suit, for there's plenty of Noes there.' So I left him wiping his
eyes, for he always cried when he was in beer. And I says to myself,
'I'll go back to place, where I knows what I'm working for, and can
leave it if we don't suit.' And it was always the same, my dear. If it
was a nice-looking footman, he'd have his evening out and come home
fresh; and if it was an elderly butler as had put a little by, he
wanted to set up in the public line. So I kept myself to myself, my
dear, for I'm short-tempered at the best, and could never put up with
the abuse of a man in liquor."

I was so thoroughly converted to the side of Ragged Robin's wife, that
I at once pressed some of my charity money on Mrs. Bundle for her
benefit; but I tried to dispute my nurse's unfavourable view of
husbands by instancing her worthy brother-in-law at Oakford.

"Ah, yes, Buckle," said Mrs. Bundle, in a tone which seemed to do
less justice to the saddler's good qualities than they deserved. "He's
a good, soft, easy body, is Buckle."

Whence I concluded that Mrs. Bundle, like some other ladies, was not
altogether easy to please.

I think it was during our last walk through the village before Mr.
Clerke left us, that he and I called on Ragged Robin's wife. She was
thankful, but not communicative, and the eyes, deep set in her bony
and discoloured face, seemed to have lost the power of lighting up
with hope.

"My dear Regie," said Mr. Clerke, as we turned homewards, "I never saw
anything more pitiable than the look in that woman's eyes; and the
tone in which she said, 'There be a better world afore us all,
sir--I'll be well off then,' when I said I hoped she'd be better off
and happier now, quite went to my heart. I'm afraid she never will
have much comfort in this world, unless she outlives her lord and
master. Do you know, Regie, she reminds me very much of an ill-treated
donkey; her bones look so battered, and there's a sort of stubborn
hopelessness about her like some poor Neddy who is thwacked and tugged
this way and that, work he never so hard. Poor thing, she may well
look forward to Heaven," added my tutor, whose kind heart was very
sore on this subject, "and it's a blessed thought how it will make up,
even for such a life here!"

"What will make it up to the donkeys?" I asked, taking Mr. Clerke at a
disadvantage on that standing subject of dispute between us--a "better
world" for beasts.

But my tutor only said, "My dear Regie, you _do_ say _the_ most
_sin_gular things!" which, as I pointed out, was no argument, one way
or another.

Meanwhile, through Mrs. Bundle, we did our best for Robin's wife and
certain other ill-treated women about the place. Mrs. Bundle could be
very severe on the dirt and discomfort which "drove some men to the
public as would stay at home if there was a clean kitchen to stay in,
and less of that nagging at a man and screaming after children as
never made a decent husband nor a well-behaved child yet." Yet in
certain cases of undeserved brutality, like Robin's, I fear she
sometimes counselled resistance, on the principle that it "couldn't
make him do worse, and might make him do better."

I am sure that my father had never thought of Mrs. Bundle acting as
sick nurse in the village; but matters seemed to develop of
themselves. She was so experienced and capable that she could hardly
fail to smoothe the disordered bed-clothes, open the window, clear the
room of the shiftless gossips who flocked like ravens to predict
death, and take the control of mismanaged sick-rooms. It came to be a
common thing that some wan child should present itself at our door
with the message that "Missis Bundle she wants her things, for as
mother be so bad, she says she'll see her over the night."

As for herself, I doubt if she had ever been happier in her life. Her
conscience was at ease, for she certainly worked hard enough for her
wages, and it was good to see the glow of pleasure that an
oft-repeated remark of my father's never failed to bring over her
honest face.

"Don't overwork yourself, Mrs. Bundle. What should we do if you were
laid up?"

CHAPTER XXIII

I GO TO ETON--MY MASTER--I SERVE HIM WELL

I went joyfully to school the first time, but each succeeding half
with less and less willingness. And yet my school-days were very happy
ones, especially to look back upon.

"You will be in the same tutor's house as Lionel Damer," said my
father; "and I have written to ask him to befriend you."

"Just the sort of idiotic thing parents do do," said Sir Lionel, on
our first meeting. "You may thank your stars I don't pay you off for
it."

Leo had grown much taller since we met, but he had lost none of his
beauty. I was overpowered by his noble appearance and the air of
authority he wore, and then and there gave him the hero-worship of my
heart. It was with a thrill of delight that I heard him add, "However,
I want a fag, and I dare say I can take you. Any sock with you?"

"Oh, yes, Leo," said I, hastily; "a big hamper. And there are two
cakes, and a pigeon pie, and lots of jam, and some macaroons and
turnovers, and two bottles of raspberry vinegar."

"My name's Damer," said Leo. "Can you cook?"

"Not yet, Damer," said I, hoping that my answer conveyed my
willingness to learn. For I was quite prepared for all the duties of
fag life from Mr. Clerke's descriptions. And I was prepared to perform
them, pending the time when I should have a fag of my own.

I must do Leo justice. His tyranny was merciful. I was soon expert in
preparing his breakfast. I used to fetch him hot dishes from the shop.
My own cooking was not good, and I made, so he said, the most
execrable coffee, which led him to fling the contents of the pot at me
one morning, ruining my shirt, trickling hot and wet down my body
under my clothes, and giving me infinite trouble in cleaning his
carpet. (As to _his_ coffee, and the salad dressing he made, and his
cooking generally, when he chose to do it, I have never met with
anything like it since. However, things taste well in one's
school-days.)

Leo Damer was one of those people who seem able to do everything just
a little better than his neighbours, without attaining overwhelming
superiority in any one line. The masters always complained that he did
not do as much in school as he might have done, and yet he stood well
with them. His conduct was of the highest. I may say here that,
knowing him intimately in boyhood and youth, I am able to assert that
his moral conduct was always "without reproach." His own freedom from
vice, and the tight hand he kept over me, who lived but to admire and
imitate him, were of such benefit to me in the manifold temptations of
school-life as I can never forget. His self-respect amounted to
self-esteem, his love for other people's good opinion to a failing, he
was refined to fastidiousness; but I think these characteristics
helped him towards the exceptional character he bore. A keen
sensitiveness to pain and discomfort, and considerable natural
indolence, further tended to keep him out of scrapes into which an
adventurous spirit led many more reckless boys. He had never been
flogged, and he said he never would be. "I would drown myself sooner,"
he said to me. And if any dark touch were wanting to complete my
hero's portrait, it was given by this terrible threat, in which I put
full faith.

He was a dandy, and his dressing-table was the plague of my life. Well
do I remember breaking some invaluable toilette preparation on it, and
the fit of rage in which he flung the broken bottle at my head. He was
very sorry when his first wrath was past, and he bound up my head, and
gave me a pound of sausages, and a superbly bound copy of Young's
"Night Thoughts," which I still possess. I also retain a white scar
above one of my eyes, in common with at least eight out of every ten
men I know.

"Do you ever hear from your cousin?" Sir Lionel asked one day in
careless tones.

"Polly writes to me sometimes," said I.

"You can show me the next letter you get," said Sir Lionel
condescendingly; which I accordingly did, and thenceforward he saw all
my letters from her. I was soon clever enough to discover that Leo
liked to be asked after by his old friends, and to receive messages
from them, which led me to write to Polly, begging her always to send
"nice messages" to Sir Lionel, as he would then treat me well, and
perhaps give me some of his smoked bacon for breakfast. Her reply was
characteristic:

"MY DEAR REGIE,--"

     I shan't send nice messages to Leo. I am sorry you showed
     him the letter where I said he was handsome. Handsome is
     that handsome does, and if he treats you badly he is very
     ugly, and I hate him. If he doesn't give you any bacon, he's
     very mean. You may tell him what I say.

"I am your affectionate cousin,

"POLLY."

I was obliged to hide this letter from Leo; but when he asked me if I
had heard from Polly I could not lie to him, and he sent me to
Coventry for withholding the letter. I bore a day and a half of his
silence and neglect; then I could endure it no longer, and showed him
the letter. He was less angry than I expected. He coloured and
laughed, and called me a little fool for writing such stuff to Polly,
and said her answer was just like her. Then he gave me some of the
bacon, and we were good friends again.

But the seal of our friendship was a certain occasion when I saved him
from the only flogging with which he was ever threatened.

He was unjustly believed to be concerned in an insolent breach of
certain orders, and was sentenced to a flogging which was really the
due of another lad whom he was too proud to betray. He would not even
condescend to remonstrate with the boy who was meanly allowing him to
suffer, and betrayed his anguish in the matter so little that I doubt
if the real culprit (who never was a week unflogged himself) had any
idea what the punishment was to poor Leo.

He hid himself from us all; but in the evening I got into his room,
where I found him, pale and silent, putting some things into a little
bag.

"Little one!" he cried, "I know you can keep a secret. I want you to
help me off. I'm going to run away."

"Oh Damer!" I cried; "but supposing you're caught; it'll be much worse
then."

"They won't catch me," he said, his lip quivering. "I can disguise
myself. And I shall never come back till I'm a man. My guardian would
bring me here again. He thinks a man can hardly be a gentleman unless
he was well flogged in his youth. Look here old fellow, I've left
everything here to you. Keep out of mischief as I've shown you how,
and--and--you'll tell Polly I wasn't to blame."

I was now weeping bitterly. "Dear Damer," said I, "you can't disguise
yourself. Anybody would know you; you're too good-looking. Damer," I
added abruptly, "did you ever pray for things? I used to at home, and
do you know, they always came true. Wait for me, I'll be back soon," I
concluded, and rushing to my room, I flung myself on my knees, and
prayed with all my heart for the averting of this, to my young mind,
terrible tragedy. I dared not stay long, not knowing what Leo might
do, and on the stairs I met the real culprit, who was in our house. To
this day I remember with amusement the flood of speech with which, in
my excitement, I overwhelmed him. I painted his meanness in the
darkest colours, and the universal contempt of his friends. I made him
a hero if he took his burden on his own back. I dwelt forcibly on
Leo's bitter distress and superior generosity. I bribed him to confess
all with my many-weaponed pocket-knife (the envy of the house). I
darkly hinted a threat of "blabbing" myself, as my meanness in telling
tales would be as nothing to his in allowing Leo to suffer for his
fault. Which argument prevailed I shall never know. I fancy Leo's
distress and the knife did it between them, for he was both
good-natured and greedy. He told the truth by a great effort, and took
his flogging with complete indifference.

Thenceforward Leo and I were as brothers. He taught me to sketch, we
kept divers pets together, and fused our botanical collections. He
cooked unparalleled dishes for us, and read poetry aloud to me with an
exquisite justness and delicacy of taste that I have never heard
surpassed.

His praise was nectar to me. When he said, "I tell you what, Regie,
you've an uncommon lot of general information, I can tell you," my
head was quite turned. Whatever he did seemed right to me. When I
first came to school, my hat was duly peppered and pickled by the boys
and replaced by me with one of unexceptionable shape. My shirts then
gave offence to my new master.

"I suppose," he said, surveying me deliberately, "a good many of your
things are made by Mrs. Baggage?"

"Nurse Bundle makes my shirts, Damer," said I.

"It's all the same," said Damer. "I knew it was connected with a
_parcel_ somehow. Well, the _Package_ patterns are very pretty, no
doubt, but I think it's time you were properly rigged out."

Which was duly done; and when holidays came and the scandalized Mrs.
Bundle asked what I had done "with them bran-new fine linen shirts,"
and where "them rubbishing cotton rags" had come from that I brought
in their place, I could only inform her, with a feeble imitation of
Leo's lofty coolness, that I had used the first to clean Damer's
lamp, and that the second were the "correct thing."

One day I said to him, "I don't know why, Damer, but you always make
me think of a vision of one of the Greek heroes when I see you walking
in the playing-fields."

I believe my simply-spoken compliment deeply gratified him; but he
only said, like Mr. Clerke, "You _do_ say the oddest things, little
'un!"

CHAPTER XXIV

COLLECTIONS--LEO'S LETTER--NURSE BUNDLE AND SIR LIONEL

If Nurse Bundle hoped that when I went to school an end would be put
to the "collections" which troubled her tidy mind, she was much
deceived. Neither Leo nor I were bookworms, and we were not by any
means so devoted as some boys to games and athletics. But for
collections of all kinds we had a fancy that almost amounted to mania.

Our natural history manias in their respective directions came upon us
like fevers. We "sickened" at the sight of somebody else's collection,
or because we had been reading about butterflies, or birds' eggs, or
water-plants, as the case might be. When "the complaint" was "at its
height," we lived only for specimens; we gave up leisure, sleep, and
pocket-money to our collection; we made notes and memoranda in our
grammars and lexicons that had no classical reference. We sent letters
to country newspapers which never appeared, and asked questions that
met with no reply. We were apt, also, to recover from these attacks,
leaving Nurse Bundle burdened with boxes or folios of dry, dusty
broken fragments of plants and insects, which we did not touch, but
which she was strictly forbidden to destroy. We pursued our fancies
during the holidays. I have now a letter that I got from Damer after
my fourth half:

"London.

"MY DEAR REGIE,--

     "_Eureka_! What do you think? My poor governor collected
     moths. I bullied my guardian till he let me have the
     collection. Such specimens! No end of foreign ones we know
     nothing about, and I am having a case made. I found a little
     book with his notes in. We are quite at sea to go flaring
     about with nets and bruising the specimens. The way is to
     dig for chrysalises. Mind you do; and how I envy you! For I
     have to be in this horrid town, when I long to be grubbing
     at the roots of trees. Polly quite agrees with me. She hates
     London; and says the happiest time in her life was when she
     was at Dacrefield. My only comfort is to go to the old
     bookstalls and look for books about moths and butterflies.
     Imagine! The other day when your aunt was out, I took Polly
     with me. She said she would give anything on earth to go. So
     we went. We went into some awful streets, and had some
     oysters at a stall, and came back carrying no end of books;
     and just as we got in at the door there were your aunt and
     Lady Chelmsfield coming out. What a rage your aunt was in! I
     tried to take all the blame, but she shut Polly up for a
     fortnight. It's a beastly shame, but Polly says the
     expedition was worth it; her spirit is splendid. I never
     wrote such a long letter in my life before, but I am in the
     blues, and have no one to talk to. I wish my poor governor
     had lived. I wish I were in the country. I wish your aunt
     was a moth. Wouldn't I pin her to a cork! Mind you work up
     old Mother Hubbard to a sumptuous provision of grub for next
     half, and don't forget the other grubs. Would that I could
     dig with thee for them. _Vale_!

"Thine ever,

"LIONEL DAMER."

Of course this ended in Leo's being invited to Dacrefield. He came,
and, wonderful to relate, we got Polly too. My father invited her and
my aunt to visit us, and they came. As Leo said, Aunt Maria "behaved
better than we expected." Indeed, Leo had no reason to complain of her
treatment of him as a rule, for he was constantly at the Ascotts'
house during his holidays.

And so we rambled and scrambled about together, Leo, and Polly, and I.
And we added largely to our collections, and made a fernery (the
Rector helping us), and rode about the country, and were thoroughly
happy. We generally went to the nursery for a short time before
dressing for dinner, where we teased and coaxed Mrs. Bundle, and ate
large slices of an excellent species of gingerbread called
"parliament," which she kept in a tin case in the cupboard. In return
for these we entertained her with marvellous "tales of school,"
rousing her indignation by terrible narratives of tyrannous and cruel
fagging, and taking away her breath by tales of reckless daring,
amusing impudence, or wanton destructiveness common to boys. Some of
these we afterwards confessed to be fables, told--as we politely put
it--to "see how much she _would_ swallow."

After dinner we were expected to sit with my father and Aunt Maria in
the drawing-room. Then, also, poor Polly was expected to "give us a
little music," and dutifully went through some performances which
were certainly a remarkable example of how much can be acquired in the
way of mechanical musical skill where a real feeling for the art is
absent. After politely offering to turn over the leaves of her music,
which Polly always declined (it was the key-note of her energetic
character that she "liked to do everything herself"), my father
generally fell asleep. I whiled away the time by playing with Rubens
under the table, Aunt Maria "superintended" the music in a way that
must have made any less stolid performer nervous, and Leo was apt to
try and distract Polly's attention by grimaces and pantomime of a far
from respectful nature behind Aunt Maria's back.

Sir Lionel was not a favourite with Nurse Bundle. I was unfortunate
enough to give her a prejudice against him, which nothing seemed to
wear out. Thinking his real, or affected mistake about her name a good
joke, and having myself the strongest relish and admiration for his
school-boy wit, I had told Nurse Bundle of his various versions of her
name; and had tried to convey to her the comic nature of the scenes
when my hat was pickled, and when Leo condemned my home-made shirts.

But quite in vain. Nurse Bundle's sense of humour (if she had any) was
not moved by the things that touched mine. She looked upon the
destruction of the hat and the shirts as "a sinful waste," and as to
Leo's jokes--

"Called me a baggage, did he?" said the indignant Mrs. Bundle. "I'll
Sir Lionel him when I get the chance. At my time of life, too!"

And no explanation from me amended matters. By the time that Leo did
come, Nurse Bundle had somewhat recovered from the insult, but he was
never a favourite with her. He "chaffed" her freely, and Mrs. Bundle
liked to be treated with respect. Still there was a fascination about
his beauty and his jokes against which even she was not always proof.
I have seen her laugh and fetch out the parliament box when Leo
followed her about like a dog walking on its hind legs, wagging an old
piece of rope at the end of his jacket for a tail, and singing--

    "Good Mother Hubbard,
    Pray what's in your cupboard?
    Could you give a poor dog a bone?"

And when he got the parliament he would "sit up" and balance a slice
of the gingerbread on his nose, till Polly and I cheered with delight,
and Rubens became frantic at the mockery of his own performances, and
Mrs. Bundle complained that "Sir Lionel never knowed when to let
nonsense be."

But I think she was something like the housemaid who "did the
bedrooms," and who complained bitterly of the additional trouble given
by Leo and me when we were at Dacrefield, and who was equally pathetic
about the dulness of the Hall when we returned to school. "The young
gentlemen be a deal of trouble, but they do keep a bit of life in the
place, sure enough."

CHAPTER XXV

THE DEATH OF RUBENS--POLLY'S NEWS--LAST TIMES

When one has reached a certain age time seems to go very fast. Then,
also, one begins to understand the meaning of such terms as "the
uncertainty of life," "changes," "loss of friends," "partings," "old
times," etc., which ring sadly in the ears of grown-up folk.

After my first half at Eton, this universal experience became mine.
There was never a holiday time that I did not find some change; and,
too often, a loss to meet my return.

One of the first and bitterest was the death of Rubens.

I had been most anxious to get home, and yet somehow, in less high
spirits than usual, which made it feel not unnatural that my father's
face should be so unusually grave when he came to meet me.

"I have some very bad news for you, my dear boy," he said. "I fear,
Regie, that poor Rubens is dying."

"He've been a-dying all day, sir," said the groom, when we stood at
last by Rubens' side. "But he seems as if he couldn't go peaceable
till you was come."

He seemed to be gone. The beautiful curls were limp and tangled. He
lay on his side with his legs stretched out; his eyes were closed.
But when I stooped over him and cried "Ruby!" his flabby ears pricked,
and he began to struggle.

"It's a fit," said the groom.

But it was nothing of the kind. Rubens knew what he was about, and at
last actually got on to his feet, when, after swaying feebly about for
a moment, he staggered in my direction (he could not see) and
literally fell into my arms, with one last wag of his dear tail.

"They say care killed the cat," said Mrs. Bundle, when I went up to
the nursery, "but if it could cure a dog, my deary, your dog would
have been alive now. I never see the Squire so put about since you had
the fever. He was up at five o'clock this very morning, the groom
says, putting stuff into the corners of its mouth with a silver
teaspoon, and he've had all the cow doctors about to see him, and Dr.
Gilpin himself he've been every day, and Mr. Andrewes the same. And
I'd like to know, my deary, what more could be done for a sick
Christian than the doctor and parson with him daily till he dies?"

"A Christian would be buried in the churchyard," said I; "and I wish
poor dear Rubens could."

But as he couldn't, I made his grave where the churchyard wall skirted
the grounds of the Hall. "Perhaps, some day, the churchyard will have
to be enlarged," I explained to the Rector, who was puzzled by my
choice of a burying-place, "and then Rubens will _get taken in_."

My father was most anxious to get me another pet. I might have had a
dog of any kind. Dogs of priceless breeds, dogs for sporting, for
ratting, and for petting; dogs for use or for ornament. From a
bloodhound and mastiff almost large enough for me to ride, to a toy
poodle that would go into my pocket--I might have chosen a worthy
successor to Rubens, but I could not.

"I shall never care for any other dog," I was rash enough to declare.
But my resolve melted away one day at the sight of a soft, black ball,
like a lump of soot, which arrived in a game-bag, and proved to be a
retriever pup. He grew into a charming dog, of much wisdom and
amiability. I called him Sweep.

Thus half by half, holidays by holidays, changes, ceaseless changes
went on. Births, deaths, and marriages furnished my father with "news"
for his letters when I was away, and Nurse Bundle and me with gossip
when I came back.

I heard also at intervals from Polly. Uncle Ascott's wealth increased
yearly. The girls grew up. Helen "was becoming Tractarian and
peculiar," which annoyed Aunt Maria exceedingly. Mr. Clerke had got a
curacy in London, and preached very earnest sermons, which Aunt Maria
hoped would do Helen good. Mr. Clerke worked very hard, and seemed to
like it; but he said that his happiest days were Dacrefield days. "I
quite agree with him," Polly added. Then came a letter:--"Oh, my dear
Regie, fancy! Miss Blomfield is married. And to whom, do you think? Do
you remember the old gentleman who sent us the cinder-parcel? Well,
it's to him; and he is really a very jolly old man; and thinks there
is no one in the world like Miss Blomfield. He told her he had been
carefully observing her conduct in the affairs of daily life for eight
years. My dear Regie, _fancy_ waiting eight years for one's next door
neighbour, when one was quite old to begin with! You have no idea how
much younger and better she looks in a home of her own, and a handsome
silk dress. Can you fancy her always apologising for being so happy?
She thinks she has too much happiness, and is idle, and who knows
what. It makes me feel quite ill, Regie, for if she is idle, and has
too much happiness, what am I, and what have I had? Do you remember
the days when you proposed that we should be very religious? I am sure
it's the only way to be very happy: I mean happy _always_, and
_underneath_. Leo says the great mistake is being _too_ religious, and
that people ought to keep out of extremes, and not make themselves
ridiculous. But I think he's wrong. For it seems just to be all the
heap of people who are only a little religious who never get any good
out of it. It isn't enough to make them happy whatever happens, and
it's just enough to make them uncomfortable if they play cards on a
Sunday. I know I wish I were really good, like Miss Blomfield, and Mr.
Clerke, and Helen. * * *"

It was the year of Miss Blomfield's marriage that Ragged Robin's wife
died. We had all quite looked forward to the peace she would enjoy
when she was a widow, for it was known that delirium tremens was
surely shortening her husband's life. But she died before him. Her
children were wonderfully provided for. They were girls, and we had
them all at the Hall by turns in some sort of sub-kitchenmaid
capacity, from which they progressed to higher offices, and all became
first-class servants, and "did well."

"My dear," said Nurse Bundle, "there ain't no difficulty in finding
homes for gals that have been brought up to clean, and to do as
they're bid. It's folk as can't do a thing if you set it 'em, nor
take care of a thing if you gives it 'em, as there's no providing
for."

I almost shrink from recording the hardest, bitterest loss that those
changeful years of my school-life brought me--the death of Mr.
Andrewes. It was during my holidays, and yet I was not with him when
he died.

I do not think I had noticed anything unusual about him beforehand. He
had not been very well for some months, but we thought little of it,
and he never dwelt upon it himself. I was in the fifth form at the
time, and almost grown up. Sweep was a middle-aged dog, the wisest and
handsomest of his race. The Rector always dined with us on Sunday, but
one evening he excused himself, saying he felt too unwell to come out,
and would prefer to stay quietly at home, especially as he had a
journey before him; for he was going the next day to visit his brother
in Yorkshire for a change. But he asked if my father would spare me to
come down and spend the evening with him instead. I rightly considered
Sweep as included in the invitation, and we went together.

As we went up the drive (so familiar to me and poor little Rubens!) I
thought I had never seen the Rector's garden in richer beauty, or
heard such a chorus from the birds he loved and protected. Indeed the
border plants were luxuriant almost to disorder. It struck me that Mr.
Andrewes had not been gardening for some time. Perhaps this idea led
me to notice how ill he looked when I went indoors. But dinner seemed
to revive him, and then in the warm summer sunset we strolled outside
again. The Rector leant heavily on my arm. He made some joke about my
height, I remember. (I was proud of having grown so tall, and
secretly thought well of my general appearance in the tail-coat of
"fifth form.") With one arm I supported Mr. Andrewes, the other hung
at my side, into the hand of which Sweep ever and anon thrust his nose
caressingly.

"How well the garden looks!" I said. "And your birds are giving you a
farewell concert."

"Ah! You think so too?" said the Rector, quickly.

I was puzzled. "You are going to-morrow, are you not?" I said.

"Yes, of course. I see," said the Rector laughing. "I was thinking of
a longer journey. How superstitions do cling to north-countrymen!
We've a terrible lot of Paganism in us yet, for all the Christians
that we are!"

"What was your superstition just now?" said I.

"Oh, just part of a belief in the occult sympathy of the animal world
with humanity, which, indeed, I am by no means prepared to give up."

"I should think not!" said I.

"Though doubtless the idea that they feel and presage impending death
to man must be counted a fable."

"Awful rot!" was my comment. "I say, sir, I'm sure you're not well, to
get such stuff into your head."

"It's just that," said the Rector. "When I was a boy, I was far from
strong, and being rather bookish, I was constantly overworking my
head. What weird fancies and fads I had then, to be sure! I was
haunted by a lot of nervous plagues which it's best not to explain to
people who have never been tormented with them. One of the least
annoying was a sensation which now and then took possession of me
that everything I saw, heard, or did, was 'for the last time.' I've
often run back down a lane to get another glimpse of home, and done
over again something I had just finished--to break the charm! The old
childish folly has been plaguing me the last few days. It is strong on
me to-night."

"Then we'll talk of something else," said I.

Eventually our conversation became a religious one. It was like the
old days before I went to school. We had not had much religious talk
of late years. To say the truth, since I became an Eton man the
religious fervour of my childhood had died out. A strong belief in the
practical power of prayer (especially "when everything else failed")
was almost all that remained of that resolution to which Polly had
alluded in her letter. In discussions with her, I took Leo's view of
the subject. I warned her in a common-sense way against being
"religious overmuch" (not that I had any definite religious measure in
my mind); I laughed at Helen; I indulged a little cheap wit, and made
Polly furious, by smart sneers about women and parsons. I puzzled her
with scraps of old philosophy, and theological difficulties of
venerable standing, and was as proud to discomfit her faith as if my
own soul had no stake in the matter. I fairly drove her to tears about
the origin of evil. Sometimes I would have "Sunday talks" with her in
a different spirit, but even then she said I "did her no good," for I
would not believe that she could "have anything to repent of."

I fancy Mr. Andrewes had asked me to come to him that evening greatly
for the purpose of having a "Sunday talk." My father had wished me to
be confirmed at home rather than at school, and as Bishops did not
hold confirmations at such short intervals then as they do now, an
opportunity had only just occurred. Mr. Andrewes was preparing me, and
it was a great annoyance to him that his ill-health obliged him to go
away in the middle of his instructions. I think he was feverish that
night. Every now and then he spoke so rapidly that I could hardly
follow him. Then there were pauses in which he seemed lost, and abrupt
changes of subject, as if he could hardly control the order of his
thoughts. And in all the evident strain and anxiety to say everything
that he wished to say to me appeared that morbid fancy of its being
"the last time."

After we had talked for some time he said, "Life goes wonderfully
fast, Regie, though you may not think so just now. I do so well
remember being a child myself. I was eight years old, I think, when I
prayed for money enough to buy a _Fuchsia coccinea_ (they had not been
in England more than ten or twelve years then). My brother gave me
half-a-crown, and I got one. It seems as if that one yonder must be
it. I began a model of my father's house in card-board one winter,
too. Then I got bronchitis, and did not finish it. I have been
intending to finish it ever since, but it lies uncompleted in a box
upstairs. So we purpose and neglect, till death comes like a nurse to
take us to bed, and finds our tasks unfinished, and takes away our
toys!"

Presently he went on: "Our mechanical arbitrary division of time is
indeed a very false one. See how one day drags along, and how quickly
another passes. The true measure of time is that which makes each
man's life a day, his day. The real night is that in which no man can
work. Indeed, nothing can be more true and natural than those Eastern
expressions. I remember things that happened in my childhood as one
remembers what one did this morning. What a lot of things I meant to
do to-day! And one runs out into the garden instead of setting to
work, and it is noon before one knows where he is, and other people
take up one's time, and the afternoon slips away, and a man's day had
need be fifty times its length for him to do all he means and ought to
do, and to run after all the distractions the devil sends him as well.
So comes old age, the evening when one is tired, and it's hard to make
any fresh start; and then we're pretty near the end, at 'the last
feather of the shuttle,' as we say in Yorkshire. I often think that
the pitiful shortness of this life, compared with a man's hopes and
plans, is almost proof enough of itself that there must be another,
better fitted to his aims and capacities. And then--measure the folly
of not securing _that_! And talking of proofs, Regie, and whilst I'm
taking the privilege of this season of your confirmation to proffer a
little advice, above all things make up your mind as to what you
believe, and on what grounds you believe it. Ask yourself, my boy, if
you believe the articles of the Apostles' Creed to be real positive
truths. Do you think there is evidence for the facts, as matters of
history? Are you ever likely to have the time or the talent to test
this for yourself? And, if not, do you consider the authority of those
who have done so, and staked everything upon their truth, as
sufficient? Will you receive it as the Creed of your Church? Make up
your mind, my boy, above all things make up your mind! Have _some_
convictions, some real opinions, some worthy hopes; and be loyal to,
and in earnest about, whatever you do pin your faith to, I assure you
that vagueness of faith affects people's every-day conduct more than
they think. The sort of belief which takes a man to church on Sunday
who would be ashamed to look as if he were really praying, or
confessing real sins when he gets there, is small help to him when the
will balances between right and wrong. It is truly, as a matter of
mere common sense, a poor bargain, a wretched speculation, to be half
religious; to get a few checks and scruples out of it, and no real
strength and peace; and, it may be, to lose a man's soul, and not even
gain the world. For who dare promise himself that Christ our Judge,
who spent a self-denying human youth as our example, and so loved us
as to die for us, will accept a youth of indifference, and a
dissatisfied death-bed on our part? And if it be all true, and if
gratitude and common sense, and self-preservation, and the example and
advice of great men, demand that we shall serve GOD with all our
powers, don't you think the devil must, so to speak, laugh in his
sleeve to see us really conceited of being too large-minded to attend
too closely, or to begin to attend too early, to our own best
interests?"

"Ah!" he added after a while, "my dear boy--dearer to me than you can
tell--the truth is, I covet for you the unutterable blessing of a
youth given to GOD. What that is, some know, and many a man converted
late in life has imagined with heart-wrung envy: an Augustine, already
numbered with the Saints, a Prodigal robed and decked with more than
pardon, haunted yet by dark shadows of the past, the husks and the
swine. My boy, with an unstained youth yet before you to mould as you
will, get to yourself the elder son's portion--'Thou art ever with
Me, and all that I have is thine.' And what GOD has for those who
abide with Him, even here, who can describe? It's worth trying for,
lad; it would be worth trying for, on the chance of GOD fulfilling His
promises, if His Word were an open question. How well worth any
effort, any struggle, you'll know when you stand where I stand
to-night."

We had reached the front steps of the house as he said this. The last
few sentences had been spoken in jerks, and he seemed alarmingly
feeble. I shrank from understanding what he meant by his last words,
though I knew he did not refer to the actual spot on which we stood.
The garden was black now in the gloaming. The reflection from the
yellow light left by the sunset in the west gave an unearthly
brightness to his face, and I fancied something more than common in
the voice with which he quoted:

    "Jesu, spes poenitentibus,
    Quam pius es petentibus!
    Quam bonus te quaerentibus!
    _Sed quid invenientibus_!"

But I was fanciful that Sunday, or his nervous "fads" were infectious
ones; for on me also the superstition was strong to-night that it was
"the last time."

CHAPTER XXVI

I HEAR FROM MR. JONATHAN ANDREWES--YORKSHIRE--ALATHEA _alias_
BETTY--WE BURY OUR DEAD OUT OF OUR SIGHT--VOICES OF THE NORTH

I sat up for a short time with my father on my return. When I went to
bed, to my amazement Sweep was absent, and I could not find him
anywhere. I did not like to return to the Rectory, for fear of
disturbing Mr. Andrewes' rest, so I went to bed without my dog.

I was up early next morning, for I had resolved to go to the station
to see Mr. Andrewes off, though his train was an early one, that I
might disabuse him of his superstition by our meeting once more. It
was with a secret sense of relief, for my own part, that I saw him
arranging his luggage. Sweep, by-the-by, had turned up to breakfast,
and was with me.

"I've come to see you off," I shouted, "and to break the charm of
_last times_, and Sweep has come too."

"Strange to say, Sweep came back to me last night, after you left,"
said the Rector, laughing; "and he added omen to superstition by
sitting under the window when I turned him out, and howling like a
Banshee."

Sweep himself looked rather foolish as he wagged his tail in answer
to the Rector's greeting. He had the air of saying, "We were all a
little excited last night. Let it pass."

For my own part I felt quite reassured. The Rector was in his sunniest
mood, and as he watched us from the window to the very last, his face
was so bright with smiles, that he hardly looked ill.

For some days Sweep and I were absent, fishing.

When I returned, I found on my mantelpiece a black-edged letter in an
unfamiliar hand. But for the black I should have fancied it was a
bill. The writing was what is called "commercial." I opened it and
read as follows:

"North Side Mills, Blackford,

Yorks. 4/8, 18--.

"SIR,

     "I have to announce the lamented Decease of my
     Brother--Reverend Reginald Andrewes, M.A.--which took place
     on the 3rd inst. (3.35 A.M.), at Oak Mount, Blackford; where
     a rough Hospitality will be very much at your Service,
     should you purpose to attend the Funeral. Deceased expressed
     a wish that you should follow the remains; and should your
     respected Father think of accompanying you, the Compliment
     will give much pleasure to Survivors.

     "Funeral party to leave Oak Mount at 4 P.M. on Thursday next
     (the 8th inst.), D.V.

     "A line to say when you may be expected will enable me to
     meet you, and oblige,

"Yours respectfully,

"JONATHAN ANDREWES.

"Reginald Dacre, Esq., Jun."

It is useless to dwell upon the bitterness of this blow. My father
felt it as much as I did, and neither he nor I ever found this loss
repaired. One loses some few friends in a lifetime whose places are
never filled.

We went to the funeral. Had the cause of our journey been less sad, I
should certainly have enjoyed it very much. The railway ran through
some beautiful scenery, but it was the long coach journey at the end
which won my admiration for the Rector's native county. I had never
seen anything like these noble hills, these grand slopes of moorland
stretching away on each side of us as we drove through a valley to
which the river running with us gave its name. Not a quiet, sluggish
river, keeping flat pastures green, reflecting straight lines of
pollard willows, and constantly flowing past gay villas and country
cottages, but a pretty, brawling river with a stony bed, now yellow
with iron, and now brown with peat, for long distances running its
solitary race between the hills, but made useful here and there by
ugly mills built upon the banks. Sometimes there was a hamlet as well
as a mill. Tracts of the neighbouring moorland were enclosed and
cultivated, the fields being divided by stone walls, which looked rude
and strange enough to us. The cottages were also built of stone; but
as we drove through a village I could see, through several open doors,
that the rooms were very clean and most comfortably furnished, though
without carpets, the floors, like everything else, being of stone.

It was dark before we reached Blackford. The latter part of our
journey was through a coal and iron district, and the glare of the
furnace fires among the hills was like nothing I had ever seen. At the
coach office we were met by Mr. Jonathan Andrewes. He was a tall,
well-made man, with badly-fitting clothes, rather tumbled linen,
imperfectly brushed hair and hat, and some want of that fresh
cleanliness and finish of general appearance which went to my idea of
a gentleman's outside. I found him a warm-hearted, cold-mannered man,
with a clear, strong head, and a shrewdness of observation which
recalled the Rector to my mind more than once. The tones of his voice
made me start sometimes, they were so like the voice that I could
never hear again in this life. He spoke always in the broad dialect
into which the Rector was only wont to relapse in moments of
excitement.

A carriage, better appointed than the owner, and a man-servant rather
less so, were waiting, and took us to Oak Mount. In the hall our host
apologized for the absence of Mrs. Andrewes, who was at the sea-side,
out of health.

"But Betty 'll do her best to make you comfortable, sir," he said to
my father, and turning to a middle-aged woman with a hard-featured,
sensible face, and very golden hair tightly braided to her head, who
was already busy with our luggage, he added, "You've got something for
us to eat, Betty, I suppose?"

"T' supper 'll be ready by you're ready for it," said Betty, when she
had finished her orders to the man who was taking our things upstairs.
"But when folks is come off on a journey, they'll be glad to wash
their 'ands, and I've took hot water into both their rooms."

The maid's familiarity startled me. Moreover, I fancied that for some
reason she was angry, judging by the form and manner of her reply; but
I have since learned that the ordinary answers of Scotch and Yorkshire
folk are apt to sound more like retorts than replies.

In the end I became very friendly with this good woman. Her real name,
I discovered, was not Betty. "They call me Alathea," she said, meaning
that that was her name, "but I've allus gone by the name of Betty."
From her I learnt all the particulars of my dear friend's last
illness, which I never should have got from the brother.

"He talked a deal about you," she said. "But you see, you're just
about t' age his son would have been if he'd lived."

"His son!" I cried: "was Mr. Andrewes married?"

"Ay," said she, "Master Reginald were married going i' two year. It
were his wife's death made him that queer while he couldn't abide the
business, and he'd allus been a great scholard, so he went for a
parson."

Every detail that I could get from Alathea was interesting to me.
Apart from the sadly interesting subject, she had admirable powers of
narration. Her language (when it did not become too local for my
comprehension) was forcible and racy to a degree, and she was not
checked by the reserve which clogged Mr. Jonathan's lips. The
following morning she came to the door of the drawing-room (a large
dreary room, which, like the rest of the house, was handsomely
_upholstered_ rather than furnished), and beckoned mysteriously to me
from the door. I went out to her.

"You'd like to see the body afore they fastens it up?" she said.

I bent my head and followed her.

"He makes a beautiful corpse," she whispered, as we passed into the
room. It was an incongruous remark, and stirred again an hysterical
feeling that had been driving me to laugh when I felt most sad amid
all the grotesquely dreary preparations for the "burying." But, like
some other sayings that offend ears polite, it had the merit of truth.

It was not the beauty of the Rector's face in death, however, noble as
it was, that alone drew from me a cry of admiration when I stooped
over his coffin. From the feet to the breast, utterly hiding the grave
clothes, and tastefully grouped about his last pillow, were the most
beautiful exotic flowers I ever beheld. Flowers lately introduced that
I had never seen, flowers that I knew to be rare, almost
priceless--flowers of gorgeous colours and delicate hothouse beauty,
lay there in profusion.

"Mr. Jonathan sent for 'em," Betty murmured in my ear. "There's pounds
and pounds' worth lies there. He give orders accordingly. There warn't
to be a flower 'at warn't worth its weight in gowd a'most. Mr.
Reginald were that fond of flowers."

I made no answer. Bitterly ached my heart to think of that dear and
noble face buried out of sight; the familiar countenance that should
light up no more at the sight of me and Sweep. "He looks so happy," I
muttered, almost jealously. Alathea laid her hand upon my arm.

"Them that sleeps in Jesus rests well, my dear. And, as I said to
Master Jonathan this morning, it ain't fit to overbegrudge them 'ats
gone Home."

I think it was the naming of that Name, in which alone we vanquish the
bitter victories of death, that recalled the verse which had been
floating in my head ever since that evening at the Rectory:

    "Jesu, spes poenitentibus,
    Quam pius es petentibus!
    Quam bonus te quaerentibus!
    _Sed quid invenientibus_!"

The loneliness of my childhood had given me a habit of talking to
myself. I did not know that I had quoted that verse of the old hymn
aloud, till I discovered the fact from hearing afterwards, to my no
small surprise, that Betty had reported that I "made a beautiful
prayer over the corpse."

The grim and hideous pomp of the funeral was most oppressive, though
in the abundance of plumes and mutes Mr. Jonathan had, as in the more
graceful tribute of the flowers, honoured his brother nobly after his
manner, which was a commercial one. It was a very expensive "burying."
Alathea did tell me what "the gin and whiskey for the mourners alone
come to," though I have forgotten. But we lost sight of the ignoble
features of the occasion when the sublime office for the Burial of the
Dead began. When it was ended I understood one of Betty's brusque
remarks, which had puzzled me when it came out at breakfast-time.

"You'll 'ave to take what ye can get for your dinners, gentlemen," she
had said; "for the singers is to meet at three, and I can't pretend to
do more nor I can."

The women mourners at the funeral (there were a few) all wore large
black silk hoods, which completely disguised them; but at the end of
the service one of them pushed hers back, and I recognized the golden
hair of Alathea, as she joined a group rather formally collected on
one side of the grave. She looked round as if to see that all were
ready, and then in such a soprano voice as one seldom hears, she
"started" the funeral hymn. It was the Old Psalm--

    "O GOD, our help in ages past,
      Our hope for years to come;

    Our shelter from life's stormy blast,
      And our eternal home."

I had heard very little chorus-singing of any kind; and I did not then
know that for the best I had heard--that of St. George's choir at
Windsor--voices were systematically imported from this particular
district. My experience of village singing was confined to the thin
nasal unison psalmody of our school children, and an occasional rustic
stave from a farmer at an agricultural dinner. Great, then, was my
astonishment when the little group broke into the four-part harmony of
a fine chorale. One rarely hears such voices. Betty had a grand
soprano, and on the edge of the group stood a little lad singing like
a bird, in an alto of such sweet pathos as would have made him famous
in any cathedral choir.

Mr. Jonathan's head drooped lower and lower. Affecting as the hymn was
in my ears, it had for him, no doubt, associations I could not share.
My father moved near him, with an impulse of respectful sympathy.

To me that one rich voice of harmony spoke as the voice of my old
teacher; and I longed to cry to him in return, "I have made up my
mind. It _is_ worth trying for! It is 'worth any effort, any
struggle.' Our eternal home!"

CHAPTER XXVII

THE NEW RECTOR--AUNT MARIA TRIES TO FIND HIM A WIFE--MY FATHER HAS A
SIMILAR CARE FOR ME

The stone that marks the burying-place of the Andrewes family taught
me the secret of the special love the Rector bore me. It recorded the
deaths of his wife Margaret, and of his son Reginald. The child was
born in the same year as myself.

Mr. Jonathan Andrewes came to Dacrefield on business connected with
his brother's affairs, and he accepted my father's hospitality at the
Hall. We seldom met afterwards, and were never intimate; but, slight
as it was, our tie was that of friendship rather than acquaintance.

The next presentation to the Rectory of Dacrefield was in my father's
gift. He held it alternately with the Bishop, to whom he owed Mr.
Andrewes. He gave it to my old tutor.

Mr. Clerke's appointment had the rare merit of pleasing everybody.
After he had been settled with us for some weeks, my father said,

"Mr. Clerke is good enough to be grateful to me for presenting him to
the living, but I do not know how to be grateful enough to him for
accepting it. I really cannot think how I should have endured to see
Andrewes' place filled by some new broom sweeping away every trace of
our dear friend and his ways. Clerke's good taste in the matter is
most delicate, most admirable, and very pleasant to my feelings."

The truth is there was not a truer mourner for the old Rector than the
new one. "I so little thought I should never see him again," he cried
to me. "I have often felt I did not half avail myself of the privilege
of knowing such a man, when I was here. I have notes of more than a
score of matters, on which I purposed to ask his good counsel, when we
should meet again. And now it will never be."

"I feel so unworthy to fill his place," he would say. "My only comfort
is in trying to carry out all his plans, and, so far as I can, tread
in his steps."

In this spirit the new Rector followed the old one, even to becoming
an expert gardener. He bought the old furniture of the Rectory.
Altogether, we were spared those rude evidences of change which are
not the least painful parts of such a loss as ours.

With the parishioners, I am convinced, that Mr. Clerke was more
popular than Mr. Andrewes had been. They liked him at first for his
reverence for the memory of a pastor they had loved well. I think he
persuaded them, too, that there never could be another Rector equal to
Mr. Andrewes. But in reality I believe he was himself more acceptable.
He was much less able, but also less eccentric and reserved. He was
nearer to the mental calibre of his flock, and not above entering into
parish gossip after a discreet fashion. He was not less zealous than
his predecessor.

When Aunt Maria came to visit us she gladly renewed acquaintance with
Mr. Clerke, who was a great favourite of hers. I think she imagined
that he was presented to Dacrefield on the strength of her approval.
She used to say to me, "You know Reginald, I always told your father
that Mr. Clerke was a most spiritual preacher." But after seeing him
as Rector of Dacrefield, she added, "He's getting much too 'high.'
Quite like that extraordinary creature you had here before. But it's
always the way with young men."

Uncle Ascott did not publicly undertake Mr. Clerke's defence, but he
told me:

"I don't pretend to understand these matters as Maria does, but I can
tell you I never liked any of our London parsons as I like Clerke.
There's something I respect beyond anything in the feeling he has for
your late Rector. And between ourselves, my dear boy, I rather like a
nicely-conducted service."

So Uncle Ascott and Mr. Clerke were the very best of friends, and my
uncle would go to the Rectory for a quiet smoke, and was always
hospitably received. (Neither my aunt nor my father liked the smell of
tobacco.) Aunt Maria's favour was a little withdrawn. She tried a
delicate remonstrance, but though he was most courteous, it was not to
be mistaken that the Rector of Dacrefield meant to go his own way:
"the way of a better man than I shall ever be," he said. Failing to
change his principles, or guide his practice, my aunt next became
anxious to find him a wife. "Medical men and country parsons ought to
be married," said she, "and it will settle him."

She selected a young lady of the neighbourhood, the daughter of a
medical man. "Most suitable," said my aunt (by which she meant not
_quite_ up to the standard she would have exacted for a son of her
own), "and with a little money." She patronised this young lady, and
even took her with us one day to lunch at the Rectory; but when she
said something to Mr. Clerke on the subject, she found him utterly
obdurate. "What does he expect, I wonder?" cried my aunt, rather
unfairly, for the Rector had not given utterance to any matrimonial
hopes. She always said, "She never could feel that Mr. Clerke had
behaved well to poor Letitia Ramsay," which used to make downright
Polly very indignant. "He didn't behave badly to her. It was mamma who
always took her everywhere where he was; and how she could stand it, I
don't know! He never flirted with her, Regie."

The next few years of my life seemed to whirl by. They were very happy
ones. My dear father lived, and our mutual affection only grew
stronger as time went on.

Then, when I was a man, it gradually dawned upon me, through many
hints, that my father had the same anxiety for me that Aunt Maria had
had for the Rector. He wished me to marry. At one time or another my
fancy had been taken by pretty girls, some of whom were unsuitable in
every respect but prettiness, and some of whom failed to return my
admiration. My dear father would not have dreamed of urging on me a
marriage against my inclinations, but he would have preferred a lady
with some fortune as his daughter-in-law.

"Our family is an old one, my dear boy," he said, "but the estate is
much smaller than it was in my great-grandfather's time. Don't suppose
that I would have you marry for money alone; but if the lady should be
well portioned, sir, so much the better--so much the better."

At last he seemed to set his heart upon my having one of Aunt Maria's
daughters. People who live years and years on their own country
estates without going much from home are apt sometimes to fancy that
there is nothing like their own family circle. My father had a great
objection, too, to what he called "modern young ladies." I think he
thought that, as there was no girl left in the world like my poor
mother, I should be safer and happier with one of my cousins. They
were unexceptionably brought up, and would all have considerable
fortunes.

But though I was very fond of my cousins, I had no wish to choose a
wife from them. They had been more like sisters to me than cousins
from our childhood. At one time, it is true, I was rather sentimental
about Helen. She was the only one of the sisters who was positively
pretty, and her resolute character and unusual tastes roused a
romantic interest in me for a while. When she was twelve years old,
she was found one day by Aunt Maria in the bedroom of a servant who
had fallen ill, and to whom she was attending with the utmost
dexterity. She had a genius for the duties of a sick room, which
developed as she grew up. There were no lady-doctors then, but Helen
was determined to be a hospital nurse. Strongly did Aunt Maria object,
and Helen never defied her wishes in the matter. But she had all Mrs.
Ascott's determination, with more patience. She waited long, but she
followed her vocation at last.

None of the other girls had any special tastes. The laborious and
expensive education of their childhood did not lead to anything worth
the name of a pursuit, much less a hobby, with any one of them. Of the
happiness of learning, of the exciting interest of an intellectual
hobby, they knew nothing. With much pains and labour they had been
drilled in arts and sciences, in languages and "the usual branches of
an English education." But, apart from social duties and amusements,
the chief occupation of their lives was needlework. I have known many
people who never received proper instruction in music or drawing, who
yet, from what they picked up of either art by their own industry and
intelligence, nearly doubled the happiness of their daily lives. But
in vain had "the first masters" made my cousins glib in chromatic
passages, and dexterous with tricks of effects in colours and crayons.
They played duets after dinner, and Aunt Maria sometimes showed off
the water-colour copies of their school-room days, which, indeed, they
now and then recopied for bazaars; but for their own pleasure they
never touched a note or a pencil. Perhaps real enjoyment only comes
with what one has, to a great extent, taught oneself. Helen had been
her own mistress in the art of nursing, and it was an all-absorbing
interest to her.

They were very nice girls, and I do not think were entirely to blame
for the small use to which they put their "advantages." They were tall
and lady-like, aquiline-nosed and pleasant-looking, without actual
beauty. It took a wonderful quantity of tarlatan to get them ready for
a ball, a large carriage to hold them, and a small amount of fun to
make them talkative and happy.

Except Maria, they all inherited my aunt's firmness and decision of
character. Maria, the oldest and largest, was the most yielding. She
had more of Uncle Ascott about her.

CHAPTER XXVIII

I BELIEVE MYSELF TO BE BROKEN-HEARTED--MARIA IN LOVE--I MAKE AN OFFER
OF MARRIAGE, WHICH IS NEITHER ACCEPTED NOR REFUSED

A phase of my life, into which I do not propose to enter, left me
firmly resolved that (as I said in confidence to Clerke) "I shall
marry to please the governor. One doesn't go in for a broken heart,
you know, but it isn't in me to _care_ a second time."

It was shortly after this that Maria and her mother came to stay at
the Hall. A rather mysterious letter from my aunt had led to the
invitation. It was for the benefit of Maria's health. My father also
invited Polly; she was a favourite with him. Leo and some other
friends were expected for shooting. Our neighbours' houses as well as
ours were filling with visitors, and though I fancied myself a
disappointed man, I found my spirits rising daily.

My aunt and Maria arrived first: Polly was visiting elsewhere, and was
to join them in a day or two. I was glad to have ladies in the house
again, and after dinner I strolled about the grounds with Maria. She
was looking delicate, but it improved her appearance, and she quite
pleased me by the interest she seemed to take in the place. But I had
seen more of Maria during a visit I paid to London two months before
than usual, and had been quite surprised to find her so well versed
in Dacrefield matters.

"It's uncommonly pleasant having you here," said I, as we leaned over
a low wall in the garden. "I wonder we do not become perfect
barbarians, cut off as we are from ladies' society. I'm sure I wish
you would settle down here instead of in London. You would civilise
both the Rectory and the Hall."

I was really thinking of my uncle taking a house in the neighbourhood.
I do not know what Maria was thinking of; but she looked up suddenly
into my face, with a strange expression, as if half inclined to speak.
She said nothing, however, only blushed deeply, and began walking
towards the house. I puzzled for a few minutes over that pathetic look
and blush, but I could make nothing of it, and it passed from my mind
till the next evening after dinner, when, after a little ceremonious
preamble, my father asked if there was "anything between" myself and
my eldest cousin. In explanation of this vague question, he told me
that Maria had been failing in health and spirits for some months;
that my aunt's watchful observation and experience had led her to the
conclusion that Maria was not in a consumption, but in love. As,
however, she kept her own counsel, Mrs. Ascott could only guess in the
matter. From her feverish interest in Dacrefield, her ill-concealed
excitement when the visit was proposed, the improvement in her health
since she came, and a multitude of other small facts which my aunt had
ferreted out and patched together with an ingenuity that amazed me,
Maria was supposed to care for me.

"We were a good deal together in town, sir," said I, "and Maria was
very jolly with me. But I am sure I gave her no reason to think I was
in love with her, and I don't believe she cares for me. It's one of my
aunt's mare's nests, depend upon it. The poor girl has got a horrid
cough, and, of course, she was pleased to get out of London smoke."

"If you did care for her," said my father; "and, above all, if you had
led her to think you did, the course is obvious, and I have no doubt
she would make an excellent wife. Polly is my favourite, and Maria is
a year or two older than you. But she is a nice, sensible, well-bred
woman. She is the eldest daughter, and will have--"

"My dear father," said I, "Maria and I are very friendly as cousins,
but she has not an idea of me in any other than a brotherly relation.
At least I think not," I added, for the look and blush that had
puzzled me came back to my mind.

"I only mention this because I wished to warn you against trifling
with your cousin's affections if you mean nothing," said my father.

"I should be sorry to trifle with any lady's affections, sir," was my
reply. We said no more. I sighed, thinking of what I fully believed
had blighted my existence. My father sighed, thinking, I know, of his
own vain wish to see me happily married. At last I could bear it no
longer, and calling Sweep, I went out into the garden. It was
moonlight, and Maria was languidly pacing the terrace. I joined her,
and we strolled away into the shrubbery.

I cannot say that my father's warning led me to shun Maria's society.
My father and my aunt naturally talked together, and circumstances
almost forced us two into _tête-à-têtes_. I could not fail to see that
Maria liked to be with me, and I found the task of taking care of her
soothing to what I believed to be my blighted feelings. We rode
together (she had an admirable figure and rode well), and the exercise
did her health great good. We often met Mr. Clerke in our rides, and
he seemed to enjoy a canter with us, though he rode very little better
than when I first knew him. We took long walks with Sweep, and from
the oldest tenant to the latest puppy, everything about Dacrefield
seemed to interest my fair cousin. I came at last to believe that Aunt
Maria was right.

When I did come to believe it (and I do not think that any
contemptible conceit made me hasty to do so), other thoughts followed.
I was as firmly convinced as any other young man with my experiences
that I could never again feel what I had felt for the person who shall
be nameless. But the first bitterness of that agony being undoubtedly
over, I felt that I might find a sober satisfaction in making my
father's declining years happy by giving him a daughter-in-law, and
that I was perhaps hardly justified in allowing Maria to fall into a
consumption when I could prevent it. "There are some people," thought
I, "with whom one could spend life very happily in a quiet fashion;
people who would not offend one's taste, or greatly provoke one's
temper, and whom one feels that one could please in like manner.
_Suitable_ people, in fact. And when a fellow has had his great
heart-ache and it's all over, no doubt suitableness is the thing to
make married life happy.... Maria is suitable."

I remember well the day I came to this conclusion. Our visitors had
not yet arrived, but Polly was expected the next day, and Leo and some
others shortly. "I may as well get it over before the house is full,"
I thought. But, to my vexation, I discovered that my father had asked
Mr. Clerke to come up after dinner. "It's his own fault if I don't get
another chance of speaking," thought I. But, as I strolled sullenly on
the terrace (without Maria) a note arrived from the Rector to say that
he was called away to see a sick man. I dashed into the drawing-room,
gave the letter to my father, and seeing Maria was not there, I went
on into the conservatory.

There are moments when even plain people look handsome. Notably when
self-consciousness is quite absent, and some absorbing thought gives
sentiment to the face, and grace and power to the figure. It was so at
this moment with Maria, who stood gazing before her, the light from
above falling artistically on her glossy hair and tall, elegant
figure. At the sound of my footsteps she started, and the colour
flooded her face as I came up to her. She sank on to a seat close by,
as if too much agitated to stand.

"I have something I want to say to you," said I, stooping over her,
and speaking in my gentlest voice. "May I say it?"

She moved her lips as if trying to speak, but there was no sound, and
she just nodded her head, which then drooped so that I could hardly
see her face.

"We have known each other since we were children," I began.

"Yes, Regie dear," murmured Maria.

"We were always very good friends, I think," continued I.

"Oh, yes, Regie dear."

"Childhood was a very happy time," said I, sentimentally.

"Oh, yes, Regie dear."

"But we can't be children for ever," I continued.

"Oh, no, Regie dear."

"Please take what I am going to say kindly, cousin, whatever you may
think of it."

"Oh, yes, Regie dear."

"I hope I may truthfully say that your happiness is, as it ought to
be, my chief aim in the matter."

Maria's response was inaudible.

"It's no good beating about the bush," said I, desperately clothing my
sentiments in slang, after the manner of my age; "the fellow who gets
you for a wife, Maria, must be uncommonly fortunate, and I hope that
with a good husband, who made your wishes his first consideration, you
would not be unhappy in married life yourself."

Lower and lower went her head, but still she was silent.

"You say nothing," I went on. "Probably I am altogether wrong, and you
are too kind-hearted to tell me I am an impertinent puppy. It is
Dacrefield--the place only--that you honour with your regard. You have
no affection for--"

Maria did not let me finish this sentence. She put up her hands to
stop me, and seemed as if she wished to speak; but after one pitiful
glance she buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly. I am sure I
have read somewhere that when a woman weeps she is won. So Maria was
mine. I had a grim feeling about it which I cannot describe. "I hope
the governor will be satisfied now," was my thought.

However, there is nothing I hate more than to see a woman cry. To be
the means of making her cry is intolerable.

"Please, please, don't! Oh, Maria, what a brute you make me feel.
_Please_ don't," I cried, and raising my cousin from her Niobe-like
attitude, I comforted her as well as I could. She only said, "Oh,
Regie dear, how kind you are," and laid her sleek head against my arm
with an air of rest and trustfulness that touched my generosity to the
quick. What right had I, after all, to accept an affection to which I
could make no similar return? "However," thought I, "it's done now;
and they say it's always more on one side than the other; and at least
I'm a gentleman. I care for no one else, and she shall never know it
was chiefly to please the governor. I suppose it will all come right."

Whilst I pondered, Maria had dried her eyes, and now sat up, gazing
before her, almost in her old attitude.

"I wonder, Regie dear," she said, presently--"I wonder how you found
out that I--that we--that I _cared_--"

"Oh, I don't know," said I, inanely, for I could not say that nothing
could be plainer.

"I always used to think that to live in this neighbourhood would be
paradise," murmured Maria, looking sentimentally but vacantly into a
box of seedling balsams.

"I'm very glad you like it," said I. I could not make pretty speeches.
An unpleasant conviction was stealing over my mind that I had been a
fool, and had no one but myself to blame. I began to think that Maria
would not have died of consumption even if I had not proposed to her,
and to doubt if I were really so heartbroken as I had fancied. (Indeed
the society of my cousin, who was a lady, had by this time gone far to
cure me of my sentiment for one who was not, and who had been
sensible enough to marry a man in her own rank of life, to my father's
great relief, and, as I then thought, to my life-long disappointment.)
The whole affair seemed a mockery, and I wished it were a dream. It
was not thus that my father had plighted his troth to my fair mother.
This was not the sort of affection that had made happy the short lives
of Leo's parents. The lemon-scented verbena which I was pounding
between my fingers bitterly recalled a little sketch of the monument
to their memory which Leo had shown me in his Bible, where he had also
pressed a sprig of verbena. Beneath the sketch he had written, "They
were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in death they were not
divided." I remembered his telling me how young they were when they
were married. How his father had never cared for any one else, and how
he would like to do just the same, and marry the one lady of his love.
I began, too, to think Clerke was right when he replied to my
confidences, "I'm only afraid, Regie, that you don't know what love
is."

It was whilst these thoughts were crowding all too vividly into my
mind that Maria said, impressively, and with unmistakable clearness,

"After _all_, you know, Regie, he's a _thorough_ gentleman, if he _is_
poor. I must say _that_! And if he _has_ a profession instead of being
a landed proprietor, it's the _highest_ and _noblest_ profession there
is."

It seemed to take away my breath. But I was standing almost behind
Maria; she was preoccupied, and I had some presence of mind. I had
opportunity to realize the fact that I was not the object of Maria's
attachment, as I had supposed. I was not poor, I had no profession,
and my common avocations did not, I fear, deserve to be called high
or noble. The description in no way fitted me. Further still, it was
evident that my cousin had not dreamed that I was making her an offer.
She believed that I had discovered her attachment to some other man,
and was grateful for my sympathy. I did not undeceive her. After a
rapid review of the position, I said,

"But my dear Maria, though I have penetrated to the fact that you have
a secret, and though I want beyond anything to help and comfort you, I
do not yet know who the happy man is, remember."

"Don't you?" said Maria, looking up hastily, and the colour rushed to
her face as before. "Oh, I thought you knew it was Mr. Clerke. You
know, he _is_ so good, and I've known him so long."

At this moment Aunt Maria's voice called from the drawing-room end of
the conservatory.

"Will you give us a little music, Maria? Mr. Clerke has come after
all, and Bowles has brought in the tea."

CHAPTER XXIX

THE FUTURE LADY DAMER--POLLY HAS A SECRET--UNDER THE MULBERRY-TREE

Polly came into the house, as she always did, like a sunbeam. Mrs.
Bundle, who was getting old, and apt to be depressed in spirits from
time to time, always revived when "Miss Mary" paid us a visit. A
general look of welcome greeted her appearance in church on Sunday. My
father made no secret of his pleasure in her society. I think she was
in the secret of her sister's engagement, and Maria looked comforted
by her coming.

Our meals were now quite merry. We had plenty of family gossip, and
news of the neighbourhood to chat over.

"So Lady Damer that is to be is coming to the Towers," Maria announced
at breakfast, on the authority of a letter she was reading. "Leo is
coming here to shoot, isn't he, Regie?"

"We expect him every day," said I; "but I never knew he was engaged.
Who is it?"

"Well, it's not an announced engagement," said Maria, "but everybody
says it is to be. She is an heiress, and her father was an old friend
of his guardian's. And, by-the-bye, Regie, her sister is coming too,
and will do beautifully for you. She is co-heiress, you know. They're
really very rich, and your one is lovely."

"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you," said I, "and we are to dine
at the Towers next week, so I shall see the heiresses. But suppose I
take a fancy to the wrong one?"

"You can't have her," said Maria, laughing.

"I tell you she is for Leo, and she is very clever and strong-minded,
which is just what he wants--a wife who can take care of him."

"Oh, deliver me from a strong-minded lady!" I cried. "Damer is quite
welcome to her."

"Your one isn't a bit strong-minded," said Maria. "She is very pretty,
but has no will of her own at all. She leans completely on Frances; I
don't know what she'll do when she marries, for they have been orphans
since they were quite children, and have never lived apart for a
week."

At this point Polly broke in with even more warmth and directness of
speech than usual,

"Frances Chislett is the most superior girl I ever knew. Men always
laugh at strong-minded women; but I'm sure I don't know why. I can't
think how any human being with duties and responsibilities can be
either more useful or more agreeable for being weak-minded."

And this was all that Polly contributed to our nonsensical
conversation about the heiresses.

After she came I forsook the society of Maria. I knew now that she
only wanted to talk to me about the Rector and the parish. Besides,
though Maria was strongly interested in Dacrefield for Clerke's sake,
she knew much less of it than Polly, with whom I revisited numberless
haunts of our childhood, the barns and stables, the fernery, the
"Pulpit" and the "Pew."

I did not tell her of my romance with Maria. I was not proud of it.
But as we sat together in the old apple-room above the stables, I
confided to her my "unfortunate attachment," which I had now
sufficiently recovered from not to be offended by her opinion, that it
was all for the best that it had ended as it had.

I do not remember exactly how it was that I came to know that
Polly--even Polly--had her own private heart-ache. I think I took an
unfair advantage of her strict truthfulness, when I once suspected
that she had a secret, and insisted upon her confiding in me as I had
done in her. Nurse Bundle gave me the first hint. Mrs. Bundle,
however, believed that "Miss Mary" was only waiting for me to ask her
to be mistress of Dacrefield Hall. And though she had "never seen the
young lady that was good enough for her boy," she graciously allowed
that I might "do worse than marry Miss Mary."

"My time's pretty near come, my dear," said Mrs. Bundle, "but many's
the time I pray the Lord to let me live to put in if it is but a pin,
when your lady dresses for her wedding."

But I was not to be fooled a second time by the affectionate belief my
friends had in my attractions.

"My dear old Nursey," said I, squatting down with Sweep by her easy
chair, "I know what a dear girl Polly is, and if she wanted to be Mrs.
Dacre she soon should be. But you're quite mistaken there; she is my
dear sister, and always will be so, and never anything else."

"Well, well," said Nurse Bundle, "young folks know their own affairs
better than the old ones, and the Lord above knows what's good for us
all, but I'm a great age, and the Squire's not young, and taking the
liberty to name us together, my deary, in all reason it would be a
blessing to him and me to see you happy with a lady as fit to take
your dear mother's place as Miss Mary is. For let alone everything
else, my dear, servants is not what they used to be, and when I'm dead
you'll be cheated out of house and home, without any one as knows what
goes to the keeping of a family, and what don't."

"Well, Nursey," said I, "I'll try and find a lady to please you and
the governor. But it won't be Polly, I know, and I wish it may be any
one as good."

I bullied poor Polly sadly about having a secret, and not confiding it
to me. She was far from expert at dissembling, and never told an
untruth, so I soon drove her into a corner.

"I'm rather disappointed, I must confess, in one way," said I, having
found her unable flatly to deny that she did "care for" somebody. "I
always hoped, somehow, that you and Leo would make it up together."

"You heard what Maria said," said Polly, shortly.

"Oh, I don't believe in the heiress," said I, "unless you've refused
him. He'd never take up with the blue-stocking lady and her money-bags
if his old love would have had him."

"I wish you wouldn't call her names," said Polly, angrily. "I tell you
she's the best girl I ever knew. I don't care much for most girls;
they are so silly. I suppose you'll say that's envy, but I can't help
it, it's true. But Frances Chislett never bores me. She only makes me
ashamed of myself, and long to be like her. When she's with me I feel
rough, and ignorant, and useless, and--"

"What a soothing companion!" I broke in.

"Poor Damer! So you want him to marry her, as one takes nasty
medicine--all for his good."

"Want him to marry her!" repeated Polly, expressively. "No. But I am
satisfied that he should marry _her_. So long as he is really happy,
and his wife is worthy of him--and _she_ is worthy of him--"

A light dawned upon me, and I interrupted her.

"Why, Polly, it _is_ Leo that you care for!"

We were sitting under an old mulberry-tree near the gate, in the
kitchen garden, but when I said this Polly jumped up and tried to run
away. I caught her hand to detain her, and we were standing very much
in the attitude of the couple in a certain sentimental print entitled
"The Last Appeal," when the gate close by us opened, and my father put
his head into the garden, shouting "James! James!" I dropped Polly's
hand, and struck by the same idea, we both blushed ludicrously; for
the girls knew as well as I did the plans made on our behalf by our
respective parents.

"The men are at dinner, sir," said I, going towards my father. "Can I
do anything?"

"Not at all--not at all; don't let me disturb you," said the old
gentleman, with an unmistakably pleased expression of countenance. And
turning to blushing Polly, he added in his most gracious tones,

"You look charming, my dear, standing under that old mulberry-tree, in
your pretty dress. It was planted by my grandfather, your
great-grandfather, my love, and Regie's also. I wish I could have you
painted so. Quite a picture--quite a picture!"

Saying which, and waving off my attempts to follow him, he bowed
himself out and shut the door behind him. When he had gone, Polly and
I looked at each other, and then burst out laughing.

"The plot certainly thickens," said I, sitting down again. "I beg you
to listen to the gratified parent whistling as he retires. What shall
we do, Polly, how could you blush so?"

"How could I help it when I saw you get so red?" said Polly.

"We certainly are a wonderful family at this point," said I; "the
whole lot of us in a mess with our love affairs, and my aunt and the
governor off on completely wrong scents."

"Oh, I think everybody's the same," said Polly, picking off half-ripe
mulberries and flinging them hither and thither; "but that doesn't
make one any better pleased with oneself for being a fool."

"You're not a fool," said I, pulling her down to the seat again; "but
I wish you wouldn't be cross when you're unhappy. Look at me.
Disappointment has made me sympathetic instead of embittering me. But,
seriously, Polly, I'm sure you and Leo will come all right, and in the
general rejoicing your mother must let Clerke and poor Maria be happy.
Even I might have found consolation with the beautiful heiress if I
had been left to find out her merits for myself; but one gets rather
tired of having young ladies suggested to one by attentive friends.
The fact is, matrimony is not in my line. I feel awfully old. The
governor is years younger than I am. Whoever saw _me_ trouble _my_
long legs and back to perform such a bow as he gave you just now? I
wish he'd leave me in peace with Sweep. Since the day I came of age,
when every old farmer in the place wound up his speech with something
about the future Mrs. Reginald Dacre, I've had no quiet of my life for
her. Clerke too! I really did think Clerke was a confirmed old
bachelor, on ecclesiastical grounds. I wish I'd gone fishing to
Norway. I wish a bit of the house would fall down. If the governor
were busy with real brick and mortar, he wouldn't build so many
castles in the air, perhaps."

As I growled, Sweep, beneath my feet, growled also. I believe it was
sympathy, but lest it should be the approach of Aunt Maria (whom Sweep
detested), Polly and I thought well to withdraw from the garden by
another gate. We returned to the house, and I took her to my den to
find a book to divert her thoughts. I was not surprised that a long
search ended in her choosing a finely-bound copy of Young's "Night
Thoughts."

"I often feel ashamed of knowing so little of our standard poets," she
remarked parenthetically.

"Quite so," said I; "but I feel it right to mention that the marks in
it are only mine."

CHAPTER XXX

I MEET THE HEIRESS--I FIND MYSELF MISTAKEN ON MANY POINTS--A NEW KNOT
IN THE FAMILY COMPLICATIONS

Leo came to the Hall. "His" heiress came to the Towers, but not
"mine." She was to follow shortly.

I could not make out how matters stood between Leo and Polly. When
Damer came, Polly was three times as _brusque_ with him as with any of
us; he himself seemed dreamy, and just as usual.

We went to dine at the Towers. We were rather late. Leo, in right of
his rank, took a dowager of position in to dinner. Our host led me
across the room, and introduced me to "Miss Chislett."

[Illustration: It was only a quiet dinner party, and Miss Chislett had
brought out her needlework.]

She was not the sort of person I expected. It just flashed across me
that I understood something of Polly's remark about Frances Chislett
making her feel "rough." My cousins were ladies in every sense of the
term, but Miss Chislett had a certain perfection of courteous grace
and dignified refinement, in every word, and gesture, and attitude, as
utterly natural to her as the vigorous tread of any barefooted peasant
girl, and which one does meet with (but by no means invariably) among
women of the highest class in England. Her dignity fell short of
haughtiness (which is not high breeding, and is very easy of
assumption); her grace and courtesy were the simple results of
constant and skilful consideration for other people, and of a
self-respect sufficient to dispense with self-consciousness. The
advantage of wealth was evident in the exquisite taste and general
effect of her costume. She was not beautiful, and yet I felt disposed
for an angry argument with my cousins on the subject of her looks. Her
head was nobly shaped, her figure was tall and beautiful, her grey
eyes haunted one. I never took any lady to dinner who gave me so
little trouble. When we had been together for two minutes, I felt as
if I had known her for years.

"Well, what do you think of her?" said Polly, when we met in the
drawing-room. Polly had been taken in by Mr. Clerke, and they had
neither of them paid much attention to what the other was saying.
Maria had said "yes" and "no" alternately to the observations of the
elderly and Honourable Mr. Edward Glynn; but as he was deaf this
mattered the less.

"Was I right?" said Polly.

"No," said I; "she's not a bit strong-minded." Polly laughed.

"I'll say one thing for her," said I; "I don't mind how often I take
her in to dinner. She doesn't expect you to make conversation."

"Why, my dear Regie," said Polly, "you've been talking the whole of
dinner-time!"

Leo had seated himself by the heiress. Poor Polly's eyes kept
wandering towards them, and (I suppose, because I had heard so much
about her) so did mine. It was only a quiet dinner-party, and Miss
Chislett had brought out her needlework, some gossamer lace affair,
and Leo leant over the sofa where she sat, playing with the contents
of her workbox. Polly's eyes and mine were not the only ones turned
towards them. Ours was not the only interest in the future Lady Damer.

Aunt Maria carried Polly off to the piano to "give us a little music,"
and I sat down and stultified myself with an album at the table, and
Frances Chislett chatted with Sir Lionel. They were close by me, and
every word they said was audible. It was the veriest chit-chat, and
Leo's remarks on the little bunch of charms and knicknacks that he
found in the workbox seemed trivial to foolishness. "I'd no idea Damer
was so empty-headed," I thought, and I rather despised Miss Chislett
for smiling at his feeble conversation.

"I often wonder what's the use of farthings," I heard him say as he
turned one over in the bunch of knicknacks. "They won't buy anything
(unless it's a box of matches). They only help tradesmen to cheat when
they're 'selling off.'"

"I beg your pardon," said Miss Chislett, "I have bought most charming
things for a farthing each."

"So have I," said I, turning round on my chair, and joining in the
conversation, which seemed less purposeless after I began to take part
in it. Leo looked at us both with a puzzled air.

"Frying-pans, for instance," said Miss Chislett.

"--and gridirons," said I.

"Plates, knives, and forks," said the heiress.

"--and flat irons," I concluded; playing involuntarily with the blob
of lead which still hung at my watch-chain.

Polly had finished her performance, and was now standing near us. She
understood the allusion, and laughed.

"Do _you_ know what they're talking about?" asked Sir Lionel, going
up to her. I sat down by the heiress.

"Were you ever at Oakford?" she asked, turning her grey eyes on me.
She spoke almost abruptly, and with a touch of imperiousness that
suddenly recalled to me where I had seen those eyes before.

"Certainly," said I, "and at the tinsmith's."

"What were you doing there?" she asked, and after all these years
there was no mistaking the accent and gesture of the little lady of
the grey beaver. Before she had well begun her apology for the
question, I had answered it,

     "BUYING A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING."

"Well, you've gone it hard to-night, old fellow," said Damer, as we
drove away from the Towers. "You and Miss Chislett will be county talk
for six months to come."

"Nonsense," said I, "we knew each other years ago, and had a good deal
to talk about."

But to Polly, as we parted for the night in the corridor, I said, "My
dear child, to add to all the family complications, I'm head over ears
in love with the future Lady Damer."

CHAPTER XXXI

MY LADY FRANCES--THE FUTURE LADY DAMER--WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER AT
LAST

It was true. My theories and my disappointment went to the winds. We
had few common acquaintances or social interests to talk about, and
yet the time we spent together never seemed long enough for our fluent
conversation. We had always a thousand things to say when we met, and
feeling as if we had been together all our lives, I felt also utterly
restless and wretched when I was not with her. Of course, I learnt her
history. She and her sister were the little ladies I had seen in my
childhood. The St. John family were their cousins, and as the boy, of
whom mention has been made, did die in Madeira, the property
eventually came to Frances Chislett and her sister. The estate was
sold, and they were co-heiresses. Adeline, the other sister, soon came
to the Towers. She was more like her old self than Frances. The
exquisitely, strangely fair hair, the pale-blue eyes, the gentle
helpless look, all were the same. She was very lovely, but Frances was
like no other woman I had ever seen before, or have ever met with
since. I resolved to ask Lionel Damer how matters really stood between
them, and, if he were not engaged to her, to try my luck. One day when
she was with us at the Hall I decided upon this. I was told that
Lionel was in the library, and went to seek him. As I opened the door
I saw him standing in front of Polly, who was standing also. He was
speaking with an energy rare with him, and in a tone of voice quite
strange to me.

"It's not like you to say what's not true," he was saying. "You are
_not_ well, you are _not_ happy. You may deceive every one else,
Polly, but you can never deceive me. All these years, ever since I
first knew you--"

I stole out, shut the door, and went to seek Frances. I found her by
Rubens' grave, and there we plighted our troth.

It was in the evening of the same day that Polly and I met in the
hall, on our way to attempt the difficult task of dressing for dinner
in five minutes. The grey-eyed lady of my love had just left me for
the same purpose, and I was singing, I don't know what, at the top of
my voice in pure blitheness of heart. Polly and I fairly rushed into
each other's arms.

"My dear child!" said I, swinging her madly round, "I am delirious
with delight, and so is Sweep, for she kissed his nose."

Poor Polly buried her head on my shoulder, saying,

"And, oh, Regie! I _am_ so happy!"

It was thus that my father and Aunt Maria found us. Fate, spiteful at
our happiness, had sent my father, stiff with an irreproachable
neckcloth, and Aunt Maria, rustling in amber silk and black laces,
towards the drawing-room, five minutes too early for dinner, but just
in time to catch us in the most sentimental of attitudes, and to hear
dear, candid, simple-hearted Polly's outspoken confession--"I _am_ so
happy!"

"And how long are you going to keep your happiness to yourselves,
young people?" said my father, whose face beamed with a satisfaction
more sedately reflected in Aunt Maria's countenance. "Do you grudge
the old folks a share? Eh, sir? eh?"

And the old gentleman pinched my shoulder, and clapped me on the back.
He was positively playful.

"Stop, my dear father," said I, "you're mistaken."

"Eh, what?" said my father, and Aunt Maria drew her laces round her
and prepared for war.

"Polly and I are not engaged, sir, if that's what you think," said I,
desperately.

My father and Aunt Maria both opened their mouths at once.

"Dinner's on the table, sir," the butler announced. My father lacked a
subject for his vexation, and turned upon old Bowles:

"Take the dinner to ----"

"--the kitchen," said I, "and keep it warm for ten minutes; we are not
ready. Now, my dear father, come to my room, for I have something to
tell you."

There was no need for Polly to ask Aunt Maria to go with her. That
lady drove her daughter before her to her bedroom, with a severity of
aspect which puzzled and alarmed poor Leo, whom they passed in the
corridor. A blind man could have told by the rustle of her dress that
Mrs. Ascott would have a full explanation before she broke bread again
at our table.

I fancy she was not severe upon the future Lady Damer, when Polly's
tale was told.

As to my father, he was certainly vexed and put out at first. But day
by day my lady-love won more and more of his heart. One evening, a
week later, he disappeared mysteriously after dinner, and then
returned to the dining-room, carrying some old morocco cases.

"My dear boy," he said, in an almost faltering voice, "I never dared
to hope my dear wife's diamonds would be so worthily worn by yours.
Your choice has made an old man very happy, sir. For a thoroughly
high-bred tone, for intelligence, indeed, I may say, brilliancy of
mind, and for every womanly grace and virtue, I have seen no one to
approach her since your mother's death. I should have loved little
Polly very much, but your choice has been a higher one--more
refined--more refined. For, strictly between ourselves, my dear boy,
our dear little Polly has, now and then, just a thought too much of
your Aunt Maria about her."

The Rector and Maria were made happy. My father "carried it through,"
by my desire. Uncle Ascott was delighted, and became a benefactor to
the parish; but it took Aunt Maria some years to forget that the
patronised curate had scorned the wife she had provided for him, only
to marry her own daughter.

When I bade farewell to Adeline on our wedding day, she gave me her
cheek to kiss with a pretty grace, saying,

"You see, Regie, I _am_ your sister after all!"

CHAPTER XXXII

WE COME HOME--MRS. BUNDLE QUITS SERVICE

The day my wife and I returned from our wedding trip to Dacrefield was
a very happy one. We had a triumphal welcome from the tenants, my dear
father was beaming, the Rector no less so, and good old Nurse Bundle
showered blessings on the head of my bride.

Frances was a great favourite with her. She was devoted to the old
woman, and her delicate tact made her adapt herself to all Mrs.
Bundle's peculiarities. She sat with her in the nursery that night
till nearly dinner-time.

"I must take her away, Nursey," said I, coming in; "she'll be late for
dinner."

"Go with your husband, my dear," said Nurse Bundle, "and the Lord
bless you both."

"I'll come back, Nursey," said Frances; "you'll soon see me again."

"Turn your face, my dear," said Nurse Bundle. "Hold up the candle,
Master Reginald. Ay, ay, that'll do, my deary. I'll see you again."

We were still at dessert with my father, when Bowles came hastily into
the room with a pale face, and went up to my wife.

"Did you send for Mrs. Bundle, ma'am, since you came down to dinner?"
he asked.

"Oh, dear no," said my wife.

"Cook was going upstairs, and met Missis Bundle a little way out of
her room," Bowles explained; "and Missis Bundle she says, 'Don't stop
me,' says she, 'Mrs. Dacre wants me,' she says, and on she goes; and
cook waits and waits in her room for her, and at last she comes down
to me, and she says--"

"But where _is_ Mrs. Bundle?" cried my father.

"That's circumstantially what nobody knows, sir," said Bowles with a
distracted air.

We all three rushed upstairs. Mrs. Bundle was not to be found. My
father was frantic; my wife with tears lamented that some chance word
of hers might have led the half-childish old lady to fancy that she
wanted her.

But a sudden conviction had seized upon me.

"You need not trouble yourself, my darling," said I; "you are not the
Mrs. Dacre Nurse Bundle went to seek."

I ran to my father's dressing-room. It was as I thought.

Below my mother's portrait, on the spot where years before she had
held me in her arms with tears, I, weeping also, held her now in
mine--quite dead.

THE END

The Queen's Treasures Series

_Small Crown 8vo. With 8 Coloured Plates and Decorated Title-Page,
Covers, and End-Papers_.

_2s. 6d. net each_.

COUSIN PHILLIS.

By MRS. GASKELL. Illustrated by MISS M. V. WHEELHOUSE. With an
introduction by THOMAS SECCOMBE.

SIX TO SIXTEEN.

By MRS. EWING. Illustrated by MISS M. V. WHEELHOUSE.

A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING.

By MRS. EWING. Illustrated by MISS M. V. WHEELHOUSE.        [_Nov_. 1908.

JAN OF THE WINDMILL.

By MRS. EWING. Illustrated by MISS M. V. WHEELHOUSE.        [_Jan_. 1909.

_Others to follow_.

LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS