‘Shillyshally,’ quoth Mrs. Charles Morton over her brother-in-law’s letter. ‘Does he think a mother is to be put off like that?’
So she arrayed herself in panoply of glittering jet and nodding plumes, and set forth by train to Hurminster to assert her rights, and those of her children, armed with a black sunshade, and three pocket-handkerchiefs. She did not usually wear mourning, but this was an assertion of her nobility.
In his sitting-room, wearing his old office coat, pale, wearied, and worried, the Frank Morton, ‘who could be turned round the finger of any one who knew how,’ appeared at her summons.
She met him with an effusive kiss of congratulation. ‘Dearest Frank! No, I must not say Frank! I could hardly believe my eyes when I read the news.’
‘Nor I,’ said he.
‘Nor the dear children. Oh, if your dear brother were only here! We are longing to hear all about it,’ she said, as she settled herself in the arm-chair, a relic of his mother.
He repeated what he had told Mary about the family, the Park, and the London house.
‘I suppose there is a fine establishment of servants and carriages?’
‘The servants are to be paid off. As to the carriages and the rest of the personal property, they go to Miss Morton; but the executors are arranging about my paying for such furniture as I shall want.’
‘And jewels?’
‘There are some heirlooms, but I have not seen them. How are the children?’
‘Very well; very much delighted. Dear Herbert is the noblest boy. He was ready to begin on his navigation studies this next term, but of course there is no occasion for that now.’
‘It is a pity, with his taste for the sea, that he is too old to be a naval cadet.’
‘The army is a gentleman’s profession, if he must have one.’
‘I must consider what is best for him.’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ impressively. ‘I am hoping to know what you mean to do for your dear brother’s dear orphans,’ and her handkerchief went up to her eyes.
‘I hope at any rate to give Herbert the education of a gentleman, and to send his sisters to good schools. How are they getting on?’
‘Dear Ida, she is that clever and superior that a master in music and French is all she would want. Besides, you know, she is that delicate. Connie is the bookish one; she is so eager about the examination that she will go on at her school; though Iwould have taken her away from such a low place at once.’
‘It is a good school, and will have given her a good foundation. I must see what may be best for them.’
‘And, of course, you will put us in a situation becoming the family of your dear brother,’ she added, with another application of the handkerchief.
‘I mean to do what I can, you may be sure, but at present it is impossible to name any amount. I neither know what income is coming to me, nor what will be my expenses. I meant to come and see you as soon as there was anything explicit to tell you; but of course this first year there will be much less in hand than later.’
‘Well,’ she said, pouting, ‘I can put up with something less in the meantime, for of course your poor dear brother’s widow and children are your first consideration, and even a nobleman as a bachelor cannot have so many expenses.’
‘I shall not long continue a bachelor,’ was the answer, given with a sort of shy resolution.
‘Now, Lord Northmoor! You don’t mean to say that you intend to go on with that ridiculous affair; when, if you marry at all, it ought to be one who will bring something handsome into the family.’
‘Once for all, Emma, I will hear no more on that subject. A twenty years’ engagement is not lightly to be broken.’
‘A wretched little teacher,’ she began, but she was cut short.
‘Remember, I will hear no more of this, and’ (nothing but despair of other means could haveinspired him) ‘it is for your own interest to abstain from insulting my future wife and myself by such remonstrances.’
Even then she muttered, ‘Very hard! Not even good-looking.’
‘That is as one may think,’ said he, mentally contrasting the flaunting, hardened complexion before him with the sweet countenance he had never perceived to be pinched or faded; and as he heard something between a scornful sniff and a sob, he added, ‘I am wanted in the office, so, if you have no more to say of any consequence, I must leave you, and Hannah shall give you some tea.’
‘Oh, oh, that you should leave your poor brother’s widow in this way!’ and she melted into tears and sobs.
‘I can’t help it, Emma,’ he said, distressed and perplexed. ‘They want me about some business of Mr. Claughton’s, and I can’t keep them waiting. These are office hours, you know. Have some tea, and I will come to you again.’
But Mrs. Emma swallowed her sobs as soon as he was gone, and instead of waiting for the tea, set forth for Miss Lang’s. On asking for Miss Marshall she was shown into the drawing-room, where, after she had waited a few minutes, nursing her wrath to keep it warm, the small figure appeared, whom she had no hesitation in accosting thus—
‘Now, Miss Marshall, do I understand that you are resolved to attempt thrusting yourself on his Lordship, Lord Northmoor’s family?’
Mary, entirely taken by surprise, could only falter, ‘I can only do whatever he wishes.’
‘That is just a mere pretence. I wonder you are not ashamed to play on his honourable feelings, when you know everything is changed, and that it is absolutely ridiculous and derogatory for a peer of the realm to stoop to a mere drudge of a teacher.’
‘It is,’ owned Mary; but she went back to her formulary, ‘it must be as he wishes.’
‘If he is infatuated enough to pretend to wish it, I tell you it is your simple duty to refuse him.’
Whatever might be Mary’s own views of her duty, to have it inculcated in such a manner stirred her whole soul into opposition, which was shown, not in words, but in a tiny curve of the lips, such as infuriated her visitor, so that vulgarity and violence were under no restraint, and whether all self-command was lost in passion, or whether there was an idea that bullying might gain the day, Mrs. Morton’s voice rose into a shrill scream as she denounced the nasty, mean-spirited viper, worming herself—
The folding doors suddenly opened and in a dignified tone Miss Lang announced, ‘Lady Kenton wishes to be introduced to you, Miss Marshall.’
Mary made her little formal bend as well as her trembling limbs would allow her. Her cheeks were hot, her eyes swam, her hand shook as Lady Kenton took it kindly, while Mrs. Morton, too strong in her own convictions to perceive how the land lay, exclaimed, ‘Your Ladyship is come for the same purpose as me, to let Miss Marshall know how detrimental and improper it is in her to persist in holding my brother, Lord Northmoor, to the unfortunate engagement she inveigled him into.’
To utter this with moderate coolness cost such an effort that she thought Mr. Rollstone could not have done it better, and was astonished when Lady Kenton replied, ‘Indeed, I came to have the pleasure of congratulating Miss Marshall on, if it be not impertinent to say so, a beautiful and rare perseverance and constancy being rewarded.’
‘As if she had not known what she was about,’ muttered Mrs. Morton, not even yet quite confounded, but as she saw the lady lay another hand over that of still trembling Mary, she added, ‘Well, if that is the case, my lady, and she is to be encouraged in her obstinacy, I have no more to say, except that it is a cruel shame on his poor dear brother’s children, that—that he has made so much of, and have the best right—’ and she began to sob again.
‘Come,’ said Miss Lang, as if talking to a naughty girl, ‘if you are overcome like that, you had better come away.’
Wherewith authoritative habits made it possible to her to get Mrs. Morton out of the room; while Mary, well used to self-restraint, was struggling with choking tears, but when warm-hearted Lady Kenton drew her close and kissed her, they began to flow uncontrollably, so that she could only gasp, ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, my lady!’
‘Never mind,’ was the answer; ‘I don’t wonder! There’s no word for that language but brutal.’
‘Oh, don’t,’ was Mary’s cry. ‘She ishis, Lord Northmoor’s sister-in-law, and he has done everything for her ever since his brother’s death.’
‘That is no reason she should speak to you inthat way. I must ask you to excuse me, but we could not help hearing, she was so loud, and then I felt impelled to break in.’
‘It was very very kind! But oh, I wish I knew whether she is not in the right after all!’
‘I am sure Lord Northmoor is deeply attached—quite in earnest,’ said Lady Kenton, feeling rather as if she was taking a liberty.
‘Yes, I know it would grieve him most dreadfully, if it came to an end now, dear fellow. I know it would break my heart, too, but never mind that, I would go away, out of his reach, and he might get over it. Would it not be better than his being always ashamed of an inferior, incompetent creature, always dragging after him?’
‘I do not think you can be either, after what my daughter and Miss Lang have told me.’
‘You see, it is not even as if I had been a governess in a private family, I have always been here. I know nothing about servants, or great houses, or society, not so much as our least little girl, who has a home.’
‘May I tell you what I think, my dear,’ said Lady Kenton, greatly touched. ‘You have nothing to unlearn, and there is nothing needful to the position but what any person of moderate ability and good sense can acquire, and I am quite sure that Lord Northmoor would be far less happy without you, even in the long-run, besides the distress you would cause him now. It is not a brilliant, showy person that he needs, but one to understand and make him a real home.’
‘That is what he is always telling me,’ said Mary, somewhat cheered.
‘Yes, and he could not help showing where his heart is,’ said the lady. ‘Now the holidays are near, are they not?’
‘The 11th of July.’
‘Then, if you have no other plans, will you come and stay with me? We are very quiet people, but you would have an opportunity of understanding something of the kind of life.’
‘Oh, how very kind of you! Nobody has been so good to me.’
‘I think I can help you in some of the difficulties if you will let me,’ said Lady Kenton, quite convinced herself, and leaving a much happier woman than she had found.
Though Miss Lang was shocked and indignant at Mrs. Morton’s violence, she was a wise woman, and felt that it would be better tact not to let such a person depart without an attempt at pacification; so she did her best at dignified soothing, and listened to a good deal of grumbling and lamentation.
She contrived, however, to give the impression that as things stood, Mrs. Morton would be far wiser to make no more resistance, but to consult family peace by accepting Miss Marshall, who, she assured the visitor, was a very kind and excellent person, not likely to influence Lord Northmoor against his own family, except on great provocation.
Mrs. Morton actually yielded so far as to declare she had only spoken for her dear brother-in-law’s own good, and that since he was so infatuated, she supposed, for her dear children’s sake, she must endure it. Having no desire to encounter him again, she went off by the next train, leaving a message that she had had tea at Miss Lang’s. Sherelated at home to her expectant daughter that Lord Northmoor had grown ‘that high and stuck-up, there was no speaking to him, and that there Miss Marshall was an artful puss, as knew how to play her cards and getinwith the quality.’
‘I wish you had taken me, ma,’ said Ida, ‘I should have known what to say to them.’
‘I can’t tell, child, you might only have made it worse. I see how it is now, and we must be mum, or it may be the worse for us. He says he will do what he can for us, but I know what that means. She will hold the purse-strings, and make him meaner than he is already. He will never know how to spend his fortune now he has got it! If your poor, dear pa had only been alive now, he would never have let you be wronged.’
‘But you gave it to them?’ cried Ida.
‘That I did! Only that lady, Lady Kenton, came in all stuck-up and haughty, and cut me short, interfering as she had no business to, or I would have brought Miss Mary to her marrow-bones. She hadn’t a word to say for herself, but now she has got those fine folks on her side, the thing will go on as sure as fate. However, I’ve done my dooty, that’s one comfort; and now, I suppose I shall have to patch it up as best I can.’
‘I wouldn’t!’ said Ida hotly.
‘Ah, Ida, my dear, you don’t know what a mother won’t do for her children.’
A sigh that was often reiterated as Mrs. Morton composed a letter to her brother-in-law, with some hints from Ida on the spelling, and some from Mr. Rollstone on the address. The upshot was that herdear brother and hisfiancéewere to believe her actuated by the purest sense of the duty and anxiety she owed to them and her dear children, the orphans of his dear deceased brother. Now that she had once expressed herself, she trusted to her dear Frank’s affectionate nature to bury all in oblivion, and to believe that she should be ready to welcome her new sister-in-law with the warmest affection. Therewith followed a request for five pounds, to pay for her mourning and darling Ida’s, which they had felt due to him!
Lord Northmoor did not quite see how it was due to him, nor did he intend to give whatever his dear sister-in-law might demand, but she had made him so angry that he felt that he must prove his forgiveness to himself. Mary had not thought it needful to describe the force of the attack upon herself, or perhaps his pardon might not have gone so far. He sent the note, and added that as he was wanted at Northmoor for a day or two, he would take his nephew Herbert with him.
This was something like, as Mrs. Morton said, a kind of tangible acknowledgment of their relationship and of Herbert as his heir, and it was a magnificent thing to tell all her acquaintances that her son was gone to the family seat with his uncle, Lord Northmoor. She would fain have obtained for him some instructions in the manners of the upper ten thousand from Mr. Rollstone, but Herbert entirely repudiated listening to that old fogey, observing that after all it was only old Frank, and he wasn’t going to bother himself for the like of him.
The uncle was fond of his brother’s boy, and had devised this plan partly for the sake of the pleasure it would give, and partly because it was impossible to form any judgment of his character while with the mother. He was a fine, well-grown, manly boy, and when seen among his companions, had an indefinable air of good blood about him. He had hitherto been at a good day-school which prepared boys for the merchant service, and his tastes were so much in the direction of the sea, that it was much to be regretted that at fourteen and a half it was useless to think of preparation for a naval cadetship. He was sent up by train to join his uncle at Hurminster, and the first question after the greeting was, ‘I say, uncle, shan’t you have a yacht?’
‘I could not afford it, if I wished it,’ was the answer, whilePunchwas handed over to him, and Lord Northmoor applied himself to a long blue letter.
‘Landlubber!’ sighed Herbert to himself, with true marine contempt for a man who had sat on an office-stool all his life. ‘He doesn’t look a bit more of a swell than he used to. It is well there’s some one with some pluck in the family.’
Herbert began to be impressed when, on the train arriving at a little country station, a servant in mourning, with finger to his hat, inquired after his Lordship’s luggage, and another was seen presiding over a coroneted brougham.
‘I say,’ he breathed forth, when they were shut in, ‘is this yours?’
‘It is Miss Morton’s, I believe, at present. I am to arrange whether to keep it or not.’
They were driving over an open heath in its summer carpet-like state of purple heather, dwarf gorse, and bracken. Lord Northmoor looked out, with thoughtfulness in his face. By and by there was a gate, a lodge, a curtseying woman, and as they passed it, he said, ‘Now, this is Northmoor.’
‘Yours, uncle?’
‘Yes.’
‘My—!’ was all Herbert could utter. It semed to his town-bred eyes a huge space before they reached, through some rather scanty plantations, another lodge, and a park, not very extensive, butwith a few fine trees, and they thundered up beneath the pillars to what was, to his idea, a palace—with servants standing about in a great hall.
His uncle would have turned one way, but a servant said, ‘Miss Morton is in the morning-room, my Lord,’ and ushered them into a room where a lady in black came forward.
‘You did not expect to find me here still,’ she said cordially; ‘but Adela is gone to her brother’s, and I thought I had better stay for the division of—of the things.’
‘Oh, certainly—I am—glad,’ he stammered, with a blush as one not quite sure of the correctness of the proceeding. ‘I wouldn’t have intruded—’
‘Bosh! I’m the intruder. Letitia Bury is gone—alas—but,’ said she, laughing, ‘Hailes is here—staying,’ she added to relieve him and to lessen the confusion that amused her, ‘and I see you have a companion. Your nephew—?’
‘Yes, Herbert, my late brother’s son. I would not have brought him if I had known.’
‘A cousin,’ she said, smiling, and shaking hands with him. ‘Boys are my delight. This is quite a new experience.’
Herbert looked up surprised, not much liking to become an experience. He had had less intercourse with ladies than many boys of humbler pretensions, for his mother had always scouted the idea of sending her children to a Sunday-school, and she was neither like his mother’s friends nor his preconceived notions. ‘There! for want of an introduction, I must introduce myself. Your cousin Bertha, or Birdie, whichever you like best.’
Frank was by no means prepared to say even Bertha, and was in agonies lest Herbert should presume on the liberty given him; but if the boy had been in the palace of Truth, he would have said, ‘You old girl, you are awfully old to call yourself Birdie!’ For Birdie had been a pet name of Rose Rollstone; and Bertha Morton, though slim and curly-headed, had a worn look about her eyes, and a countenance such as to show her five-and-thirty years, and to the eyes of fourteen was almost antediluvian; indeed, older observers might detect a worn, haggard, strained look. He was somewhat disgusted, too, at the thin rolls of bread-and-butter on the low table, whence she proceeded to hand teacups, as he thought of the substantial meals at home. When they had been conducted to their rooms, and his uncle followed to his, he broke out with his perpetual, ‘I say, uncle, is this all the grub great swells have? I’m awfully peckish!’
‘That’s early tea, my boy,’ was the answer, with a smile. ‘There’s dinner to come, and I hope you will behave yourself well, and not use such expressions.’
‘Dinner! that’s not such a bad hearing, but I suppose one must eat it like a judge?’
‘Certainly; I am afraid I am not a very good model, but don’t you do anything you don’t see me do. And, Herbert, don’t take wine every time the servants offer it.’
At which Herbert made a face.
‘Have you got any evening shoes? No! If I had only known that the lady was here! It can’t be helped to-day, only wash your face and hands well; there’s some hot water.’
‘Why, they ain’t dirty,’ said the boy, surveying them as one to whom the remains of a journey were mere trifles, then, with a sigh, ‘It’s no end of a place, but you swells have a lot of bores, and no mistake!’
Upstairs Herbert roamed about studying with great curiosity the appliances of the first bedchamber he had ever beheld beyond the degree of his mother’s ‘first floor,’ but downstairs, he was in the mood of the savage, too proud to show wonder or admiration or the sense of awe with which he was inspired by being waited on by the very marrow of Mr. Rollstone, always such grand company at home. This daunted him far more than the presence of the lady, and though his was a spirit not easily daunted, he almost blushed when that personage peremptorily resisted his endeavour to present the wrong glass for champagne, which fortunately he disliked too much at the first taste to make another attempt. Lord Northmoor, for the first time at the foot of his own table, was on thorns all the time, lest he should see his nephew commit some indiscretion, and left most of the conversation to Miss Morton and Mr. Hailes, the solicitor, a fine-looking old gentleman, who was almost fatherly to her, very civil to him, but who cast somewhat critical eyes on the cub who might have to be licked into a shape befitting the heir.
They tried to keep their host in the conversation, but without much success, though he listened as it drifted into immediate interests and affairs of the neighbourhood, and made response, as best he could, to the explanations which, like well-bred people,they from time to time directed to him. He thus learnt that Lady Adela with her little Amice had been carried off ‘by main force,’ Bertha said, ‘by her brother. But she will come back again,’ she added. ‘She is devoted to the place and her graves—and the poor people.’
‘I do not know what they would do without her,’ said Mr. Hailes.
‘No. She is lady-of-all-work and Pro-parsoness—with all her might’; then seeing, or thinking she saw, a puzzled look, she added, ‘I don’t know if you discovered, Northmoor, that our Vicar, Mr. Woodman, has no wife, and Adela has supplied the lack to the parish, having a soul for country poor, whereas they are too tame for me. I care about my neighbours, of course, after a sort, but the jolly city sparrows of the slums for me! I long to be away.’
What to say to this Lord Northmoor knew as little as did his nephew, and with some difficulty he managed to utter, ‘Are not they very uncivilised?’
‘That’s the beauty of it,’ said Bertha; ‘I’ve spotted my own special preserve of match-girls, newsboys, etc., and Mr. Hailes is going to help me to get a scrumptious little house, whence I can get to it by underground rail. Oh, you may shake your head, Mr. Hailes, but if you will not help me, I shall set my unassisted genius to work, and you’ll only suffer agonies in thinking of the muddle I may be making.’
‘What does Lady Adela say?’ asked Mr. Hailes.
‘She thinks me old enough to take care of myself,whatever you do, Mr. Hailes; besides, she knows I can come up to breathe! I long for it!’
The dinner ended by Bertha rising, and proposing to Herbert to come with her. It was not too dark, she said, to look out into the Park and see the rabbits scudding about.
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Hailes, shaking his head as they went, ‘the rabbits ought not to be so near, but there has been sad neglect since poor Mr. Morton’s death.’
It was much easier to get on in atête-à-tête, and before long Mr. Hailes had heard some of the perplexities about Herbert, the foremost of which was how to make him presentable for ladies’ society in the evening. If Miss Morton’s presence had been anticipated, either his uncle would not have brought him, or would have fitted him out beforehand, for though he looked fit for the fields and woods in male company, evening costume had not yet dawned on his imagination. Mr. Hailes recommended sending him in the morning to the town at Colbeam, under charge of the butler, Prowse—who would rather enjoy the commission, and was quite capable of keeping up any needed authority. For the future training, the more important matter on which he was next consulted, Mr. Hailes mentioned the name of a private tutor, who was likely to be able to deal with the boy better under present circumstances than a public school could do—since at Herbert’s age, his ignorance of the classics on the one hand, and of gentlemanly habits on the other, would tell too much against him.
‘But,’ said Mr. Hailes, ‘Miss Morton will be a very good adviser to you on that head.’
‘She is very good-natured to him,’ said Frank.
‘No one living has a better heart than Miss Morton,’ said Mr. Hailes heartily; ‘a little eccentric, owing to—to circumstances. She has had her troubles, poor dear; but she has as good a heart as ever was, as you will find, my Lord, in all arrangements with her.’
Nevertheless, Lord Northmoor’s feelings towards her might be startled the next morning, when he descended to the dining-room. A screen cut off the door, and as he was coming round it, followed by his nephew, Bertha’s clear voice was heard saying, ‘Yes, he is inoffensive, but he is a stick. There’s no denying it, Mr. Hailes, he is a dreadful stick.’
Frank was too far advanced to retire, before the meaning dawned on him, partly through a little explosion of Herbert behind him, and partly from the guilty consternation and colour with which the other two turned round from the erection of plants among which they were standing.
Yet it was the shy man who spoke first in the predicament, like a timid creature driven to bay.
‘Yes, Miss Morton, I know it is too true; no one is more sensible of it than myself. I can only hope to do my best, such as it is.’
‘Oh, Northmoor, it was very horrid and unguarded in me, and I can only be sorry and beg your pardon,’ and while she laughed and held out her hand, there was a dew in her eyes.
‘Truths do not need pardon,’ he said, as he gave a cousinly grasp, ‘and I think you will try kindly to excuse my deficiencies and disadvantages.’
There was a certain dignity in his tone, and Bertha said heartily—
‘Thank you. It is all right in essentials, and chatter is of very little consequence. Now come and have some breakfast.’
They got on together far better after that, and began to feel like relations, before Herbert was sent off with Mr. Prowse to Colbeam. Indeed, throughout the transactions that followed, Bertha showed herself far less devoted to her own interests than to what might be called the honour of the family. Her father’s will had been made in haste, after the death of his little grandson, and was as concise as possible, her influence having told upon it. Knowing that the new heir would have nothing to begin with, and aware that if he inherited merely the title, house, and land, he would be in great straits, the old Lord had bequeathed to him nearly what would have been left to the grandson, a fair proportion of the money in the funds and bank, and all the furniture and appurtenances of Northmoor House, excepting such articles as Bertha and Lady Adela might select, each up to a certain value.
Lady Adela’s had been few, and already chosen, and Bertha’s were manifestly only matters of personal belonging, and not up altogether to the amount named; so as to avoid stripping the place, which, at the best, was only splendid in utterly unaccustomed eyes. Horses and carriages had to be bought of her, and it was she who told him what was absolutely necessary, and fixed the price as low as she could, so as not to make them a gift. And he was not so ignorant in this matter as she hadexpected—for the old habits of his boyhood served him, he could ride well, and his scruples at Miss Morton’s estimate proved that he knew a horse when he saw it—as she said. She would, perhaps, have liked him better if he had been a dissipated horsey man like his father. He would have given her sensations—and on his side, considering the reputation of the family, he was surprised at her eager, almost passionate desire to be rid of the valuable horses and equipages as soon as possible.
When, in the afternoon, she went out of doors to refresh herself with a solitary ramble in the Park after her morning of business, she heard an altercation, and presently encountered a keeper, dragging after him a trespasser, in whom, to her amazement, she recognised Herbert Morton, at the same moment as he exclaimed: ‘Cousin Bertha! Miss— Look at this impudent fellow, though I told him I was Lord Northmoor’s own nephew.’
‘And I told him, ma’am,’ said the keeper, touching his hat, ‘that if he was ten nephews I wouldn’t have him throwing stones at my pheasants, nor his Lordship wouldn’t neither, and then he sauced me, and I said I would see what his Lordship said to that.’
‘You must excuse him this time, Best,’ said Miss Morton; ‘he is a town-bred boy, and knows no better, and you had better not worry his Lordship about it.’
‘Very well, Miss Morton, if it is your pleasure, but them pheasants are my province, and I must do my dooty.’
‘Of course, quite right, Best,’ she answered; ‘butmy cousin here did not understand, and you must make allowance for him.’
Best touched his hat again, and went off with an undercurrent of growl.
‘Oh, Herbert, this is a pity!’ Miss Morton exclaimed.
‘Cheeky chap!’ said Herbert sulkily. ‘What business had he to meddle with me? A great big wild bird gets up with no end of a row, and I did nothing but shy a stone, and out comes this fellow at me in a regular wax, and didn’t care half a farthing when I told him who I was. I fancy he did not believe me.’
‘I don’t wonder,’ said Bertha; ‘you have yet to learn that in the eyes of any gentleman, nothing is much more sacred than a pheasant.’
‘I never meant to hurt the thing, only one just chucks a stone,’ muttered Herbert, abashed, but still defensive and offended. ‘I thought my uncle would teach the rascal how to speak to me.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Herbert, if you take that line with good old servants, who are only doing their duty, you won’t have a happy time of it here. I suppose you wish to take your place as a gentleman. Well, the greatest sign of a gentleman is to be courteous and well-behaved to all about him.’
‘He wasn’t courteous or well-behaved to me.’
‘No, because you did not show yourself such a gentleman as he has been used to. If you acted like a tramp or a poacher, no wonder he thought you one’; then, after a pause, ‘You will find that much of your pleasure in sport depends on the keepers, and that it would be a great disadvantageto be on bad terms with them, so I strongly advise you, on every account, to treat them with civility, and put out of your head that there is any dignity in being rude.’
Herbert liked Miss Morton, and had been impressed as well as kindly treated by her, and though he sulked now, there was an after-effect.
With great trepidation did Mary Marshall set forth on her visit to Coles Kenton. She had made up her mind—and a determined mind it could be on occasion—that on it should turn her final acceptance of her twenty years’ lover.
Utterly inexperienced as she was, even in domestic, not to say high life, she had perhaps an exaggerated idea, alike of its requirements and of her own deficiencies; and she was resolved to use her own judgment, according to her personal experience, whether she should be hindrance or help to him whom she loved too truly and unselfishly to allow herself to be made the former.
She was glad that for the first few days she should not see him, and should thus be less distracted and biased, but it was with a sinking heart that she heard that Lady Kenton had called to take her up in the carriage. Grateful as she was for the kindness, which saved her the dreariness of a solitary arrival, she was a strange mixture of resolution and self-distrust, of moral courage and timidity, as hadbeen shown by her withstanding all Miss Lang’s endeavours to make her improve her dress beyond what was absolutely necessary for the visit, lest it should be presuming on the future.
Lady Kenton had a manner such as to smooth away shyness, and, with tact that perceived with what kind of nature she had to deal, managed to make the tea-table serve only as a renewal of acquaintance with Frederica, and an introduction to Sir Edward, after which Mary was taken to the schoolroom and made known to the governess, a kindly, sensible woman, who, according to previous arrangement, made the visitor free of her domains as a refuge.
The prettiness and luxury of the guest-chamber was quite a shock, and Mary would rather have faced a dozen naughty girls than have taken Sir Edward’s arm to go in to dinner. However, her hostess had decided on a quiet course of treatment such as not to frighten this pupil, and it had been agreed only to take enough notice of her to prevent her from feeling herself neglected, until she should begin to be more at ease. Nor was it long before a certain sparkle in the brown eyes showed that she was amused by, and appreciative of, the family talk.
It was true, as Lady Kenton had told her, that she had nothing to unlearn, all she wanted was confidence, experience, and ease, and in so humble, gentle, and refined a nature as hers, the acquisition of these could not lead to the disclosure of anything undesirable. So, after the first day of novelty, when she had learnt the hours, could distinguish between the young people, knew her way about the house soas to be secure of not opening the wrong doors, and when she had learnt where and when she would be welcome and even helpful, she began to enjoy herself and the life, the beauty, and the leisure.
She made friends heartily with the governess, fraternised with Freda, taught the younger girls new games, could hold a sort of conversation with Sir Edward, became less afraid of George, and daily had more of filial devotion to Lady Kenton. The books on the tables were a real delight and pleasure to her, when she found that it was not ill-mannered to sit down and read in the forenoon, and the discussion of them was a great help in what Freda called teaching her to talk. Visitors were very gradually brought upon her, a gentleman or two at first, who knew nothing about her, perhaps thought her the governess and merely bowed to her. There was only one realcontretemps, when some guests, who lived rather beyond the neighbourhood, arrived for afternoon tea, and, moreover, full of curiosity about Lord Northmoor. Was it true that he was an attorney’s clerk, and was not he going to marry a very inferior person?
‘Certainly not,’ said Lady Kenton. ‘He is engaged to my friend, Miss Marshall.’
The said Miss Marshall was handing the sugar, while Freda was pouring out the tea. She had been named on the ladies’ entrance, and the colour rose to her eyes but she said nothing, while there was a confusion of, ‘I beg pardon. I understand.’
‘Report makes a good many mistakes,’ said Lady Kenton coolly. ‘Mary, my dear, you have given me no sugar.’
It was the first time of calling her by herChristian name, and done for the sake of making the equal intimacy apparent. In fact, Mary was behaving herself better than the visitors, as Lady Kenton absolutely told her when a sort of titter was heard in the hall, where they were expressing to Freda their horror at the scrape, and extorting that Miss Marshall was really a governess.
‘But quite a lady,’ said Freda stoutly, ‘and we are all as fond of her as possible.’
It showed how much progress she had made that even this shock did not set her to express any more faint-hearted doubts, and, when Lord Northmoor arrived the next day, the involuntary radiance on both their faces was token enough that they were all the world to each other. Mary allowed herself to venture on getting Lady Kenton’s counsel on the duties of household headship that would fall on her; and instead of being terrified at the great garden-party and dinner-party to be held at Coles Kenton, eagerly availed herself of instruction in the details of their management. She had accepted her fate, and when the two were seen moving about among the people of the party they neither of them looked incongruous with the county aristocracy. Quiet, retiring, and insignificant they might be, but there was nothing to remark by the most curious eyes of those who knew they were to see the new peer and his destined bride; in fact, as George and Freda privately remarked, they were just the people that nobody ever would see at all, unless they were set up upon a pedestal.
Mary still feebly suggested, when the marriage was spoken of, that it might be wiser for Frank towait a year, get over his first expenses and feel his way; but he would not hear of her going back to her work, and pleaded his solitude so piteously that she could not but consent to let it take place as soon as possible. They would fain have kept it as private as possible, but their good friends were of opinion that it was necessary to give them a start with someéclat, and insisted that it should take place with all due honours at Coles Kenton, where Mary was treated like a favoured niece, and assisted with counsel on hertrousseau. The savings she had made during the long years of her engagement were enough to fit her out sufficiently to feel that she was bringing her own wardrobe, and Lady Kenton actually went to London with her to superintend the outlay.
‘Whom would they like to have asked to the wedding?’ the lady inquired, herself naming the Langs and Burfords. ‘Of course,’ she added, smiling, ‘Freda and Alice will be only too happy to be bridesmaids. Have you any one whom you would wish to ask? Your old scholars perhaps.’
‘I think,’ said Mary, hesitating, ‘that one reason why we think we ought to decline your kindness was—abouthisrelations.’
Lady Kenton had given full license to the propriety of callinghimFrank with intimate friends, but Mary always had a shyness about it.
‘Indeed, I should make no question about asking them, if I had not doubted whether, after what passed—’
‘That is all forgotten,’ said Mary gently. ‘I have had quite a nice letter since, and—’
‘Of course they must be asked,’ said Lady Kenton; ‘I should have proposed it before, but for that scene.’
‘That is nothing,’ said Mary; ‘the doubt is whether, considering the style of people, it would not be better for us to manage it otherwise, and not let you be troubled.’
‘Oh, that’s nothing! On such an occasion there’s no fear of their not behaving like the rest of the world. There are girls, I think; they should be bridesmaids.’
This very real kindness overcame all scruples, and indeed a great deal might be forgiven to Miss Marshall in consideration of the glory of telling all Westhaven of the invitation to be present ‘at my brother Lord Northmoor’s wedding, at Sir Edward Kenton’s, Baronet.’ He gave the dresses, not only the bridesmaids’ white and cerise (Freda’s choice), but the chocolate moiré which for a minute Mrs. Morton fancied ‘the little spiteful cat’ had chosen on purpose to suppress her, till assured by all qualified beholders, especially Mrs. Rollstone and a dressmaker friend, that in nothing else would she have looked so entirely quite the lady.
And Lady Kenton’s augury was fulfilled. The whole family were subdued enough by their surroundings to comport themselves quite well enough to pass muster.
So Francis Morton, Baron Northmoor of Northmoor, and Mary Marshall, daughter of the late Reverend John Marshall, were man and wife at last. Their honeymoon was ideally happy. It fulfilled a dream of their life, when Frank used, in the holidays spent by Mary with his mother, to read aloud the Waverley novels, and they had calculated, almost as an impossible castle in the air, the possibility of visiting the localities. And now they went, as assuredly they had never thought of going, and not much impeded by the greatness that had been thrust on them. The good-natured Kentons had dispensed his Lordship from the encumbrance of a valet, and though my Lady could not well be allowed to go maidless, Lady Kenton had found a sensible, friendly person for her, of whom she soon ceased to be afraid, and thus felt the advantage of being able to attend to her husband instead of her luggage.
Tourists might look and laugh at their simple delight as at that of a pair of unsophisticated cockneys. This did not trouble them, as they trodwhat was to them classic ground, tried in vain the impossible feat of ‘seeing Melrose aright,’ but revelled in what they did see, stood with bated breath at Dryburgh by the Minstrel’s tomb, and tracked his magic spells from the Tweed even to Staffa, feeling the full delight for the first time of mountain, sea, and loch. Their enjoyment was perhaps even greater than that of boy and girl, for it was the reaction of chastened lives and hearts ‘at leisure from themselves,’ nor were spirit and vigour too much spent for enterprise.
They tasted to the full every innocent charm that came in their way, and, above all, the bliss of being together in the perfect sympathy that had been the growth of so many years. Their maid, Harte, might well confide to her congeners that though my lord and my lady were the oldest couple she had known, they were the most attached, in a quiet way.
They were loth to end this state of felicity before taking their new cares upon them, and were glad that the arrangements of the executors made it desirable that they should not take possession till October, when they left behind them the gorgeous autumn beauty of the western coast and journeyed southwards.
The bells were rung, the gates thrown wide open, and lights flashed in the windows as Lord and Lady Northmoor drove up to their home, but it was in the dark, and there was no demonstrative welcome, the indoor servants were all new, the cook-housekeeper hired by Lady Kenton’s assistance, and the rest of the maids chosen by her, the butler and his subordinate acquired in like manner.
It was a little dreary. The rooms looked large and empty. Miss Morton’s belongings had been just what gave a homelike air to the place, and when these were gone, even the big fires could not greatly cheer the huge spaces. However, these two months had accustomed the new arrivals to their titles, and likewise to being waited upon, and they were less at a loss than they would have been previously, though to Mary especially it was hard to realise that it was her own house, and that she need ask no one’s leave. Also that it was not a duty to sit with a fire. She could not well have done so, considering how many were doing their best to enliven the house, and finally she spent the evening in the library, not a very inviting room in itself, but which the late lord had inhabited, and where the present one had already held business interviews. It was, of course, lined with the standard books of the last generation, and Mary, who had heard of many, but never had access to them, flitted over them while her husband opened the letters he had found awaiting him. To her, what some one has called the ‘tea, tobacco, and snuff’ of an old library where the books are chiefly viewed as appropriate furniture, were all delightful discoveries. Even to ‘Hume’sHistory of England—nine volumes! I did not know it was so long! Our first class had the Student’sHume. Is there much difference?’
‘Rather to the Student’s advantage, I believe. Half these letters, at least, are mere solicitations for custom! And advertisements!’
‘How the books stick together! I wonder when they were opened last!’
‘Never, I suspect,’ said he. ‘I do not imagine the Mortons were much disposed to read.’
‘Well, they have left us a delightful store! What’s this? Smollett’sDon Quixote. I always wanted to know about that. Is it not something about giants and windmills? Have you read it?’
‘I once read an odd volume. He was half mad, and too good for this world, and thought he was living in a romance. I will read you some bits. You would not like it all.’
‘Oh, I do hope you will have time to read to me! Gibbon’sDecline and Fall of the Roman Empire. All these volumes! They are quite damp. You have read it?’
‘Yes, and I wish I could remember all those Emperors. I must put aside this letter for Hailes—it is a man applying for a house.’
‘How strange it sounds! Look, here is such an immenseShakespeare! Oh! full of engravings,’ as she fell upon Boydell’sShakespeare—another name reverenced, though she only knew a few selected plays, prepared for elocution exercises.
Her husband, having had access to the Institute Library, and spent many evenings over books, was better read than she, whose knowledge went no farther than that of the highest class, but who knew all very accurately that she did know, and was intelligent enough to find in those shelves a delightful promise of pasture. He was by this time sighing over requests for subscriptions.
‘Such numbers! Such good purposes! But how can I give?’
‘Cannot you give at least a guinea?’ asked Mary, after hearing some.
‘I do not know whether in this position a small sum in the list is not more disadvantageous than nothing at all. Besides, I know nothing of the real merits. I must ask Hailes. Ah! and here is Emma, I thought that she would be a little impatient. She says she shall let her house for the winter, and thinks of going to London or to Brighton, where she may have masters for the girls.’
‘Oh, I thought you meant them to go to a good school?’
‘So I do, if I can get Emma’s consent; but I doubt her choosing to part with Ida. She wants to come here.’
‘I suppose we ought to have her?’
‘Yes, but not immediately. I do not mean to neglect her—at least, I do hope to do all that is right; but I think you ought to have a fair start here before she comes, so that we will invite her for Christmas, and then we can arrange about Ida and Constance.’
‘Dear little Connie, I hope she is as nice a little girl as she used to be!’
‘With good training, I think, she will be; and the tutor gives me good accounts of Herbert in this letter.’
‘Shall we have him here on Sunday week?’
‘Yes, I am very anxious to see him. I hope his master gives him more religious instruction than he has ever had, poor boy!’
Though not brilliant or playful, Lord and Lady Northmoor had, it may be perceived, no lack of goodsense in their strange new surroundings. It was hard not to feel like guests on sufferance, and next morning, a Sunday, was wet. However, under their waterproofs and umbrellas trudging along, they felt once more, as Mary said, like themselves, as if they had escaped from their keepers. Nobody on the way had the least idea who the two cloaked figures were, and when they crept into the seat nearest the door they were summarily ejected by a fat, red-faced man, who growled audibly, ‘You’ve no business in my pew!’
However, with the words, ‘Beg your pardon,’ they stepped out with a little amusement in their eyes, when a spruce young woman sprang up from the opposite pew, with a scandalised whisper—
‘Mr. Ruddiman, it’s his Lordship! Allow me, my Lord—your own seat—’
And she marshalled them up to the choir followed closely by Mr. Ruddiman, ruddier than ever, and butcher all over, in a perfect agony of apology, which Lord Northmoor in vain endeavoured to suppress or silence, till, when the guide had pointed to a handsome heavy carved seat with elaborate cushions, he gave a final gasp of, ‘You’ll not remember it in the custom, my Lord,’ and departed, leaving his Lordship almost equally scarlet with annoyance at the place and time of the demonstration, though, happily, the clergyman had not yet appeared, in his long and much-tumbled surplice.
It was a case of a partial restoration of a church in the dawn of such doings, when the horsebox was removed, but the great family could not be routed out of the chancel, so there were the seats, wherethe choir ought to have sat, beneath a very ugly east window, bedecked with the Morton arms. In the other division of the seat was a pale lady in black, with a little girl, Lady Adela Morton, no doubt, and opposite were the servants, and the school children sat crowded on the steps. It was not such a service as had been the custom of the Hurminster churches; and the singing, such as it was, depended on the thin shrill voices of the children, assisted by Lady Adela and the mistress; the sermon was dull and long, and altogether there was something disheartening about the whole.
Lady Adela had a gentle, sweet countenance and a simple devout manner; but it was disappointing that she did not attempt to address the newcomers, though they passed her just outside the churchyard, talking to an old man. Lady Kenton would surely have welcomed them.
A fearful affair to the new possessors of Northmoor was the matter of morning calls. The first that befell them, as in duty bound, was that from the Vicar. They were peaceably writing their letters in the library, and hoping soon to go out to explore the Park, when Mr. Woodman was announced, and was found a lonely black speck in the big dreary drawing-room, a very state room, indeed, which nobody had ever willingly inhabited. The Vicar was accustomed to be overridden; he was an elderly widower, left solitary in his old age, and of depressed spirits and manner. However, Frank had been used to intercourse with clergy, though his relations with them seemed reversed, and instead of being patronised, he had to take the initiative; or rather, they touched each other’s cold, shy, limp hands, and sat upright in their chairs, and observed upon the appropriate topic of early frosts, which really seemed to be affecting themselves.
There was a little thaw when Lord Northmoor asked about the population, larger, alas, than thecongregation might have seemed to show, and Mary asked if there were much poverty, and was answered that there was much suffering in the winter, there was not much done for the poor except by Lady Adela.
‘You must tell us how we can assist in any way.’
The poor man began to brighten. ‘It will be a great comfort to have some interest in the welfare of the parish taken here, my Lord. The influence hitherto has not been fortunate. Miss Morton, indeed—latterly—but, poor thing, if I may be allowed to say so, she is flighty—and uncertain—no wonder—’
At that moment Lady Adela was ushered in, and the Vicar looked as if caught in talking treason, while a fresh nip of frost descended on the party.
Not that the lady was by any means on stiff terms with the Vicar, whom, indeed, she daily consulted on parochial subjects, and she had the gracious, hereditary courtesy of high breeding; but she always averred that this same drawing-room chilled her, and she was fully persuaded that any advance towards familiarity would lead to something obnoxious on the part of the newcomers, so that the proper relations between herself and them could only be preserved by a judicious entrenchment of courtesy. Still, it was more the manner of the Vicar than of herself that gave the impression of her being a formidable autocrat. After the frost had been again languidly discussed, Mr. Woodman faltered out, ‘His Lordship was asking—was so good as to ask—how to assist in the parish.’
Lady Adela knew how scarce money must be,so she hesitated to mention subscriptions, and only said, ‘Thank you—very kind.’
‘Is there any one I could read to?’ ventured Mary.
‘Have you been used to the kind of thing?’ asked Lady Adela, not unkindly, but in a doubting tone.
‘No, I never could before; but I do wish to try to do something.’
The earnest humility of the tone was touching, the Vicar and the autocrat looked at one another, and the former suggested, ‘Old Swan!’
‘Yes,’ said Lady Adela, ‘old Swan lives out at Linghill, which is not above half a mile from this house, but too far off for me to visit constantly. I shall be very much obliged if you can undertake the cottages there.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mary, as heartily as if she were receiving a commission from the Bishop of the diocese.
‘Did not Miss Morton mention something about a boys’ class?’ said Frank. ‘I have been accustomed to a Sunday school.’
Mr. Woodman betrayed as much surprise as if he had said he was accustomed to a coal mine; and Lady Adela observed graciously, ‘Most of them have gone into service this Michaelmas; but no doubt it will be a relief to Mr. Woodman if you find time to undertake them.’
This was the gist of the first two morning calls, and there were many more such periods of penance, for the bride and bridegroom were not modern enough in their notions to sit up to await theirvisitors, and thankful they were to those who would be at the expense of finding conversation, though this was not always the case; for much of the neighbourhood was of a description to be awed by the mere fact of a great house, and to take the shyness of titled people for pride. Those with whom they prospered best were a good-natured, merry old dowager duchess, with whom they felt themselves in the altitude to which they were accustomed at Hurminster; a loud-voiced, eager old squire, who was bent on being Lord Northmoor’s guide and prompter in county business; also an eager, gushing lady, the echoes of whose communications made Frank remark, after her departure, ‘We must beware of encouraging gossip about the former family.’
‘Oh, I wish I had the power of setting people down when they say what is undesirable, like Miss Lang, or Lady Adela!’ sighed Mary.
‘Try to think of them like your school girls,’ he said.
The returning of the calls was like continually pulling the string of a shower-bath, and glad were the sighs when people proved to be not at home; but on the whole, being entertained was not half so formidable as entertaining, and a bride was not expected to do more than sit in her white silk, beside the host.
But the return parties were an incubus on their minds. Only they were not to be till after Christmas.
Over the hearth of the drawing-room of the Dower House, in the sociable twilight that had descended on the afternoon tea-table, sat three ladies—for Lady Adela and Miss Morton had just welcomed Mrs. Bury, who, though she had her headquarters in London, generally spent her time in visits to her married daughters or expeditions abroad.
Amice had just exhibited her doll, Elmira’s last acquisition, a little chest of drawers, made of matchboxes and buttons, that Constance Morton had taught her to make, and then she had gone off to put the said Elmira and her companions to bed, after giving it as her grave opinion that Lady Northmoor was a great acquisition.
‘Do you think so?’ said Mrs. Bury, after the laugh at the sedate expression.
‘She is very kind to Amice, and I do not think she will do her any harm,’ said Lady Adela.
‘Governessing was hermétier,’ added Bertha, ‘so it is not likely.’
‘And how does it turn out?’
‘Oh, it might be a good deal worse. I see no reason for not living on here.’
‘And you, Birdie?’
‘No, Icouldn’t! I’ve been burning to get away these seven years, and as Northmoor actually seems capable of taking my boys, my last tie is gone. I’m only afraid he’ll bore them with too much Sabbatarianism and temperance. He is just the cut of the model Sabbath-school teacher, only he vexes Addie’s soul by dashes of the Ritualist.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs. Bury, ‘the excellent Mr. Woodman is capable of improvement.’
‘But how?’ said Lady Adela. ‘Narrow ritualism without knowledge or principle is a thing to be deprecated.’
‘Is it without knowledge or principle?’
‘How should an attorney’s clerk get either?’
‘But I understand you that they are worthy people, and not obnoxious.’
‘Worthy!’ exclaimed Bertha. ‘Yes, worthy to their stiff backbones, worthy to the point of utter dulness; they haven’t got enough vulgarity even to drop their h’s or be any way entertaining. I should like them ever so much better if they ate with their knives and drank out of their saucers, but she can’t even mispronounce a French word worse than most English people.’
‘No pretension even?’
‘Oh no; if there were, one could get some fun out of it. I have heard of bearing honours meekly, but they don’t even do that, they just let them hang on them, like the stick and stock they are. If Iwere Addie, it would be the deadly liveliness that would drive me away.’
‘Nay,’ said Adela; ‘one grows to be content with mere negations, if they are nothing worse. Icouldbe driven away, or at least find it an effort to remain, if Lady Northmoor were like her sister-in-law.’
‘Ah, now, that’s just what would make it tolerable to me. I could get a rise or two out of that Mrs. Morton. I did get her to be confidential and to tell me how much better the honours would have sat upon her dear husband. I believe she thinks that if he were alive he would have shared them like the Spartan kings. She wishes that “her brother, Lord Northmoor” (you should hear the tone), “were more worldly, and she begs me to impress on him the duty of doing everything for her dear Herbert, who, in the nature of things, must be the heir to the peerage.”‘
‘I am sure I hope not,’ said Lady Adela. ‘He is an insufferable boy. The people about the place can’t endure him. He is quite insolent.’
‘The animal, man, when in certain stages of development, has a peculiar tendency to be unpleasant,’ observed Bertha philosophically. ‘To my mind, Master Herbert is the most promising of the specimens.’
‘Birdie! He is much worse than his uncle.’
‘Promising, I said, not performing. Whatever promise there may have been in Northmoor must have been nipped upon the top of a high stool, but if he has sense enough to put that boy into good hands he may come to something. I like himenough myself to feel half inclined to do what I can towards licking him into shape, for the honour of the family! It is that girl Ida that riles me most.’
‘Yes,’ said Lady Adela, ‘she behaved fairly well in company, but I saw her tittering and whispering with Emily Trotman in a tone that I thought very bad for Emily.’
‘She’s spoilt; her mother worships her,’ said Bertha. ‘I had a pleasing confidence or two about how she is already admired, or, as Mrs. Morton calls it, how the gentlemen are after her; but now she shall not put up with anything but arealgentleman, and of course her uncle will do something handsome for her.’
‘Poor man! I wish him joy. Has he more belongings?’
‘Providentially, no. We have the honour of standing nearest to him, and she seems to have none at all, unless they should be attracted by the scent.’
‘That is not likely,’ said Lady Adela; ‘she was a clergy orphan, and never heard of any relations.’
‘Then you really know no harm of them, in these four or five months?’ said Mrs. Bury.
‘No; except having these relations,’ said Adela.
‘Except being just sensible enough not to afford even the pleasure of laughing at them,’ said Bertha. ‘Nay, just worthy enough’—she said it spitefully—‘not even to give the relief of a good grumble.’
‘Well, I think you may be thankful!’
‘Exactly what one doesn’t want to be!’ said Bertha. ‘I like sensations. Now Letitia is goingto come down with a prediction that they are to become the blessings of our lives, so I am off!’
And as the door closed on her, Lady Adela sighed, and Mrs. Bury said—
‘Poor Birdie; is she always in that tone?’
‘Yes,’ said Lady Adela; ‘there seems to be always a bitter spot in her heart. I am glad she should try to work it out.’
‘I suppose living here with her father tended to brooding. Yet she has always done a good deal.’
‘Not up to her powers. Lord Northmoor never ceased to think her a mere girl, and obstructed her a good deal; besides, all his interest being in horses, she never could get rid of the subject, and wounds were continually coming back on us—on her.’
‘On you as well, poor Addie.’
‘He did not understand. Besides, to me these things were not the raw scene they were to her. It has been a very sad time for her. You see, there is not much natural softness in her, and she was driven into roughness and impatience when he worried her over racing details and other things. And then she was hurt at his preferring to have me with him. It has been very good and generous in her not to have been jealous of me.’
‘I think she was glad he could find comfort in you. And you have never heard of Captain Alder?’
‘Never! In justice, and for the sake of dear Arthur’s wishes, I should be glad to explain; but I wonder whether, as she is now, it would be well that they should meet.’
‘If it is so ordained, I suppose they will. What’s that?’
It was Lord and Lady Northmoor, formally announced, and as formally introduced, to Mrs. Bury.
They had come, the lady said, when they were seated, with a message from ‘Old Swan,’ to ask for a bit of my lady’s plaster for his back to ease his rheumatism at night. His daughter was only just come in from work, so they had ventured to bring the message.
‘Is any one coming for it?’
‘I said we would bring it back,’ replied Mary, ‘if you would kindly let us have it.’
‘Why, it is a mile out of your way!’
‘It is moonlight, and we do so enjoy a walk together,’ she answered.
‘Well, Adela,’ said Mrs. Bury, when they were gone with the roll of plaster, ‘I agree that they might be worse—and by a great deal!’
‘Did he speak all the time?’
‘Yes, once. But there are worse faults than silence; and she seems a bonny little woman. Honeymooning still—that moonlight walk too.’
‘I can fancy that it is a treat to escape from Mrs. Morton. She is depths below them in refinement!’
‘On the whole, I think you may be thankful, Adela.’
‘I hope I am. I believe you would soon be intimate with them; but then you always could get on with all sorts of people, and I have a shrinking from getting under the surface—if Icould.’
And indeed, further intercourse, though not without shocks and casualties, made MaryNorthmoor wish that Letitia Bury had been the permanent inhabitant; above all, when she undertook to come and give her counsel and support for that first tremendous undertaking—the dinner-party. Lady Kenton was equally helpful at their next; and Sir Edward gave much good advice to his lordship as to not letting himself be made the tool of the loud-voiced squire, who was anxious to be his guide, philosopher, and friend in county business—advice that made Frank’s heart sink, for thus far he felt only capable of sitting still and listening.