We've been working like slaves, and all the servants too."
"The Dragon has had a headache, but she has done more than anybody," said Barbara. "It's all perfectly lovely, Daddy. We do like being country people awfully. We went down to the village in the rain this afternoon—the Dragon and all. That made me feel it, you know."
"It made us feel it, when you stepped into a puddle and splashed us all over," said Caroline. "George dear, we've had callers already."
"That ought to have cheered you up," said Grafton. "Who were they?"
"All clerical. I think Lord Salisbury put them on to us. He wants us to be in with the clergy."
"What do you mean? Lord Salisbury!"
"The Reverend Salisbury Mercer. I called him that first," said Barbara. "He likes us. He's been in and out, and given us a lot of advice. He likes me especially. He looked at me with a loving smile and said I was a sunbeam."
"We had Mr. Cooper, Rector of Surley, and histwo daughters," said Caroline. "He is a dear old thing and keeps bees. The two daughters look rather as if they had been stung by them. They are very officious, but sweeter than honey and the honeycomb at present. They said it was nice to have girls living in a house near them again; they hadn't had any for some years— I should think it must be about thirty, but they didn't say that. They said they hoped we should see a good deal of one another."
"Idon'tthink," said Beatrix. "Who were the others?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Williams, Vicar and Vicaress of I've forgotten what. They were quite nice. Genial variety."
"The Breezy Bills we called them," said Barbara. "They almost blew us out of the house. He carpenters, and she breeds Airedales, and shows them. She brought one with her—a darling of a thing. They've promised us a puppy and a kennel to put it in already."
"You didn't ask her for one, did you?" asked Grafton. "If she breeds them for show we ought to offer to pay for it."
"Oh, you're going topayfor it all right, darling. You needn't worry about that. The kennel too. But you're going to get that for the cost of the wood and the paint. He isn't going to charge anything for his time. He laughed heartily when he said that. I like the Breezy Bills. They're going to take us out otter hunting when the time comes."
"A Mrs. Walter and her daughter came," said Caroline."At least they were brought by the Mercers. They live in a little house at the top of the village. Rather a pretty girl, and nice, but shy. I wanted to talk to her and see what she was like, but Lord Salisbury wouldn't let me—at least not without him. George darling, I'm afraid you'll have to cope with Lord Salisbury. He's screwing in frightfully. I think he has an idea of being the man about the house when you're up in London. He asked how often you'd be down, and said we could always go and consult him when you were away. He came directly after breakfast yesterday with a hammer and some nails, to hang pictures."
"The Dragon sent him away," said Barbara. "She was rather splendid—extremely polite to him, but a little surprised. She doesn't like him. She won't say so, but I know it by her manner. I went in with her, and it was then that he called me a sunbeam. He said he did so want to make himself useful, and wasn't thereanythinghe could do. I said he might dust the drawing-room if he liked."
"Barbara!"
"Well, I said it to myself."
"What is Mrs. Mercer like?" asked Beatrix.
"Oh, a nice little thing," said Caroline. "But very much under the thumb of Lord Salisbury. I think he leads her a dance. If we have to keep him off a little, we must be careful not to offend her. I think she must have rather a dull time of it. She's quite harmless, and wants to be friends."
"We mustn't quarrel with the fellow," said Grafton. "Haven't you seen Worthing?"
"Havewe seen Worthing!" exclaimed Barbara. "He's a lamb. He's been away, but he came back yesterday afternoon, and rolled up directly. The Dragon likes him. He was awfully sweet to her. He's going to buy us some horses. You don't mind, do you, Daddy? I know you've got lots of money."
"That's where you make the mistake," said Grafton, "but of course we must have a gee or two. I want to talk to Worthing about that. Did you ask him to dine to-night, Cara?"
"Yes. He grinned all over. He said we were a boon and a blessing to men. He really loves us."
"And we love him," said Barbara. "We were wondering when the time would come to call him Jimmy. We feel like that towards him. Or, Dad darling, itistopping living in the country. Don't let's ever go back to London."
All the circumstances of life had been so much at Grafton's disposal to make what he liked out of them that he had become rather difficult to move to special pleasure by his surroundings. But he felt a keen sense of satisfaction as he entered this beautiful house that he had bought, and the door was shut on the wild and windy weather. That sensation, of a house as a refuge, is only to be gained in full measure in the country, whether it is because the house stands alone against the elements, or that the human factor in it counts for more than in a town. There was the quiet old stone-builthall cheered by the fire of logs on the great hearth, the spacious soft-carpeted staircase and corridors, the long gallery transformed by innumerable adjustments into the very shrine of companionable home life, and all around the sense of completeness and fitness and beauty which taste and a sufficiency of wealth can give to a house built in the days when building was the expression of ideas and aspirations, and an art as creative and interpretative as any.
He felt positively happy as he dressed in the large comfortable, but not over luxurious room that Caroline had chosen for him. He had expressed no preferences on the subject when they had gone over the house together, but remembered now that he had rather liked this particular room out of the score or so of bedrooms they had gone through. It looked out on to the quiet little space of lawn and the trees beyond from three windows, and would get the first of the sun. He loved the sun, and Caroline knew that. She knew all his minor tastes, perhaps better than he knew them himself. He would have been contented with a sunny room and all his conveniences around him, or so he would have thought. But she had seen that he had much more than that. The old furniture which had struck him pleasantly on their first visit was there—the big bed with its chintz tester, the chintz-covered sofa, the great wardrobe of polished mahogany—everything that had given the room its air of solid old-fashioned comfort, and restful, rather faded charm. But the charm and the comfort seemed to have been heightened. Theslightly faded air had given place to one of freshness. The change was not so great as to bring a sense of modernity to unbalance the effect of the whole, but only to make it more real. Caroline was a genius at this sort of expression, and her love and devotion towards him had stimulated her. The freshness had come from the fact that she had changed all the chintzes, and the carpet and curtains, ransacking the house for the best she could find for the purpose. She had changed some of the furniture too, and added to it. Also the prints. He did recognise that change, as he looked around him, and took it all in. He was fond of old prints, and had noticed those that were of any value as he had gone through the rooms. There had been rubbish mixed with the good things in this room; but there was none left. "Good child!" he said to himself with satisfaction as he saw what she had done in this way.
He thought of her and his other children as he dressed, and he thought of his young wife. A charming crayon portrait of her hung in the place of honour above the mantelpiece, on which there were also photographs of her, and of the children, in all stages of their growth. Caroline had collected them from all over the London house. The crayon portrait had been one of two done by a very clever young artist, now a famous one, whom they had met on their honeymoon. This had been the first, and Grafton had thought it had not done justice to his wife's beauty; so the artist, with a smiling shrug of the shoulders, had offered to do another one, which had pleased him much better, and had hungever since in his bedroom in London. Now, as he looked at this portrait, which had hung in a room he seldom went into, he wondered how he could have been so blind. The beauty, with which he had fallen in love, was there, but the artist had seen much more than the beauty that was on the surface. It told immeasurably more about the sweet young bride than the picture he had made of her afterwards. It told something of what she would be when the beauty of form and feature and colouring should have waned, of what she would have been to-day more than twenty years later.
Grafton was not a man who dwelt on the past, and his life had been too prosperous and contented to lead him to look forward very often to the future. He took it as it came, and enjoyed it, without hugging himself too much on the causes of his enjoyment. The only unhappiness he had ever known had been in the loss of his wife, but the wound had healed gradually, and had now ceased to pain him.
But it throbbed a little now as he looked at the portrait with new eyes. He and she had talked together of a country house some time in the future of their long lives together—some such house as this, if they should wait until there was enough money. It was just what she would have delighted in. She had been brought up in a beautiful country house, and loved it. Caroline inherited her fine perceptions and many of her tastes from her. It would have been very sweet to have had her companionship now, in this pleasant and even excitinglife that was opening up before them. They would all have been intensely happy together.
He turned away with a faint frown of perplexity. She would have been a middle-aged woman now, the mother of grown-up daughters. To think of her like that was to think of a stranger. His old wound had throbbed because he had caught a fresh glimpse of her as the young girl he had so loved, and loved still, for she had hardly been more than a girl when she had died. He supposed he would have gone on loving her just the same; his love for her had grown no less during the short years of their married life; he had never wanted anybody else, and had never wanted anybody else since, remembering what she had been. But it was an undoubted fact that husbands and wives in middle-age had usually shed a good deal of their early love, or so it seemed to him, from his experience of married men of his own age. Would it have been so with him? He couldn't think it, but he couldn't tell. To him she would always be what she had been, even when he grew old. It was perplexing to think of her as growing old too; and there was no need to do so.
The years had passed very quickly. Caroline had been only five when she had died, Beatrix three, and Barbara a baby. And now the two elder were grown up, and Barbara nearly so. It came home to him, as he looked at their photographs on the mantelpiece, how pleasant they had made life for him, and how much he still had in his home in spite of the blank that his wife's death had made. This puzzled him a little too. Hethought he ought to have missed her more, and be missing her more now. But introspection was not his habit, and the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece were progressing towards the dinner hour. He dressed quickly, with nothing in his mind but pleasurable anticipation of the evening before him.
Worthing was in the morning-room talking to Caroline when he went downstairs. He looked large and beaming and well washed and brushed. The greeting between the two men was cordial. Each had struck a chord in the other, and it was plain that before long they would be cronies. Worthing was outspoken in his admiration of what had been done with the house.
"I've been telling this young lady," he said, "that I wouldn't have believed it possible. Nothing seems to be changed, and yet everything seems to be changed. Look at this room now! It's the one that Brett used to occupy, and it used to give me a sort of depressed feeling whenever I came into it. Now it's a jolly room to come into. Youknow, somehow, that when you go out of it, you're going to get a good dinner."
He laughed with a full throat. Caroline smiled and looked round the room, which had been transformed by her art from the dull abode of a man who cared nothing for his surroundings into something that expressed home and contentment and welcome.
Grafton put his arm around her as they stood before the fire. "She's a wonder at it," he said. "She's done all sorts of things to my room upstairs. I felt at home in it at once."
She smiled up at him and looked very pleased. He did not always notice the things she did out of love for him.
The other two girls came in with Miss Waterhouse. Beatrix looked enchanting in a black frock which showed up the loveliness of her delicate colouring and scarcely yet matured contours. Worthing almost gasped as he looked at her, and then shook hands, but recovered himself to look at the three of them standing before him. "Now how long do you suppose you're going to keep these three young women at home?" he asked genially, as old Jarvis came in to announce dinner.
They were all as merry as possible over the dinner-table. Beatrix made them laugh with her account of the house in London as run by herself with a depleted staff. She was known not to be domestically inclined and made the most of her own deficiencies, while not sparing the servants who had been left behind. But she dealt with them in such a way that old Jarvis grinned indulgently at her recital, and the two new footmen who had been engaged for the Abbey each hoped that it might fall to his lot some day to take the place of their colleague who had been left behind.
Worthing enjoyed himself immensely. All three of the girls talked gaily and freely, and seemed bubbling over with laughter and good spirits. Their father seemed almost as young as they were, in the way he laughed and talked with them. Miss Waterhouse took little part in the conversation, but smiled appreciatively on each in turn, and was never left out of it. As forhimself, he was accepted as one of themselves, and initiated into all sorts of cryptic allusions and humours, such as a laughter-loving united and observant family gathers round about its speech. He became more and more avuncular as the meal progressed, and at last Barbara, who was sitting next to him, said: "You know, I think we must call you Uncle Jimmy, if you don't mind. It seems to fit you, and we do like things that fit, in this family."
He accepted the title with enthusiasm. "I've got nephews and nieces all over the place," he said. "But the more the merrier. I'm a first-class uncle, and never forget anybody at Christmas."
They began to discuss people. A trifle of criticism, hardly to be called malice, crept into the conversation. Miss Waterhouse found it necessary to say: "Barbara darling, I don't think you should get into the way of always calling the Vicar Lord Salisbury. You might forget and do it before somebody who would repeat it to him."
"I think he'd like it," said Caroline. "I'm sure he loves a lord."
Worthing sat and chuckled as an account was given of the visits of the 'Breezy Bills,' and the Misses Cooper, who were given the name of 'the Zebras,' partly owing to their facial conformation, partly to the costumes they had appeared in. He brought forward no criticism himself, and shirked questions that would have led to any on his part, but he evidently had no objection to it as spicing conversation, and freedhimself from the slight suspicion of being a professional peacemaker. "He's an old darling," Barbara said of him afterwards. "I really believe he likes everybody, including Lord Salisbury."
When the two men were left alone together, Worthing said: "You've got one of the nicest families I ever met, Grafton. They'll liven us up here like anything. Lord, what a boon it is to have this house opened up again!"
"They're a cheery lot," said Grafton. "You'll like the boy too, I think. He'll be home soon now. I suppose there are some people about for them all to play with. I hardly know anybody in this part of the world."
"There are some of the nicest people you'd meet anywhere," said Worthing. "They'll all be coming to call directly. Oh, yes, we're very fortunate in that way. But yours is the only house quite near. It'll mean a lot to me, I can tell you, to have the Abbey lived in again, 'specially with those nice young people of yours."
"How far off is Wilborough? You go there a lot, don't you?"
"Oh, yes, I do. I look after the place, as you know, and old Sir Alexander likes to have me pottering about with him. You'll like the old boy. He's seventy, but he's full of fun. Good man on a horse too, though he suffers a lot from rheumatism. Wilborough? It's about two miles from me; about three from here."
"What's Lady Mansergh like? Wasn't she——"
"Well, yes, she was; but it's a long time ago. Nobodyremembers anything about it. Charming old woman, with a heart of gold."
"Old woman! I thought she was years younger than him, and still kept her golden hair and all that sort of thing."
"Well, yes, she does. Wouldn't thank you for calling her old, either. And I don't suppose she's much over fifty. But she's put on flesh. That sort of women does, you know, when they settle down. Extraordinary how they take to it all, though. She used to hunt when I first came here. Rode jolly straight too. And anybody'd think she'd lived in the country all her life. Well, I suppose she has, the best part of it. Dick must be twenty-eight or nine, I should think, and Geoffrey about twenty-five. Nice fellows, both of them."
"Mercer told me, that second time I came down, that they weren't proper people for the children to know."
A shade crossed Worthing's expansive face. "Of course a parson has different ideas about things," he said. "She did divorce her first husband, it's true; but he was a rotter of the worst type. There was never anything against her. She was before our time, but a fellow told me that when she was on the stage she was as straight as they make 'em, though lively and larky. All I can say is that if your girls were mine I shouldn't object to their knowing her."
"Oh, well, that's enough for me. They probably won't want to be bosom friends. It would be awkward, though, having people about that one didn't want toknow. According to Mercer, there aren't many people about here that onewouldwant to know, except a few parsons and their families. He seems to have a down on the lot of them."
"Well, between you and me," said Worthing confidentially, "I shouldn't take much notice of what Mercer says, if I were you. He's a nice enough fellow, but he does seem, somehow, to get at loggerheads with people. I wouldn't say anything against the chap behind his back, but you'd find it out for yourself in time. You'll see everybody there is, and you can judge for yourself."
"Oh, yes, I can do that all right. Let's go and play bridge. The girls are pretty good at it."
Mrs. Walter and Mollie were at their mid-day Sunday dinner. Stone Cottage, where they lived, stood at the top of the village street. It had a fair-sized drawing-room and a little bandbox of a dining-room, with three bedrooms and an attic, and a garden of about half an acre. Its rent was under thirty pounds a year, and it was as nice a little country home as a widow lady with a very small income and her daughter could wish for.
Mrs. Walter's husband had been a schoolmaster. He was a brilliant scholar and would certainly have risen high in his profession. But he had died within two years of their marriage, leaving her almost unprovided for. She had the income from an insurance policy of a thousand pounds and he had left the manuscript of a schoolbook, which was to have been the first of many such. One of his colleagues had arranged for its publication on terms not as favourable as they should have been, but it had brought her in something every year, and its sales had increased until now they produced a respectable yearly sum. For twenty years she had acted as matron in one of the boarding-housesof the school at which her husband had been assistant master. It had been a hard life, and she was a delicate woman, always with the fear before her of losing her post before she could save enough to live on and keep Mollie with her. The work, for which she was not well suited, had tried her, and it was with a feeling of immense relief and thankfulness that she at last reached the point at which she could give it up, and live her own quiet life with her daughter. She could not, in fact, have gone on with it much longer, and kept what indifferent health she had; and looking back she was inclined to wonder how she had stood it for so long. Every morning that she woke up in her quiet little cottage brought a blissful sense of relief at being free from all the stress and worry of that uncongenial life, and no place she could have found to live in would have been too quiet and retired for her.
She was a thin colourless woman, with whatever good looks she may have had in her youth washed out of her by ill-health and an anxious life. But Mollie was a pretty girl, soft and round and dimpled, and wanting only encouragement to break into merriment and chatter. She needed a good deal of encouragement, though. She was shy, and diffident about herself. Her mother had kept her as retired as possible from the busy noisy boys' life by which they had been surrounded. The housemaster and his wife had not been sympathetic to either of them. They were snobs, and had daughters of their own, not so pretty as Mollie, nor so nice. There had been slights, which had extended themselves to theday school at which she had been educated. During the two years before they had settled down at Abington she had been at a school in Paris, first as a pupil, then as a teacher. She had gained her French, but not much in the way of self-confidence. She too was pleased enough to live quietly in the country; she had had quite enough of living in a crowd. And Abington had been delightful to them, not only from the pleasure they had from the pretty cottage, all their own, but from the beauty of the country, and from the kindness with which they had been received by the Vicar and Mrs. Mercer, who had given them an intimacy which had not come into their lives before. For Mrs. Walter had dropped out from among her husband's friends, and had made no new ones as long as she had remained at the school.
"You know, dear," Mollie was saying, "I rather dreaded going to the Abbey. I thought they might be sniffy and stuck up. But they're not a bit. I do think they are three of the nicest girls I've ever met, Mother. Don't you?"
"Yes, I think they are very nice," said Mrs. Walter. "But you must be a little careful. I think that is what the Vicar's warning meant."
"What, Mother?"
"Well, you know he said that you should be careful about going there too much—never without a special invitation. He is so kind and thoughtful for us that I think he must have feared that they might perhaps take you up at first, as you are the only girl in theplace besides themselves, and then drop you. In many ways their life is so different from what ours can be that there might be a danger of that, though I don't think they would do it consciously."
"Oh, no; they're much too nice for that. Still, of course, I should hate to feel that I was poking myself in. Don't you think I might go to tea this afternoon, Mother? Caroline did ask me, you know, and I'm sure she meant it."
Mollie had been to church alone that morning, and the Grafton girls had taken her round the garden of the Abbey afterwards.
"I don't know what to say," said Mrs. Walter, hesitatingly. "I can't help wishing you had waited for the Vicar and Mrs. Mercer afterwards, and walked back with them, as we generally do."
"It would have been so difficult to refuse. They introduced me to Beatrix and to Mr. Grafton, and they were all so nice, and seemed to take it for granted that I should go with them. I thought perhaps the Vicar and Mrs. Mercer would have come over too. He likes them so much, and says they make him feel so at home there. He has helped them a lot getting into order."
"He is one of those men who likes to help everybody," said Mrs. Walter. "Nobody could possibly have been kinder tousthan he has been, from the beginning. We are very fortunate indeed to have found such a nice clergyman here. It might have been so different. We must be especially careful not to givehim theslightestreason to think that he doesn't come first with us."
"Oh, of course, he and Mrs. Mercer would always be our chief friends here. But you see, Mother dear, I've had so few girl friends, and I think these really might be. I love than all, especially Beatrix. She's sweet, and I believe she'd like to be friends. When I said I must ask you first, she said you couldn't possibly object, and Imustcome."
"Well, dear, of course, you could, in the ordinary way. But you know we nearly always go to tea at the Vicarage on Sunday afternoons. If you had walked home with them they would have been sure to ask you. I expect the Vicar will, at Sunday-school this afternoon. Wouldn't it look ungracious if you said you were going somewhere else?"
Poor Mollie could not deny that it might, but looked so downcast that her mother suggested waiting to see if the Vicar did ask her, but without suggesting that she should accept the invitation if he did.
Mollie was a good girl, and had the reward which does not always attend goodness. She made up her mind that it would not be right to forsake old friends for new ones, that she would walk back with the Vicar after Sunday-school as usual, and if by some fortunate chance he omitted to ask her and her mother to tea she would then go to the Abbey.
The Vicar came out as she passed his house with his Bible in his hand. "Well, Mollie," he said. "Whatbecame of you after church this morning? I hope your mother isn't unwell."
"She didn't sleep well last night, and I made her stay in bed," said Mollie. "But she's up now."
She expected that the Vicar's invitation would then be forthcoming, but he said nothing.
She waited for him after school as he liked her to do, but as he came out he said: "Well, I suppose you're going home now, dear." He had dropped into the way of calling her dear within a short time of their arrival, and she liked it. She had never known her own father, nor any man who used protecting or affectionate speech towards her. "I must wait for Mrs. Mercer. We are going to the Abbey together."
Mollie was vastly relieved. "Oh, then, perhaps we can go together," she said. "They asked me this morning."
He did not look so pleased as she had thought he would, for he had always shown himself ready for her company, wherever it might be, and had told her more than once that he didn't know what he had done for company before she came. "They asked you, did they?" he said. "Didn't they ask your mother too?"
"No. I went over with them after church. It was the girls who asked me."
"Did they ask you to go over with them after church?"
"Oh, yes. I shouldn't have gone without an invitation. I remembered what you had said."
"But I hope you didn't hang about as if you werelooking for one. You know, Mollie, you must be very careful about that sort of thing. If these girls turn out to be thoroughly nice, as I quite hope they will, it will be nice for you to go to the Abbey sometimes. It will make a change in your life. But you see you haven't mixed with that sort of people before, and I am very anxious that you shan't make mistakes. I would rather you went there first with me—or Mrs. Mercer."
Mollie felt some offence at it being supposed possible that she should hang about for an invitation. But she knew that men were like that—clumsy in their methods of expression; they meant nothing by it. And it was kind of him to take this interest in her behalf.
"Thank you," she said. "Of course I should be careful not to go unless they really wanted me. But I'm sure they did by the way they asked me. If you and Mrs. Mercer are going too that will be all the better."
"Ought you to leave your mother alone?" he asked. "I quite thought you had hurried back to her this morning. If she isn't well, it was a little thoughtless, wasn't it, Mollie, to stay behind like that? She might have been worrying herself as to what had become of you."
"Oh, no," she said artlessly. "She would have thought I was with you. I have once or twice been to the Vicarage after church when she has stayed at home. And she didn't mind my going this afternoon a bit."
Mrs. Mercer was seen bearing down upon them. "Ohwell," he said, not very graciously, "I suppose you had better come. But you mustn't let the attentions of the girls at the Abbey turn your head, Mollie; and above all you mustn't get into the way of leaving your mother to be with them. They have asked Mollie to tea," he said as his wife came up. "So we can all go together."
"Oh, I'm so glad," said Mrs. Mercer. "I thought you might wonder, dear, why we hadn't asked you and Mrs. Walter to the Vicarage this afternoon. But you see, Mr. Grafton is only here on Saturdays and Sundays, and the Vicar has a good many things to talk over with him; so we thought we'd invite ourselves to tea there—at least, go there, rather early, and if they like to ask us to stay to tea, well they can."
"Really, my dear!" expostulated the Vicar, "you put things in a funny way. It's no more for people like ourselves to drop in at a house like the Abbey and ask for a cup of tea than to go to Mrs. Walter, for instance."
"No, dear, of course not," said Mrs. Mercer soothingly.
They went into the park through the hand gate, and when they had got a little way along the path an open motor-car passed them a little way off on the road. It was driven by a girl in a big tweed coat, and another girl similarly attired sat by her. Behind were an old lady and gentleman much befurred, and a third girl on the back seat.
"The Pembertons!" said the Vicar in a tone ofextreme annoyance. "Now what on earth do they want over here? They can't surely be coming to pay their first call on a Sunday, and I'm sure they haven't called already or I should have heard of it."
"Perhaps they are just going through the park," said Mrs. Mercer, which suggestion her husband accepted until they came in sight of the house and saw the empty car standing before it.
"Just like them to pay a formal call on a Sunday!" he said. "I'm very annoyed that this should have happened. I was going to give Grafton a warning about those people. They're not the sort of girls for his girls to know—loud and slangy and horsey! I abhor that sort of young woman. However, I suppose we shall have to be polite to them now they're here. But I don't wantyouto have anything to do with them, Mollie. I should keep in the background if I were you, as much as possible. And I dare say they won't stay very long."
They were taken up to the long gallery, which seemed to be full of talk as they entered it. It was a chilly windy day, and the two girls stood in front of one of the fires, of which there were two burning, while old Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton were sitting by the other. All four of them were talking at once, in loud clear voices, and there were also present, besides the Grafton family and Worthing, two young men, one of whom was talking louder than anybody.
The entrance of the Vicar had the effect of stopping the flow for a moment, but it was resumed again almostimmediately, and was never actually discontinued by the two young men, who were talking to Caroline, until she left them to greet the new arrivals.
"Ah, that's right; I'm glad you've come," said Grafton. "I suppose you know Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton. We've just discovered they're old friends of my wife's people."
"No, I don't think that we've ever met before," said Mrs. Pemberton, addressing herself to the Vicar, who stood awkwardly beside her. She had the air of not minding to whom she addressed herself as long as she was not asked to discontinue addressing somebody. "I suppose you're the clergyman here. It's been rather beyond our beat, you know, until we got the car, and, of course, there hasn't been anybody here for years. Nice to have the place occupied again, isn't it? Must make a lot of difference to you, I should think. And such nice people too! Yes, it's odd, isn't it? Mr. Francis Parry came to spend the week-end with us—my son brought him—and he asked us if we knew the Graftons who had just bought this place, and we said we didn't but were going to call on them when they'd got settled in; and then suddenly I remembered and said: 'Didn't one of the Graftons marry Lord Handsworth's sister, and she died?' Well, I've known the Handsworths ever since I was a girl, and that's a good many years ago, as you may imagine. You needn't trouble to contradict me, you know."
She looked up at him with a sharp smile. She was a hard-bitten old lady, with a face full of wrinkles in askin that looked as if it had been out in the sun and rain for years, as indeed it had, and a pair of bright searching eyes. The Vicar returned her smile. One would have said that she had already made a conquest of him, in spite of his previous disapprobation, and her having taken no particular pains to do so.
"Was Mrs. Grafton Lord Handsworth's sister?" he asked.
"Yes. Ain't I telling you so? Ruth Handsworth she was, but I don't think I ever knew her. She was of the second family, and I never saw much of the old man after he married again. Well, Francis Parry suggested walking over with my son. He's a friend of these people. So we thought we might as well drop ceremony and all come. Have you got a clothing-club in this village?"
In the meantime, on the other side of the fire-place, old Mr. Pemberton was giving his host some information about the previous inhabitants of the Abbey. He was rather deaf, and addressed his opponent in conversation as if his disability were the common lot of humankind, which probably accounted for the high vocal tone of the Pemberton family in general. "When I was a young fellow," he was saying, "there was no house in the neighb'r'ood more popular than this. There were four Brett girls, and all of them as pretty as paint. All we young fellows from twenty miles round and more were quarrelling about them. They all stuck together and wouldn't look at a soul of us—not for years—and then they all married in a bunch,and not a single one of them into the county. I was in love with the eldest myself, but I was only a boy at Eton and she was twenty-four. If it had been the other way about we might have kept one of them. Good old times those were. The young fellows used to ride over here, or drive their dog-carts, which were just beginning to come in in those days, and those who couldn't afford horseflesh used to walk. There were one or two sporting parsons in the neighb'r'ood then, and some nice young fellows from the Rectories. Sir Charles Dawbarn, the judge—his father was rector of Feltham when I was a young fellow. He wanted to marry the second one, but she wouldn't look at him. Nice fellow he was too. They don't seem to send us the parsons they used to in the old days. We've got a fellow at Grays goes about in a cassock, just like a priest. Behaves like one too. Asked my wife when he first came if she'd ever been to confession. Ha! ha! ha! She told him what she thought of him. But he's not a bad fellow, and we get on all right. What sort of a fellow have you got here? They can make themselves an infernal nuisance sometimes if they're not the right sort; and not many of them are nowadays, at least in these parts."
"That's our Vicar talking to Mrs. Pemberton," said Grafton in as low a voice as he thought would penetrate.
"Eh! What!" shouted the old man. "Gobbless my soul! Yes. I didn't notice he was a parson. Hope he didn't hear what I said. Hate to hurt anybody'sfeelings. Let's get further away. I've had enough of this fire."
Miss Waterhouse was talking to Mrs. Mercer by one of the windows, and all the young people had congregated round the further fire-place. The two older men joined them, and presently there was a suggestion of going over the house to see what had been done with it.
Mollie found herself with Beatrix, who, as she told her mother afterwards, was very sweet to her, not allowing her to feel out of it, though there were so many people there, and she was the least important of all of them. She was not alone with Beatrix however. Bertie Pemberton stuck close to them, and took the leading part in the conversation, though Beatrix did her share, with a dexterous unflustered ability which Mollie, who said very little, could not but admire. She judged Bertie Pemberton to be immensely struck with Beatrix, and did not wonder at it. She herself was beginning to have that enthusiastic admiration for her which generous girls accord to others more beautiful and more gifted than themselves. Everything about Beatrix pleased her—her lovely face and delicious colouring, the grace of her young form, the way she did her hair, the way she wore her pretty clothes. And she was as 'nice' as she was beautiful, with no affectations about her, and no 'airs,' which she very well might have given herself, considering how richly she was endowed by nature and circumstance. That Bertie Pemberton seemed to admire her in much the same way asMollie herself disposed her to like him, though her liking was somewhat touched with awe, for he was of the sort of young man whom Mollie in her retired life had looked upon as of a superior order, with ways that would be difficult to cope with if chance should ever bring one of them into her own orbit. He was, in fact, a good-natured young man, employed temporarily with stocks and shares until he should succeed to the paternal acres, of the pattern of other young men who had received a conventionally expensive education and gained a large circle of acquaintances thereby, if no abiding interest in the classical studies which had formed its basis. He seemed to be well satisfied with himself, and indeed there was no reason why he should not have been, since so far there had been little that he had wanted in life which he had not obtained. If he should chance to want Beatrix in the near future, which Mollie, looking forward as she listened and observed, thought not unlikely, there might be some obstacles to surmount, but at this stage there was nothing to daunt him. He handled the situation in the way dictated by his temperament and experience, kept up a free flow of good-humoured chaff, and under cover of it expressed admiration that had to be fenced with, but never went beyond the point at which it would have been necessary for his satisfaction that a third party should not have been present. As Beatrix, with her arm in Mollie's, took pains to include her in the conversation, he couldn't ignore Mollie; nor did he appear to wish to doso. She was a pretty girl too, and he was only using his ordinary methods with a pretty girl. If she would have found a difficulty in fencing with him in the manner he would have expected of her had they been alone together, she was spared the exercise, as Beatrix lightly took her defence on her own shoulders.
As Bertie Pemberton did not lower his voice below the family pitch, Mollie was a little anxious lest some of his speeches should come to the ear of the Vicar, who was not far removed from them as they started on their tour of investigation. He seemed, however, to have found an unexpected satisfaction in the society of Mrs. Pemberton, on whom he was in close attendance, with a back the contour of which expressed deference. She appeared to be giving him advice upon certain matters in connection with his own parish, and drawing upon his sympathy in matters connected with her own. Just before Bertie Pemberton managed to let the rest of the party get a room or two ahead, by showing great interest in the old books with which the library was furnished, Mollie heard her say to him in her carrying voice: "Well, you must come over and see it for yourself. I don't know why we've never met you; but Abington is rather beyond our beat, unless there's something or somebody to come for. It's such a pleasure to meet a sensible clergyman. I wish there were more of them."
Mollie was glad that her friend had impressed the loud-speaking rather formidable lady in this way, but was inclined to wonder what he would do with the invitation, for he knew what he thought of the Pembertons;and he had so often announced that he would have nothing whatever to do with such people, and was glad that they were so far away. She had heard the story of Bertie Pemberton's rudeness to him, but saw now how it might have been. Bertie's free manner might easily be taken for rudeness by somebody who did not know him. No doubt there had been 'faults on both sides.' She hoped that the Vicar's objections to the Pemberton family would not lead him to refuse them another chance. If there was no more harm in the Pemberton girls than there apparently was in their brother he would find that he had misjudged them.
The Pemberton girls—Nora, Effie and Kate—were cut out of the corresponding female pattern to their brother's. They were good-natured and well satisfied with themselves. But their self-satisfaction did not prevent them from taking a lively interest in other people, and their good-nature made them known to a large circle of acquaintances as 'good pals.' This reputation, though leading to much pleasant intercourse with members of either sex, is not the most favourable to matrimonial adjustments, and the youngest of them had already reached the middle twenties. But the shadow of spinsterhood had hardly yet begun to throw itself across their breezy path. With their horses and their golf, their visits to other country houses and sometimes to London, their father's large house, seldom entirely without guests in it, and above all their always increasing friendships, they had all that they wanted at present. Out of alltheir 'pals' there would be some day one for each of them in whose company they would continue the lives that they now found so pleasant. Almost anybody would do, if he was a good pal and had enough money. Falling in love was outside their beat. But it was probable that if one of them ever did fall in love, the other two would follow her suit. They were human enough in their primitive instincts.
Barbara accompanied Nora and Kate. She took a keen interest in them as types new to her, and they thought her a bright and modest child whose tastes for a country life were worth cultivating. "You must hack about as much as you can till next season, and get used to it," said Kate. "Then we'll take you out cubbing, and by the time regular hunting begins you ought to be able to sit as tight as any of us. It isn't a tiptop country, but you can get a lot of fun out of it."
"Better than jogging about in the Park, anyhow," said Nora. "I wouldn't live in London if you paid me."
Effie Pemberton and Bertie's friend Francis Parry were conducted by Caroline. Francis was of the same type as Bertie—smooth-haired, well-dressed and self-confident, but on a quieter plane. He had been one of Caroline's regular dancing partners, had dined sometimes at the house in London, and stayed sometimes in the same houses in the country. She liked him, and had found him more interesting than most of the young men in whose company she had disported herself. He hadtastes somewhat similar to hers, and it was a pleasure to point out to him what she had done to the house, and to receive his commendation. Effie Pemberton, who would much rather have been looking over the stables, found herself ratherde trop, and presently allied herself to Worthing, to whom she said with a jerk of the thumb: "I think it's a case there."